#if it’s easier to talk verbally then I will. but sometimes the effort to press the word buttons and make the sentence is easier than talking

[lightblueminecraftorchid]

Honestly at this point I just don’t talk in grocery stores. They’re stressful enough that I usually don’t want to talk, even if I’m not quite having a verbal shutdown, and I have an AAC now which means I don’t have to. It’s nice having the option.

[harfanfare]

When your Prince Charming arrives || First Years x Reader

What if someone from RSA seemed to be your dreamed lover?

Ace Trappola

It isn’t easy to make Ace seriously worried, about something that wasn’t caused by his friends, wanting to get revenge on his poor—as they defined them—jokes.

From the first sight he knew, that a boy, who “accidentally” bumped into you, was a danger. Some kind of.

He seemed just… too perfect: tall, muscular, with beautiful hair and natural charm, charisma. His clothes complemented the colour of dark as cosmos eyes, and his manners were impeccable. Ace started doubting that even Vil Schoenheit himself could point out anything to him, but he wouldn’t bet on his arm.

With each trait, something was pushing Ace away from the boy more and more.

If he hasn't paid much attention to him, then you definitely did. By the time the day was over, you managed to tell him ten times how he helped you get up—"You fell because of him," Ace replied while rolling his eyes—and characterized the boy verbally, so that no teacher would complain about not enough words on your opinion essay.

“Agh, enough-!” Ace got upset when, even while playing cards, you didn't talk about anyone else but that handsome hero who helped you get up faster than Ace did. He got up from the floor. “Marvel at him in his face! He will certainly want to hear all these compliments in person.”

He stormed out of the room before you could stop him.

His arms were shaking once he got out of the dorm, to the Rose Maze. He emanated with anger and grief; he swore to himself, that he will kick this guy from RSA the time he sees him. Though he wasn't sure... would you be mad at him...?

“Wait, Ace!” you had to run as fast as you could to catch up with the boy and bump hard into him. You hugged his waist tight, worried that he would run away as soon as you loosened your grip. “Sorry. I really didn't mean to upset you.”

Ace turned around to see your eyes. The corners of his mouth quivered before twitched into a weak smile.

"It's alright," he said, but his voice slowly cracking. “The better one wins, right?”

"Of course," you tightened your embrace so that your cheek was pressed tightly against Ace's body. “I won't be with any guy who can't destroy a chandelier with friends.”

The boy took a deep breath before finally wrapping his arms around you.

The warmth he felt from you and the one inside him caused a strange feeling in his stomach and chest. He didn't know exactly what he felt, but he didn't mind at all.

“Out of my advantages, you chose this particular one?” He said, his face showing a mischievous, a bit mocking, but still friendly smile. "I guess it was at the top of such a long list as ‘Advantages of Ace’"

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎

Deuce Spade

Deuce didn’t know what feeling was responsible for twisting his stomach, once he saw you and a boy from RSA, introducing him to some NRC classes.

Does his dark, rebellious side finally want to see the light of day?

Not as much as he wanted to hit that boy, he’d rather preferred to take you somewhere far away from him. From everybody.

“Someone's jealous!” Ace laughed when Deuce told him about his worries.

“Again, why did I come to you with this...?” The dark-haired man sighed, placing his hand on his hair and tightening it tightly. "You really think I'm, uh, jealous?"

“And not?” Ace tucked his hair back, laced the fingers of his hands together, and blinked several times. “Oh! My hero!” He said in a squeaky voice. “I will have to give up my lovely Deuce for you because you helped me up. A~aah!”

Deuce snorted and slapped Ace on the forehead. He fell onto the bed. The redhead burst out laughing as he looked at the nervous, sulking Deuce.

“Go Deuce,” he said, sitting down on the bed, still with an amused sparkles in his eyes. “Fight!”

Without waiting for any further words of encouragement, Deuce ran out of the room, towards the school. He went through all important, busier spots in the school before he found you in the cafeteria.

Of course, with that RSA guy.

He felt his body tighten like a tight string as you spotted him between the heads of the other students and waved at him.

"This is Deuce, my boyfriend," you introduced the boy to your dinner companion, and the dark-haired man looked away. So what if you guys were dating for months? The title "boyfriend" always made his heart run wild. “And this is [Boy's Name], a student from RSA.”

"Nice to meet you." Deuce reached out his hand and squeezed the boy's hand. He did it with such force that you could almost hear the crunch of bones and a soft gasp as the student jerked his hand away. “Now, I'm so sorry, but I have to take [Name] with me.”

He felt a twinge of guilt as you walked away, and the RSA boy was massaging his hand. However, now-not-yours prince charming will definitely go to the nurse, and on the way, he will surely run into one of the most beautiful students in NRC. It’s always like that in fairy tales.

You have to fight for your true love, right? They both have to find and keep the love of their lives.

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

Epel Felmier

Just give him a chance, and he'll definitely try to kick that fop in the knee so hard he won't get up again.

"Fight fire with fire," Vil advised him during their usual dinner at Pomefiore. Even though Epel had said nothing about his worries, Vil could still sense a depressive aura from him that was definitely ‘not beautiful’.

The Pomefiore leader was also not very happy with the arrival of some students from the RSA. But until they were more beautiful than he was—not that anyone like that existed—their presence did not irritate them that much.

Of course, you didn't forget about Epel—you felt so drawn to your new acquaintance's aura that you sometimes lost track of time, but you make sure not to skip your meetings.

He felt like a pawn in a game of chess, not a player. He was attractively dressed, and now standing next to that RSA boy who had attracted your attention all too often. He took you with him a lot, that one day he almost offered to take you with him to the RSA. It would only require some paperwork, wouldn't it?

“[Name]” Epel turned to you, his voice trembling with anxiety and anger. He took a deep breath but didn't feel any cooling down. “The final decision will always be yours. But I want to say something about it here.” He pointed at the visitor and glared at him.

He felt a sudden need to straighten his hair and his clothes as silence fell around him. All the witnesses waited for his next move, and even though no one was saying anything, he felt like he was the new hot topic of gossips.

He went over to you and locked you in a hug as if he didn't want to watch all those onlookers.

"I know you may not believe me, but I really am not sure if he can bring you the happiness you expect," he blushed here. “I-I mean… I don't know if I can offer you a life only filled with happiness you want, but… I will try… So, uh, please don't go with him…!”

“Huh? There's no way I'm going with him,” you said, tearing away from him. "I'm addicted to apples and a certain apple boy, and I won't survive without this combination."

Epel breathed a sigh of relief, feeling his cheeks flush with shame, and memories of words that even sounded too serious for him.

Even though he felt terrible in this elegant garment, he couldn't think of it as his feelings exploded in his body.

Ah, yes. He couldn't want to love anyone else that much.

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

Jack Howl

Jack never wanted to stop at anything other than "true love".

When you two started dating, he saw no other way than planning his future with you... But this RSA guy was never included in your plans.

"He's joining us," you told your new friend, pointing at Jack. He had his arms crossed and he was at least a head taller than the boy, so the boy had to raise his chin to see Jack's ears. “He offered to help us with cleaning.”

"Ah, yes," [Boy's Name] cleared his throat, trying to remain indifferent. He felt overwhelmed by Jack's presence and Jack made no effort to make it easier for him. Because what was he supposed to do? Squat down so that he doesn't feel trapped like surrounded by tall rocks? "We'll definitely need someone strong."

Everything went very agile and neat.

Even if you and the RSA student previously thought it would take a long, long time, in half an hour you managed to do more than you were allotted to. Maybe it's because your loved one didn't allow too long conversations between you and [Boy's Name]?

It would certainly have been hours if the two of you were left for each other. Ideally, a lot of time to make another appointment, exchange phone numbers, cancel your joint vacation plans with Jack and change your school, right?

“Thank you for your hard work” you put the broom in the storage box. Cleaning with magic was definitely simpler and easier, but as long as you can clean, magic can feel a little sloppy while comparing the cleanliness of rooms.

"Thank you for your hard work," [Boy's Name] replied, dusting his hands of the fluff. "Maybe... you'd like to go together, just the two of us," he stressed the last words, "to the cafe?”

"I'm sorry," you smiled apologetically. You looked at Jack who was just coming back and started walking towards him with a smile on your face. “You may not see it, but this one needs a daily dose of hugs because later he will be very sad.”

Jack silently denied as he turned his head to the side out of intimidation as you hugged him tightly.

… For moments like this, the existence of people like [Boy's Name] is needed.

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

Sebek Zigvolt

“We need your assistance, [Name]” just after taking the left corridor, Sebek appeared in front of you and a student from RSA. The green-haired man had a stoic expression and his hands were behind his back, what made him seem much more composed than he thought himself. There was so much going on in his head that it would be easier to talk about what he wasn't thinking about. “It's urgent.”

Without further ado, he grabbed your wrist, knocking the RSA student's hand off your shoulder. He gave him a frightening look before he turned on his heels and you and you walked far, far away from this place.

"Hey, Sebek," you broke the silence that had been with you since you stepped out into the uncrowded corridor. “Something happened?”

“What do you mean?” He replied in a gruff voice and picked up the pace.

"For example," you panted, trying to keep up with him, "you're almost crushing my hand."

As if on cue, Sebek immediately let you go, doing it as quickly as if he had touched hot coal. With a surprised look, he glanced at your wrist, which turned slightly red from his tight grip.

"Ah, uh, forgive me," he muttered, rubbing his temple. "I still feel sick to see that human from the Royal Sword Academy."

“You mean [Boy’s Name]?” you asked, and Sebek made a face at his name. For him, this boy will always be "human" in the worst tone and sense of the word. "Some have described him as ‘so sweet that he is so bland’”

“It suits him.”

“You don't like him too? Too cute by Diasomnia standards?” you guessed jokingly. “Or were you jealous, hehe?”

“T-that's not the point!” He growled, feeling his face flush red. You looked at him in shock, now sure, you guessed it, and Sebek felt even more exposed by it. "It's just that this human looked at you so... so strange! I didn’t not like this.”

"There is a way," you said, smiling frivolously at him. “You can invite me to tea and vice versa, and then we will not see him anymore.”

[idontblushsrry]

SFW Alphabet|| Megumi Fushiguro

A/N: Uhhhh I’m back on my bullshit >:) it’s missing Fushiguro hours folks.

Word Count: 2050

A: Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

(If you want some more in depth affection headcanons click here)

Fushiguro is someone who isn’t big on pda but makes up for it in private. In public, he’ll hold your hand but in private he’s laying i your lap while you massage his scalp. Basically, he’s a big softie that just represses his urge to cuddle until he’s alone with you.

B: Best Friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

Best friend Megumi is literally the president of the Y/N defense squad. If anyone has a problem with you, they have a problem with him. Of course, you have to rein him in sometimes and remind him you can fight your own battles, but just know he’s lookin out for you.

C: Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Fushiguro loves to cuddle, but he will repress the urge to do so for as long as possible. Because of that, he doesn’t let you go, preferring to cling to you throughout the night. His cuddles are always deceptively loose too. His arms give you just enough wiggle room but the second you try to get up, it’s like fighting two pythons.

D: Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

I don’t think he ever really planned on settling down, Megumi figured that he’d die long before he ever got the chance to settle down. Everyday is pretty much a new experience in terms of domesticity for him, he doesn’t have plans for the future, but as long as you’re with him, he’ll be happy.

E: Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

If he ever had to break up with someone, he’d probably ask for help on how to do so. The first person he’d ask (regrettably) would be Gojo who’d tell Megumi to just ghost the person. After asking around some more, he figured Kugisaki’s approach of getting it over with as bluntly as possible (although less mean) was the best option.

F: Fiance(e) (How would they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Megumi isn’t really the type for wedding ceremonies. He’s all about commitment (even though working up to marriage for him is longer than most) but he’s not a fan of being the center of attention, so a wedding ceremony/reception wouldn’t be his thing. If you wanted a ceremony, he’d be willing to compromise somewhat but otherwise, he’s perfectly fine with just going to the courthouse.

G: Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

He’s kind of rough around the edges. In private, he can be the sweetest, most tender soul, but in public he’ll put 7 yards of distance between you both if you try to hug him. Basically, he’s very shy, so anything that’ll draw too much attention is a no go (he isn’t opposed to linking pinkies though).

H: Hugs( Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?

At first Megumi really only hugged you when he was missing you, sad, or tired. Over time though, he got better at becoming more open with his affection and he’ll hug you whenever he feels the urge to. Despite that though, his hugs still have an undercurrent of desperation in them. He holds on just as tight each time like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

I: I love you (How fast do they say the L-word)

He’s operating on a very strict ‘If you don’t say it, I won’t’ policy and as such this man will not say a single thing to you unless prompted. He knows deep down that he loves you and that you set off butterflies in his stomach every time you smile, but he never really thought to verbalize that until you say ‘I love you’ first.

J: Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous)

Megumi doesn’t get jealous, he’s fought side by side with you and he knows you’re more than capable of fending off any unwanted suitors. Megumi put a lot of trust into you by already being in a relationship so to him, it makes no sense to be jealous over you. That all being said, he’s not above the occasional side eye if someone’s getting a little too buddy buddy.

K: Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

On a normal day, his kisses are so natural, he’s so slow and the pressure is just enough to have you thinking you’ve got all the time in the world. In near death/ post-near death circumstances, he’s a little more feral. When he kisses you like that, it feels like it’s the end of the world and he’s trying to make the most of it.

L: Little ones (How are they around children)

Fushiguro isn’t good with kids that aren’t old enough to communicate. Older kids are fine with him, but guessing what a baby needs based on how loud it’s crying? Hard pass for him and he doesn’t even feel bad about it. The last time he had to watch a baby, he tried to leave one of his shikigami to watch it; long  story short, he had to explain to a cackling Gojo why his demon dogs wouldn’t let him leave to go to the bathroom.

M: Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Mornings with Fushiguro are pretty rare. Most of the time you guys don’t really get to sleep in or even spend mornings together since most of the time there’s missions or trainings you’ll have to go to. When you do get the rare morning off, Fushiguro makes the most of it. He sleeps in and doesn’t wake up before 10 no matter what you try. When he does finally wake up, he loves cooking breakfast with you, he’s not the best cook, but he treasures the experience over anything.

N: Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Nights with Megumi are also rare as most curses come out at night and that’s kinda your guys’ job. If all goes well though, you’ll both come back a little earlier and just go straight to sleep. If it’s a late night where the curse took more out of either of you than expected, yall usually stay up and talk and snack until one of you falls asleep or the sun comes up.

O: Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

It takes him an extremely long time to open up to you about his past. Not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he’s embarrassed and doesn’t want you to think less of him for it (especially during his problem child era). To be honest, you probably find out about certain things from other people. Once he’s cornered confronted, he’ll be completely (albeit a bit grudgingly) honest about it.

P: Patience (How easily angered are they?)

His anger is kind of weird, whereas before, he was a lot quicker to explode, bluntly telling off or even fighting whoever pissed him off, he’s changed. He tries his best to repress his emotions and as such, he comes off as patient, never expressing his true feelings/desires until pushed to the brink. 

Q: Quizzes (How much would they remember about you?  Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

He’s the king of remembering details you mention in passing. His love language is partially acts of service so for him, remembering details about you helps him later. Oh remember that one time you needed a pen/pencil but didn’t have one? Never again, this man has a section of his shadows dedicated solely to pencils because of you. Oh what’s that, you like this random song? Guess what just got added to the playlist he made for you. Basically, while he may not look like it, he’s actually a simp and so if he can make your life easier/ make you happy, it’s worth it.

R: Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

So Megumi is someone who doesn’t play video games but is really good at them for no reason. One day, you’re playing a game of smash bros. and he’s just kicking your ass, like it was sad. Needless to say, after his 4th win, he “accidently” pressed the wrong button and let you win. He thinks you don’t know he did this but when you won, you kissed him and completely flustered him, to the point that he couldn’t play for a solid 5 minutes. 

S: Security (How protective are they? How would they like to be protected?)

Despite knowing and trusting that you can defend yourself, he’s still super protective of you. You’re one of the few people that he cares about in the world and he’d give everything to see you safe and protected. As for how he’d like to be protected, knock some sense into him every once in a while. He has a habit of self sacrificing so if you want to protect him, remind him that you want to keep him alive as much as he wants to keep you alive.

T: Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

On the outside, his dates are very simple. They usually consist of you and him either staying in or just hanging out at stores and the like. Every once in a while, he’ll try to take you somewhere special, like a cove he found or a festival. For most people, these may be simple dates, but Fushiguro puts so much effort into so may aspects of your dates that honestly, anything bigger would lose the personal touch your dates have.

U: Ugly (What are some bad habits of theirs? (I’m gonna add arguments here because they aren’t on the prompt list I found))

One of his worst habits is his self-sacrificing tendencies. Even during a baseball game, he can’t help but sacrifice himself (especially if it means his friends/ you get to get the glory). With time though, he grows out of this and realizes it’s not selfish to want the best for yourself.

V: Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

He’s giving “I woke up like this” and it’s... it’s something. One might think the style is intentional since obviously, the look could only be achieved with gel, and to an extent, it is intentional. He might use gel to spike it a little more but the man legit rolls out of bed and chooses to leave his hair up like that.

W: Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

No, as much as he loves you, Fushiguro is an introvert. He needs time to just be by himself and unwind every once in a while, so he’s got no complaints if you leave him to his own devices or have to be gone for a long time.

X: (E)xes (Any previous relationship experience. How does that factor into your current relationship?)

Megumi has negative zero relationship experience. He’s never found someone that was worth the risk/ worth opening up to, hell, he just barely got friends when he entered high school. Because of this, every part of your relationship is like navigating uncharted waters.

Y: Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner)

He’s less someone to dislike a specific thing/ personality trait, and more someone who doesn’t like different people for different reasons, ex. Todo and Mai. If he had to pick a single trait, it’d probably have to be hypocriticism.

Z: Zzz (What is a sleep habit of theirs?)

He is someone who will fall asleep spread eagle one night and the next be huddled into a tiny little section of the bed. Mercy on you if you try to cuddle because now you’re wrapped up into his unconscious acrobatic routine.

[chudleycanonficfest]

One Last Dance

Day 4, Story #1 is by @be11atrixthestrange

Title: One Last Dance Author/Artist: be11atrixthestrange Pairing: Jily  Prompt: Halloween Rating: T Trigger Warning(s) (if any): implied character death

----------

Harry was fussier than usual on Halloween night. Bath time was an ordeal, as Harry kept knocking the shampoo bottle out of Lily’s hand and splashing water at her. Afterward, the child almost refused to fall asleep; he wriggled in her arms and tugged on her hair as she swaddled him. Just because he couldn’t speak full sentences yet didn’t mean he couldn’t communicate; he did so with his eyes, and Lily swore there was a smirk on his face as she rocked and sang to him, until he finally drifted off.

Lily didn’t mind a fussy baby, in fact, she enjoyed the challenge. She cherished every extra moment with her child, and at exactly fifteen months, Harry’s newfound spunk was nothing but evidence of his emerging personality. He had her eyes, and she wondered if he’d get James’ messy hair, horrid eyesight, and infuriating charm. She grinned at the thought of a sassy and sarcastic Harry, star of the quidditch team, just like his dad. Or maybe he’d be more like Lily; sensitive and studious, top of his class, future Head Boy. 

Of course, there could be nothing remarkable about him at all. He could turn out to be average, maybe even terrible at sports, or join weird clubs and get below-average marks. Even then, if her son came home for the summer excited about a slew of ‘acceptables’, or stressed about Gobstones club drama, he’d still be the coolest person Lily knew. 

Whatever he turned out to be — head boy, quidditch captain, super-nerd, or even squib — Lily couldn’t wait to find out. It was funny how determined she had been to never admit her feelings for James Potter. Her feelings were always there, but that boy had to work hard for her affection. All Harry had to do was laugh, or sneeze, or wrap his tiny fingers around her pinky, and Lily was a goner.

With the stubborn child finally asleep, Lily shuffled downstairs to find that James had already cleaned up dinner in the kitchen and was pouring two generous glasses of wine, almost as if he read her mind. 

He beamed when he saw her — one of her favorite things about him was that he made no effort to hide his feelings, ever — and slid the glass across the countertop. 

“What’s the occasion?” she asked, raising the glass to her lips. It was bitter to the taste but relented into a friendlier, fruitier flavor once Lily committed to a sip. 

She never knew she could relate so much to a glass of wine. 

“Halloween,” said James. “I know you love it, and I’m sorry we couldn’t celebrate the muggle way.”

Halloween was always Lily’s favorite holiday growing up. There was something comforting about everyone’s sudden suspension of disbelief and willingness to face what scared them. She wished muggles would have embraced the paranormal every day, it surely would have made her life easier.

“It’s okay,” she said. “It has to be this way.” 

Lily wished they could hand out candy to trick-or-treaters, but the neighborhood muggles couldn’t see their home; not while it was under the Fidelius Charm. Staying hidden wasn’t what she had imagined when moving to a mixed-magical community, but for now, it was the safest option. The only option. 

James met her on the other side of the kitchen island, interrupting her thoughts with two fingers under her chin. “Definitely next year,” he said before tilting her head up for a kiss. 

Her eyes fluttered shut, and she smiled against his lips, wondering if Harry’s ability to make her heart explode was just as hereditary as his bright green eyes. There was something about those Potter boys that knocked her off her feet.

Maybe James was right, and next year, things would be different. They could get to know their non-magical neighbors, and Lily could take Harry trick-or-treating. He’d look so cute dressed up as a hippogriff, and no one would bat an eye when he’d insist it was a real animal. Kids say the darndest things, and on Halloween, anything was possible. 

“Next year, for sure.” Lily took another swig of her wine and relished in the evolution of its flavor, a delicious reminder that things change, sometimes so fast that she might blink and miss it. Things weren’t perfect by any means — they were in the middle of a war, after all — but there was no shortage of good in their lives. Not everyone could say they had a happy family, loyal friends, and really good wine. 

“Dance with me?” asked James, setting his wine down next to hers and tugging gently on her arm. 

It didn’t take much to lure her into the open space of the living room and settle into the crook of his neck. There was no music, but that didn’t matter; if there had been a beat, they would probably have ignored it anyway. 

“Do you remember the first time we ever danced?”

She nodded against his shoulder. Of course she remembered.

It was Halloween, sixth year, and James and Lily had been alone in the common room. 

“Happy Halloween, Lily,” said James as he approached her. “Today, you’re not a freak.”

Out of context, it might have sounded like senseless teasing, but it was so much more than that. She stared back at him, mouth agape, and wasn’t sure how to respond. It had been years — years — since they had talked about Halloween, and somehow he remembered a passing comment from her eleven-year-old self. 

“You remember that?” she asked, looking at him through narrowed eyes. 

It was her answer to an ice-breaker game during their first year — ‘what’s your favorite holiday and why?’ She hadn’t expected the confused stares at her response. In the muggle world, Halloween was the only day when she didn’t feel weird. Now, Halloween, and the fact that it meant something different to her than to everyone else, meant it was the only day when she did. 

However, she’d happily settle for one single day of being a freak; it was much better than three hundred and sixty-four.

“Of course I remember,” said James, smiling at her. His grin was electric, almost zapping through his messy black hair. Then, he reached out a questioning hand and raised his eyebrows. She stared back at him, wishing he would just use his words, yet she was impressed that with her, he didn’t need to. James always wore his thoughts on his face, in plain sight for the world to see, and never seemed to feel any shame or embarrassment for expressing them.

It touched a nerve for Lily, who had spent most of her life hiding. She longed for him to have to explain himself for once, to actually verbalize his thoughts instead of coasting by in his utopia where people just understood him. It wasn’t fair. “What are you asking, James?” 

“Dance with me?” he clarified. His voice was annoyingly calm and collected as if he knew she had been expecting him to elaborate, yet aware that he didn’t have to. He didn’t even flinch at her incredulous stare, confident in his request, as if asking her to dance was the most obvious progression to wishing her a happy Halloween. 

“Why?” She steadied her hands firmly by her sides, hoping James didn't see her fingers twitch toward his.

“To celebrate Halloween, of course.” His cheeks were rosy, his eyes sparkling, and his continued lack of reaction was curious. Despite her rejection, he committed to holding out his hand with confidence. 

“People don’t dance on Halloween.”

“I’m people, and I dance on Halloween,” laughed James.

She looked at his hand and considered it. Despite a few accidental brushes of her hand while taking notes or passing in the hallway, she had never actually touched him. And Lily had always been the curious type.

James followed her gaze to his hand and playfully wiggled his fingers. 

“Okay,” she said, placing her hand in his. His touch was gentle, firm, confident. It felt nice. “But there’s no music.”

“We don’t need any,” he said, pulling on her arm so that her body pressed up against his. It might have been too forward if she hadn’t fit so perfectly, but honestly, standing any further from him would have felt like sitting upright in a reclining chair. “If there was music, I’d probably ignore the beat, anyway.”

“You would?”  His soft voice immediately put her at ease in his arms, even though her palms were sweating and her heart was picking up its pace. “Why?”

“I’m too distracted,” he said. “Wasn’t expecting you to say yes.”

Lily laughed. “Then why’d you risk asking?”

“Anything is possible on Halloween, right?”

His arms tightened around her just then, not in a forceful way, just comfortable and supportive. She let herself get lost in the moment, swaying with James by the crackling fire, actually smelling, not imagining, his cologne, and feeling the prickle of his stubble against her forehead — when did that grow in? 

Maybe the next day, they’d go back to their usual dynamic, somewhere between flirting and arguing, annoyance and admiration. Or maybe, this would change things. There was something about the Potter boy and his messy black hair, unruly and uncaring, his glasses that should have made him look like a nerd but didn’t, and his annoying charisma that had an effect on her. It wasn’t a secret; they were both aware of it, yet neither felt the need to acknowledge it. At least not yet. They were so young, and they had so much time. 

“Was that when it all changed for you?” asked James, pulling her back to the present. “Is that when you finally gave in to my charm?”

Lily smiled at her husband. “Nothing changed that day. Nothing ever changed.”

James smiled, and Lily leaned into the sharpness of his stubble, a few lazy days unshaven. She melted against him and held him tight. Although his belly was softer, his voice was deeper, the circles under his eyes were darker, reflecting fifteen months of erratic sleep schedules, nothing about him had changed. 

The moment was broken by the sobering sound of a baby crying. Both Lily and James groaned as they pulled away from one another and swiftly turned their focus to their child. 

“I’ll put him back to bed,” said Lily.

��I can do it,” interrupted James. “You bathed him.”

Lily thought of the miniature James crying in his crib, and her heart clenched. It had only been minutes since she last snuggled him, and she already missed the child. “I really want to,” she said. 

James nodded, but his gaze was not on Lily. “Okay. I will meet you upstairs, then. I want to check the wards — I thought I saw some movement outside.”

Lily squinted at the window, her heart rate rising.

“It’s probably nothing,” said James.

Reaching for her half-full glass of wine, Lily nodded. “Alright, I’ll meet you upstairs. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

With one last glance at her husband, Lily made her way up the stairs toward Harry.

Harry, the child who always scrunched up his face when he slept, pursing his lips and crinkling his nose like he just ate a lemon. The boy with her eyes and James’ smile, who was already the best kid ever, even though his personality had yet to be determined. The kid who had a temper, but always calmed down the moment his mother wrapped her arms around him, the stubborn, determined one who could melt Lily’s heart with a single look. 

Her son, Harry, who she couldn’t wait to watch grow up, yet she hoped would never change.

[astrolology]

The Love-Hate Relationship with Stelliums (Pt. 1) ✨

Guysss pls remember that astrology is holistic and this should be read taking into account your overall chart placements, as well as the planets in your stellium and what sign rules your stellium. TAKE NOTE lol

1st house

❤️: You may be a person who is very driven towards a particular goal, single-minded in behavior and with a sense of determination that is hard to beat. The focus is on self-improvement and is rather internally driven - there can be large amounts of time focused on figuring one’s identity out. You’re not afraid to say things as they are - you’re able to dish out criticism hard but you give credit when its due. You extend the courtesy you receive to others. You may have an innate sense of wisdom that you keep deep within that you don’t let slip unless to extremely close ones but in times of hardship you are a good source of motivation. You always seek to improve yourself and it’s hard (if not impossible) to drag you down because of your strong personality and how you tend to always move on no matter what. I think 1st house stelliums are the embodiment of “don’t look back” and y’all always try to make the best out of every best situation, sort of like seeing the silver lining in everything. And also when crises emerge you’re able to keep a calm head on your shoulders and are good at making snap decisions, which makes you good on your feet!

👹: I don’t think y’all are as self-absorbed as ppl make you out to be but there’s definitely an element of self-centredness such that when you do something, you often consider what is most convenient or productive for you. You might get upset when your plans are disrupted but sometimes do the same to others even though you might be aware of what you’re doing - in that aspect, 1st house stelliums can be hypocritical. For you, there is never enough - you’re never satisfied with anything, be it yourself or for other things so you can seem really unappreciative. Keep in mind that you also tend to force others to agree with you and don’t be so quick to dismiss the other party’s POV no matter how dumb it seems. Remember that there’s always something to learn from other people, no matter their status. You need to work on expressing your appreciation to others in a more genuine manner (altho I know y’all do it in gruff, slightly awkward ways when sincere - kinda cute ngl).

2nd house

❤️: You may be a person who has a strong moral code and has a staunch value system that you won’t deviate from no matter what. Sense of loyalty is usually unbreakable and it can take a lot to truly anger you. You can have a good financial sense and good instincts/foresight that allow you to plan ahead for stability’s sake. More often than not in certain areas you are a master of categorising and structuring things which means that your mind is analytical, critical and (usually) organised. You hate it when people think they know you because you (understandably) know yourself the best - there are many privatised layers of yourself that you prefer to keep... private so yeah it just annoys you when that happens. Y’all are a leader in certain aspects of your life and even though 2nd house stelliums tend to prefer being the right-hand man, your control freak tendencies come out and you end up leading anyway. You become really productive because of the fear of failure - you have crazy high expectations for yourself and expect the same of your closed ones (although ultimately you’ll support them in whatever they do). There is an appreciation for the finer things in life and when it comes to your loved ones you’re not afraid to spoil them hard. 

👹: Be careful not to let this driving need for stability restrict you from spontaneity and following your heart’s desire. There is an inherent inflexibility in your nature; stubbornness can really be your kryptonite. You don’t really take any opportunities that you think might threaten your security which, while giving you a stable fort, can hold you back in your own happiness + prosperity. You might realise that there is a limit to your perspective but really struggle in seeing outside of that perspective mainly because you spend so much time thinking about what matters to you that you’ve become accustomed to your train of thought (altho when you do break it it’s lowkey groundbreaking). The focus on this house is on stability, not only on material wealth, so while you may be reaping in one aspect you might tend to lack on the spiritual or emotional elements of life. You can be very, very controlling and demanding so you might want to tone it down a little if not people might get the wrong impression. People might think of you as judgemental (and you are tbh) but I believe it’s just 2nd house stellium’s way of assessing a person’s character/abilities. 

3rd house

❤️: You may be a person who puts in a lot of effort into various forms of self-expression (not limited to verbal communication but also finding a specific niche such as music, art, writing etc.) Your brain is naturally sharp and inquisitive and you may be able to pick things up very quickly. You might be rather adaptable but are surprisingly stubborn when it comes to your opinion or intellectual capabilities. You might have a dark/dirty sense of humor and because of that you also have a keen ability to see past the societal nuances of propriety and get to the heart/root of whatever a person is saying. You can spend your entire life trying to understand people and why things work the way they work - your brain needs to be stimulated in order for you to feel alive. Passion for you has to be applied in a productive manner - you probably aren’t a person to just take a passion for something as a mere hobby. Rather, you would either apply that passion to one of your existing projects, create a new one or use it as a motivating factor. Your interests are wide and varied, which makes you really well-rounded in certain aspects! 

👹: Many people say y’all are flighty beings and I can certainly see why they would think so. Because of your perceptiveness, you tend to change your narrative whenever you’re speaking to different people, so as to make yourself sound more convincing. In that aspect, you can be quite manipulative. Your ego probably isn’t the smallest either haha - you can tolerate being slighted at some things but if it’s a challenge to one of your passion projects you’ll probably become very upset. You need to stop giving people the hot and cold shoulder all the time and even though you’re quite sociable you tend to flaunt but hide your true thoughts. You have to be more open and honest in your self-expression, and not that idealised, constructed version of yourself you think people will find interesting. I’ve noticed that 3rd house stellium ppl have an obsessive need to “stand out” and make themselves feel unique which, despite all your charms and popularity, might be the reason why you find yourself sometimes so isolated. You’re a perfectionist (although you would deny it) and secretly quite controlling but unlike other stelliums you can manage it better I feel. 

4th house

❤️: There is a pressing insistence regarding relationships in your inner circle - be it your family, closest friends, or your future family. Extended focus on your cultural heritage can also be possible. Deep down, compassion is at your core and you are very protective of your friends in a silent but aggressive way. Having a stable family life is very important to you but I’ve noticed that more often than not, 4th house stelliums have turbulent family relationships. The beauty of 4th house stelliums is their ability to break through whatever toxic relationships they’ve been in and to create families of their own - be it unconventional or not. They are the epitome of “we choose our own families”. Y’all can be very empathetic and rather selfless to the point where you allow yourself to be manipulated (even though you’re aware of it) - but it’s usually for a justifiable reason. You find it easier than most to balance the emotional landscape but there are moments where you need an outlet to express yourself. There can be an obsession/possessiveness over your own culture - you take pride in your roots and become lowkey insulted when people disrespect it (and if you don’t, you somehow nearly always manage to find some other culture to assimilate yourself in). 

👹: Y’all probably get very upset when things don’t go your way but the problem with this stellium is that there is a want to speak out but you choose to bury everything inside instead - giving you a very passive-aggressive and even aloof image. Internally, you guys might think that you are giving off a very soft/giving aura but some people are wary precisely because you are hard to read. You are very, intensely private (rivalling 2nd/7th house tbh) and you have to learn how to share your true thoughts, no bullshit, no suger-coated thoughts with your family and dearest friends even though you are capable of handling yourself. You are independent, ambitious, and people often underestimate you, but you have to let people in first in order for them to know what you’re capable of! Also, idealisation of certain things (eg. a future family life/partner) can be prevalent and you overthink things to the point where sometimes you make yourself miserable. Again, please talk to someone hahaha you don’t have to deal with everything yourself. 

5th house

❤️:  Insecurity runs rampant in any 5th house stellium BUT y’all are quite paradoxical in a sense that you also have a very strong aura of confidence. Sometimes, in crucial moments, you manage to convince yourself and others that you are the most important person in the room haha - literally the epitome of “fake it till you make it”. Still, a deeply rooted kindness is found in 5th house stelliums such that you’re always looking out for the underdog in the room. If you are developed you probably have a strong sense of righteousness which prompts you to look out for people who might be struggling. Y’all are very concerned about your physical appearance and most of the time you like to keep your body in good shape, which draws the attention of people in the room. You likely have an infectious smile (this is just a hunch but I don’t believe 5th house stelliums smile a lot - y’all quirk your lips or smirk but a true smile is rare so when you do... it melts the hearts of people). Everything that you do will have a youthful flavor and you have a healthy appreciation for downtime/self-care so while you might not (contrary to popular belief) be that fond of kids, kids are attracted to you. Oh and actually I think the stronger this stellium is in a person, the shyer the person seems at first impression but inwardly and as time goes by, they become more humorous and dramatic. 

👹: You aren’t exactly manipulative, but you know how to use the power of suggestion (and your charms) to get what you want. If unchecked, it’ll become a habit because to you, it’s an instinctive thing to do and you might not realise you’re hurting other people because of it. You are stubborn and prideful (which isn’t a bad thing sometimes but) you take criticism quite badly such that if a person tries to offer their opinion or goes against your beliefs, you might take it as a personal attack. You have a fear of being restrained/constricted (like 9th house) so you’re actually quite aggressive to those who you perceive to be a threat to your authority. You can also experience extreme mood swings (from crazy happy/hyper to melancholic in a snap) and when you do you expect people to give you attention. But you are hypocritical in this aspect because you yourself can be quite insensitive to other people’s feelings, or you brush them off if you’re not “in the mood”. 

6th house

❤️: You are most probably quite an organised person, not in a tidy way (although you could be) but in matters of life there’s an insistence on order and structure. The way you think can be very logical - you are able to think concisely and connect the dots in a quick manner and logic is probably prevalent in everything you do. However, in contrast to this pragmatic behavior, you are deeply caring and you won’t think twice to give up something if a loved one needs it. You are very disciplined in certain aspects of life and you are able to maintain a consistent effort in everything that you do. You’re probably someone who finds joy in small things and although you have high standards, it doesn’t take much to make you happy, as long as it’s genuine. You can be a perfectionist and really quite meticulous in your work which makes you someone who is detail-orientated. You give a lot of yourself to other people and most of the time you don’t expect anything in return, which is one of the great things about 6th house stelliums. You take effort into maintaining your physical health and you mighttt be a fitness freak or someone who keeps track of their diet really carefully. It’s likely that you encourage other people to follow your lifestyle and generally, you exert a sort of mellow influence around other people that makes them want to be better. 

👹: There’s a tendency for 6th house stelliums to fall into pessimism, precisely because of your pragmatic nature. Y’all may say that you’re being “realistic” but in actuality it does dampen the spirits of some people. You can also become really unreasonable and inflexible once you’ve made up your mind on something and that makes you a bit narrow minded because you simply refuse to listen to other people’s POV. This can also cause tunnel vision which can really limit your full potential and I think it’s something worth spending your time working on. When pushed into a corner or feeling insecure, y’all might try to cover it up by being condescending or giving the cold shoulder. There’s also a risk of being overly reliant on a schedule/structure and hence, cautiousness when it comes to being spontaneous or embracing something foreign. Because of your affinity towards maintaining health, your hypochondriac tendencies may be exacerbated and you need to try to lessen your over-worrying behaviour haha. Although you never dish out something you can’t receive (eg. high expectations - you’re truly your worst critic), your demanding tone can really make others cautious of you.

OVERALL, I strongly believe that the way to embrace your stelliums isn’t to reject or force yourself to change the values they represent, but rather taking those eccentricities and moulding it into something more precious and beneficial to yourself. It has to be done with a thorough understanding of yourself; with patience. 

-C

[agere-fandom-time]

Hello! Could you please make a fanfic about regressor!eraser head and caregiver!Present mic?

Yes I can! If you haven’t already read Mod Kat’s fic with these two, you’re missing out: it’s on AO3 right here! 

Here’s your new story, written by me! It’s below the ‘keep reading’ or you can check it out on AO3 if you prefer. 

Content Warnings: Shouta and Hizashi are married in this fic, and at the end they share some affection as a couple when Shouta isn’t regressed (cheek kisses). Aizawa is a non-verbal regressor. Sensory issues are mentioned but don’t flare up, as is Hizashi’s loss of hearing. Vague mentions of villains (and villain-related trauma). Shouta experiences memory loss as part of his regression and finds this distressing. 

-Mod Stella

“Hey Shouta, I’m home!”

Hizashi closed the door behind him and tossed his keys onto the table beside the door, bending over to begin the long process of unlacing his boots. Silence greeted him in the house, which wasn’t unusual. Shouta could be asleep, or just focused on his work. It was hard to guess what Hizashi would come home to, on the days that he patrolled alone. Shouta’s sleep schedule was erratic by nature, and had been since they were teens. The chaotic hours of hero work and heavy workload as a teacher had only added to the uncertainty, and Hizashi was lucky to get one night a week where Shouta slept next to him in their bed.

Kicking off his boots, Hizashi turned his attention to the speaker around his neck. It was held on by a series of metal buckles, only unlocked by his own fingerprints so that it couldn’t be torn off by villains that got close enough for hand-to-hand combat. It was second-nature to reach behind himself and fit his fingertips into the divots that would unlock the device and let it drop into his other hand.

Breathing deeply, Hizashi stretched his neck from side to side and dropped the speaker on the table beside his keys. Shouta’s capture weapon was hanging on the set of hooks, and Hizashi threw his jacket beside it on his way into the apartment.

Shouta wasn’t at the coffee table, although there were some papers spread out across it, many of them already bearing Shouta’s scratchy comments, his pen strokes as sharp as his criticism. The kitchen was empty, no sign of how recently he’d eaten. Finally, Hizashi pushed the door to their room open.

Sure enough, Shouta was in the bed, but he wasn’t asleep. He was sitting against the headboard, his knees drawn up to his chest and his gaze fixed on the opposite wall. As the door opened, Shouta’s eyes moved towards the hallway.

“You okay, babe?” Hizashi asked, staying in the doorway. Sometimes Shouta needed space and quiet, and Hizashi didn’t want to intrude if this was one of those times.

Shouta blinked at him, a slow and deliberate motion, and didn’t reply. His hair was pulled up behind him in a messy ponytail, and he was wearing one of Hizashi’s pyjama shirts with an American band logo on the front.

Hizashi recognized that expression. “Are you feeling little, baby?”

Shouta blinked again.  

“Do you want company?” Hizashi stepped inside the room, but didn’t approach until Shouta gave another languid blink as confirmation. “Okay, gimme space there.”

Shouta obediently pushed the covers back, and Hizashi wiggled his way underneath. The bed was pure heaven after a shift on patrol, and he sighed happily as he took his feet off the floor and shoved them under the nice warm blankets. One of them brushed against Shouta’s leg, who made a small noise of complaint.

“Sorry, baby. Cold feet, I know.” Hizashi made more of an effort to keep his toes on his side of the bed, stretching out an arm to invite Shouta to cuddle. He really needed a shower after the work shift, but as heroes, the two of them never minded cuddling while one or both of them was sweaty.

Sure enough, Shouta shifted over and tucked himself under Hizashi’s arm, pressing into his side.

“There we go.” Hizashi curled his arm around Shouta’s back, getting him settled. “Long day, huh? It’s good to see you.”

Shouta stayed quiet. Hizashi didn’t mind that. When Shouta felt little, he was usually quiet. Hizashi could talk enough for them both, easily. And Shouta didn’t mind listening to him babble.

“I was thinking of this bed the entire way home,” Hizashi confessed. “And a little bit of patrol before that. Just daydreaming about how soft the sheets are. It’s the good stuff. Thank god we dished out for them.” Hizashi wiggled his butt on the mattress to make his point. He could feel Shouta smiling against his chest. “I was thinking about you too,” Hizashi said. “Hoping you were in the mood for some cuddles.”

Hizashi kissed the top of Shouta’s head, where he’d curled up under Hizashi’s arm. Shouta grumbled and burrowed deeper, almost disappearing into Hizashi’s armpit.

“Oh, come out of there,” Hizashi laughed. “I’m a stinky man, you don’t want to hide under there.” He tugged the shoulder of Shouta’s shirt, who emerged to frown up at Hizashi.

“Yeah, I know, I’m the meanest for not letting you nap in my armpit,” Hizashi said. “Come on, baby, let’s get you a smoothie. I’m guessing from the lack of dishes that you haven’t had dinner, and you’re gonna be cranky in the morning if you don’t eat anything tonight.”

Shouta visibly considered this, twisting his mouth slightly as he thought. Finally, he sighed and nodded, sitting up and away from Hizashi’s embrace.

“Here, you can have my soundblockers for the blender.” Hizashi took them off his head and hooked them around Shouta’s neck for when he would need them. They protected what little hearing Hizashi had left when he was using his quirk on patrol, but when they were at home they were more often in use by Shouta. They helped with his migraines and generally bad sensory days. Hizashi knew from experience that little Shouta usually had problems with big noises, so he was always careful to suppress his quirk and keep the volume on electronics low while Shouta was regressing.

Shouta raised a hand and touched the soundblockers around his neck, looking down at them for a moment. Then he raised his eyes to meet Hizashi’s and offered a big toothy smile.

“There’s my precious Shouta,” Hizashi grinned back. “Hi, baby.”

Shouta reached out and took hold of Hizashi’s face, one hand on each cheek. He kept Hizashi turned towards him, their gazes locked. Still smiling, Shouta’s eyes narrowed as if he were trying to use his quirk. To anyone else, the expression would have looked entirely terrifying, but luckily Hizashi had almost two decades of experience with reading Shouta when he didn’t feel like verbally communicating.

“Uh-huh, I love you too,” Hizashi said, bopping Shouta on the nose.

Shouta withdrew, wrinkling his nose and brushing his fingers against it like he was trying to rub off the remains of Hizashi’s affection.

“You wound me,” Hizashi told him, pressing a hand to his chest. “Come on, kiddo, time for dinner.”

Hizashi popped out of the bed, trying to hide his wince as his work-weary feet hit the floor again. Shouta was slower to untangle himself from the blankets, but eventually got to standing. Hizashi hid a smile as he realized that Shouta had discarded his pants somewhere along the way and was wearing some cat-patterned boxers with the stolen shirt.

“Is light bad? Do you want some sunglasses?” Hizashi asked before he opened the door. The light in the bedroom had been off, the glow of the city outside the open curtains leaving the room dim.

Shouta hesitated, glancing towards the city lights behind them, and then shook his head once.

“Let me know if that changes,” Hizashi said, and led the way out into the hallway, Shouta following close behind. Their apartment was familiar, the bathroom to the right and the open living area where their belongings mixed on the shelves. Mostly Hizashi and the various things he’d bought for Shouta over the years, honestly. The other man would live like some kind of monastic hermit if left to his own devices. Thank goodness he had Hizashi here to spoil him. Speaking of which…

“Where did you leave Hana?” Hizashi wondered out loud, glancing around the apartment. Shouta’s stuffie usually lived on their dresser in the bedroom, but Hizashi hadn’t seen her while he was in there.

“Mmm.” Shouta wandered into the living room and retrieved the stuffie from under the table, careful not to disturb the papers spread across the top.

“Oh, was she keeping you company while you were working? What a good kitty!”

Shouta came back to Hizashi’s side, Hana in his arms. She was a big stuffed cat, soft as anything and patterned with a tortoiseshell coat. Satisfying to hug and perfect to use as a pillow when Shouta fell asleep on the floor. One of Hizashi’s best purchases, if he did say so himself.

Shouta pressed his cheek against Hana’s head, rubbing it back and forth with his eyes closed.

“Okay, kiddo, here’s your chair.” Hizashi pulled out Shouta’s chair at the kitchen counter and watched him take his place, Hana held in his lap. “Do you want music or quiet while I make your smoothie?”

Music, Shouta answered in sign language, then wrapped his arms around Hana again. A little smile was curling his lips, and Hizashi found it impossible to resist smiling back.

Hizashi shot back the sign for awesome!! and made sure the volume was pretty low before he switched on the radio on top of the fridge. It rarely left the frequency of Hizashi’s station: Shouta liked to listen to Hizashi’s shows when he was away, and Hizashi liked to check in on the interns and other hosts when they were running things. Made it easier to solve problems on the fly when people started blowing up his phone if he already knew what was going on.

Music flowed into the kitchen, and Hizashi hummed along as he assembled the various pieces of the smoothie, frozen fruit from the freezer and fresh bananas sliced into the blender with practised ease. Whenever Hizashi checked on Shouta, he saw him rocking slightly to the music, hands busy with Hana’s fur, eyes following Hizashi’s movements around the kitchen.

“Time for soundblockers, baby!” Hizashi warned, and made sure that Shouta had the headphones over his ears before he screwed the lid onto the blender and smoothied it up.

Retrieving a swirly straw from the drawer, Hizashi added it to the smoothie and put it in front of Shouta.

All done! Hizashi signed, and Shouta pulled the soundblockers off, pushing them across the counter towards Hizashi. “Thank you!” Hizashi said, and went to hang them by the door with the rest of their hero gear. There were doubles of most of it inside their bedroom for emergencies, but their work costumes remained in the main space.

By the time Hizashi got back, Shouta was working on the smoothie. If their lives were different, Hizashi would love to snap a photo of his adorable husband with his hair up, dressed in his shirt, and drinking a bright pink smoothie with a straw shaped like a heart. But with the constant threat of hackers, and public appearances to keep up, that wasn’t the sort of thing that Hizashi could take a photo of. Instead, he just smiled and tucked the memory into his mind where he wouldn’t forget it.

Hizashi sat next to Shouta and let the radio fill the silence, bobbing along to the music and keeping his humming low as Shouta worked away at his late dinner.

“Mm- Hizashi?” Shouta asked, and Hizashi immediately turned his attention to him.

Shouta was blinking down at Hana and the smoothie in front of him, clearly a bit lost.

“Hey, babe. Welcome back.”

“How long was I- gone?”

“I dunno, you were little when I got home. You had Hana with you while you were marking, so you must’ve been fighting it at some point.”

“I remember that.” Shouta rubbed his eyes, and Hizashi quelled the urge to tug his hands away and remind him to use his eyedrops. Adult Shouta got to make decisions like whether he rubbed his eyes when they were itchy. “I wanted something to do with my hands, so I got Hana. Marked some more, and then- I think I was going to take a nap?”

“Makes sense with the outfit,” Hizashi teased lightly.

Shouta looked down at himself and shrugged. “It’s cozy.”

“Uh-huh. Softie.” Shouta frowned at Hizashi and took another slurp of the smoothie through his swirly heart straw. “You were in the bedroom when I came home, spaced out. You didn’t seem upset, though, just out of it.”

“I might have fallen asleep.” Shouta dug his knuckles into his temples. “I don’t remember.”

“It’s okay, I don’t think you were there for long. I only got home a couple hours after you, and you did a lot of marking.”

“Yeah.” Shouta was trying to sound like he wasn’t bothered, but Hizashi knew he didn’t enjoy when his regression ended up giving him gaps in his memory. It was too much like villain quirks that got in your head and messed things around. Every hero had a horror story about lost time, missing memories.

“You were really cuddly when I got home, but I knew you hadn’t eaten yet, so I dragged you out here, found you Hana, and made you a smoothie. I’ve only been home for about half an hour.” Hizashi glanced at the numbers on the microwave to make sure he was telling the truth, and nodded. “Yeah, thirty-five minutes.”

“Thanks.” Shouta discarded the straw, throwing it perfectly into the sink, and drank the rest of the smoothie straight from the cup.

“Any time, babe, you know that. But I do really need to take a shower.” Hizashi had been putting it off until Shouta was ready to take care of himself, but he was desperate to get out of his work clothes.

“Go ahead,” Shouta said. “All yours.”

“I love you, babe. And seriously, it was no trouble.” Hizashi slid off his chair and pressed a kiss to Shouta’s cheek, resting his forehead against his husband’s temple. “I don’t mind taking care of you when you’re tired.”

“I know.” Shouta’s little smile was back, pulling at the corners of his mouth. He turned his head and kissed the tip of Hizashi’s nose. “I love you too, now go take a shower. You reek.”

“So mean!” Hizashi pouted. “So mean to your loving husband!”

“My loving husband is a stinky man.” Shouta poked Hizashi in the side, making him yelp and back away. “Go shower. I want cuddles in bed, so dry your hair before you join me.”

“Yes sir!” Hizashi grinned, and stole one more kiss before he headed for the bathroom. Life was busy, but life was good. And that was all Hizashi needed.  

[dudeandduchess]

Can we have Giyuu starting a family? He has a sweet waifu and a baby, he's super happy with them and there's lots of love. Plz he needs it.

Ahhh hello, bby! My friend also requested this, so I hope both of you like it. UwU It’s not entirely complete bc I feel like I need to think more on how Giyuu will be with an actual baby. So there might be a part two??? But I hope this is fine for now. :D

Redemption week. Redemption week. I will write nothing but happiness for Giyuu this streak. Ahaha.

Also, another note: Two hundred yen in the Taishō era was worth alot of money. Just to avoid confusion.  Okay, that’s it. Thank you for coming to my TED Talk. Ahaha. 💖

***

Giyuu x F!Reader: Accidental Pregnancy (SFW Scenario):

“Alright, place your bets, everyone,” Shinobu chimed excitedly as she dropped a few bills and coins inside a box Mitsuri had found within Headquarters.

Readily, all the Hashira present— save for Gyōmei and Muichiro— dug into their pockets and counted out ample amounts of bills, before dropping them in with Shinobu’s bet. Then, deftly, the Insect Hashira quickly counted through the money.

“We have two-hundred Yen here, whoever guesses correctly gets all the money. If more than one person guesses correctly, then they have to share,” Shinobu explained patiently, all while some of her comrades eyed the reward money in her hands hotly. Two-hundred Yen was already a lot of money; it could get them two-hundred dozen eggs, and maybe a a hundred pounds of cured meat.

So, suffice to say that all of them wanted it.

“Does everyone still have the same bets? Or would anyone like to change their prior bet?” At the prompt, Uzui sniffed haughtily as he crossed his arms over his chest.

And then, the Sound Hashira said, “It might not be flamboyant, but I’m betting that Tomioka will get (L/n) pregnant. That’s how those two will admit their feelings for each other.”

Shinobu nodded in complete agreement, while the others— namely: Rengoku, Shinazugawa, and Iguro— shook their heads. Kanroji, in typical fashion, looked to be a little lost— as she was the only one who had an entirely different opinion.

“Tomioka won’t do it. He’s not brave enough to confess to (Y/n),” The Flame Hashira announced with a laugh, which his cohorts agreed to with noncommittal hums.

“They might think they’re being sly by fucking behind our backs, but when someone says something about it they’re going to stop,” Sanemi added with a scoff, before looking right at Uzui— as if to directly oppose his opinion.

Iguro let his eyes flit over all of his comrades— lingering on Kanroji for a while— before landing right on Shinobu. “That’s most likely the reason why Oyakata-sama is talking to them right now.”

A collective silence hung over all the Hashira, as all of them contemplated their own opinions— which Kanroji took as her chance to air out her thoughts.

“Well, I think that Tomioka-san will take (Y/n)-chan out to a candlelit dinner, and he’ll confess to her there.”

All eyes landed on the Love Hashira, and all of them looked at her as if she had sprouted a new head. Her opinion was outlandish at best, but no one dared to say anything about it.

After all, she was entitled to live in her own fantasy world— no matter how inaccurate her portrayal of the Water Hashira was.

“I still don’t think this is right. Gambling is an unskillful activity. As Buddha once said, ‘In winning one begets hatred; in losing one mourns the loss of one’s wealth,’” Himejima uttered in that solemn tone of his, and it made his comrades all second-guess their decision.

But when they saw the box of prize money still in Shinobu’s hands, the Stone Hashira’s words practically floated away.

“Be careful, (Y/n).” All the Hashira looked up at Giyuu’s familiar tone, only to sport differing reactions when they saw the Water Hashira and the Snow Hashira round the corner with their hands intertwined.

At the sight, Uzui and Shinobu traded knowing looks, while the three who’d opposed their opinion furrowed their eyebrows in mild frustration. Meanwhile, Kanroji almost clapped her hands in joy at the sweet sight.

(Y/n) rolled her eyes at her lover’s overly worried words, as it was all she could do so as not to swoon at how attentive he was being. Ever since she’d told him about the news, he had made a more conscious effort to be around her— and she would be damned if she didn’t admit that it was making her fall even harder for him.

Not that she would ever say it out loud. She was fine with keeping her feelings to herself, thank you very much.

Unless Giyuu confessed first; only then would she admit to feeling the same way.

“Oh? All of you are still here?” (Y/n) asked in mild surprise when she caught sight of the huddled forms of her comrades. “I guess it makes it easier for-”

However, the Snow Hashira had to pause when she caught sight of the box filled with money in Shinobu’s hands. She immediately narrowed her eyes at the Insect Hashira, before stating flatly, “You were betting on this? Why am I not surprised?”

“How long have all of you known about us?” Giyuu asked in his usual tone, which had everyone— save for (Y/n)— looking at him much like they had at Kanroji.

“Everyone had always known, dumbass. You two weren’t exactly discrete about it,” Sanemi practically spat at Giyuu, which made Giyuu frown. He simply didn’t understand why the Wind Hashira was so rude to him.

As if sensing the upcoming squabble, Rengoku stepped in and quelled it before it could even take root in anyone’s mind. “So, would you mind telling us why Oyakata-sama asked both of you to stay?”

“Ah… that…” (Y/n)’s voice rose in pitch, as a blush made its way onto her cheeks. And, reflexively, her free hand moved to cradle her very faint baby bump.

All eyes zeroed in on that minute movement, and she had to quirk an eyebrow at Sanemi and Obanai who had cursed irately before crossing their arms over their respective chests.

“(Y/n)’s three months pregnant,” Giyuu announced, as the faintest of smiles graced his lips. He then looked down at where his lover’s hand pressed against her belly, and he couldn’t help but feel his own gaze soften at the tiny bump. “It’s mine.”

It all felt surreal when (Y/n) had first told him a month ago, but he wasn’t mad. He had never told anyone, but he’d always wanted to have a wife and children.

He had half of that solved, he just had to work on the other half. Hopefully, she wouldn’t make it him work too hard for her hand in marriage.

“Who else’s would it be, Tomioka-san?” Shinobu chimed in with a giggle, as she quickly counted half of the prize money and gave it to Uzui.

And with a smug smirk, the Sound Hashira fanned out the paper bills in his right hand, before using it to fan himself. “Thank you for making me a hundred Yen richer.”

“Yes, thank you. Let’s do this again sometime.” Shinobu laughed once more, before carefully pocketing her prize.

“All of you are insufferable. Come on, Giyuu. Let’s go.” With that, (Y/n) tugged at her lover’s hand to get both of them out of there.

***

So came the days when Giyuu was required to change from a stoic, single man, to a doting, and very-much-in love father-to-be.

He didn’t have a single complaint about his predicament. Not once did he think ill of (Y/n), nor did he resent her for getting pregnant. After all, it took two to make a baby. Besides, he was simply ecstatic at the thought of having a mini version of him and (Y/n) around the house.

Giyuu couldn’t wait to add more babies to their family.

However, the one thing that always got him down was (Y/n)’s lack of response to his feelings. He tried to convey his love for her through all of his gestures, and she was grateful towards him, but it seemed that she was still hiding part of herself from him.

It wasn’t a secret that he was bad at verbalizing his affections— or verbalizing anything, really— but he just wanted some confirmation that she felt the same way towards him.

Gratefulness was one thing, but genuine feelings were another thing entirely. He craved to let her know just how much he loved her, yet he was always hindered from doing so because of the unclear boundaries between them.

“Giyuu…” (Y/n) whispered in the dead of the night, as she propped herself up against her right elbow and gently rubbed her lover’s chest to wake him up. “Giyuu, wake up. Giyuu.”

Reluctantly, the Water Hashira opened his eyes, only to snap them wide open when he realized that (Y/n) was close to his face. He then bolted upright and turned to her, with worry shining in his eyes. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is it time?”

(Y/n)’s eyes widened at that, before she offered him a sheepish grin. It was so adorable that it calmed Giyuu’s racing heart. “I’m sorry for startling you, but… I want to eat something sweet and tart. Like sakura no mi, or yama ichigo. Please?”

He’d been woken up to go berry picking, which was already trivial enough; but to make matters worse, the sun wasn’t even up yet. If he checked his pocket watch, he would probably see that it was only half past two in the morning.

Still, Giyuu didn’t mind. Because he loved (Y/n), and that was the least he could do for her.

So, he slowly got up and out of their shared futon, then pressed a lazy kiss to the top of her head, before getting dressed to go foraging.

It didn’t take long for him to fill a small basket up with the berries she’d requested— as they were in season, and Giyuu knew the area like the back of his hand.

So he was surprised when he came back home, only to find (Y/n) already bustling around in the kitchen. From what he could smell, she was making okayu from what they had in the kitchen.

“(Y/n)? What are you doing out of bed?” The Hashira asked, clearly confused as to why she would be cooking at such an early hour— when she preferred to start her mornings a little later than him.

“I…” She began hesitantly, while she kept her head down to hide the blush on her cheeks.

Normally, her cravings were something easy to make, or something ready to eat in the kitchen, but it was the first time that she’d sent Giyuu out on an errand and she felt bad about it. So she decided to make it worth his while by making something for him.

She just didn’t think that he would be back so soon.

“(Y/n)?”

“I felt bad about sending you out this early… so I thought-” (Y/n) answered softly— but was cut off when Giyuu marched up to her, turned her around, then pressed his lips to hers.

The action served to make her eyes widen, as a blush warmed her entire body— from the tips of her toes to the top of her head.

She didn’t know why, but she was always reduced to a flustered mess whenever Giyuu did something remotely sweet.

Who was she kidding though? She knew exactly why she acted that way around Giyuu; it was because she loved him— immensely. She just couldn’t admit it out loud to him, at the risk of ruining whatever unspoken agreement they had.

“Here. Your berries,” He announced in his usual cool tone— even though he felt so lightheaded from what he’d done that he just wanted to lay down.

In her excitement, (Y/n) as good as forgot her jumbled emotions; so she reached out and grasped the basket with both hands. All the while, she eyed the plump wild berries so covetously that Giyuu felt he was intruding on something private. “Ah! Thank you, Giyuu! I love you even more for this.”

Giyuu, in his surprise, choked on air as his eyes widened at the casually-thrown surprise. He immediately turned away from (Y/n)— more to hide his completely red face than anything else— and began to walk away from her.

He wanted to ask her about her words, and the war he waged with himself was long and bloody, but he eventually relented. So, with his back still to her, and his hand still covering the lower half of his face, he asked, “Did you mean it?”

“Did I mean what?” The young woman asked happily as she popped the first yama ichigo into her mouth. All of her thoughts and trepidations from their earlier exchange had clearly been pushed aside to savor the taste of her berries.

“That you love me?”

That brought pause to (Y/n)’s actions, and she swallowed what was in her mouth before worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. It was now or never, really.

“Of course. I always have, Giyuu. I wouldn’t have been with you in the first place if I didn’t.” Her hands deftly fussed with the sides of the wicker basket— running the pads of her fingers over the rough grooves and indentations of the pattern— to ease her nerves.

“I… I love you, too. You and the baby. I always have, as well.” He was about to continue, when he felt his lover’s warm body press against his back, as her arms wrapped tightly around his middle.

“Good. Because you’re stuck with us now, anata.”

[lastsonlost]

Crossing the divide

Do men really have it easier? These transgender guys found the truth was more complex.

In the 1990s, the late Stanford neuroscientist Ben Barres transitioned from female to male. He was in his 40s, mid-career, and afterward he marveled at the stark changes in his professional life. Now that society saw him as male, his ideas were taken more seriously. He was able to complete a whole sentence without being interrupted by a man. A colleague who didn’t know he was transgender even praised his work as “much better than his sister’s.”

Clinics have reported an increase in people seeking medical gender transitions in recent years, and research suggests the number of people identifying as transgender has risen in the past decade. Touchstones such as Caitlyn Jenner’s transition, the bathroom controversy, and the Amazon series “Transparent” have also made the topic a bigger part of the political and cultural conversation.

But it is not always evident when someone has undergone a transition — especially if they have gone from female to male.

“The transgender guys have a relatively straightforward process — we just simply add testosterone and watch their bodies shift,” said Joshua Safer, executive director at the Center for Transgender Medicine and Surgery at Mount Sinai Health System and Icahn School of Medicine in New York. “Within six months to a year they start to virilize — getting facial hair, a ruddier complexion, a change in body odor and a deepening of the voice.”

Transgender women have more difficulty “passing”; they tend to be bigger-boned and more masculine-looking, and these things are hard to reverse with hormone treatments, Safer said. “But the transgender men will go get jobs and the new boss doesn’t even know they’re trans.”

We spoke with four men who transitioned as adults to the bodies in which they feel more comfortable. Their experiences reveal that the gulf between how society treats women and men is in many ways as wide now as it was when Barres transitioned. But their diverse backgrounds provide further insight into how race and ethnicity inform the gender divide in subtle and sometimes surprising ways.

(Their words have been lightly edited for space and clarity.)

‘I’ll never call the police again’

Trystan Cotten, 50, Berkeley, Calif.

Professor of gender studies at California State University Stanislaus and editor of Transgress Press, which publishes books related to the transgender experience. Transitioned in 2008.

Life doesn’t get easier as an African American male. The way that police officers deal with me, the way that racism undermines my ability to feel safe in the world, affects my mobility, affects where I go. Other African American and Latino Americans grew up as boys and were taught to deal with that at an earlier age. I had to learn from my black and brown brothers about how to stay alive in my new body and retain some dignity while being demeaned by the cops.

One night somebody crashed a car into my neighbor’s house, and I called 911. I walk out to talk to the police officer, and he pulls a gun on me and says, “Stop! Stop! Get on the ground!” I turn around to see if there’s someone behind me, and he goes, “You! You! Get on the ground!” I’m in pajamas and barefoot. I get on the ground and he checks me, and afterward I said, “What was that all about?” He said, “You were moving kind of funny.” Later, people told me, “Man, you’re crazy. You never call the police.”

I get pulled over a lot more now. I GOT PULLED OVER MORE IN THE FIRST TWO YEARS AFTER MY TRANSITION THAN I DID THE ENTIRE 20 YEARS I WAS DRIVING BEFORE THAT.

Before, when I’d been stopped, even for real violations like driving 100 miles an hour, I got off. In fact, when it happened in Atlanta the officer and I got into a great conversation about the Braves. Now the first two questions they ask are: Do I have any weapons in the car, and am I on parole or probation?

Being a black man has changed the way I move in the world.

I used to walk quickly or run to catch a bus. Now I walk at a slower pace, and if I’m late I don’t dare rush. I am hyper-aware of making sudden or abrupt movements, especially in airports, train stations and other public places. I avoid engaging with unfamiliar white folks, especially white women. If they catch my eye, white women usually clutch their purses and cross the street. While I love urban aesthetics, I stopped wearing hoodies and traded my baggy jeans, oversized jerseys and colorful skullcaps for closefitting jeans, khakis and sweaters. These changes blunt assumptions that I’m going to snatch purses or merchandise, or jump the subway turnstile. The less visible I am, the better my chances of surviving.

But it’s not foolproof. I’m an academic sitting at a desk so I exercise where I can. I walked to the post office to mail some books and I put on this 40-pound weight vest that I walk around in. It was about 3 or 4 in the afternoon and I’m walking back and all of a sudden police officers drove up, got out of their car, and stopped. I had my earphones on so I didn’t know they were talking to me. I looked up and there’s a helicopter above. And now I can kind of see why people run, because you might live if you run, even if you haven’t done anything. This was in Emeryville, one of the wealthiest enclaves in Northern California, where there’s security galore. Someone had seen me walking to the post office and called in and said they saw a Muslim with an explosives vest. One cop, a white guy, picked it up and laughed and said, “Oh, I think I know what this is. This is a weight belt.”

It’s not only humiliating, but it creates anxiety on a daily basis. Before, I used to feel safe going up to a police officer if I was lost or needed directions. But I don’t do that anymore. I hike a lot, and if I’m out hiking and I see a dead body, I’ll keep on walking. I’ll never call the police again.

‘It now feels as though I am on my own’

Zander Keig, 52, San Diego

Coast Guard veteran. Works at Naval Medical Center San Diego as a clinical social work case manager. Editor of anthologies about transgender men. Started transition in 2005.

Prior to my transition, I was an outspoken radical feminist. I spoke up often, loudly and with confidence.

I was encouraged to speak up. I was given awards for my efforts, literally — it was like, “Oh, yeah, speak up, speak out.” When I speak up now, I am often given the direct or indirect message that I am “mansplaining,” “taking up too much space” or “asserting my white male heterosexual privilege.” Never mind that I am a first-generation Mexican American, a transsexual man, and married to the same woman I was with prior to my transition.

I find the assertion that I am now unable to speak out on issues I find important offensive and I refuse to allow anyone to silence me. My ability to empathize has grown exponentially, because I now factor men into my thinking and feeling about situations.

Prior to my transition, I rarely considered how men experienced life or what they thought, wanted or liked about their lives.

I have learned so much about the lives of men through my friendships with men, reading books and articles by and for men and through the men I serve as a licensed clinical social worker.

Social work is generally considered to be “female dominated,” with women making up about 80 percent of the profession in the United States. Currently I work exclusively with clinical nurse case managers, but in my previous position, as a medical social worker working with chronically homeless military veterans — mostly male — who were grappling with substance use disorder and severe mental illness, I was one of a few men among dozens of women.

Plenty of research shows that life events, medical conditions and family circumstances impact men and women differently. But when I would suggest that patient behavioral issues like anger or violence may be a symptom of trauma or depression, it would often get dismissed or outright challenged. The overarching theme was “men are violent” and there was “no excuse” for their actions.

I do notice that some women do expect me to acquiesce or concede to them more now: Let them speak first, let them board the bus first, let them sit down first, and so on. I also notice that in public spaces men are more collegial with me, which they express through verbal and nonverbal messages: head lifting when passing me on the sidewalk and using terms like ���brother” and “boss man” to acknowledge me. As a former lesbian feminist, I was put off by the way that some women want to be treated by me, now that I am a man, because it violates a foundational belief I carry, which is that women are fully capable human beings who do not need men to acquiesce or concede to them.

What continues to strike me is the significant reduction in friendliness and kindness now extended to me in public spaces. It now feels as though I am on my own: No one, outside of family and close friends, is paying any attention to my well-being.

I can recall a moment where this difference hit home. A couple of years into my medical gender transition, I was traveling on a public bus early one weekend morning. There were six people on the bus, including me. One was a woman. She was talking on a mobile phone very loudly and remarked that “men are such a–holes.” I immediately looked up at her and then around at the other men. Not one had lifted his head to look at the woman or anyone else. The woman saw me look at her and then commented to the person she was speaking with about “some a–hole on the bus right now looking at me.” I was stunned, because I recall being in similar situations, but in the reverse, many times: A man would say or do something deemed obnoxious or offensive, and I would find solidarity with the women around me as we made eye contact, rolled our eyes and maybe even commented out loud on the situation. I’m not sure I understand why the men did not respond, but it made a lasting impression on me.

‘I took control of my career’

Chris Edwards, 49, Boston

Advertising creative director, public speaker and author of the memoir “Balls: It Takes Some to Get Some.” Transitioned in his mid-20s.

When I began my transition at age 26, a lot of my socialization came from the guys at work. For example, as a woman, I’d walk down the hall and bump into some of my female co-workers, and they’d say, “Hey, what’s up?” and I’d say, “Oh, I just got out of this client meeting. They killed all my scripts and now I have to go back and rewrite everything, blah blah blah. What’s up with you?” and then they’d tell me their stories. As a guy, I bump into a guy in the hall and he says, “What’s up?” and I launch into a story about my day and he’s already down the hall. And I’m thinking, well, that’s rude. So, I think, okay, well, I guess guys don’t really share, so next time I’ll keep it brief. By the third time, I realized you just nod.

The creative department is largely male, and the guys accepted me into the club. I learned by example and modeled my professional behavior accordingly. For example, I kept noticing that if guys wanted an assignment they’d just ask for it. If they wanted a raise or a promotion they’d ask for it. This was a foreign concept to me. As a woman, I never felt that it was polite to do that or that I had the power to do that. But after seeing it happen all around me I decided that if I felt I deserved something I was going to ask for it too. By doing that, I took control of my career. It was very empowering.

Apparently, people were only holding the door for me because I was a woman rather than out of common courtesy as I had assumed. Not just men, women too. I learned this the first time I left the house presenting as male, when a woman entered a department store in front of me and just let the door swing shut behind her. I was so caught off guard I walked into it face first.

When you’re socially transitioning, you want to blend in, not stand out, so it’s uncomfortable when little reminders pop up that you’re not like everybody else. I’m expected to know everything about sports. I like sports but I’m not in deep like a lot of guys. For example, I love watching football, but I never played the sport (wasn’t an option for girls back in my day) so there is a lot I don’t know. I remember the first time I was in a wedding as a groomsman. I was maybe three years into my transition and I was lined up for photos with all the other guys. And one of them shouted, “High school football pose!” and on cue everybody dropped down and squatted like the offensive line, and I was like, what the hell is going on? It was not instinctive to me since I never played. I tried to mirror what everyone was doing, but when you see the picture I’m kind of “offsides,” so to speak.

The hormones made me more impatient. I had lots of female friends and one of the qualities they loved about me was that I was a great listener. After being on testosterone, they informed me that my listening skills weren’t what they used to be. Here’s an example: I’m driving with one of my best friends, Beth, and I ask her “Is your sister meeting us for dinner?” Ten minutes later she’s still talking and I still have no idea if her sister is coming. So finally, I couldn’t take it anymore, and I snapped and said, “IS SHE COMING OR NOT?” And Beth was like, “You know, you used to like hearing all the backstory and how I’d get around to the answer. A lot of us have noticed you’ve become very impatient lately and we think it’s that damn testosterone!” It’s definitely true that some male behavior is governed by hormones. Instead of listening to a woman’s problem and being empathetic and nodding along, I would do the stereotypical guy thing — interrupt and provide a solution to cut the conversation short and move on. I’m trying to be better about this.

People ask if being a man made me more successful in my career. My answer is yes — but not for the reason you might think. As a man, I was finally comfortable in my own skin and that made me more confident. At work I noticed I was more direct: getting to the point, not apologizing before I said anything or tiptoeing around and trying to be delicate like I used to do. In meetings, I was more outspoken. I stopped posing my thoughts as questions. I’d say what I meant and what I wanted to happen instead of dropping hints and hoping people would read between the lines and pick up on what I really wanted. I was no longer shy about stating my opinions or defending my work. When I gave presentations I was brighter, funnier, more engaging. Not because I was a man. Because I was happy.

‘People assume I know the answer’

Alex Poon, 26, Boston

Project manager for Wayfair, an online home goods company. Alex is in the process of his physical transition; he did the chest surgery after college and started taking testosterone this spring.

Traditional Chinese culture is about conforming to your elders’ wishes and staying within gender boundaries. However, I grew up in the U.S., where I could explore my individuality and my own gender identity. When I was 15 I was attending an all-girls high school where we had to wear skirts, but I felt different from my peers. Around that point we began living with my Chinese grandfather towards the end of his life. He was so traditional and deeply set in his ways. I felt like I couldn’t cut my hair or dress how I wanted because I was afraid to upset him and have our last memories of each other be ruined.

Genetics are not in my favor for growing a lumberjack-style beard. Sometimes, Chinese faces are seen as “soft” with less defined jaw lines and a lack of facial fair. I worry that some of my feminine features like my “soft face” will make it hard to present as a masculine man, which is how I see myself. Instead, when people meet me for the first time, I’m often read as an effeminate man.

My voice has started cracking and becoming lower. Recently, I’ve been noticing the difference between being perceived as a woman versus being perceived as a man. I’ve been wondering how I can strike the right balance between remembering how it feels to be silenced and talked over with the privileges that come along with being perceived as a man. Now, when I lead meetings, I purposefully create pauses and moments where I try to draw others into the conversation and make space for everyone to contribute and ask questions.

People now assume I have logic, advice and seniority. They look at me and assume I know the answer, even when I don’t. I’ve been in meetings where everyone else in the room was a woman and more senior, yet I still got asked, “Alex, what do you think? We thought you would know.” I was at an all-team meeting with 40 people, and I was recognized by name for my team’s accomplishments. Whereas next to me, there was another successful team led by a woman, but she was never mentioned by name. I went up to her afterward and said, “Wow, that was not cool; your team actually did more than my team.” The stark difference made me feel uncomfortable and brought back feelings of when I had been in the same boat and not been given credit for my work.

When people thought I was a woman, they often gave me vague or roundabout answers when I asked a question. I’ve even had someone tell me, “If you just Googled it, you would know.” But now that I’m read as a man, I’ve found people give me direct and clear answers, even if it means they have to do some research on their own before getting back to me.

A part of me regrets not sharing with my grandfather who I truly am before he passed away. I wonder how our relationship might have been different if he had known this one piece about me and had still accepted me as his grandson. Traditionally, Chinese culture sees men as more valuable than women. Before, I was the youngest granddaughter, so the least important. Now, I’m the oldest grandson. I think about how he might have had different expectations or tried to instill certain traditional Chinese principles upon me more deeply, such as caring more about my grades or taking care of my siblings and elders. Though he never viewed me as a man, I ended up doing these things anyway.

Zander Keig contributed to this article in his personal capacity. The opinions expressed in this are the author’s own and do not reflect the view of the Department of Defense.

--------

Old story worth a repost SOURCE

[cherrytoru]

Main Character ⤁ Bokuto Kotaro

╔ One new message from tangerineyn: please enjoy this Bokuto piece made based off this tiktok also this is written in 2nd person so it was easier to keep it gn ╝

Summary: Everyone’s always liked Bokuto. But only one person ever truly love him. And he was fine with that.

Word Count: 0.8K

Warnings: Bokuto over thinking things, mentions of classic literature, unedited, 2nd person pov, other than that its just fluff

“Everyone likes you,” Bokuto looked at you with wonder. “But have you ever been loved?”

He pouted a bit at your words, “Yeah. Totally. Akaashi loves me.”

Shaking your head lightly, you laughed. “Not like that Bo, like love, love.”

That confused him even farther, sighing you shook your head again. “Just don’t worry about it Bo.”

You walked off, patting him on the shoulder. As he stood he tried to figure out what exactly you had meant. He had been loved before. At least he thought he had.

A week had passed since you questioned Bokuto. “Y/N!” You turned your head towards the boy. “No.”

You cocked your head a bit, “No?”

“No, Akaashi said that the chances are I’ve never been loved.” There was more of a twinkle in his eye than there should have been given the context of the situation. “Uh as long as he has the right idea of what you where talking about...”

You just stared at him for a second. “I think Kaashi’s wrong.” Tapping his face lightly, you walked away yet again. 

Bokuto sulked not quite understanding what you meant. Did you mean that Akaashi was wrong that he’d never been loved or did you mean he had the wrong idea all along?

The third time Bokuto thought about if he was truly loved it frustrated him beyond belief. It felt as if he couldn’t get a point, despite all his efforts. Despite the stress and frustration you were causing him with your offhand question, he didn’t let you see the frustration.

“Y/N? Do you really think no one loves me?” Both you and Akaashi looked up. 

“I never said that. I just asked you if you ever had been.” He pouted again. “You’re incredibly kind Bo. Don’t let anyone take advantage of that okay?”

You stood up, ruffling Akaashi’s hair and placing a kiss on Bokuto’s cheek before stalking off to find Konoha to double check some work for class. “I was wrong Bokuto.” The ace looked up at his best friend. “There’s definitely someone who loves you.”

He sat there dumbfounded. Part of his brain was running a hundred miles a minute from what Akaashi had said. The other part was short circuiting from the electricity running through his body where your lips touched his cheek.

Weeks had passed and neither you nor Bokuto had brought it up again. But as you laid there in his arms after a pathetic attempt at trying to get him to understand calculus you’re mind began to wander. “Y’know Bo, sometimes I think I’d drown without you.”

Although the true meaning went straight over his head, he understood the sentiment. Or at least he thought he did. He nodded silently, deciding to not verbalize his thoughts in case they were wrong.

“Hey what was that think Kaashi said once? ‘We’re the protagonist of the world’ right?”

“Yeah, that’s right. But what’s a protagonist?”

You let out a short laugh, “The main character Bo.”

“Oh, well doesn’t the main character need a love interest though.” He deflated slightly.

Patting his head lightly, you placed another kiss on his cheek. “You’ll find em eventually Bo.”

“Can you be my love interest?” He smiled shyly.

Pressing your forehead against his you grinned, “Sure thing Bo.”

He was happy. Debatably happier than he’d been before. And as he sat between your legs, back flush against your stomach while you read to him.

“‘Oh, comrade,’ she began in a dreary, whining sort of voice, ‘I thought I heard you come in-’“

“Y/N I don’t get it... this book is weird.” Bokuto whined.

“You’re the one who asked me to read to you.” You giggled.

“Yeah but I didn’t expect it to be this complicated.”

“Ko, its a classic, of course it’s going to be hard to understand.” You laughed again closing the book. Orwell can wait, Bokuto clearly needs attention.

“Can we go out in the rain?”

“And do what Ko?”

“Dance!”

Shaking your head, you pushed him up. Maybe the risk of catching a cold would be worth it.

It was. It very much was. And as you both laid bed ridden from your respective colds, many a text were shared and a few calls consisting of you reading to him. Although reading Hardy Boys was far easier than reading 1984.

Once you both had healed, Bokuto insisted on going to Miyagi with you. The reason why was lost somewhere between the hundreds of messages sent. 

Giggles in between kisses filled your ears, almost completely masking the sounds of a train halting to a stop and the announcement of the train arriving.

A few seconds were lost between each others eyes before you realized that this is in fact your train. The two of you hauled ass to get on, barely making it.

The sun was setting as you walked the streets. Bokuto was quiet and you couldn’t quite explain why. His eyes sparkled as he gazed up at the twinkling lights, mesmerized. “Hey Ko.” He looked towards you, eyebrows raised. “Y’know I’d choose you every time right?”

“I don’t think I really have a choice,” he beamed. “But I’d choose you every time too.”

[himbowelsh]

Tough choice but may as well go in order. Guarnere, please. Thank you.

valentines day alphabet  ( accepting! )

A   :   AFFECTION.   how does your muse show affection?

Bill is very verbal about his affection. When he cares for someone, he’ll say it loud and proud. He’s always had a big mouth, but that just means he ain’t shy about telling people exactly how he feels  ---  and he’s liberal with praise, when it’s earned. He also shows affection by standing by people, having their backs through anything. If Bill will fight for someone, it means they’re worth it; if he fights with someone, it means he loves them.

B   :   BOUQUET.   does your muse like flowers? which ones are their favourite?

*confused Guarnere noises*  what the fuck is a flower   Look. He’ll go to the florist, flirt with her a little bit, and pick up something nice. That’s the best he can do. He can look very handsome marching up with a bouquet in hand, but don’t ask him what the hell’s in it.

C   :   CHOCOLATE.   does your muse like chocolate? which one is their favourite?

He’s not a fan of most chocolates. To be honest his nonna used to make her own  ---  she had a recipe for sweet chocolate that was to die for, and Little Billy was her favorite taste-tester. Compared to hers, store-bought chocolate just don’t cut it. 

D   :   DATE.   what is your muse’s ideal date? where / who with / etc?

Let him handle everything and he’ll be a happy man. Let him cook the dinner himself  ---  he’s got a special love for cooking, especially when his partner’s gonna be enjoying it  ---  let him arrange the table, let him choose the music, let him decide where they roll around at the end of the night. Bill likes being in charge. Granted, he’s drawn to partners who give him a run for his money in that department...  but his ideal date would be an intimate night in, just the two of them, all planned out by yours truly.

E   :   EMBRACE.   does your muse like hugs? what are their hugs like?

Bill hugs like a football coach. Very enthusiastic, kinda rough, lots of back patting and “good job, son” energy. He’s...  not good at tender hugs. If he’s trying to pump someone up, sure, he can manage that, but...  hugging somebody to comfort them? He’s not so good at that. Bill has trouble being soft, but can be very supportive when needed.

F   :   FLIRT.   is your muse good at flirting? how do they flirt?

Shameless, and shamelessly dirty. He takes flirting to a new level. Bill loves to buy people drinks and chat them up, even if he doesn’t plan on going home with them at the end of the night; it’s fun to just see how far he can push, and who’s willing to play along with him. (Nothing’s sexier than someone with a smart mouth, who can sass him right back.)

G   :   GIFT.   is your muse good at gift - giving or do they struggle to get it right?

No one would call him bad at it, but he doesn’t always...  hit the nail on the head. He tries, and will absolutely go to four different stores just to find something he knows someone’s looking for. Left to his own devices, he’ll come up with weird gifts, though. A pack of very colorful socks, an apron for a friend who can barely cook, a build-your-own-bookshelf kit for someone with no damn time. He thinks his gifts are great...  but it’s easier to just give him a list.

H   :   HEART.   is your muse quick or slow to give their heart away?

He’s quick to give it away to the right people. Bill’s got great instincts, and is good at reading someone’s character  ---  it’s what draws him to the friends he ends up keeping for life. Bill only gives his heart to those who are able to hold their own, who are worthy of it. He ain’t got time for fairweather friends. Either you earn Bill’s love, or you don’t.

I    :   I LOVE YOU.   does your muse find ‘i love you’ easy or hard to say?

Annoyingly easy. He’s not gushy about it, but he likes saying it, and it’s obvious in how often he drops it  ---  sometimes declared loudly to their assembled group of friends, but most often muttered in a low voice, for his partner’s ears alone. Why shouldn’t he love saying it? It’s true.

J   :   JEALOUSY.   does your muse get jealous in a relationship?

Bill Guarnere don’t get jealous, cause he knows exactly who he is, and exactly who the other guy’s not. His partner might play around to get him riled up  ---  and hell, he’ll do the same thing  ---  but he trusts they’d never look at anyone else seriously. Trust is a major element in Bill’s relationships, and he’d never really fall in love with someone he couldn’t have faith in.

K   :   KISS.   is your muse a good kisser? why / why not?

Bill’s exactly the sort of overconfident bastard who sees a kiss as a door to something more. He doesn’t have Prince Charming instincts, but his kisses are a team effort; he’s under no illusion about calling the shots, taking his cues from his partner how far they’ll go. If they don’t want his mouth somewhere, it’s not going there. His kisses are pure fire, electric, all teeth and tongue and shameless nips. He’s not afraid of anything. He’s also a mutterer, which depending on the partner is hot or annoying as hell. He’ll grit out words of praise or curses in between kisses, pressing them against the dark marks left on his partner’s skin, until they flush an even deeper red.

L   :   LOVE.   who does your muse love?

He loves his people. Bill considers a select group of folks his  ---  and once you’re in, there’s no easy way out, ‘cept for proving yourself a total jackass. Bill’s ride-or-die for his whole (massive) family, and his extensive friend group. Yeah, he’s got some he’d do more for than others  ---  Babe’s the only one he’d hide a body for, and he’s still got that thing Lip asked him to hold onto in his closet  --- but Bill loves fiercely, and would risk it all for any one of ‘em. 

M   :   MOONLIGHT.   is morning or night a more romantic setting?

Bold of you to assume there’s a difference between morning sex and night sex to this man. Bill’s ready to go at any time.

N   :   NAUGHTY.   what is your muse like in bed?

Extremely confident, to the point that it seems like he’s compensating for something. He’s not  ---  that’s the best part. Bill gets riled up very quickly, and in bed he is heated, driven, and very physical. He loves lifting his partner up by their thighs and moving them around the room, loves pressing them against walls and leaving deep red marks on their neck...  vocally expressive partners really get him going. He’s not shy about dirty talk, and even less shy about letting his partner take the lead. Bill’s very much of the “work together” mindset in bed. He can go multiple rounds at a time before getting worn out, but sometimes he’ll get a cramp in the middle, and then it all goes to hell (ft. the Not Sexy kind of cursing).

O   :   ODE.   does your muse have a way with words?

Bill has a commanding way of speaking; he doesn’t make a big deal outta being eloquent, but he captures people’s attention. He knows how to be listened to. Sometimes this can make it hard, in quieter moments, to express what’s really in his heart, when he’s so used to speaking only the boldest words, but...  Bill Guarnere always manages.

P   :   PARTNER.   what does your muse look for in a partner? looks / personality?

Bill needs someone who gives as good as they get. He’d never be happy with a shrinking violet; they’ve gotta have punch to them, a good sense of humor and firm head on their shoulders. He needs somebody loyal, a partner who’ll be by his side through thick and thin  ---  ‘cause even he’ll admit, he’s downright exhausting sometimes.  A person with a temper, probably; someone with confidence, who says what the hell they think. Great curves are a plus, especially a nice set of boobs. Bill’s always gonna fall for someone with fire, who can keep him on his toes, and hold him up even if he’s only got one leg to stand on.

Q   :   QUESTION.   would your muse ask the big question or expect their partner to?

Oh, he’s gonna ask. Ain’t no question, as soon as he’s got the ring, Bill Guarnere’s not wasting a second. It’s just a matter of when  (as soon as he’s 95% sure he’s gonna get a good answer) and how  (out to dinner at his favorite Italian restaurant, or maybe afterwards, taking a walk through the park. He wouldn’t want many eyes on them, but he’d want to do it somewhere special  ---  a place he and his partner could take the kids to years down the line, to boast about how it all started here.

R   :   ROMANCE.   is your muse a romantic or a cynic?

He’s no fuckin’ tights-wearing, wishing-well-singing, ‘someday my prince will come’ asshole, but sure, he’s a romantic. Bill’s got a flair for romance; he knows how to show his partner a good time, and loves doing it, just to see the warm gleam in their eyes. Dancing all by themselves, eating a candlelight dinner he made, taking a romantic bath together...  all in the Bill Guarnere playbook, sweets.

S   :   SWEETHEART.   did your muse have a childhood sweetheart?

Not really? Look, Bill had a lot going on as a kid. He was everywhere at once; all the neighbors knew him as a holy terror, and the ones with any sense told their daughters not to get near him. Romance wasn’t first on his mind.

T   :   TRUE LOVE.   does your muse believe in true love?

Absolutely. Point blank. Love is love, and some people are meant to be together forever. Anger can fuel a hell of a lot in you, but love’s more powerful than all of it. Anger can move mountains, but love can build them outta thin air.

U   :   UNREQUITED.   has your muse had their heart broken?

Nope. He’s a resilient bastard. Sure, he’s had his share of rejection (and smacks in the mouth), but Bill’s not the type to take it personally.

V   :   VALENTINE.   how does your muse feel about valentine’s day?

Well, he’s definitely never sat on the couch in his boxers eating a box of chocolate alone, and that definitely hasn’t given him a complex about giving his partner the best damn Valentine’s Day every goddamn year. (No Bill, cancel the hot air ballon, you don’t need it  ---)

W  :   WEDDING.   would your muse get married? why / why not?

Oh, hell yeah. Just give him the right person  ---  and he’ll find ‘em, don’t worry about that  ---  and Bill’s hopping on that one-way train straight to domestic bliss. He’s not in a big hurry about it, so long as his partner knows what’s what  ---  if he’s in a serious relationship with someone he really cares for, it’s a foregone conclusion to Bill that they’re gonna get married eventually. (He wouldn’t even think his partner might have a different viewpoint; if they did, it’d shock him to his core.)

X   :   XOXO.   does your muse use / like pet names?

Definitely. Some are sweet, some are perverted, and some are a little bit of both. He uses them liberally.

Y   :   YOURS.   does your muse get protective easily?

Protective could be his middle name. Bill is an incredible guy to have on your side in a rough spot; sure, he swings before he thinks, but he thinks while he’s swinging. Excellent man in a fight. No one steps in on Bill Guarnere’s loved ones and gets away scott-free, and he goes especially berserk if it’s his partner being threatened.

Z   :   ZZZ.   how many people has your muse slept with?

Not...  a number he’d be proud to admit to his Mamma, but he’s no virgin. Bill got up to more mischief overseas than he could ever find in Philly. Probably about...  8 - 9 partners? And no, he’s not careful where he sleeps. He’s gotten used to the taste of penicillin, and Doc Roe’s left a few brochures under his pillow. 

[whumpmeamadeus-blog]

Untouchable (Persona 5 Whump)

Non shippy fic of Iwai helpiing with Ren, who has gotten himself in a spot of trouble. From my fic ‘Vignettes of Comfort” on Ao3! (Trans-Akira, Guns, Threats, hurt, comfort, stabbing mention)

“Just stay under the radar, kid,” Iwai muttered, leaning against the cluttered desk in the back of his shop.

Ren looked him over; man, if he was 20 years older. Even 10. Damn. He banished those thoughts from his mind and tossed his hair from his eyes. “I pretty much live under the radar.”

That chuckle, more like a chainsaw revving than a laugh. “Good way to go through life, if you can. Now go on, get outta here. Ain’t got time to waste on a kid like you.”

“See you soon, then.” With a saucy salute, Ren bid Iwai farewell and left Untouchable. He was feeling pretty confident about his evening, knowing it had went well and that he was getting even more of a discount. Morgana, safely in his bag, chatted his ear off the entire way through Shibuya.

All in all, this had been a pretty good night.

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

Honestly, at first Iwai had been annoyed by that skinny little nobody coming through and taking up his time with weird requests for things kids should never have been interested in. But he never heard of the kid doing anything illegal with what he bought. At least, nothing he got caught doing.

Iwai also knew, now, that the things Amamiya Ren bought from him were being used to a standard even he couldn’t complain about.

Kaoru would be jazzed to know about that.

Iwai finished up his work and went home. It was a simple night at home with Kaoru, something he didn’t get to enjoy as much as he should. But he was going to make more of an effort. He thought about seeing if maybe he couldn’t get Ren to hang out with Kaoru a little, take him to the batting cages or SOMETHING. They were only a couple years apart and Ren was a good kid; more importantly, he was a kid with a spine and a sense of justice. Kaoru was doing just fine, but maybe spending some time with a kid a few years older, who really seemed to have a handle on himself, would be good. He’d make a point to bring it up the next time Ren came by.

When a week later, he hadn’t seen the kid, he didn’t think about it. Sometimes he wouldn’t show up for weeks on end. What was Iwai gonna do about it? A kid was a kid.

A week and a half, and nothing. Iwai didn’t even pass by him on Central Street, which he had done before. Normally, he wouldn’t worry; it wasn’t any business of his what Ren got up to.

But something was gnawing at him. He tried to ignore it, and was doing a pretty steady job.

Half a week later - two in total since the last time he had seen Ren, if one was counting, which he certainly wasn’t - Iwai was doing some light dusting just to keep his mind off of things. Their shit country. That Shido guy everyone seemed to be all up in arms about (which he didn’t understand, the guy looked like a tool who collected toy skulls and made stupid sexist videos on the Internet). Kaoru was suffering in English, which Iwai was no good in either. Maybe, a little bit, he was worried about Ren.

He turned his back on the door and knelt to get something out of sight. Of course, the moment he did that, he heard the door open; always happened that way, didn’t it? “Just a minute.”

“Dad!?”

Kaoru’s concerned voice jolted him, and Iwai stood straight up. His son was still in his uniform, with his school bag, like everything was normal.

But he was also supporting Ren, who looked tired, almost gaunt, with faded, yellowing bruises under vibrantly coloured new ones running up and down his bare arms, and on his neck. Then Ren looked up and met his gaze; the blackened, swollen state of his eye was magnified through those gigantic glasses.

“How in the hell is THIS flyin’ under the radar?” Iwai grumbled, internally panicked that his old family had come after them after all.

“Well,” Ren said dryly, “I didn’t start the fight, if that helps.”

“Shut up.”

Iwai and Kaoru helped Ren get to the back room, where he all but collapsed onto the closest surface. Immediately, Iwai dragged Kaoru back out into the store. “Tell me what happened.”

Kaoru watched him go over and lock the door before clearing his throat. “I just went to the diner and he was there with like four empty coffee mugs in front of him, covered in bruises just like now. Except I only saw his face, his sleeves were rolled down.”

That was why Ren had looked especially odd to him - usually the kid was wearing a jacket, whether is was his uniform or something else. Iwai shook his head and lit a cigarette despite the look Kaoru gave him, the look that said You told me you were gonna quit months ago. “He say anything to you?”

“About what happened to him? No, I just asked if he needed help, he said no. I told him too bad and that if he didn’t come with me I was just going to call you anyways.”

“Good kid,” Iwai said. He was proud of his son for doing the right thing. “Listen, I got it from here - why don’t you get back to the diner and get started on your homework?”

Kaoru didn’t seem to like it, but listened - especially when he was given Iwai’s wallet. Iwai let him out of the store, then pulled down the grate before locking the door again. He didn’t necessarily want to send Kaoru out there again, if this kid had been hurt because of some ancient BS, but thought it might be easier to get Ren to talk if Kaoru was out of the way. He’d make it to the diner just fine; Iwai hadn’t raised an idiot, after all.

His more pressing concern was finding out what, exactly, had happened to Ren.

He got a bottle of water from under the desk, and a first aid kit, then moved into the back room. Ren was sitting exactly where they had left him, but with his eyes closed and head now leaned back against the wall. He was holding onto his phone, but it was dark. Iwai announced his presence with a sigh. Ren cracked open the eye with the least amount of damage. “Where’s Kaoru?”

“What happened to you?”

“That’s how you answer a question?” Ren asked, with that edge that Iwai liked, that reminded him of himself. “I just...got in something I shouldn’t have.”

Iwai took a drag from his cigarette and looked Ren up and down. He looked much smaller without that jacket. Maybe Iwai had been mistaken in thinking he was old for his age; this kid was hardly more than an ankle-biter. “No shit. But what?”

“It wasn’t anything like what you got into, if that’s what you’re worried about. I just got my ass handed to me last week, then again this week.”

They had what felt to Iwai like a battle of wills. With the kid so beat up, Iwai knew he was destined to throw the match and did so spectacularly, with a hefty sigh and a rolling of the eyes so hard that he thought he saw the top of his own skull. “Fine. Have your secrets.”

He leaned over to reach into a mini-fridge and pulled out a cold pack from the small tray that served as a freezer. “Put this on over your eye,” he said, pushing it into Ren’s hands. He didn’t take his eyes off of the kid until the gel pack was over the worst of the bruising. Then Iwai flipped open the first aid kit. After everything he had been through, he made sure to keep the thing pretty well stocked; not that there was much he could do for bruising. He found a cream for it, and tossed that to Ren as well.

“...I think I’m bleeding, too,” Akira said, and for the first time, Iwai thought he heard a hint of weakness in that voice.

He didn’t show that, however, and just nodded as he grabbed a package of gauze and medical tape, as well as bandaids, from the first aid kit. Iwai hoped this wasn’t bad enough that Ren would have to go to the hospital, because he would be a real hypocrite to his own ways if he dragged the kid there for this. He took a stack of napkins from some take-out meal or another and doused it in water from the bottle. “Lemme see.”

Ren hesitated, one hand playing with his dirty collar. Iwai just gave him a stern look. “Remember who I am, kid - I’ve patched up worse wounds than whatever you’ve gotten yourself into.”

With a sigh, Ren stood and turned around. Iwai swore under his breath; there was a gash in his shirt, and blood trickling through to stain the white, red. Ren slowly unbuttoned his shirt but instead of dropping it, just pulled it up to rest underneath his armpits. Iwai didn’t question it, just looked over the cut that stretched, thin but not too long, over the left side of his lower back; it was clearly a switchblade. He’d know the cut anywhere.

“Not too bad,” he said. “Surface wound, won’t need stitches.”

“I can clean it up,” Ren said, and Iwai was going to fight him on it before realizing that there were any number of reasons this kid wouldn’t want to be touched after a scrape like whatever he had gotten into. So he just gave the napkins to Ren and gave him verbal cues to wipe the cut clean. It took a little folding and maneuvering, but Ren eventually got the gauze positioned and relented, letting Iwai tape it down.

He let Ren do the bruises, too, and turned around to look through the first aid kit again, half to look for any ibuprofen and half to give Ren some semblance of privacy. There was a bottle in there, and the expiration date was still a year away. Perfect. Only when Ren said he was done did Iwai turn back to him, bottle in hand. Ren had his shirt pulled back down now, and was holding the cold pack to his neck. “...thanks.”

“Sure thing. I was an idiot kid getting into fights once, too.”

“It wasn’t a fight,” Ren said, and this time he sounded very serious. His eyes were hard, and Iwai held up a hand, palm upward, a man asking for more of an answer than that. “It wasn’t. I was jumped last week, and when I didn’t have enough cash on me, they beat me and said they’d be back.”

Anger bubbled up in Iwai’s gut; who the hell would do that to a kid? At least it didn’t sound like anything Iwai’s past had dragged them into. “And then?”

“Well I saw them all around. Think they knew where I lived. Saw them in my neighborhood. Outside of school even.” He shrugged. “Got cocky, figured they’d forget about me, or I could...persuade them otherwise.”

Iwai had wondered about that part; this kid was a Phantom Thief, after all. How’d this happen to someone like him?

“But things got away from me, and I couldn’t. They caught up to me, and...well. Here we are.. I didn’t have what they wanted, they got me, pulled a knife. Barely got out of there.”

Ren was trying to keep his cool, but Iwai could see the way his hands were shaking. Just a little. With a sigh, Iwai leaned against the table, arms folded over his chest. “You know who they were?”

“Just some low-level wannabe gang, I think. If I knew their names, I could…” Ren shook his head, then drained the rest of the water left in that bottle despite its tepid temperature. “But I don’t, so I need to figure out what to do next.”

“What you need to do is sit there and let me think,” Iwai said. He knew how to deal with up-shots who wanted more than they were worth. Because this wasn’t going to go down this way; these assholes weren’t going to harass this kid any longer. Iwai’s fingers just barely brushed the tattoo on his neck.  “You wanna end this once and for all?”

Ren looked at him, then said ‘no,’ quietly. Then again. “No, you don’t have to get involved.”

“Kid,” Iwai said, leaning forward and looking him in the eye. “It’s too late for that

“I’m in.”

Ren let Iwai take him home that night, accepting a ride in the back of a surprisingly clean and sporty car with Kaoru. No one was in Leblanc, and he heard Boss in the back. Moving he quickly, he called out that he was back and darted upstairs. Morgana, asleep under the bed with just his tail poking out, didn’t stir. Good thing Futaba had him today and worn him out; she had really taken a shine to that cat.

When he sat on the bed he did so quietly, not wanting to wake Morgana. He unbuttoned his shirt and looked down over his bruised stomach. The worst of it, however, something Iwai was never going to see, was under his binder. Usually he slept with it on, but with this bruising...Ryuji would kick his ass worse than this if he knew Ren was pushing himself with that thing. Of all the people who knew - which was only about five people, in the whole world - who knew that he was trans, Ryuji took it the most seriously. He had done all of the reading, searched online, learned everything he could. For Ren.

So it was with Ryuji in mind that Ren struggled out of his binder and abandoned it on the bed. It should be washed, but he couldn’t even think about that until he was covered. His chest was covered in bruises, and once it was no longer compressed the pain blossomed outward from there. First, Ren took a shaky breath and palmed the cream Iwai had given him. Yes, he should put this on, but...well, unless he was putting the binder on, Ren didn’t let his hands near his chest. It was too much for him. Later, maybe. He pulled out his pajama shirt and yanked it on, then his grey hoodie over that. What could he say? He was feeling vulnerable. Ren climbed under the covers and pulled his phone close to him. The minute he touched it, the device buzzed. A text from Iwai.

‘Keep an eye out kid. Come by the shop if you see those dicks.’

Ren would have chuckled at the wording alone - exactly how Iwai spoke - but if he was honest with himself, he didn’t feel much like laughing.

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

Two nights later, Ren was feeling shaky after a shift at the Beef Bowl Shop. All night long, he had spotted the men who were after him for something as trivial as money. Ren had money, he didn’t have to worry about that. This was the principal of the thing. He thought that, if he could get them talking he find out at least one name, he could take them down where he was stronger - Mementos. Then they wouldn’t be bothering anyone else, either.

Honestly, he wouldn’t have been worried if it was just one of them that he had spotted. One guy, he thought he could handle.

But there had been three separate guys out there through the course of the night, including the one who had cut him. Now, Ren did not consider himself a coward in any sense of the word. But this?

Well. It made him uneasy enough to send a text to Iwai. It was simple, just ‘3 @ the Beef Bowl Shop,’ because he didn’t know how else to ask for assistance other than simply telling him the facts. This would be different, he told himself, if so many people were not relying on him.

His boss had dismissed him 10 minutes before he sent the text. Only 5 minutes after he sent it did he hear a knock to the employee part of the building. One of his co-workers stuck her head in. “Uhm, Amamiya? A guy who says he’s your uncle is here?”

Then he really could have laughed. The man even came up with an excuse. He thanked his co-worker and went out to the main dining room. Sure enough, Iwai was there, leaning against the window and looking bored while a few of the customers looked on, worried.

“Thank for coming to get me, Uncle Munehisa,” he teased, his voice light despite the reason Iwai had come.

“Shut your mouth, kid,” Iwai said, but Ren saw the chuckle playing at the corners of his mouth. “Let’s get out of here.”

The moment they were outside, Iwai looked both ways down the street. “When was the last time you saw one of them?”

Ren started to move across the street, towards the alley that led to Untouchable, keeping an eye out as well. None of them seemed to be in the immediate area; maybe he had been hasty. But he did feel a little more secure with Iwai at his side. “Last two passed by maybe ten minutes ago.”

“We’ll just get to Untouchable and work from there, alright?”

“Alright.”

It was simple, really. Just get into the store and leave from there. Ren followed Iwai across the street and down the alley. He glanced at the Velvet Room; Justine did not meet his gaze. At least if things ever got too crazy, he could jump in there. Not ideal, but doable. Iwai pulled out his keys and opened the door to Untouchable. He held it open. “Get in.”

Ren moved past him, and the impending sense of danger did not come quickly enough.

A sharp pain in his back, over where he had been cut before, and he was sent reeling forward into the store. His vision swam as his head bounced with the impact of his knees on the floor. But Iwai’s grunt of pain hurt way more than that. He hoped that Iwai would stay away as Ren pushed through the pain and turned around. There were two guys on Iwai, who looked calm and collected as he slammed his fist into a jaw. Ren would have chuckled if the guy who had pushed him did not drop to the floor and push him back, to the ground, with his arm on Akira’s neck.

He had just been too distracted with Iwai to move quickly enough. With all of his might, Ren pushed against the man holding him down; the silky shirt, leopard print, slid around under his grasp. That STUPID shirt - Akira knew it well.

This was the man with the knife. Ren knew that before he even brought it out. “You think your ex-yakuza sugar daddy can save you? Too late for that - we got you.”

Ren thought about all of the bruises on him. He thought about how a group like this would never involve the police, so he shouldn’t be at any risk if he retaliated. He thought about his friends, waiting for him to lead them. And he thought about how Iwai was over there, fighting for him.

It became absolutely effortless to take his fist and drive it into that stupid leopard-spotted stomach. Ren was able to get the man off of him, but his main goal was to get the knife out of reach. Never mind that he was in a store full of replica weapons, many with blades triple the size of the knife - THAT was the one that had dug into his back, and the owner seemed pretty fond of it.

He yanked himself up using the counter, while the guy was still on the ground, and Ren made a quick decision to drive his shoe into his head. Not enough to seriously hurt him, just keep him down. Ren was still feeling winded from being knocked to the ground, and wished more than anything that he had the same skills in the real world as he did in the Metaverse - there, he could get knocked down a hundred times and get back a hundred and one. Here, he was just tired, his gun a model in his pocket, and Arsene felt a world away. But Ren was still strong, and after his arrest had a better hold on his rash behaviour. He no longer acted so quickly under stress, thought his actions out more.

Today, that action was to lower himself back to the ground and grab the man’s wrist. Ren twisted his wrist around until he had no choice but to drop the knife, then snatched it away. His instinct was to toss it across the store, but that was stupid. So he folded the thing and stored it in his pocket before jumping over leopard print, who was still moaning on the ground, and joining Iwai.

Who was doing very well. One of the guys was on the ground just outside of the shop, looking dazed, and Iwai was wrestling the other one to the ground.

“It make you a big man, huh? Threatenin’ kids?” Iwai growled, and Ren didn’t think he knew he was being watched. “Trash like you makes me sick.”

Then he moved his hands in a quick, expert way that Ren did not think he could ever duplicate, and the other guy dropped, too. He was still alive, coughing once he hit the ground, but looked down for the count. Ren moved over to the door, glancing behind him; leopard print was still down, too.

“Thanks,” he said, watching Iwai heave. It must have been some effort for him, and there was a pang in Ren’s heart for his own father, who would have thrown him to the wolves rather than fight for him. But then Iwai was on him, holding his face in those rough hands.

He turned Ren’s head gently every which way, then looked over the rest of his body. “They get you?”

“Not really,” he said. “I got pushed down and he came at me, but I’m alright.”

Iwai sighed and looked at the men on the ground outside. “Let’s get the other one out here and leave ‘em. They’ll wake up dazed but they should be fine.”

Ren nodded, even though at this point he didn’t care if they were fine or not. He helped Iwai move one out of the doorway, closer the first guy Iwai had taken down. That one was sporting a huge bruise to his temple. “What did you do to that guy?”

“...taught him a lesson,” Iwai said. He rolled one shoulder as they straightened up. “Listen kid, I’m gonna make sure punks like these don’t bother you again, you hear -”

A silencer on a gun does not silence it. A normal silencer takes the sound of a gunshot down  14.3-43 decibels, meaning that any shot is plenty audible. Of course, once a gun is shot, even if it is heard, there is hardly any time for a potential victim to move. That is not, usually, the main purpose of a silencer. A silencer is stop a sound from spreading, not to stop a potential victim from hearing it.

So when the man in the leopard print shirt, now on his feet, aimed his silenced gun at Ren and shot, both Ren and Iwai heard the blast. Already in the act of turning, Ren knew that the bullet was meant for him. He knew that it had left the barrel. And he knew that he could not drop to the ground or avoid it.

All of these realizations came to him in a nanosecond. One second, there was a bang; the next second there was pain shooting through his arm and he was on the ground. His ears were ringing, his arm was hot and wet.

And then, there was nothing but Iwai.

When he heard that gunshot, a million things ran through Iwai’s head. He was not going to let Kaoru be left behind again. He was not going to let everything he worked for fall to pieces. He was not going to let this punk end things for him. He was not going to let them hurt Ren ever again.

Then the kid dropped to the ground and Iwai’s world spun out of control. He wasted absolutely no time. The man in that idiot shirt aimed at him, but Iwai was quicker. Dropping low, Iwai closed the distance between them in four long steps, coat flapping out behind him. One second he was outside, across the alley; the next second he was under the guy, in front of him, and Iwai’s already bloody fist, knuckles threatening to bust open, sent his head snapping back in a powerful uppercut. The young guy went down, and he dropped the gun. Pathetic; he really was just the worst kind of guy. Before anything else, Iwai picked up the gun.

The butt of the handle against a thick cranium made sure this asshole wouldn’t be standing again for quite some time.

He dropped the gun into one of his pockets and flexed out his fingers as he stood and turned. Had it really ended so quickly? It seemed ridiculous. But that didn’t truly matter at the moment. What mattered was getting to Ren.

Thankfully, when Iwai got to the kid he was sitting up, leaning against the wall, clutching at his bloody arm. He was pale, though, rocking back and forth a little. Iwai knelt at his side and tilted his face up, bloody hand leaving a mark on Ren’s chin. His eyes were wide and the pupils were dilated, but his face was calm. His nostrils flared as he struggled to breath, though.

Luckily, Iwai was always calm under pressure. “Come on, if you’re gonna have a panic attack you’re not gonna do it out here. But before I can move you, you gotta tell me - did he get your arm?”

Ren nodded; at least he still seemed to possess enough of his senses to nod. He pulled his hand away, palm bloody, and Iwai was able to get a good look at his arm. It was an instant relief to see through the torn shirt that the bullet had not gone through him, only grazed him. The wound wasn’t deep at all, just kissing his flesh enough to bleed heavily. But Iwai was well-trained - he could tell at a glance that the bullet was long gone and had not gotten close to any arteries. “Good,” he muttered. “That’s good.”

“It’s...good I got shot?” Ren asked, and Iwai couldn’t even begin to fathom what sort of thoughts and feelings were behind the laugh that leaked from his lips.

Not what Iwai had meant, though. He gave Ren a look as he tore the rest of the sleeve away and tied it around the wound. Just temporary. “Well, it DOES mean you scared this guy enough or took a big enough gouge out of his pride that he thought he had to use a gun to get you down.”

That, of all things, made Ren smile. Cocky kid.

Iwai hid their attackers behind the old worn-out bikes in front of his shop. Once the store was cleared out and Iwai made sure that no one was coming to check out that sound of that shot, he brought Ren inside and made him sit behind the register. The kid was still a little shaky and Iwai was pretty sure that once he had time to process what just happened, he would probably be a mess. For the second time in a week, he got out the first aid kit. “Before you came along I used this thing maybe once a year. Gonna charge you for a new one if you start using up all my supplies.”

“Sorry,” Ren said, fingers prodding near the wound. “Next time I’ll get shot somewhere else.”

“Good thinking. Alright, let me see it.”

He untied the sleeve and let it drop the to the ground. The bleeding had staunched a little, which was good. But still…” You want me to take you to a hospital?”

“No,” Ren, said, suddenly on edge. “No, no...too many questions at a hospital.”

The similarity to something Iwai himself had said to a friend, a long time ago - a lifetime ago - was almost enough to knock the wind from his lungs. He turned the sound into a laugh. “How many secrets can a kid your age have?”

“One for every year, it feels like.” Ren let him clean the wound and blood around it the best he could. “If we go to a hospital, they’ll know a bullet wound, they’ll call the cops, and if the cops find out I was near real weapons...let’s just say, probation turns to jail time real quick.”

Iwai’s eyebrows shot up so quickly that they nearly disappeared under his hat. “You? Holy shit, Ren. You’re a wild ride.”

Iwai worked steadily to do what he could for the wound. The responsible adult in him screamed ‘Take the kid to a hospital!' The wild part of him, from long ago, told him that this kid was going places. But it was the yakuza part of him that took over, the part that said you never rat out a brother, you help him on his terms, you don’t break his trust. He got Ren’s arm as clean as he could, then doused the wound in something green and anti-septic. Ren hissed at that and tensed, but otherwise took it well. The wound, once it was clean, was in even better shape than he thought before. No stitches, just a jagged cut that might mean a scar later. But Iwai saw thick scars on the Ren’s arms and wrists already, and had a feeling that adding one more wasn’t going to be the end of his world.

He took care to wrap the wound gently enough to avoid pain, but tightly enough that the last of the gauze-like bandages from his kit would be able to do their job. Iwai sealed the end with an X of white medical tape then looked into his eyes. “You’re gonna be fine, kid.”

“Yeah, Akira said. “Fine.”

But Iwai saw that look in his eyes. There was a storm brewing inside that kid, and Iwai was going to keep him there until it was over. Iwai left out the back way of the store and got them dinner, called Kaoru and sent dinner home to him as well. Maybe the time alone would jump-start the freak out this kid was bound to have. It didn’t matter how tough you were, or whatever other shit you had been through in your life.

No one reacts well the first time they get shot. Iwai himself had thrown up and slept for 24 hours.

He sat with Ren as they ate, pretty quiet, meals the same shade of blue-grey in the dim lights on the shop. At first, he thought Ren was eating with his right arm at his side because of the pain. But when Iwai moved around to grab some napkins, he could see that Ren was holding something clenched in his hand.

“What ya got there?”

Ren looked down, not even seeming to realize that he was holding something. “Oh.” He gingerly put it on the counter. A folding knife. “Leopard print had it. He cut me with it last time, too.”

Iwai shook his head, and was about to respond when Ren’s hand formed a fist on the counter. “He could have killed me.”

There was no answer for that.

“He could have killed me over something as stupid as money. He could have come after you, or Kaoru, or any of my friends, for money.” Ren dropped his gaze to look at his knees. “Holy shit, I was stupid to think it would go away on it’s own. I’m usually not that fu-”

“Don’t start that,” Iwai said. “If you’re gonna freak out, if you’re gonna throw up, if you’re gonna cry, fine. But don’t start holding all that responsibility for other people’s shitty choices on your shoulders. If you start doing that, you never stop.”

He thought of Tsuda and took a breath. “So what’s it gonna be?”

Ren looked at him, then leaned back in his chair and put his hand over his eyes. “This is so stupid. I use all sorts of weapons every day as a Phantom g-goddamn Thief, and one gunshot wound gets me like this?”

His voice was thick with tears, and Iwai was honestly relieved. Better to let out whatever bullshit was going on inside then hold onto it until it destroyed him. He sat by and let Ren cry, let him hide behind his hand. That was all that there was left for Iwai to do, anyways.

But when Ren leaned forward and put his head between his knees, Iwai knew that some dam had burst and everything his kid - Phantom Thief, under probation - was holding on to was ready to come out. He didn’t want to disturb him, didn’t want Ren to think that he had to contain himself, but Iwai couldn’t let this kid suffer alone.

“Hey,” he said, sliding out of his seat. When Ren looked up, Iwai took his protective earmuffs off and slid the hat off. He placed the hat on Ren’s head, brim pulled down low over his eyes. The earmuffs, he readjusted a little bit and clamped over Ren’s ears. They blocked out all sounds and would leave Ren with some semblance of privacy.

Iwai stepped back, but suddenly a hand was holding his jacket. Ren was looking down now, but he had the hem of Iwai’s jacket in a vice grip. He pushed himself forward and the wheeled chair propelled him just a couple inches. Iwai was wary, but let the kid throw his arms around him. Iwai didn’t think he had been this close to anyone in a long time, but he wasn’t about to push him away. Ren buried his face in Iwai’s stomach, arms tight around his middle. He was crying in a way Iwai hadn’t in years, but he remembered the feeling. Helpless. Hopeless. Vulnerable.

The shittiest feeling in the world. Iwai put his hand on the back of Ren’s head and let him cry it out. Tomorrow, when it was light out, when this all seemed grey and distant, when Ren was safe in school or at home...Iwai was going to make sure that he didn’t have to worry about those thugs ever again. He hated guys like that, who had huge egos and lost it when they popped, who took on only people they thought they could beat, who took advantage of people. They deserved to be knocked down a peg, and Iwai would make sure it happened.

He still had connections, after all.

[galahadwilder]

Officiated, Ch. 8

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Officiated Archive

AO3

*

As many of you noticed, when I started writing this they weren't originally going to be 18. And then I looked up France's marriage laws.

I know the ages/timelines in this don't work so please just... ignore that, because the story is way less funny if I try to go back and make those logistics make sense.

Thanks!

*

She can't help reveling a bit in the way he looks at her. He's absolutely stunned, and for the first time she can see him without his guard up, without the carefully-crafted walls Adrien and Chat Noir erect to hide how fragile, how vulnerable, they really are, and her heart aches for him, for her silly, flirty, dorky partner who was kind to her on the days she needed it most. There's no tension in his muscles whatsoever; if she poked him, she's certain he'd collapse into a puddle of boneless jelly. And he's doing that fish-face thing she's sometimes seen Kim do when he's taken by surprise, his mouth open just a little, like he can't really open it all the way but he can't quite muster the brainpower to close it either.

"That..." he says, finally. He blinks, rapid-fire, and she can see the effort it takes him to tear his eyes from her, to twist his neck to look at the cake. "That's your flower," he says. "Your... that's your signature rose."

"Yep!" Marinette chirps, much louder than she anticipated, and immediately flushes bright red as it echoes through the cavernous room, slapping her hand over her mouth and sinking into the chair with the "farting" sound of leather against skin.

"I—don't understand," Adrien says, staring at the box. At the cake. "This is—that's Chat Noir's colors, that's his—" He points. "But... those are my initials?"

Marinette removes the hand from her mouth, slowly, blinks. "Wait, I—?" Oh, seriously? "Chaton. I know."

He spins around to stare at her with wide eyes, overbalances a bit, and staggers into the chair. She barely catches him, her hand sliding on ladybug-print flannel.

"It's—it's you," he sobs, gripping the straps of her camisole and burying his face in her sternum. (It's mildly uncomfortable because his nasal bridge is right on the bone, and she wishes he would move his head a little lower to where there's some more cushioning, but she's not going to suggest that lest they both spontaneously combust.) "It's—it's—" He jerks back, his eyes zipping upward. "Did you just," he says, measuring his words carefully in the way she knows Chat does when he's struggling to remain verbal, "just propose to me... with a meme?"

"Um... no?" she squeaks.

His face falls. She can see tears gathering at the edges of his eyes, and she realizes how what she said must sound, and immediately her brain jumps tracks trying to backtrack.

"Because—!" Her arms start shaking, as she tries not to flail them at the boy currently in her arms, tries to not accidentally slap him in the face. "We're—we're already married, right?" She squeezes his shoulders, trying to keep in the nervous energy. "Can't exactly be a proposal!" Her voice feels shrill and awkward, and she wants to collapse as soon as she hears herself, but, well—she's caught between the chair and her oh my gods I have a husband.

Adrien goes limp, sliding downward out of her arms. She scrabbles after him, trying to hold him up, but... well, Adrien may be underfed, but he's still got about a fifth of a meter on her, and while she can sling Chat Noir across the Seine from a standing start she's working with normal human muscles at the moment. She's yanked out of the chair and onto the ground, flopping on top of him.

She shouldn't have put on her pajamas before she came. She thought it would help her with her nerves, make her more comfortable, but instead she's only too aware of how little clothing is between her and her husband right now. And she's right on top of him. If he weren't shaking like a computer with a busted fan she'd be positively exploding at how intimate this position is.

"Wow. You two are morons."

Marinette gasps as she realizes that someone else is in the room, and looks up to see a familiar tiny black shape, though she’s only seen it around seven times before. “Plagg?”

”You expected Xuppu?” Plagg cackles.

"Plagg! Don't mock them!" Tikki hisses from her place inside Marinette’s pigtail. “This is very stressful for them both!”

”And if we don’t give them a kick in the rear neither of them will move past the ‘uh? Buh? Guh?’ stage,” Plagg responds, settling in top of Marinette’s head. “I’ve seen how bad your girl is at talking to him.”

”I’m getting better!” Marinette protests.

Plagg’s weight shifts on her scalp in a way that suggests he’s rolling his disproportionate eyes. “You’ve been ‘getting better’ for years now.”

”Shut up, Plagg,” Adrien says, and Marinette suddenly realizes that he’s stopped shaking—and that she’s now once more very aware of how she’s lying on top of him.

”H-hi!” she squeaks, trying to roll off him. “Feeling—feeling better?”

”A bit,” he says, with a smile that’s—well, it’s too “Adrien” and not enough “Chat Noir.” Or maybe it’s too Chat Noir and not enough Adrien. Either way it doesn’t seem genuine. “Sorry about—” He glances down, as if finally realizing that he’s holding her on top of him. “Oh!”

He releases her wrists and she launches herself sideways, flopping onto the tile carpet next to him. “Sorry,” she gasps. “That’s—easier in the suits.” She looks at him, holds a hand out to touch his shoulder, thinks better of it. “You know. Touching—touching you.”

“...Ah.” Adrien sits up, and she can’t miss the way the disappointment is written across on his face.

She steels herself, reaches out, places her hand on his foot. It’s the most intimate thing she can do right now without exploding.

He flinches anyway.

”What’s wrong, Kitten?” she says.

”Do you—” His voice breaks, and he looks away. “How’d you find out it was me?”

She blinks, sitting up. He’s very clearly dodging the question. “Alya saw the license,” she says. “And since she didn’t realize it was for Chat and Ladybug, not Marinette and Adrien...”

”She could read both our names,” he finishes. He’s trembling. Again.

”Chaton,” she says. “Either tell me what’s wrong or I will chuck you out the window.”

He freezes, then turns to her with wide, sad eyes. “It’s—nothing,” he says. “I can deal.”

”It’s not nothing,” she shoots back. “I know you’re not disappointed in me because you’ve suspected...” She pushes back her hair, showing the earrings. “You’ve suspected my identity multiple times,” she continues, “and you always looked like you’d... you know, got the cream when you thought it was me...” She clenches her hands, twiddling her thumbs. “I just—I can’t think of what else it could be.”

”It’s not your problem,” he says, gruffly.

”Of course it’s my problem,” she says, reaching out to take his wrist. “I’m your...” She swallows. “I’m your wife.”

He jerks like a gunshot at the word and yanks his hand out of hers. “Not for much longer,” he gasps, and then he’s collapsing into himself, his head falling into his hands falling into his lap, and oh. Oh.

”You thought the cake was sarcasm,” she says, softly, as all the pieces slot into place in her brain like a Lucky Charm. "You think—you think I still want the annulment."

"Don't you?" he whispers.

She swallows, walks her hand up his leg. “Why would I?” she says, feigning more comfort than she’s feeling.

Adrien stiffens, looking at her with shock in his eyes. ”Because... you never wanted me,” he says. “There’s always been someone else.”

Marinette giggles nervously. ”Do you know,” she begins, only to choke on her dry mouth. “Do you know how hard it was to avoid falling in love with Chat Noir?”

He gapes at her.

She entwines her fingers in his. “Yeah, there was someone else at first,” she says, not meeting his eyes. “But... but he didn’t know me like you do. I never trusted him the way I trust you. He could never... make me feel proud, the way you do.” She smiles, tears gathering in her eyes. “I think over time, I just... I kept chasing him so that it wouldn’t hurt so much when I kept losing you.”

”You've never lost me,” Adrien whispers, his thumb gently tracing her palm.

She swallows. “You died just last week, Chaton,” she says. “I lose you all the time and I can’t—” She hiccups. “I can’t stand it.”

He lets go of her hand, and she can’t stop herself from whining at his sudden absence, but then his hands are pressed to her cheeks and he’s holding her gaze to his own. “My Lady,” he says. “I will always come back to you.”

The utter conviction in his voice rocks her to her core. He’s not saying that she’ll bring him back—he’s saying that, even if she can’t, he will tear down heaven to make it back to her side.

”The—the other boy,” she gasps. “His name was Adrien Agreste.”

Emerald eyes stare into hers, uncomprehending—and then his breath is in her mouth, mixed with the fire of her life, of his life, and it’s exactly like Dark Cupid, hot and desperate and painful and real.

*

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Officiated Archive

[megalony]

Perfect to me- Beginning

This is another part to my Roger Taylor series which is about Roger’s relationship with deaf Reader. I hope everyone likes it.

Taglist: @lunaticspoem @butlegendsneverdie @langdonzvoid @jennyggggrrr @luvborhap @radiob-l-a-hblah @rogertaylorsbitontheside @chlobo6 @rogertaylors-lipgloss @sj-thefan @omgitsearly @luckytrashgooprebel @scarsout

Series masterlist

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Roger couldn't help the way his lips curved up at the corners when his eyes found their way back to the woman in front of him. They had been walking in the same direction for only two minutes but to Roger, it felt like two hours. He felt like he had become entranced by her in the shortest of time. Their eyes had locked the moment she crossed the road, her head dipped down in a way that showed she was shy but her smile showed she was polite. There was a sparkle in her eyes that seemed to capture Roger's full attention before her back was suddenly in his line of sight as she walked in front of him.

He found himself smiling at how she tucked her hands into her coat pockets to pull the fabric closer around her in the winter weather. He rather liked the deep berry purple coat she wore, it was one he had seen somewhere before but couldn't quite place where.

The drummer liked how she had her scarf tucked neatly into her coat until one of the frayed ends escaped her coat and flew in the breeze littered with little flecks of snow that was just beginning to fall. But more so, Roger liked how she reached up to run her hand through her hair that was half-covered by a hat with the ends flowing free in the snow. Each strand became coloured with the snow before it melted into her locks. He fought hard not to laugh when she seemed to catch one of the rings sitting on her fingers in a strand of hair that wrapped around the item.

She was trying to get her ring free without ripping her hair from her head and causing a scene in the street. With a final tug, her hand released from her hair and went back into her coat pocket.

It was as if luck had been on Roger's side in that cold winter's afternoon. He noticed the simple silver ring with a dusty pink rose on it fall from her finger without her notice. His rather worse for wear eyes narrowed until his eyes were almost shut so he could see where it landed as the girl in front of him hadn't noticed it had left her delicate finger. Roger crouched down as if examining the thin layer of snow beginning to cover the dirt-ridden pavement. His thumb and index finger delicately taking the ring, rubbing it on his jacket before he looked up.

His eyes widened when the girl seemed to have disappeared rather quickly, leaving Roger to squint to be able to see her walking into a cafe on the right.

Roger fisted the ring in his palm but being careful with it at the same time as he picked up the pace to follow after the mysterious woman who seemed to have cast a spell over him. Heading into the same cafe, Roger shook his mop of ash blond hair to rid the flecks of water and snow. Realising that this was not a cafe he had been in before.

Glancing his eyes around, Roger soon found her in the queue for a drink or a bite to eat and decided to sit down at one of the tables so he didn't look suspicious standing in the doorway.

(Y/n) sat down at her usual table in the corner of the quaint cafe next to the window. Allowing the steam of the hot chocolate in her hand to flood her senses and thaw out her nose that had turned to ice. The steam felt nice against her cold features and the cup was beautifully warm against her stone-cold fingers trembling against it. She slowly brought the rim to her lips, telling herself to be careful as last time she had managed to burn the rim of her mouth. When her eyes drifted upwards they widened just a little when she noticed the blond she had seen in the street moments ago.

He had a smile on his face that looked intoxicating, but what caught (Y/n)'s attention was the fact that he was looking directly at her. More to the point, he was now walking in her direction. She quickly set down the drink in her hands in case she was liable to drop it before now, her nerves suddenly spiking though she didn't know why.

"I believe this is yours." Roger's tone was gentle, but (Y/n) wasn't to know that. Her eyes watched the way his lips pressed together and pushed together towards the middle of his mouth when he spoke certain words. She was thankful he was punctuating his words better than most so she could work out which words were forming from his lips. When her eyes moved to the ring he held in the palm of his hand a look of surprise took over her face. That was indeed her ring. (Y/n) couldn't help but look down to her right hand, seeing that her index finger didn't hold the ring that was now clearly in the palm of Roger's hand.

A small hum that resembled an unevenly toned chuckle left her parted lips and although it was muffled it made Roger smile instantly. He gently nudged his palm towards her so she would take her possession back. When her fingers skimmed over his palm he felt his nerves sparking to life and it made him feel alive, somehow.

Slipping the ring back into its rightful place on her finger, (Y/n) stared at it for a brief second before her attention was turned back to the man standing beside her. Acting on instinct (Y/n) pressed her fingertips of her hand to her chin before motioning her hand towards Roger in the sign for thank you as her lips curved in a way that sent his heart rocketing in his chest. When she noticed the way his eyelids pushed against his eyes in confusion it became clear that this kind person didn't know sign language even if he knew she was doing some kind of gesture of kindness or thanks to him.

(Y/n) had tried mouthing words to people before but it wasn't the same. She had no way of knowing if she was miming the words right because her lips never produced any verbal sound. She could see people talking but miming was like seeing someone play the piano and trying to copy when you had no knowledge of how to play. She had made a fool out of herself more than once by doing that and she didn't fancy doing that in front of him.

Roger watched the girl's expression fall as if her features had been on a string which was now cut. Her lips curved down instead of up and her eyes seemed heavier than before. She pointed to her ear before shaking her hand to try and gesture that she couldn't hear him. When Roger's smile faded she knew he had gotten the message.

In the blink of an eye, Roger had turned around and speeded off.

Biting down on her lower lip, (Y/n) tried to push away the tears welling in her eyes. This wouldn't be the first time that someone had realised she was deaf and couldn't speak and had so left immediately. It was something she was used to because people weren't bothered with taking the time to learn sign language to communicate with her, they deemed her not worth the time or effort. But he had seemed different. He had followed her to give her back a ring he could easily have left on the ground or have taken for himself. He seemed to want to know her especially with his smile and now he had gone.

Sign language or a pen and paper was necessary to communicate with (Y/n) because as much as she could lip-read, that did get hard at times and she couldn't respond without signing or writing. It took a while to write things down and not many people knew how to sign so they didn't want to bother.

Speech was much easier but (Y/n) could only hum and mumble incoherent words to herself that she couldn't hear. Sometimes she didn't know she was mumbling, other times she couldn't help but squeak or murmur and it annoyed people how quietly she murmured or that she spoke at all.

Bringing the rim of her cup back to her lips, (Y/n) brushed her eye against her sleeve to rid the single tear that left her eye before she took a sip of the chocolate drink that always made her feel better. Her eyes widened when she saw movement in front of her and looked up to see the stranger was back. Taking it upon himself to sit down on the seat opposite her as one side of his mouth curved up into a lopsided smile that made (Y/n)'s heart leap into her mouth.

He came back.

Roger set down a rather large handful of napkins in the middle of both of them and a pen he had acquired from the waitress behind the counter. He had to admit that he didn't know sign language and he didn't think it would be fair if he tried to speak and she had to strain to read his lips. At least this way she could tell him to get lost if she didn't want to talk to him.

Grabbing the pen, Roger scribbled down on one of the napkins before pushing it across the table to (Y/n). Watching as she set her drink down at her right side before looking at the napkin that held the blotched blue ink that was delicately written onto the paper instead of tearing through it like most pens did.

'I'm Roger, what's your name, beautiful?'

(Y/n) pulled her lower lip between her teeth at the last word on the napkin which Roger seemed to see her staring at because his lopsided, docile grin turned to a cheeky smirk instead.

'I'm (Y/n).'

'How do you sign that?'

When Roger pushed the paper back across to her, (Y/n) couldn't stop the breathlessness that took over her. No one had ever asked how she signed her name before. No one cared to know, they just saw her write it down and buried the information, they didn't want to know how she interpreted that. If signing with another she simply signed 'my name is' and the first letter of her name instead of spelling it out. But Roger was interested. He wanted to watch her spell out her name and commit that to memory because he didn't want to leave without knowing every little thing about her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Opening her apartment door, (Y/n) couldn't help the smile that pulled at her lips as she leaned against the doorframe at seeing Roger stood on the other side of the threshold. A bright yet somewhat nervous smile playing on his lips as he moved his hand from behind his back to hand over a single blood-red rose that he knew was her favourite.

Taking the rose, (Y/n) brought the petals to her nose so she could inhale the sweet scent she had almost forgotten since it was out of flower season due to the winter upon them.

Ever since Roger had made the effort to talk to her in the cafe, he had asked very politely to walk her home and then if he could come by sometime to see her. He had come by almost every day and each day he came around with a new word in sign language that he had learnt. The first time he came round he fumbled but managed to sign her name like she taught him. Then he signed the word beautiful, which he had taken upon himself to call her since he thought she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen. Then he had signed good morning, good afternoon and had gone on from there.

(Y/n) had never had someone try this much to get to know her.

She had friends try and then ultimately give up with sign language which she understood and accepted. She had people end up not coming to see her anymore. She had never had someone play this sort of lovely game with her where they made their progress with sign language into a game or competition. Showing up with a new word did help Roger though. It prompted him to try and make words ready to start a conversation and it helped him remember them. He wanted to know every word and phrase in sign language that he did in speech. He wanted to be able to have as many conversations with her as sign language would allow.

He had gone to the library and gotten a book of sign language and had found a friend who did a class nearby who was teaching him words and phrases. She usually taught children but had given Roger a few lessons here and there to help him muddle through.

Roger wanted to be with (Y/n) until she grew bored of him.

Biting his lip, Roger held his hands out in front of him ready to surprise her today with more than a word.

'Hi beautiful. Would you like to go on a date with me?'

Roger took his time to make sure he signed every word slowly and separately to make sure he didn't mess up and sign the wrong word or make one up. His eyes drifted from his hands to her when he had finished. Alarm in his baby blue orbs when he saw tears falling from her eyes before her arms were suddenly wrapped around his neck, her head pressing into the crook of his shoulder. He held her back just as tightly, taking this as a good sign that made him smile as bright as the sun.

He gently squeezed her hips to gain her attention since he technically hadn't received an answer to his question. She seemed to know what he was asking for without him needing to speak or sign as she furiously nodded her head at him making him laugh. He had been unsure if this would work or not, wondering if she simply wanted to be friends or found him too irritating to be around but it seems he worried for nothing. (Y/n) snapped her eyes closed to stop the tears as she pressed her lips to his own, savouring in the new feeling that was like pure magic to her lips.

This was just the beginning.

[ladynuwanda]

Invisible to the Eye - Michael LangdonXFemale Reader one-shot (word count: 4,4K)

(This was a request by my darling @alexcornerblog, basically the first ever request that I’ve received, and I loved doing it! It’s about Outpost!Michael, Reader is a Grey that works for him. As she conquers her fear for her new boss, she might find out that the cold exterior hides a lonely boy who’s in need of affection just as much as she is. It contains some sweet, sweet smut... I hope you enjoy!💖)

(edit, 26th of July 2019: beautiful art by my darling @hecohansen31, thank you ever so much for your kindness, sweetie...  🌸)

Being invisible was just part of a Grey’s job, I think. That’s probably why they decided to dress us in grey to begin with, to make it easier for us to blend into the background (but the ridiculous dildo-bun hairstyle they made us wear, I’m pretty sure served only for humiliation purposes). We were just supposed to keep the Outpost running, doing post-apocalyptical hard work. It sucks, but it’s still better than the alternative. They saved only those they thought could make a contribution to society... and those who could pay for it, or course. So basically if you’re rich you’re a Purple, if you’re useful you’re a Grey. You’re a very smart servant pampering rich people... but it beats being dead, if you ask me.

I mean, it was bad. Venable was insufferable, life in the Outpost was all about rules and fear. But all the time she kept telling us we were the “lucky ones”, and maybe she was right. Just shut up and do your job, and you get to live... it can’t be that hard. Unless you’re Mallory. Mallory had it far worse than the rest of us. Miss Vanderbilt seemed to think that, because Mallory had worked for her before, she could ask her to perform the most absurd kinds of tasks, things you would never ask a stranger. While she kept rubbing Mallory’s face on the fact that she was the only reason Mallory was in the Outpost at all, overlooking the part where she made her kickass assistant a Grey, while making her hairdresser’s grandmother was a Purple. Honestly, rich people! But the cool thing about being invisible is that, as long as you don’t neglect your work, you can do whatever you want when no one’s looking. And no one’s ever looking. So, if you’re an asshole to one of the Greys, you shouldn’t be surprised if one of the others would eventually use your toothbrush to scrub the toilet. That’s just cause and effect, really.

They wouldn’t even notice that the jell-o cubes that got to the table were slightly smaller than the ones that left the kitchen. And I’m sure not one of the Purples had any idea about the Greys’ late night candle-lit jell-o scrap party in the pantry. It was the only time we could let our hairs down, literally as well as figuratively, and just chill. Laughing off the hardships of the day, talking about the things we missed from the “life before”... sometimes coming up with pranks, like switching the tubes of haemorrhoids ointment and toothpaste’s places in the bathroom drawers. Dinah Stevens screamed something fierce the next morning, when she tried to brush her teeth with haemorrhoids ointment (or was it the other way around?). We had to bite into our own tongues all day, to keep ourselves from laughing whenever we’d see her. Our cheek muscles were aching from the effort to keep a straight face. Totally worth it.

I was still working really hard on staying invisible, but apparently not hard enough. When Cooperative big-shot Michael Langdon showed up at the Outpost and asked for an exclusive chambermaid, Venable decided I was the best choice. Apparently she thought I was both efficient and discreet. How adorable. So why did it feel like I was being punished, instead of rewarded? To say he was intimidating would be an understatement! And even though he requested a “Personal Grey”, I had specific instructions to never be in the room at the same time he was, unless it was absolutely necessary. I was supposed to keep everything tidy and neat while he was walking around the Outpost, terrifying everyone else, bring in his meals and take the trays away. Keep my eyes down and never talk to him, if I could help it. Easy! It’s not like I was dying to make friends with the man, anyway.

No, I wasn’t blind. I was very much aware that this was the most handsome man I had ever seen. His face looked like it had been carved by the angels themselves, for crying out loud! But I wouldn’t use the word “attractive” to describe him. Quite the opposite, actually, everything about him seemed carefully designed to keep everyone else away. It was like he had an wall made of ice around him all the time, and no one was ever allowed in. So, he seemed blissfully ignorant of my existence, and I was more than happy to have my existence ignored by him. It was a nice little non-verbal agreement we had. Until, of course, it wasn’t. I was taking out his tray, one night after dinner, while he was working on his desk when, out of the clear blue sky, he talked to me, like this was something he always did. The sound of his voice made me jump out of my skin, and I had to muffle a yelp by pressing both my hands to my mouth. He acted like he didn’t notice.

“Working for me, you’re gonna end up seeing and hearing things that are not supposed to be seen or heard by anyone else. I trust you’ll keep my secrets. If you play your cards right, little grey mouse, there’s sure to be a ticket for the Sanctuary with your name on it. If you don’t, well... then I’m gonna have to make sure you wish you had died in the blast. Am I being clear?”, I nodded stupidly, “Good. Tomorrow morning I wanna wake up to find actual flames at the fireplace, instead of the usual embers. And you’ll be holding a cup of fresh brewed coffee from my personal stash, understood? That would be all for tonight.”, he carelessly waved me away, without ever looking at me.

With a small curtsy, I left the room as fast as could, nearly forgetting the tray I was supposed to take. He had coffee? Actual coffee? No. That’s not what I should be focusing on. He can take me to the Sanctuary! All I had to do was keep my mouth shut about his personal subjects, and brew him coffee. Ok, so no more late night Greys’ parties in the pantry for me. I was sure gonna miss my friends, I kinda felt like a traitor for trying to secure my place in the Sanctuary while leaving everyone behind... But I was the only one whose neck was on the line, here! I don’t even wanna think about what he would do to me if he felt betrayed in any way. His secrets were my secrets, now. And if he didn’t have any friends, then neither did I.

I headed straight for the Greys’ quarters, but I was too anxious to sleep, knowing I’d have to be up before His Majesty the next morning. Mallory was kind enough to give up her little stolen slice of jell-o to stay with me, while all the other Greys were in the pantry. She was trying to talk me into sleep, so she crawled under the covers in my bed with me, our heads covered by my bedsheets while we carried our conversation in whispers, sharing my pillow. It’s the kind of cutesy sister/confidant cliché you’d only find in a Jane Austen novel, that I would never have even considered taking part of in my “life before”. But somehow it seemed appropriate in this scenario... and, I had to admit, not at all unpleasant.

“So what’s your new boss like? Is he nice?”

“Mallory, you’ve seen the man... he’s a nightmare!”

“It’s not a proper nightmare until they call you up in the bathroom to wipe their assholes clean...”

“Ew! Good point. I don’t think he’d ever do that, tho. He’s too... Dignified.”

“A dignified boss. I wonder what that’s like...”

“I’m serious... if I so much as walked into the room while he was leaving the bathroom, I’m pretty sure young-Lucius-Malfoy there would simply Avada Kedavra my ass, just to spare himself the embarrassment...”

“He’s the one who decides who gets to go to the Sanctuary, tho... Are you telling me that if he asked you for special favours, you’d be able to look straight into those deep blue eyes and say no?”, the way she said the words “special favours” made me feel more than a little uncomfortable.

“How d’you know his eyes are deep blue?”, I faked an exaggerated gasp, “You dared look into his eyes? Bold move, Mal.”

“Yeah, that’s me... I’m a motherfucking daredevil.”, we both giggled at her deliberately dull tones, that made clear she meant the exact opposite of her words, “But you’re changing the subject...”

“I’m not changing the subject, Mallory, I’m ending the subject... I should try and get some sleep, I have to be up before our-lord-and-saviour tomorrow.”

“What the hell for?”

“Something about tending to the fireplace...“, I assumed his personal stash of coffee was one of the secrets I was supposed to keep, “Apparently his highness doesn’t like it when he wakes up and the temperature of the room matches that of his heart.”

“So you’ll be there while he’s still asleep... it will be a good opportunity to take a long, hard look at him. Who knows, you might even find out what kind of pajamas he wears... if any.”

“Good Night, Mallory.”

I barely slept a wink, and was already in Langdon’s bedroom before sunrise. The room was actually quite chilly, so I tended to the fireplace right away, then brewed him his coffee. The heavenly scent hit my nostrils and I almost cried tears of joy. I told myself I was taking a small sip just to make sure it tasted right, not because I craved coffee or anything. And it fucking tasted like Christmas morning. I stood next to the bed, the cup in my hands, waiting for him to wake up. Mallory’s words from the previous night still echoing inside my head.

It was, indeed, a good opportunity to take a long, hard look at him. He seemed harmless enough, peacefully sleeping while lying on his stomach. As the room grew warmer he had kicked the blankets off himself in his sleep, so he was wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers now. He really was beautiful. Long, muscular legs and powerful arms lined with delicate veins, his hands under the pillow on either side of his head. His sleeping face looked so much younger, it was almost sweet. His rosy lips were slightly parted, and he had an innocent set to his eyebrows... Before that moment I had had the impression he was a little older, that his beautiful face was a little harder, with sharp angles... and that permanent cold sneer. Now everything about him seemed so, almost overwhelmingly, soft... I felt slightly dizzy at the sight, and realised it was because I had stopped breathing.

I was looking at his lightly tanned back, and I couldn’t help wondering what it would feel like running my fingertips over that smooth skin, feeling the warmth from his body, tracing the graceful lines of the muscles... when his eyes fluttered open. I handed him the cup with my brightest smile “Good morning, Mr. Langd...” - “Don’t.”, he cut me off mid-sentence, holding up a finger to my face, and drinking the coffee he took from my hands without looking at me, as usual. What a lovely man. With another short curtesy (almost my trademark, at this point), I left the room, feeling somewhat relieved that I might not have to see him again before it was time to draw him his bath, that night.

Of course, that perspective was mostly wishful thinking on my part. The reality was that I was about to spend what felt like the whole day going in and out of Michael Langdon’s bedroom. Taking his meals, fetching him a book in the library, fetching him a different book in the library because he changed his mind while I was gone, walking people to and from their interviews with him... by the time I was actually drawing his bath, I could not believe that this day was really over and that I was finally on my last task. I was about to leave the room as he entered, like I was supposed to, when I heard his voice behind me, through the wall of ice that separated him from the rest of the world, “I don’t think I said you were dismissed.”

Ugh. What now? I tried not to look so desperate to get away as I turned around “It’s about time I had someone to wash my hair for me”, I lowered my gaze to the floor as he began untying the belt of his bathrobe “Why are you blushing, grey mouse?” his voice was dripping with sarcasm now “Does the sight of a naked man offend your delicate sensibilities?” was he seriously mock-pouting at me? Really? “Oh, grow up.”, he sneered, finished undressing and entered the bathtub, lying back and closing his eyes with a sigh. How did he do that? He was stark naked, I was fully dressed, and yet... I was the one feeling vulnerable and exposed. I tried to make myself busy, arranging the silver rings he had left on the counter by the bathroom sink into their velvet cases, thinking about the conundrum in which I found myself.

Which one was better (or less bad): should I avoid any kind of eye contact with his, erm, “manhood”? Act like I just couldn’t see it, for some reason? Or was he expecting me to fully acknowledge its existence? Maybe compliment him on his length and girth, whether I meant it or not? Maybe I don’t have to do anything so extreme, either way... I could just, you know, sneak a pick. That sounds reasonable. Not very mature, but you can’t have it all... Ok. I’ll do it. I will! Just one glance, I can do that. Come on! It’s just a penis, for fucks sake, it’s not such a big deal... Oh. Oooh, yes. Yes, it is. It’s a very big deal. It’s a huge, gorgeous - and somewhat veiny - deal. Like... congratulations, mama, it’s most definitely a boy! I was almost tilting my head to the side, losing myself in the view, when the sound of his voice startled me back into reality “my back’s not going to wash itself, you know...”, I looked at his face terrified of the gaze I would find there, but fortunately he hadn’t even opened his eyes.

I kneeled on the floor behind his back, grabbed a sponge and proceeded to scrub him nervously, doing my best not to touch his back with my actual fingers, just the sponge. “Gently”, he groaned through gritted teeth. I had to take a few deep breaths before allowing myself to run a soapy hand to his back. I remembered my own thoughts from that same morning, how I wanted to feel his warmth, his smooth skin... and now that I was, I shouldn’t be surprised do feel my own body responding to it. The red hot sensation up my spine, colouring my cheeks, the way my breathing was getting heavier... The sudden realisation that my hands were soaked in the same water as his naked body actually hit me like an electric shock.

Running my fingers over his muscles I could find a couple, or more, spots that felt very tense to the touch. Without a second thought I rubbed a thumb over one of them, trying to ease the knot, and I froze waiting for his response. He gave a relieved sigh and leaned his back slightly against my hands. I smiled a little to myself and kept rubbing his back, feeling his tension slowly dissolve beneath my fingers. I also gave him a scalp massage, after washing his hair, but for completely selfish reasons: I wanted to see that soft look I had seen in the morning back on his face. That angelic expression he had in his sleep... I felt like I needed it again, more than he did. By the time I was brushing his freshly washed hair, the man was all but purring in delight, like a cat. I had never seen Michael Langdon look so relaxed and, even though it was probably the most foolish thing I could do, I couldn’t help relaxing a little in his presence, running my fingers and the brush through his sweet smelling, silky golden curls.

He wanted some tea before bed and at this point I was no longer surprised that he had a secret stash of tea, as well (I was inclined to believe that there was no way he was living on the jell-o cubes I brought him, alone). He was sitting on his bed with a book when I handed him his cup of melissa tea and, for the first time, he brushed his fingertips over mine, ever so gently, when he was taking the cup from my hands. I looked up, startled by the unexpected touch, and found his glowing blue eyes fixed on mine. He held my eyes on his for a while longer, his plump lips forming a delicate smile, his cheeks flushed pink from the warm bath, and I felt my heart doing a somersault when I heard the words “thank you” coming from his lips, his eyes burning into mine. I had no idea he even knew those words! Feeling myself blush bright red, I managed to mumble an awkward “good night, Mr. Langdon” and fled the bedroom like the place was on fire.

I closed the door and pressed my own back against it, breathing hard. What the hell had just happened? And, now that I was outside, why did it feel so agonisingly difficult to put some distance between myself and that bedroom? When I finally felt that I could move my legs beneath me, I headed for the Greys’ quarters and found Mallory waiting for me again. I told her to go meet the others because I was too tired, I said that I was probably gonna sleep immediately, there was no reason for her to miss the “scrap feast”. But the truth was that I couldn’t bear talking to Mallory, or anyone else, at that moment. Not when I was so uncomfortably aware of my flushed cheeks and the slickness between my legs. I was furious for letting myself get so hot and bothered over Michael Langdon. I felt betrayed by my own body that such a man could have that kind of effect upon me. But at least I didn’t lie to Mallory, I really did fall asleep almost as soon as my head touched the pillow.

The next morning I went into his room even earlier and left the cup of coffee on his bedside table, so I could be out of there before he woke up. Less than an hour later I was notified that, after careful consideration, my boss had decided that “it was counterproductive” (his actual words, apparently) that I should return to the Greys’ quarters every night. From now on, I’d be spending my nights in his bedroom. I even tried to relish on the perverse joy of seeing Venable reduced to being my boss’s carrier-pigeon - and how utterly offended she looked that he would dare make the mighty Wilhemina Venable lower herself to delivering a message to a Grey - instead of delving into the implications of the news she’d just given me.

I was spending the night with Michael Langdon. In his bedroom. At his request. We‘re practically roommates. Oh, my God, we are roommates. And there is only one bed. (Now... where have I heard that before?)

After our newly created nightly ritual of back rubbing and hair brushing, I left his cup of tea on the bedside table and turned to the chaise-longue that was by the wall. I laid myself to sleep without a word, I wouldn’t dare look at his face, I didn’t want to see whether he was relieved or disappointed. I don’t think I could bear either one, to be honest. But, as much as I tried, I just couldn’t fall asleep. I was still fully alert when, a few hours later, I heard Michael Langdon tossing and turning on his bed, mumbling in his restless sleep “I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to... I’m so sorry... I’ll be good, I promise... I want to be good... just don’t leave me... please... I don’t wanna be alone... not again... please... I can be good, I know I can... don’t leave me all alone...”

I went to the bed and tried to wake him up as gently as I could, with my hands on his shoulders, repeating his name. He sat up abruptly, his sweaty forehead narrowly missing mine, his round eyes looking wildly around the room until they fell on my face. He looked at me in panic, he seemed younger than ever with tears rolling down his cheeks, his chest heaving with every breath. “It was only a dream, Michael... Mr. Langdon”, I don’t know why I said that, I just needed to break the silence with something. Anything! Before I’d start crying, myself, under the weight of his agonised stare. He knew what I had heard, what I had seen. His mask of composure was long gone and could never be put back into its place. Not before me, at least.

For a second I couldn’t quite read his face, and I was afraid he was going to choke me to death for witnessing his moment of weakness. But instead, he did the last thing I could have expected: he scrunched his face like a child and cried even harder, burying his head on my chest. He threw his arms around my waist pulling me closer, a little too tight, my body shaking with his violent sobbing. There was nothing I could do except run my fingers through his hair and kiss the top of his head. And wait. Wait for him to cry all his misery out. He eventually fell asleep, all curled up on himself, while I was spooning myself against his back. I wanted to run my fingertips over the small “666” iron-branded behind his ear, that I had noticed the first time I brushed his hair, but for some reason I knew I shouldn’t. So I just passed my arm under his and placed my hand on his shoulder, he crossed his other arm over his chest so his hand could hold onto mine. I fell asleep feeling the sweet scent of his hair, nuzzling the back of his neck, our legs entangled.

By the time I woke up, I had been sleeping on my stomach, on hand resting on the pillow before my face. My position mirrored Michael’s, except that his hand was not on his pillow. Instead, his fingertips were ghosting over my hand and he was already wide awake. It was only when my eyes met his blue gaze that he dared holding my hand. His warm blue eyes remained on mine for a while, and he pulled me closer by the hand he was holding, turning us both on our sides, facing each other, and placed his soft lips on mine, involving me in a warm embrace. His kiss was surprisingly gentle, the sweet caress of his tongue on mine felt almost like a dream, and yet there was a certain hunger about the way he pulled me even closer and ran his hand through my hair.

He removed my hideous grey nightgown, and his lips and hands found my breasts, his tongue swirling around one nipple making me gasp. He moved his soft, wet kisses to my stomach, hooking his fingers on the waistband of the ugliest pair of grey panties ever created by mankind. He pulled it down slowly, like it was the finest lace-lingerie, his eyes always searing into mine with burning desire, so I found myself fumbling to get rid of his black boxers, and straddling his hips. I cupped his face in my hands, and he did the same with my butt-cheeks, as I eased myself on him, very slowly, savouring every inch as he filled me up, my eyes never leaving his. At least until I felt him hitting that tender spot inside me, sending a jolt of pleasure through my whole body as a shaky sob escaped my lips, I felt myself clenching a little around him, and I closed my eyes in delight. My hips were riding his, ever so slightly, as I adjusted to the way he was stretching me out... that unique, delicious, stinging sensation in my core. His mouth was on my breasts again, suckling one nipple. Without warning, his grip got tighter and he turned us both around in a swift, graceful movement, so that now he was on top of me, between my legs.

He rocked his hips against mine, thrusting into me in languid, fluid motions, that reminded me of the gentle caress of waves on the shore. He really was powerful and intense like the ocean, and I was lost in his eyes, gladly drowning myself in that ocean. So when the wave of pleasure from my orgasm washed over me, it caught me completely off-guard. I heard an animalistic groan that, very surprisingly, was coming from my own lips as I arched my back, digging my fingernails on the smooth skin of Michael’s back. He smirked, satisfied, at the trembling mess beneath him that was me. But apparently the way I was tightening myself around him was too much for his self-control, and he found his own release soon after I did. He threw his head back in ecstasy, his eyes tightly shut as he spilled himself deep inside me. His body collapsed on top of mine, shaking violently, a groan that could match my own muffled against the curve of my neck.

He raised himself on his elbows to look at me, gently tangling his fingers on my hair. His eyes were like blue flames bringing the warmth of life to my soul, that ice wall that used to stand between us completely shattered and forgotten, and now I could see him clearly, every aspect of him: The lonely boy, the powerful man, the gentle lover, the merciless judge, the angel, the demon... And now he could see me, too. I couldn’t even remember the last time I had felt truly seen, specially when I had spent most of my time trying so hard to be invisible. You spend long enough being treated as less than human, as a little mouse, and you might as well start to believe that’s what you are. But he could see me now. He was looking at me like I was so much more, like I was some kind of goddess he was in awe of. He leaned over to place his soft lips on mine once more, his tongue delicately parting my lips in search of my own. And I heard the hollow crack of my heart breaking in half right at the moment a burning question crossed my mind, searing white-hot like a lightning bolt:

How does one go back to being invisible, after being seen by Michael Langdon?

[stingerpicnic]

bottle me up (take me everywhere) chapter 1/2

Read on AO3

Rating: General Audiences

Relationship: Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin

Characters: Mumintrollet | Moomintroll, Snusmumriken | Snufkin

Additional Tags: Fluff, Established Relationship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Feelings, Purring, Gift Giving, y'all they’re so in love it’s ridiculous, Moomintroll continues to be sweetest creature on the planet, flustered snufkin

Summary: There was something that Snufkin had said, after they’d settled in each other’s arms to sleep, relaxed and purring happily but tired from the emotionally draining conversation, that was giving Moomin an idea. A rather good idea at that, if he did say so himself.

A direct sequel to “your smile brings sunshine/your tears bring rain (you’re my whole world)”

Inspired by this post

I should probably tag @willshebemina​ because it was their post​ 

They’d had their talk.

It had been difficult to get through, not because it was difficult to care for and comfort Snufkin. He loved him, caring for and comforting him was a privilege he cherished, not only because it was granted to so few.

It’s just—it’s so hard seeing him hurting. But they still had to get through it. Not doing so wasn’t an option. They’d been working on healthy communication for a while. He knew that trying to simply ignore a problem until it went away would do nothing but make it worse.

…Not that he knew that from some very personal experience, or anything. He’d never avoided talking about his own issues and insecurities to the point where the emotional stress made him sick, or anything. That had never happened. And even if it had, he knew better now. He would talk about talk about his problems long before they progressed to that point. And he was so much more secure in their relationship now, anyways.

But, still, their talk had been enlightening.

Moomin did feel a little guilty about the hand he had had in Snufkin’s distress, but he pushed the feeling down. There was no use for it right now. He knew how to alter his behavior now, anyways, and it was no hardship to do so for Snufkin.

He just wished Snufkin had told him sooner. He had been trying to make him feel less guilty about leaving by being a little less verbal about how sad it made him as he had been in previous years, not more. He’d always felt guilty himself for making Snufkin’s departure more difficult than it had to be with his pleading for him to stay even after he’d accepted he needed to go years ago. He’d been trying to make it easier on him this year, honestly, especially after Snufkin had confessed he did feel a little bad about leaving him alone each year. But it turns out that he had just accidentally awoken Snufkin’s buried fears of abandonment.

Nevermind that his fear was incomprehensible to Moomin. He’d never, never, even so much as consider replacing Snufkin with someone else. Snufkin was too special, too wonderful, too lovely for anyone to ever come close to taking his place in Moomin’s life. He loved him too much to give him up. Just because he’d grown to accept that he had to let him go every year for the winter didn’t mean he was ever going to do so with the intention of it being permanent.

He’d told him as much, being careful to keep the utter incredulity he was feeling out of his voice. It may have been a shocking revelation to him, but Snufkin didn’t deserve to feel like he was being made fun of. His fears were real to him, however irrational. Moomin knew that better than anyone. He had his own share of fears that had no reasonable possibility of coming true and he often wasn’t the bravest when it came to ones that did, anyway. He knew it hurt to not feel like you were being taken seriously, especially when it was coming from someone you loved.

Moomin is momentarily pulled out of his thoughts when he hears a soft, sleepy sound come from the body pressed against his own, feels paws clutch at his fur a little more insistently than before, and, most notably, both hears and feels a sudden and distinct lack of a second rumbling purr to accompany his own. Pulling Snufkin closer, pressing him into his chest just a little tighter, Moomin maneuvers them so he can press a soft kiss to the crease trying to take over his brow. The wrinkles slowly smooth themselves out and the purring starts up again, a little more relaxed, and Moomin knows Snufkin has returned to the peaceful, happy dreams he deserves.

He lets out a breath, a soft smile making its way onto his face. Honestly, how could he ever even think of giving this up?

They’d talked long into the night about all the things that were bothering Snufkin. Not everything was as surprising as his fears of abandonment, which, honestly, he probably shouldn’t have been so surprised about as it was, Snufkin had been found alone in a box as a small child, of coursehe’d have some sort of abandonment issues, however unfounded they were in this case. But everything else made sense, too.

Things had changed between them when they decided to start a relationship a couple summers ago. Even if it didn’t really feel like anything had changed at all sometimes, it had been a change. It made sense that Snufkin might start feeling worse about leaving for winter now that they were closer than ever. And it was unsurprising that Snufkin was finding he was changing himself, feeling the need for solitude less sharply than before, even if he did still feel it. He just wished it didn’t cause him so much distress, even if he understood why it did.

Still, Moomin thinks that there are things Snufkin didn’t say. But he also gets the feeling that some of those are things he didn’t know to say, because he hadn’t discovered them yet.

That’s fine. Those things will be discovered one day and they would talk about them then. There’s no point in pushing for answers that Snufkin can’t or isn’t ready to give. This wasn’t the first time they had had to have this conversation and he doubted it would be the last. Fears take much more than a single battle to put to rest, and reassuring each other of their place in each other’s lives, reminding each other of the understanding and acceptance they have for what the other needs, could never truly be a hardship when they love each other so much.

Though there was something that Snufkin had said, after they’d settled in each other’s arms to sleep, relaxed and purring happily but tired from the emotionally draining conversation, that was giving Moomin an idea. A rather good idea at that, if he did say so himself. It made him feel warm inside just thinking about it, a broad smile taking over his face. And he wasn’t even the one who would be receiving the gift!

…

“Moomintroll,” Snufkin had whispered into the dark like he was sharing a precious secret, “you’re so warm and kind. I almost wish the world was full of so many yous. It would be better for it.”

Moomin had huffed out a quiet a laugh. “A world full of me? And only one of you? That wouldn’t do. I can’t imagine a world where so many Moomintrolls could be happy without their own Snufkins to come back to them in the spring,” he said, easily giving into the quiet nonsense that came with late night, half asleep conversations. He didn’t tell Snufkin that he couldn’t imagine it because he was his world, he wasn’t trying to keep him up too long by flustering him again so soon after the last time. He didn’t need to say it, anyways. He could tell by the warmth where Snufkin presses his face into his shoulder a little harder that he understood.

It was another long moment before Snufkin spoke again. “I suppose we couldn’t have that. Moomintrolls shouldn’t be unhappy,” he said, like it’s something important, the most important thing.

“And Snufkins should have someone who loves them to return to when they decide they’ve had their fill of being alone,” he agreed, like it was just as important, like it was necessary.

Snufkin remained still and quiet against him for long enough Moomin had begun to think he’d fallen asleep before he spoke again. “Sometimes, when the nights grow cold enough to steal the warmth from my very bones and I haven’t seen another soul for days,” he said, the words halting and hesitant but unwavering, like he was confessing some great sin, sure he would be judged harshly but still determined to finish, “the joy of being alone threatens to sour into painful loneliness and I almost wish I could trap your warmth and kindness and love in a bottle to take with me always.”

Moomin hadn’t known exactly what to say then, so he bundled Snufkin up as close as he could, nuzzled the top of Snufkin’s head, and whispered, “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?,” like it was a promise that he would try.

…

His idea might help Snufkin or it might not, but he was sure his efforts would be appreciated regardless. But those were really thoughts for the morning. He couldn’t really get started until then, anyways.

Moomin falls asleep with a smile on his face, perfectly content, and tangled up in Snufkin’s arms.

[bountyofbeads]

This expose` is an fascinating look at Joe Biden’s life growing up as a stutterer and the effects this disability had on his life, including in politics. It's long but well worth the read in light of his debate performances being questioned and whether he's up to the challenge of facing off against Trump.

Biden says his father taught him about “shouldering burdens with grace.” Specifically, he told his son, “Never complain. Never explain.”

What Joe Biden Can’t Bring Himself to Say

His verbal stumbles have voters worried about his mental fitness. Maybe they’d be more understanding if they knew he’s still fighting a stutter.

Photography Mark Peckmezian, Story by John Hendrickson

SPECIAL PREVIEW: JAN/FEB 2020 ISSUE

LISTEN TO ARTICLE ON WEBSITE

His eyes fall to the floor when I ask him to describe it. We’ve been tiptoeing toward it for 45 minutes, and so far, every time he seems close, he backs away, or leads us in a new direction. There are competing theories in the press, but Joe Biden has kept mum on the subject. I want to hear him explain it. I ask him to walk me through the night he appeared to lose control of his words onstage.

“I—um—I don’t remember,” Biden says. His voice has that familiar shake, the creak and the croak. “I’d have to see it. I-I-I don’t remember.”

We’re in Biden’s mostly vacant Washington, D.C., campaign office on an overcast Tuesday at the end of the summer. Since entering the Democratic presidential-primary race in April, Biden has largely avoided in-depth interviews. When I first reached out, in late June, his press person was polite but noncommittal: Was an interview really necessary for the story?

Then came the second debate, at the end of July, in Detroit. The first one, a month earlier, had been a disaster for Biden. He was unprepared when Senator Kamala Harris criticized both his past resistance to federally mandated busing and a recent speech in which he’d waxed fondly about collaborating with segregationist senators. Some of his answers that night had been meander­ing and difficult to parse, feeding into the narrative that he wasn’t just prone to verbal slipups—he’s called himself a “gaffe machine”—but that his age was a problem, that he was confused and out of touch.

Detroit was Biden’s chance to regain control of the narrative. And then something else happened. The candidates were talking about health care. At first, Biden sounded strong, confident, presidential: “My plan makes a limit of co-pay to be One. Thousand. Dollars. Because we—”

He stopped. He pinched his eyes closed. He lifted his hands and thrust them forward, as if trying to pull the missing sound from his mouth. “We f-f-f-f-further support—” He opened his eyes. “The uh-uh-uh-uh—” His chin dipped toward his chest. “The-uh, the ability to buy into the Obamacare plan.” Biden also stumbled when trying to say immune system.

Fox News edited these moments into a mini montage. Stifling laughter, the host Steve Hilton narrated: “As the right words struggled to make that perilous journey from Joe Biden’s brain to Joe Biden’s mouth, half the time he just seemed to give up with this somewhat tragic and limp admission of defeat.”

Several days later, Biden’s team got back in touch with me. One of his aides gingerly asked whether I’d noticed the former vice president stutter during the debate. Of course I had—I stutter, far worse than Biden. The aide said he was ready to talk about it. Last night, after Biden stumbled multiple times during the Atlanta debate, the topic became even more relevant.

“So how are you, man?”

Biden is in his usual white button-down and navy suit, a flag pin on the left lapel. Up close, he looks like he’s lost weight since leaving office in 2017. His height is commanding, but, as he approaches his 77th birthday, he doesn’t fill out his suit jacket like he used to.

I stutter as I begin to ask my first question. “I’ve only … told a few people I’m … d-doing this piece. Every time I … describe it, I get … caught on the w-word-uh stuh-tuh-tuh-tutter.”

“So did I,” Biden replies. “It doesn’t”—he interrupts himself—“can’t define who you are.”

Maybe you’ve heard Biden talk about his boyhood stutter. A non-stutterer might not notice when he appears to get caught on words as an adult, because he usually maneuvers out of those moments quickly and expertly. But on other occasions, like that night in Detroit, Biden’s lingering stutter is hard to miss. He stutters—­if slightly—on several sounds as we sit across from each other in his office. Before addressing the debate specifically, I mention what I’ve just heard. “I want to ask you, as, you know, a … stutterer to, uh, to a … stutterer. When you were … talking a couple minutes ago, it, it seemed to … my ear, my eye … did you have … trouble on s? Or on … m?”

Biden looks down. He pivots to the distant past, telling me that the letter s was hard when he was a kid. “But, you know, I haven’t stuttered in so long that it’s hhhhard for me to remember the specific—” He pauses. “What I do remember is the feeling.”

Istarted stuttering at age 4.

I still struggle to say my own name. When I called the gas company recently, the automated voice apologized for not being able to understand me. This happens a lot, so I try to say “representative,” but r’s are tough too. When I reach a human, I’m inevitably asked whether we have a poor connection. Busy bartenders will walk away and serve someone else when I take too long to say the name of a beer. Almost every deli guy chuckles as I fail to enunciate my order, despite the fact that I’ve cut it down to just six words: “Turkey club, white toast, easy mayo.” I used to just point at items on the menu.

My head will shake on a really bad stutter. People have casually asked whether I have Parkinson’s. I curl my toes inside my shoes or tap my foot as a distraction to help me get out of it, a behavior that I’ve repeated so often, it’s become a tic. Sometimes I shuffle a pen between my hands. When I was little, I used to press my palm against my forehead in an effort to force the missing word out of my brain. Back then, my older brother would imitate this motion and the accompanying sound, a dull whine—something between a cow and a sheep. A kid at baseball camp, Michael, referred to me as “Stutter Boy.” He’d snap his fingers and repeat it as if calling a dog. “Stutter Boy! Stutter Boy!” In college, I applied for a job at a coffee shop. I stuttered horribly through the interview, and the owner told me he couldn’t hire me, because he wanted his café to be “a place where customers feel comfortable.”

Stuttering is a neurological disorder that affects roughly 70 million people, about 3 million of whom live in the United States. It has a strong genetic component: Two-thirds of stutterers have a family member who actively stutters or used to. Biden’s uncle on his mother’s side—“Uncle Boo-Boo,” as he was called—stuttered his whole life.

In the most basic sense, a stutter is a repetition, prolongation, or block in producing a sound. It typically presents between the ages of 2 and 4, in up to twice as many boys as girls, who also have a higher recovery rate. During the develop­mental years, some children’s stutter will disappear completely without intervention or with speech therapy. The longer someone stutters, however, the lower the chances of a full recovery—­perhaps due to the decreasing plasticity of the brain. Research suggests that no more than a quarter of people who still stutter at 10 will completely rid themselves of the affliction as adults.

“Mr. Buh-Buh-Buh-Biden, what’s that word?,” a nun asked Joe Biden in front of his seventh-grade classmates.

The cultural perception of stutterers is that they’re fearful, anxious people, or simply dumb, and that stuttering is the result. But it doesn’t work like that. Let’s say you’re in fourth grade and you have to stand up and recite state capitals. You know that Juneau is the capital of Alaska, but you also know that you almost always block on the j sound. You become intensely anxious not because you don’t know the answer, but because you do know the answer, and you know you’re going to stutter on it.

Stuttering can feel like a series of betrayals. Your body betrays you when it refuses to work in concert with your brain to produce smooth speech. Your brain betrays you when it fails to recall the solutions you practiced after school with a speech therapist, allegedly in private, later learning that your mom was on the other side of a mirror, watching in the dark like a detective. If you’re a lucky stutterer, you have friends and family who build you back up, but sometimes your protectors betray you too.

A Catholic nun betrayed Biden when he was in seventh grade. “I think I was No. 5 in alphabetical order,” Biden says. He points over my right shoulder and stares into the middle distance as the movie rolls in his mind. “We’d sit along the radiators by the window.”

The office we’re in is awash in framed memories: Biden and his family, Biden and Barack Obama, Biden in a denim shirt posing for InStyle. The shelf behind the desk features, among other books, Jon Meacham’s The Soul of America. It’s a phrase Biden has adopted for his campaign this time around, his third attempt at the presidency. In almost every speech, Biden warns potential voters that 2020 is not merely an election, but a battle “for the soul of America.” Sometimes he swaps in nation.

But now we’re back in middle school. The students are taking turns reading a book, one by one, up and down the rows. “I could count down how many paragraphs, and I’d memorize it, because I found it easier to memorize than look at the page and read the word. I’d pretend to be reading,” Biden says. “You learned early on who the hell the bullies were,” he tells me later. “You could tell by the look, couldn’t you?”

For most stutterers, reading out loud summons peak dread. A chunk of text that may take a fluent person roughly a minute to read could take a stutterer five or 10 times as long. Four kids away, three kids away. Your shoulders tighten. Two away. The back of your neck catches fire. One away. Then it happens, and the room fills with secondhand embarrassment. Someone breathes a heavy sigh. Someone else laughs. At least one kid mimics your stutter while you’re actively stuttering. You never talk about it. At night, you stare at the ceiling above your bed, reliving it.

“The paragraph I had to read was: ‘Sir Walter Raleigh was a gentleman. He laid his cloak upon the muddy road suh-suh-so the lady wouldn’t soil her shoes when she entered the carriage,’ ” Biden tells me, slightly and unintentionally tripping up on the word so. “And I said, ‘Sir Walter Raleigh was a gentle man who—’ and then the nun said, ‘Mr. Biden, what is that word?’ And it was gentleman that she wanted me to say, not gentle man. And she said, ‘Mr. Buh-Buh-Buh-Biden, what’s that word?’ ”

Biden says he rose from his desk and left the classroom in protest, then walked home. The family story is that his mother, Jean, drove him back to school and confronted the nun with the made-for-TV phrase “You do that again, I’ll knock your bonnet off your head!” I ask Biden what went through his mind as the nun mocked him.

“Anger, rage, humiliation,” he says. His speech becomes staccato. “A feeling of, uh—like I’m sure you’ve experienced—it just drops out of your chest, just, like, you feel … a void.” He lifts his hands up to his face like he did on the debate stage in July, to guide the v sound out of his mouth: void.

By all accounts, Biden was both popular and a strong athlete in high school. He was class president at Archmere Academy, in Claymont, Delaware. His nickname was “Dash”—not a reference to his speed on the football field, but rather another way to mock his stutter. “It was like Morse code—dot dot dot, dash dash dash dash,” Biden says. “Even though by that time I started to overcome it.”

I ask him to expand on the relationship between anger and humiliation, or shame.

“Shame is a big piece of it,” he says, then segues into a story about meeting a stutterer while campaigning.

I bring it back up a little later, this time more directly: “When have you felt shame?”

“Not for a long, long, long time. But especially when I was in grade school and high school. Because that’s the time when everything is, you know, it’s rough. They talk about ‘mean girls’? There’s mean boys, too.”

Bill Bowden had the locker next to Biden’s at Archmere. I called Bowden recently. “It was just kind of a funny thing, you know?” he told me. “Hopefully he wasn’t hurt by it.” Bob Markel, another high-school buddy of Biden’s, went a little further when we spoke: “ ‘H-H-H-H-Hey, J-J-J-J-J-Joe B-B-B-B-Biden’—that’s how he’d be addressed.” Markel said the Archmere guys called him “Stutterhead,” or “Hey, Stut !” for short. He fears that he himself may have made fun of Biden once or twice. “I never remember him being offended. He probably was,” Markel said. “I think one of his coping mechanisms was to not show it.” Bowden and Markel have remained friends with Biden to this day.

Before collecting from customers on his paper route, Biden would preplay conversations in his mind, banking lines—a tactic he still sometimes uses on the campaign trail, he says. “I knew the one guy loved the Phillies. And he’d asked me about them all the time. And I knew another person would ask me about my sister, so I would practice an answer.”

After trying and failing at speech therapy in kinder­garten, Biden waged a personal war on his stutter in his bedroom as a young teen. He’d hold a flashlight to his face in front of his bedroom mirror and recite Yeats and Emerson with attention to rhythm, searching for that elusive control. He still knows the lines by heart: “Meek young men grow up in libraries, believing it their duty to accept the views, which Cicero, which Locke, which Bacon, have given, forgetful that Cicero, Locke, and Bacon were only young men in libraries, when they wrote these books.”

Biden performs the passage for me with total fluency, knowing where and when to pause, knowing how many words he can say before needing a breath. This is what stutterers learn to do: reclaim control of their airflow; think in full phrases, not individual words. I ask Biden what his moment of dread used to be in that essay.

“Well, looking back on it, ‘Meek young men grow up in li-li-libraries,’ ” he begins again. “ ‘Li’—the l.”

“That kind of sound, the l sound, is like the … r sound,” I say.

“Yes.”

“Sometimes I’ve noticed, watching old clips, it looks like you do have a little trouble on the r. It’s your middle initial.”

“Yeah.”

“Like ‘ruh-ruh-ruh-remember,’ ” I say, intentionally stuttering on the r.

“Well, I may. I-I-I-I-I haven’t thought I have. But I-I-I-I don’t doubt there’s probably ways people could pick up that there’s something. But I don’t consciously think of it anymore.”

Biden says he hasn’t felt himself caught in a traditional stutter in several decades. “I mean, I can’t remember a time where I’ve ever worried before a crowd of 80,000 people or 800 people or 80 people—I haven’t had that feeling of dread since, I guess, speech class in college,” he says, referring to an under­graduate public-speaking course at the University of Delaware.

This is when I ask him what happened that night in Detroit.

After saying he doesn’t remember, Biden opines: “I’m everybody’s target; they have to take me down. And so, what I found is—not anymore—I’ve found that it’s difficult to deal with some of the criticism, based on the nature of the person directing the criticism. It’s awful hard to be, to respond the same way in a national debate—especially when you’re, you know, the guy who is characterized as the white-guy-of-­privilege kind of thing—to turn and say to someone who says, ‘I’m not saying you’re a racist, but …’ and know you’re being set up. So I have to admit to you, I found my mind going, What the hell? How do I respond to that? Because I know she’s being completely unfair.”

I eventually realize that he’s describing the moment from the first debate, when Harris criticized his record on race.

“These aren’t debates,” he continues. “These are one-minute assertions. And I don’t think there’s anybody who hasn’t been taking shots at me, which is okay. I’m a big boy, don’t get me wrong.”

Listening back to that part of the conversation after our interview made me feel dizzy. I can only speculate as to why Biden’s campaign agreed to this interview, but I assume the reasoning went something like this: If Biden disclosed to me, a person who stutters, that he himself still actively stutters, perhaps voters would cut him some slack when it comes to verbal misfires, as well as errors that seem more related to memory and cognition. But whenever I asked Biden about what appeared to be his present-day stuttering, the notably verbose candidate became clipped, or said he didn’t remember, or spun off to somewhere new.

I wondered if I reminded Biden of his old self, a ghost from his youth, the stutterer he used to be. He and I are about the same height. We happened to be wearing the exact same outfit that day: navy suit, white shirt, no tie. We both went to all-male prep schools, the sort of place where displaying any weakness is a liability.

As I listened to the recording of our interview, I remembered how I used to respond when people asked me about my stutter. I’d shut down. I’d try to change the subject. I’d almost always look away.

In early september, I got in touch with my high-school speech pathologist, Joseph Donaher, who practices at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. I hadn’t heard Donaher’s voice for almost 15 years. Immediately, I was transported back to the little window­less room in the hospital where we used to meet. Donaher was the first therapist—­really the first person—­who ever leveled with me. I can still see his face, the neutrality in his eyes on the day he looked at me square and said the sentence my friends and parents had avoided saying my entire life: You have a severe stutter.

Donaher and his colleagues try to help their patients open up about the shame and low self-worth that accompany stuttering. Instead of focusing solely on mechanics, or on the ability to communicate, they first build up the desire to communicate at all. They then share techniques such as elongating vowels and lightly approaching hard-consonant clusters, meaning just touching on the first sound in a word like stutter—the st—to keep the mouth and throat from tensing up and interfering with speech. The goal isn’t to be totally fluent but, simply put, to stutter better.

This evolution in treatment has been accompanied by a new movement to destigmatize the disorder, similar to the drive to view autism through a lens of “neuro­diversity” rather than as a pathology. The idea is to accept, even embrace, one’s stutter. There are practical reasons for this: Research shows, according to Donaher, that the simple disclosure “I stutter” benefits both the stutterer and the listener—the former gets to explain what’s happening and ease the awkward tension so the latter isn’t stuck wondering what’s “wrong” with this person. Saying those two words is harder than it seems. “I’m working with people who spend their whole lives and are never able to disclose it,” Donaher told me.

Biden says his father taught him about “shouldering burdens with grace.” Specifically, he told his son, “Never complain. Never explain.”

Eric S. Jackson, an assistant professor of communicative sciences and dis­orders at NYU, told me he believes that Biden’s eye movements—the blinks, the downward glances—are part of his ongoing efforts to manage his stutter. “As kids we figure out: Oh, if I move parts of my body not associated with the speech system, sometimes it helps me get through these blocks faster,” Jackson, a stutterer himself, explained. Jackson credits an intensive program at the American Institute for Stuttering, in Manhattan, with bringing him back from a “rock bottom” period in his mid-20s, when he says his stutter kept him from meeting women or speaking up enough to reach his professional goals. Afterward, Jackson went all in on disclosure: Every day for six months, he stood up during the subway ride to and from work and announced that he was a person who stutters. “I had this new relationship with my stuttering—I was like Hercules,” he told me. At 41, Jackson still stutters, but in conversation he confidently maintains eye contact and appears relaxed. He wishes Biden would be more transparent about his intermittent disfluency. “Running for president is essentially the biggest stage in the world. For him to come out and say ‘I still stutter and it’s fine’ would be an amazing, empowering message.”

Occasionally, Biden has used present-tense verbs when discussing his stutter. “I find myself, when I’m tired, cuh-cuh-­catching myself, like that,” he said during a 2016 American Institute for Stuttering speech. Biden has used the phrase we stutterers at times, but in most public appearances and interviews, Biden talks about how he overcame his speech problem, and how he believes others can too. You can watch videos posted by his campaign in which Biden meets young stutterers and encourages them to follow his lead. They’re sweet clips, even if the underlying message—­beat it or bust—is out of sync with the normalization movement.

Emma Alpern is a 32-year-old copy editor who co-leads the Brooklyn chapter of the National Stuttering Association and co-founded NYC Stutters, which puts on a day-long conference for stuttering de­stigmatization. Alpern told me that she’s on a group text with other stutterers who regularly discuss Biden, and that it’s been “frustrating” to watch the media portray Biden’s speech impediment as a sign of mental decline or dishonesty. “Biden allows that to happen by not naming it for what it is,” she said, though she’s not sure that his presidential candidacy would benefit if he were more forthcoming. “I think he’s dug himself into a hole of not saying that he still stutters for so long that it would strike people as a little weird.”

Biden has presented the same life story for decades. He’s that familiar face—Uncle Joe. He was born 11 months after Pearl Harbor and grew up in the last era of definitive “good guys” and “bad guys.” He’s the dependable guy, the tenacious guy, the aviators-and-crossed-arms guy. That guy doesn’t stutter; that guy used to stutter.

“My dad taught me the value of constancy, effort, and work, and he taught me about shouldering burdens with grace,” Biden writes in the first chapter of his 2007 memoir, Promises to Keep. “He used to quote Benjamin Disraeli: ‘Never complain. Never explain.’ ”

Stephen colbert launches across the Ed Sullivan Theater stage, as if from a pinball spring. It’s early September, and his Late Show taping is about to begin. To warm up, he takes a few questions from the studio audience. Someone asks what he’d want in a potential new president. “Empathy?” Colbert deadpans. “A soul?”

Colbert tapes in Midtown Manhattan on the same stage where the Beatles made their American television debut 55 years ago, when Joe Biden was a mere 22. Biden struts out to a standing ovation and throws up his hands in amazement: For me? A brief “Joe! Joe! Joe!” chant erupts.

At first, Colbert lobs softballs, and Biden touches on the key parts of his 2020 stump speech: Why voters must stand up to the existential threat of Trumpism and how the Charlottesville, Virginia, white-supremacist rally crystallized his decision to run. Then Colbert goes for it.

“In the last few weeks, you’ve confused New Hampshire for Vermont; said

Bobby Kennedy and MLK were assassinated in the late ’70s; assured us, ‘I am not going nuts.’ Follow-up question: Are you going nuts?”

“Look, the reason I came on the Jimmy Kimmel show was because—”

The audience howls. Biden flashes a flirty smile. Colbert adjusts his glasses, sticks his pen in his mouth, and nods in approval. The joke was probably canned, but Biden landed it.

Colbert continues to press him about accuracy issues in his storytelling. The studio audience is silent; I’m watching from the balcony and can hear the theater’s air-conditioning humming overhead.

“I-I-I-I-I don’t get wrong things like, uh, ya know, there is a, we, we should lock kids up in cages at the border. I mean, I don’t—” People applaud before Biden can finish.

When the interview is over, Biden receives a second standing ovation. He peers up toward the rafters, using his hand as a visor against the bright lights. A white spotlight follows him offstage. Several minutes later, he glides through the stage door and out onto West 53rd Street. People call to him from the sidewalk. “Joe! Joe Biden!” He climbs into the back of an idling black SUV, and the doors

clunk close.

I follow Biden for a couple of days while he campaigns in New Hampshire. His town halls have a distinctly Norman Rockwell vibe. One takes place in the middle of the day on the third floor of a former textile mill, another on a stretch of grass as the wind whips off the Piscataqua River. His crowds are predominantly older, filled with people who stand for the Pledge of Allegiance and wait patiently to ask questions. After he speaks, Biden typically walks offstage to Bruce Springsteen’s “We Take Care of Our Own,” then saunters down the rope line for handshakes and hugs and selfies. One voter after another tells me they’re unaware of Biden’s stutter. “Knowing that he has had something like that to deal with and overcame it, as well as other really sad things that have happened—­­it just makes me like him more,” says 70-year-old Grace Payne.

Back in New York, I start to wonder if I’m forcing Biden into a box where he doesn’t belong. My box. Could I be jealous that his present stutter is less obvious than mine? That he can go sentences at a time without a single block or repetition? Even the way I’m writing this piece—­keeping Biden’s stammers, his ums and pauses, on the page—seems hypocritical. Here I am highlighting the glitches in his speech, when the journalistic courtesy, convention even, is to edit them out.

I spend weeks watching Biden more than listening to him, trying to “catch him in the act” of stuttering on camera. There’s one. There’s one. That was a bad one. Also, I start stuttering more.

In September, before the third Democratic debate, in Houston, I called Michael Sheehan, a Washington, D.C.–area communications coach whose company website boasts clients ranging from Nike to the Treasury Department. Sheehan worked with President Bill Clinton while he was in office and began consulting on and off for Biden in 2002, when he was in the Senate. On the day we spoke, he was in Wilmington, Delaware, doing debate prep with Biden.

Sheehan and I traded stories of daily indignities—­­he stutters too. “I remember exactly where the deli was; it was on 71st and First Avenue,” he said with an ache in his voice. He lamented the interventionists, the people who volunteer, “ ‘You know, why don’t you speak more slowly?’ I always want to say ‘Holy shit! Why didn’t I think of that? Thank you!’ ”

Sheehan’s own stutter improved, but didn’t fully go away, when he took up speech and debate in high school. This eventually led him to the theater, which is a common, if surprising, place where some stutterers find that they’re able to speak with relative ease. Taking on a character, another voice, the theory goes, relies on a different neural pathway from the one used in conversation. Many successful actors have battled stutters—Samuel L. Jackson, Bruce Willis, Emily Blunt, James Earl Jones. In 2014, Jones, whose muscular baritone is the bedrock of one of the most quoted lines in film history, told NPR that he doesn’t use the word cured to describe his apparent fluency. “I just work with it,” he said.

At an August town hall, Biden briefly blocked on Obama, before subbing in my boss. The headlines afterward? “Biden Forgets Obama’s Name.”

Sheehan was extremely careful with the language he used to describe Biden’s speech patterns—“I can’t say it’s a stutter”—­though he noted his friend’s habit of abruptly changing directions mid-sentence. “I do hear those little pauses, but I really don’t hear the stuff that you would hear from me or I would hear from you,” he said. A few minutes into our conversation, he choked up while discussing Biden’s tender­ness toward young stutterers. “Sometimes I feel when he goes a little long on a speech, he’s just making up for lost time, you know?”

Sheehan told me about a night when he came home with his wife and saw the answering-­machine light blinking: “Hey, Michael, it’s Joe Biden. I just was watching The King’s Speech with my granddaughter, and I just thought I’d give you a call, because it made me think of you. Goodbye!” He says the message felt like a secret fraternity handshake: “You and I have both been there, and only people in that society know what that is about.”

In Biden’s office, the first time I bring up his current stuttering, he asks me whether I’ve seen The King’s Speech. He speaks almost mystically about the award-winning 2010 film. “When King George VI, when he stood up in 1939, everyone knew he stuttered, and they knew what courage it took for him to stand up at that stadium and try to speak—and it gave them courage … I could feel that. It was that sinking feeling, like—oh my God, I remember how you felt. You feel like, I don’t know … almost like you’re being sucked into a black hole.”

Presidential candidates usually don’t speak about their bleakest moments, certainly not this viscerally. It resembles the way Biden writes in his memoir about the aftermath of the 1972 car accident that killed his first wife and young daughter and critically injured his two sons, Beau and Hunter: “I could not speak, only felt this hollow core grow in my chest, like I was going to be sucked inside a black hole.”

A few weeks later, I ask Jill Biden what she remembers about sitting next to her husband during the movie. “It was one of those moments in a marriage where you just sort of understand without words being spoken,” she says.

As he watched The King’s Speech, Biden accurately guessed that the screenwriter, David Seidler, was a stutterer. “He showed me a copy of a speech they found in an attic that the king had actually used, where he marks his—it’s exactly what I do!” Biden tells me, his voice lifting. “My staff, when I have them put something on a prompter—I wish I had something to show you.”

He pulls out a legal pad and begins drawing diagonal lines a few inches apart, as if diagramming invisible sentences: x words, breath, y words, breath. “Because it’s just the way I have—the, the best way for me to read a, um, a speech. I mean, when I saw The King’s Speech, and the speech—I didn’t know anybody who did that!”

Biden is running for president on a simple message: America is not Trump. I’m not Trump. I’ll lead us out of this. With every new debate, with every new “gaffe,” the media continue to ask whether Biden has the stamina for the job. And with every passing month, his competitors—namely Senator Elizabeth Warren and South Bend, Indiana, Mayor Pete Buttigieg—have gained on him in the polls.

A stutter does not get worse as a person ages, but trying to keep it at bay can take immense physical and mental energy. Biden talks all day to audiences both small and large. In addition to periodically stuttering or blocking on certain sounds, he appears to intentionally not stutter by switching to an alternative word—a technique called “circumlocution”—­which can yield mangled syntax. I’ve been following practically everything he’s said for months now, and sometimes what is quickly characterized as a memory lapse is indeed a stutter. As Eric Jackson, the speech pathologist, pointed out to me, during a town hall in August Biden briefly blocked on Obama, before quickly subbing in my boss. The headlines after the event? “Biden Forgets Obama’s Name.” Other times when Biden fudges a detail or loses his train of thought, it seems unrelated to stuttering, like he’s just making a mistake. The kind of mistake other candidates make too, though less frequently than he does.

During his 2016 address at the American Institute for Stuttering, Biden told the room that he’d turned down an invitation to speak at a dinner organized by the group years earlier. “I was afraid if people knew I stuttered,” he said, “they would have thought something was wrong with me.”

Yet even when sharing these old, hard stories, Biden regularly characterizes stuttering as “the best thing that ever happened” to him. “Stuttering gave me an insight I don’t think I ever would have had into other people’s pain,” he says. I admire his empathy, even if I disagree with his strict adherence to a tidy redemption narrative.

In Biden’s office, as my time is about to run out, I bring up the fact that Trump crudely mocked a disabled New York Times reporter during the 2016 campaign. “So far, he’s called you ‘Sleepy Joe.’ Is ‘St-St-St-Stuttering Joe’ next?”

“I don’t think so,” Biden says, “because if you ask the polls ‘Does Biden stutter? Has he ever stuttered?,’ you’d have 80 to 95 percent of people say no.” If Trump goes there, Biden adds, “it’ll just expose him for what he is.”

I ask Biden something else we’ve been circling: whether he worries that people would pity him if they thought he still stuttered.

He scratches his chin, his fingers trembling slightly. “Well, I guess, um, it’s kind of hard to pity a vice president. It’s kind of hard to pity a senator who’s gotten six zillion awards. It’s kind of hard to pity someone who has had, you know, a decent family. I-I-I-I don’t think if, now, if someone sits and says, ‘Well, you know, the kid, when he was a stutterer, he must have been really basically stupid,’ I-I-I don’t think it’s hard to—I’ve never thought of that. I mean, there’s nobody in the last, I don’t know, 55 years, has ever said anything like that to me.”

He slips back into politician mode, safe mode, Uncle Joe mode: “I hope what they see is: Be mindful of people who are in situations where their difficulties do not define their character, their intellect. Because that’s what I tell stutterers. You can’t let it define you.” He leans across the desk. “And you haven’t.” He’s in my face now. “You can’t let it define you. You’re a really bright guy.”

He’s telling me, in essence, that my stutter doesn’t matter, which is what I want to tell him right back. But here’s the thing: Most of the time, Biden speaks smoothly, and perhaps he sincerely does not believe that he still stutters at all. Or maybe Biden is simply telling me the story he’s told himself for several decades, the one he’s memorized, the one he can comfortably express. I don’t want to hear Biden say “I still stutter” to prove some grand point; I want to hear him say it because doing so as a presidential candidate would mean that stuttering truly doesn’t matter—for him, for me, or for our 10-year-old selves.

Now his aide is knocking, trying to get him out of the room. I push out one more question, asking what he saw reflected in that bedroom mirror as a kid.

He goes off into a different boyhood story about standing against a stone wall and talking with pebbles in his mouth, some oddball way to MacGyver fluency. I do the thing stutterers hate most: I cut him off. “What did that person look like?”

Biden stops. “He looked happy,” he says. “You know, I just think it looked like he’s

in control.”

This article will appear in the January/February 2020 print edition with the headline “Why Won’t He Just Say It?”

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