#if you see me posting about this everywhere yes you do

[toxicanonymity]

Hey Boo,

I've been seeing Joelkemons making the rounds being the best kind of dude to have around when you're crying.

Is Stepdad is having very strong feelings about all of this too? I imagine of Raider (LOML) and NW are being so soft with us, something in stepdad might respond to our hopelessly impotent rage.

I'd love to see how he reacts.

Boy howdy, tho, if I could slip into the brothel and have a big ol' Joel-pile, that shit would fix me all the way.

Thank you so much for everything you do and are.

I hope you're taking care of yourself too.

-- Cupquake <3

black tuesday

JOEL x f!READER | 1000 words

WARNINGS: 18+. Election Night. ANGST. Tears. Fears. This is intended to be a cathartic fic with some comfort but please don't read if it could be traumatic. Allusions to reproductive rights, etc. Reader is angry, esp. at men, takes it out on joel a little. Joel is supportive. Reader dacryphilia, brief smut. STEPDAD AU but you don't need to know it, and the stepcest doesn't come up.

NOTES: Sweet Cupquake, you're welcome and thank you for always being so supportive. Poor stepdad, he's normally the one needing comforting, isn't he? Yes, he has strong feelings about all this. This doesn't fit neatly in the AU timeline just roll with it. My brief post on the election is here. This will most likely be my only fic that overtly acknowledges the u.s. election. DO NOT INTERACT: TRUMP VOTERS, ANTI-CHOICE PEOPLE, MINORS.

You’re sitting on the floor of your apartment watching the news while Joel makes dinner and a huge mess in the kitchen. When the early votes are counted, we’ll see a lot more blue, they said. No, actually. Not really. You turn the volume way down so you can barely hear it. 

“Pasta’s ready,” Joel announces in a weak, sing-song voice. 

You remain on the floor. Your breathing is shallow, and it doesn’t feel real. 

Joel comes into the living room but doesn’t sit down. He stands with his arms crossed. His neck veins are bulging, his biceps are tense, his jaw clenches as he watches the screen. He’s pissed, he’s so angry watching this happen. He’s embarrassed to be a Texan. He thinks about all the women he knows. Embarrassed to be a man. 

He looks back and forth between the tv and you, and he sees your eyes are watery. He brings your glass of water from the kitchen, but you refuse it. He puts it down on the coffee table. Then, he picks up the remote control and turns off the tv. 

“Why’d you do that?” you snap. 

“It’s only makin’ ya sad,” Joel replies. “It’s still early, there’s time.” 

“Sad?? You think I’m sad?” Heat rises to your face. Your chest tightens.  

“Okay,” Joel acknowledges softly. “I can see you’re not just sad.” 

He sits down and tries to put his arm around you but you scoot over to face him. 

“All you men just go around blowing your loads everywhere and we’re the ones who have to deal with it, and you have the nerve to tell us how.” 

“I’d never tell you how to--you know that.”

“--I am so fucking tired of men talking.” 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and sits quietly next to you for a minute. It’s hard knowing there’s nothing he can do or say, but he’s not going to leave you unless you tell him to. 

He clears his throat and asks softly, “Would anything make ya feel better?”

“Only waking up from this nightmare.”

“Yeah,” he acknowledges. 

“I don’t wanna feel better,” you begin to cry. “I want it to not happen….Like, is this real life?” 

None of it feels real. Months ago, people in stupid red hats were carrying around actual sperm cups. The highest-profile rapist in the country called himself the father of fertility, and crowds of people cheered. He said “mass deportation” and people cheered more. And then half the country voted for these sick, twisted buffoons. 

“You want some space?” Joel asks. 

“No,” you protest tearfully.

He hesitantly brushes the back of your neck with his thumb. This time, you let him put his arm around you. 

You whisper, “I can’t believe this is happening.” 

“Sweetheart, it ain’t over. We got time.” 

You shake your head no, ‘cause you can feel it in your gut. 

Joel sits in silence for a moment, and you can’t see it, but he’s tearing up because he can feel you burning and he’s powerless. 

He holds you and strokes your back while you bury your face in his chest. He discreetly checks his new york times app and tries not to react out loud- it’s only getting worse. 

After a few minutes of silence, he whispers your name, and you respond, “mm?”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. 

You look up to see his cheeks wet, his hair messy. Your heart swells with affection. Affection and… gratitude? God, the bar is in hell. But to be fair, you really love him. You’re grateful for the man he is, not the one he isn’t. 

Desire begins to stir in your chest.

Joel presses a kiss onto your forehead, then lifts your chin, and you look at each other. He brushes away a tear from your cheek. With his own cheeks still wet, he swallows, and the emotional bob of his Adam’s apple sends a rush of arousal to your core. You put your hand on the back of his neck and pull him toward you for a kiss. 

Affection and relief floods your body. It’s temporary, of course, but you let yourself have this. You let the nightmare fade into a spicy dream. 

You straddle him and he pulls you close and moans into your mouth. You kiss him desperately and feel him harden under you. He hesitates and mutters, “sorry,” trying to read the room. He pushes your thighs back, trying to put some distance between you and his hard-on. 

“Stop,” you reply, then latch onto his mouth again. He breaks away and says, “Just don’t want ya to feel like I–” 

“Shut up,” you tell him, then scoot yourself closer, your crotch firmly planted on the warm, stiffening shape in his sweatpants. You grind your hips into him. He kisses you back with increased fervor, and moans into your mouth. Kissing passionately, your loins throb warmly together and your hips move in rhythm. 

You reach between the two of you and slide your hand down his sweatpants. You palm his leaking manhood. Pressing it against his tummy, you gently move the skin on his shaft, and  He groans.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and thrusts against your hand. 

You stand up to urgently take off your pj pants. 

His man-guilt is still eating at him. Squeezing his aching hard shaft, he lets out a moan, then weakly offers, “Are you sure you wanna…”

In response, you straddle him, hot and dripping against his bare arousal.  You slide against him, throbbing and ready. Then, as you slide his tip to your entrance, you warn him, “Get it while it’s on the table.” You sink down on him and he shudders. Then he thrusts upward and moans as he bottoms out.  

“My legs’ll be closed for business soon,”  you explain. 

He closes his eyes and breathes deep as your body accommodates his.  “Fair enough,” he answers thoughtfully, then opens his eyes. “Wait. Even if my face is the customer?” 

------

------

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NOTES: I actually wrote three Stepdad things, and chronologically, this is no. 2 of 3. The others aren't posted yet. The first one is a standalone pregnancy scare, nothing about the election (would've been before it). And the second one is a post-election talk about contraception.

My brief post on the election is here.

Thank you for reading. Please remember to take care of yourselves <33

[queermarzipan]

OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD

BEST. SURPRISE. EVER.

BTW

I LOVE YOU ASMI I LOVE YOU SO MUCH

SOOIGJLCFGOOOOO

R o b e r t d e n e i r o

R O B E R T D E N E I R O

i'm dying. i'm actually dying

Russel T. Davies

Russel T. Davies

ily asmi

i'm laughing bc this is incredibly obvious to ME but that is EXACTLY THE SAME RHYTHM so i am in fact delighted that you knew that

Yes this is true. Twelve is the lesbian and thirteen is idk pansexual or something idk. some sort of extremely niche microlabel i feel. not 'lesbian'

YOU WOULD THINK WOULDN'T YOU but no the master just really is that much of an ego-full person. he chose the name. like every time lord gets to choose their name and he called himself the master. & honestly there is also some sort of BDSM thing going on where the master REALLY LIKES the doctor using their name. and they're also both firmly in 'I Can Fix Him' territory about each other. fucking hell

MISSY MY FUCKING BELOVED ISTG I'M SO MAD THAT THE ONLY MASTER ARC THAT HAD HER BE LIKE FIXING HERSELF WAS WHILE SHE WAS A WOMAN AND THEY HAD THAT CLEAR DELINEATION THEY MADE BTW 'THE MASTER' AND 'MISSY' & I'M JUST. I LOVE HER. YOU FUCKING GOT ME. W H Y

the fucking bigeneration i was READY TO CRY & then they gave me the BEST GIFT OF ALL FUCKING TIME WHOVIANS EVERYWHERE CHEERED ISTFG

i also fucking sobbed but that's not the point the point is it fixed me

i love how little catherine knows about doctor who. every interview they do where david and catherine are together and something factual about the lore comes up david turns to catherine like "👀😇" i fucking love it

the QPR is the realest thing ever istFG it's so much stronger than stobin it really is and i'm biased towards stobin bc they're my FIRST PLANTONIC SHIP but omg they knocked it out of the park. the doctor 7 donna. forevermore. in the brains of people who have gone insane

THE FUCKING. KILLS HER. FUCK

HE KILLS HER

TO SAVE HER LIFE

BUT HE STILL KILLS HER

AND HE HAS TO CARRY THAT

FUCKING HELLLLLLLLLLL

this is what the 60th anniversary fixed in me btw. this pain. the cracks r still conveniently there & reopen when i put myself back in time within the canon

why would i do that you ask

obviously

i

must

????

pain

donna

</3.

^see. totally reasonable

the original show had shitty effects and so does the new one and everyone loves it. if u genuinely think the shitty effects of dw are something to overcome u r made aware that u r incorrect. we love our ridiculous procreate ass living bin and obviously plastic mickey. go watch avengers if u want GOOD cgi

this is profoundly accurate & also neutral which is smart bc having not watched the show u would ABSOLUTELY not be able to adequately defend your position to avoid having ppl come up to ubto ""explain" why ur wrong.

that said.

tentoo is the best ending rose tyler could have possibly had it tied in with themes in school reunion & impossible planet & family of blood & also fucking army of ghosts & doomsday & no one can ever change my mind. i fucking love it to fucking pieces u can pry the metacrisis from my cold dead hands

HE'S CALLED TENTOO BC HE'S ALSO TEN IT'S A FUCKING PUN IT'S THE BEST PUN EVER I LOVE IT

NuWho is one word & New Who is two words. Expeditiousness is the friend of all. this is the fandom that uses full-on numbers to refer to versions of a character lke the infamous "you can like 11 better than 10" post lmao u expect us to keep two words we could conpress into one??

THE TARDIS SHOULD ABSOLUTELY IMPLEMENT RIBBONS FOR SEATBELTS IF I EVER GET TO WRITE FOR THE SHOW THAT'S MY FIRST FUCKING SUGGESTION. I'M FUCKING LOVING THAT. also the tardis😍😍🩵💙🩵💙💙🩵💙🩵🩵

he does indeed. bridgerton episode

the ninth doctor is sometimes a butch lesbian and sometimes something unknowable & i think it was the unknowable version that was bobbing his head. he fucking rocks also ur absolutely right he has so little rizz. he can get it

truth. nothing more to say

very very queer. nothing more to say

david tennant and catherine tate had SO MUCH FUN during that episode istg i love them so much

the sexuest person is indeed a head. apparently he was supposed to be in a certain story arc & he'd have his head chopped off and that's why he's a head but they couldn't get him. so now we just simply have to assume that he got into a beheading predicament at some point

the Meep's pronoun is the definite article. easy mistake to make. the Meep is always "the Meep". friend shaped because evil subterfuge :,[

.....uh........ idk asmi idk lmao

WAIT OH MY GOD IT'S CASSANDRA YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT CASSANDRA I'M GOING TO EXPLODE THIS IS SO FUCKING FUNNYYYYYY

*strolls into tumblr and falls on my face pretending I haven't been missing for like a month I was out getting the milk hello maggots*

Doctor Who But I've Never Watched It 2.0

For those of you feeling deja vu YES I HAVE MADE POSTS ON DOCTOR WHO BEFORE OKAY but back then I was a young uneducated lad, just a fresh blossom unfucked by tumblr. Now I am surrounded by you lot and by god do y'all love Doctor Who. And I am Educated. My DW virginity is deflowered. All that.

SO HERE WE GO, EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS SHOW I'VE NEVER WATCHED:

The show started in 1963, and then was rebooted in 2005 and the showrunner was... Robert de Neiro? Idk all I know is he gives Pedro Pascal vibes. Like his name. His name is Robert.

There have been 15 Doctors so far. One is a lesbian and it is not Jodie Whittaker, it is actually the 12th doctor.

There's someone called the Master. I don't know what that means, or if it's some kind of BDSM thing, but he has intense sexual tension with the Doctor.

He's also emo and has bleached hair and is kinda babygirl. And is called Missy.

The Doctors all have intense trauma and the 15th Doctor kind of girlbossed it by leaving David Tennant intact when they binary-fissioned.

Donna is a person played by Catherine... Tate? Not Hepburn. And she knows less about Doctor Who than I do. And Donna is in a QPR with the David Doctors (there are two of them).

David Doctor loves Donna very much. And then he kills her. But doesn't kill her. And then they have dinner together with her husband and kid.

The original show had shitty effects. The new show does too, and everyone is happy about this.

Rose is someone the David Doctor is in love with and then she ends up with a human AU of him and he leaves and the fans are very divided and passionate about this.

The human AU is called Tentoo because y'all hate using W's. What the fuck is Tentoo. What is Nuwho. Why isn't it New and Two. Help me.

THERE IS SOMETHING CALLED THE TARDIS, IT IS BIGGER ON THE INSIDE, I HAVE HAD WEIRD DREAMS WHERE IT WAS A FUCKING AUTO-RICKSHAW WITH RIBBONS FOR SEATBELTS, AND IT IS BLUE AND NOT YELLOW BUT IT WAS YELLOW IN MY DREAM. Because of a Drarry fanfic that I misread.

The 15th doctor dances homoerotically with someone during the French Revolution.

The 9th doctor kinda vibes with like his head jiggling idk I've only seen one gif of him.

The 13th doctor keeps forgetting she's in a woman's body.

It is all very gay.

David Tennant's arms are too long.

The sexiest person is a head.

The Meep's pronouns are Meep. Meep is not friend. IF NOT FRIEND THEN WHY FRIEND SHAPED??????

A buttcheek skin talks or something yeah this is all I got.

have at it y'all @robinprinceofchaos @multidimensional-trashcan @wispedvellichor @queermarzipan thanks for the second hand brainrot

*sneaks away under the cover of night* i was never here

[nothots-headempty]

Sunrise and Hangovers

Charles Xavier × reader

Summary: you're tipsy and in love. Charles is just... conflicted. Can you ever get in sync with the young professor that you can't get off your mind?

Word count: 3k+

Warnings: so much angst, fluffy, alcohol mentions, some kiss-kiss

Author's note: I love this man so much. Also tell me what you guys thing. I'm back to writing after so long, the self doubt is going crazy crazy <3 posted this after 3 days of over thinking it wow

Also this fic is First Class era based but but I just loved this gif so much I had to indulge myself T_T

When the dark door to his study lands smack against your face, you finally open your eyes clearly and take in where you're stood. Your tequilla-addled brain loved working over time, guiding your feet with absolutely no abandon to the front of Charles's sanctum.

There's a glass still in your hand and your eyes seem to attract it over to you, tongue taking a couple of tries before the straw is in your mouth and the pungent fluid flows down your throat. Liquid courage or not, you were about to knock.

Your fingers stretch out to the wood before you, the crease in your brow deepening when the door swings open without any action from your person. You're still looking at your fist, confused, suspicious of finding a new mutant ability to unlock doors without touching them. And then there's him, arms crossed across his chest, his gaze following you, evidently amused.

"Did I just do that?", you mumble, your confusion dissolving into absolute chaos when you see him properly. His hair is slightly tousled like he had just got out of bed, his sweater vest turned a little sideways, a little out of sorts. His face still wears that same grin, the same sparkle of his eyes. The same Charles you had come to love with every passing day.

"Create enough sub-concious noise to wake me up, you mean? Yes, that was definitely you." He pouts, playful and you can't help but take a step toward him. "Are you always calling my name when you're drunk or is this revenge for all the hours of training?" His hands slide into his pockets, a lazy yawn on his lips as he leans against the doorframe. You know his eyes haven't left you since he walked out, and instead of the usual shyness, right now you feel something warm and fuzzy inside you.

Maybe it's the haze everywhere around you, a muddle to your step, the coursing adrenaline through your veins and yet in the midst of it all, your affection for him constricts in your chest, tighter than ever.

His eyebrow raises, almost comically at your silence, the seriousness in his gaze juxtaposed to the ease of his posture.

"Sorry for waking you." You're not sorry. Not even a little. Not when this is the first time you've seen him like this. His guard down. His voice a low murmur, doused in sleep. You take another step towards him but this time he takes a step back. The door opens wider and you realise he's inviting you in.

To his study.

Your eyes snap back to his. It's one of those moments where you know even pinching yourself won't make you believe it's real. The shock shows on your face, you're aware and he tilts his head in response, a challenge to pose the question fighting it's way to your tongue. You don't. Instead, you step closer still.

His study feels like a distant reality anyway, forgotten, ignored, your body swaying towards the warmth emanating from him. It threatens to shatter you, that feeling of being so close. Of wanting to touch him. The material of his vest against your fingers, the collar of his shirt against your neck, his cheek against your cheek. His tongue in your mouth.

You know you shouldn't, you know it's stupid. You know he's your professor and he'll never feel the way you do. And he'd never look you in the eye again. And you'd never get to be on his arm at a party. Or by his side during one of his lectures.

But right now. In the low burn of his table lamp, your fingers can't help but reach forward, brush lightly against his jaw. His eyes follow everything, from the minute you move, right to the moment of electric contact, skin to skin. You feel him tense up. His gaze solidifies, sets on you.

You go on still, running a finger along his temple, caress his cheek and then, his eyes fall shut. A soft sigh gets caught somewhere in his throat but he shows no effort to make anything of it. His face leans into your hand, brushing back against your thumb as you glide it along the apple of his cheek.

He whispers your name, the syllables warped by the interruption of your fingers on his lips, tracing their outline, memorizing it. You might forget the night, the way you landed up here, everything you said. But the feel of his lips, his nose, his jaw, all of him. It was etched too deep to be lost in your memories.

"Charles.", you mumble. You don't know why you say it. His name feels like a poem on your tongue, the words you intend to say all swallowed up in that single utterance. Your slow approach now finds you inches from his face, your chests nearly touching, your breaths ragged, loud.

Up close, you can see his pupils are dilated, blown wide, his mouth hanging open halfway since your thumb ran along its edge. There's a hesitation in his gaze, though, and before it can translate to speech, you push yourself up on your toes, lips meeting his with a soft moan you can't hold back.

His response is almost immediate, his arms wrapping around your waist, head leaning in farther so he can give you what you want. You gasp into his mouth, his tongue swiping at yours, your fingers instinctively finding home in the soft, lush locks of hair at his neck.

He's the first to pull away, a little too soon for your liking, disengaging your mouths so he can rest his forehead against yours. The smile on his lips pushes against your cheek and you can't help but smile back.

The alcohol did well at holding back the usual questions. The "what now?", the "does he really like me?" All the bullshit that you'd let yourself think about tomorrow morning.

For now you can feel his fingers pressed into your back, the warmth of his breath brushing your skin, the gentle caress of his nose against yours as he moves back to look at you. Right now, this is all you needed.

"What was that for?" He sounds stern. Much like the professor you were used to being around. But his hands are still clasped behind you and his smile is radiant.

"That was for all the weeks I've thought about doing this before. And then not done it anyway.", you smile. "And this is because I want to do it again." You lean back in to quench the need to have his lips on yours again. But this time he leans away. The disappointment, the dread are instant, spurting up in the back of your mind.

But his fingers reach up to brush your frown from your face. He takes a step away, a hand offered to you which you confusedly take in yours.

"You just sound like you're really, really drunk, love." He shakes his head, laughing to himself as he leads you out of the study to the room next door. The chill in the air is grounding, and you wonder if it's just his warmth you already miss.

"And drunk is not the best mood to be doing any of this in.", he continues, gesturing vaguely to the air between you and him. Your heart is sinking still, inspite of his words and so you wordlessly follow him to the bed before you, seating yourself on the edge.

He kneels between your legs, easing your heels slowly off your feet. You feel the gentle brush of his palm as he runs his hand along your calf, a rush of goosebumps blooming on your skin. He's still only millimeters away from you, close enough to touch lips and yet so much more distant than he was just minutes ago.

"Don't want you feeling stupid after sunrise.", he smirks. His eyes find yours again, and there's a little underlying drift of restraint, of light pessimism that you catch for the first time.

"I'm not sure the sunrise would change anything." Your whisper is almost too low to be audible. And yet you know he's heard it. He sighs heavily, sitting back on his heels.

"I'm sure the hangover would."

His hand finds a stray lock of hair on your face, pushing it behind your ear and then staying right there with it. His forehead leans against yours again, his brows scrunched together like he's fighting something inside himself.

He pushes infinitesimally closer, his nose brushes your cheek and your breath hitches. Your fingers dig into the mattress, your nerves all charged up as you remind yourself this might just be a dream. Might be one of those wisps of the night where he's yours and you're his and there's not an inch of space between you two.

His fingers slide over the back of your neck, tugging at the hair a little, making you moan softly in the back of your throat. "Okay, just this once.", he mumbles, and before his words can click, his lips are on yours. Warm, insistent, almost desperate, his mouth moves languidly against yours in a way that has you melting in his arms. He runs his tongue along your lip, raising himself off his heels so he can press your torsos together, your chests rising and falling in sync.

The heat of his body, the smell of soap and salt on his skin, the light taste of tea on his tongue, everything about him swallows you whole and soon you're drowning, drowning into the vortex that is this man.

Your hands snap into action moments later, pulling him closer by the collar of his shirt, your mouth opening under his to let his tongue in. He moans when you pull the hair at his neck, a little harder than you intended, and then he's shifting away again, like he's shot back to reality.

He blinks and then locks his gaze to yours, watching. You stay right there for a long, unending moment, your lip caught in your teeth, his eyes flitting across your face as he catches his breath. And the moment is shattered, fallen in pieces around you.

He leans back on his feet, gently pulling his hands out of yours, the whiplash of this sudden change leaving you stranded. Lost.

His brow creases again, only to splay out into a simple smile in seconds but it doesn't reach his eyes this time. He's reserved now. On guard.

With a short clearing of his throat, he picks your heels off the floor next to him, transferring them to the foot of the bed. "Get some sleep, love.", he says, his words more advisory than affectionate.

You look at the bed, it's empty face staring back at you as cold as the chill settling within your chest. "There's place for two here.", you offer lamely.

But he's already at the door, one hand on the knob. He turns back one last time, something pained in his eyes. "No, I'll have to get back to that thesis.", he smiles. "But you get some rest and we'll talk tomorrow."

He closes his eyes, exhaling forcefully before excusing himself and with a click the door shuts, leaving you alone.

And your heart sinks again.

________

The morning light casts shadows on the walls, the dance of leaves and curtain fabric mesmerizing against the cream of the wallpaper. The first thing you notice when you open your eyes though, is the pressing ache in your temple.

You squeeze your eyes shut and the drinking, the victory party, Raven pouring shots down your throat - it all comes back like a zap.

You groan, trying very, very slowly to shift upright in bed but that course of movement is impeded by an iron clasp around your waist.

Your attention falls to the man asleep next to you, his expression serene as soft breaths whistle out of his lips.

And then you freeze. The rest of the night comes crashing back, the reality of it all settling in like an uncomfortable feeling in your gut. You turn back to look at him, the morning sunshine lighting his face up, ethereal. Your chest hurts a little more, already.

You hold his hand in yours, trying your best to move it off from your waist but his grasp only becomes tighter. He stirs against you, pulling you closer, a soft "hmm" hummed in disapproval. You groan in frustration, the feeling of him too welcoming but the coldness of last night left like a bad taste in your mouth. You press your fingers into your eyes but it does nothing to the growing throb in your forehead.

"Headache?", he mumbles groggily, shooting up onto his elbow to fumble around in his bedside drawer. Before you can even form the words, the pills are out in his hand, a bottle of water in the other.

You take them quietly, downing the meds with silent relief while he leans back into bed. You lie down again not sure what to do with the unresolved moments you've shared a few hours ago. But you decide to let him take the lead. You suppress the headache. And wait.

"Before you ask, I only came here to take a nap.", his hands shoot up in defense as if the sheer idea of waking up next to him must sound like a night mare. You huff, waiting for him to address the obvious.

"We did kiss.", he mumbles. You turn on your side, wanting to take in the slight blush on his cheeks, the stutter in his words as if even thinking about it took him back to your lips on his. "And I'm sorry I didn't stop it. I know you were drunk out of your mind and I should have been the one t-"

"Charles.", you interrupt, your brow furrowed in confusion. But he goes on anyway, the words tumbling out of his mouth like he can't stop them now

"No, because I'm your professor and I shouldn't ever take advantage of you like that-"

"Charles-"

"I hope you can forgive me. It was stupid, stupid, really stupid on my part but maybe I just thought I could kiss you for just one second and I-"

"Charles!", you finally get his attention, his eyes wide, his mouth still parted as if the syllables had evaporated on his tongue the moment he heard your tone.

"Breathe." You're unable to keep the smile from your lips, your fingers threading through the small locks hanging on his neck as he turns to face you as well.

"Yes. Uh, yes. I'm breathing.", he exhales, something resembling a laugh. "But I do mean it. I'm sorry."

"I'm not.", you murmur, your cheeks painted with a crimson similar to his. You wheedle yourself a little closer, breathing the same air in the ever closing gap between your bodies. The doubt, the apprehension is all evident in the look he gives you, eyes searching for the humor in your words. Searching for that sliver of honesty he hoped to find.

"You're... You're not?" His fingers brush the inside of your wrist, holding your hand to his face.

"I like you, Charles. And not in a high-school-crush-on-the-hot-professor way." Your eyes find his again and you realise he's leaning towards you as well. His eyes are on your lips, your heart thudding as his tongue darts out to swipe against his lower lip.

He drags his gaze slowly back to yours and you see that darkness in his eyes, the focus, the raw intensity. Your breath hitches but you force yourself to go on.

"I like you because you're smart. And you're kind. You're selfless. And you make us all feel special without even trying. You made me want to be a part of this cruel, idiotic world, Charles."

You bite your lip in the silence that follows, the urgency of the confession dissipating, not sure how to stop the dying embarrassment about to take your over.

He let's his thumb brush over your chin then, pulling you closer. There's that grin of his again, the cheeky school boy grin that makes you want to kiss his mouth. "So I am the hot professor, huh?", he smirks half way through his words, his breath hot against your lips.

You roll your eyes, hands curling into his shirt collar to pull him flush against you. "Kiss me and we'll find out if that's true."

His lips are on yours before you can finish your line, his smile wide against your own. He's confident now, probing, his tongue sliding against yours like he's known the way these moments would play out, known the way he wanted to make you feel. Known what he wanted if you ever let him in.

His hands slide down your body, pressing you closer with the small of your back, the laughs and grins melting down into soft moans. You run a hand through his hair, the other twisting itself tighter into his vest.

He's breathless when he pulls away, his chest heaving against your own, the sunlight bathing him, making him look annoyingly prettier than always. He runs a finger down your forehead, tapping your nose lightly as he leans in for another peck.

"That hot enough for you, my love?", he murmurs against your lips, your heart still thudding at the endearment, his tongue darting out to run against your mouth.

"No, I think I'm gonna need another try. Just to make sure, you know." You brush your nose against his. He smiles again and it warms your heart to know you were even slightly the cause of his happiness.

"I did always appreciate you attention to detail, love."

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Dan Pfeiffer at The Message Box:

Poring through the aftermath of a brutal defeat, Democrats are now in their worst position in at least 20 years. Republicans have the White House and the Senate and an excellent chance to capture the House. Trump is only the second Republican since 1988 to win the popular vote, and he made huge gains across the country, building a multi-racial working-class coalition.

For many of you, I imagine this is painful to read. Trust me. It is even more painful to write. Most of my career has been spent within the machinery of the Democratic Party. I worked in the White House and Senate leadership. I worked for Democratic governors and other party organizations. It pains me to see the party in this state of disfavor only eight years after Barack Obama left the White House. The coalition that Obama built has crumbled. There are millions of reasons why we are in this position — COVID, inflation, an unpopular President, several political miscalculations, and a failure to adapt to a changed media environment. Ultimately, I am less interested in how we got into this mess than in how we get out of it.

The press continues to second-guess and Monday-morning quarterback various tactical decisions of the Harris campaign. I am also not particularly interested in that debate. Two things can be true at the same time. Kamala Harris ran a great campaign in a brutal political environment under an impossible timeline, and Democrats just got their ass kicked by a failed President and convicted criminal who could have been sentenced to jail if he lost the election. Where Democrats go from here is a conversation that will be an ongoing part of this newsletter in the months to come. There is no singular or simple answer, and many strawman arguments are being offered up on Twitter and cable. The solution is more complex than being more left or centrist or less woke. I don’t have the answers. Like the rest of you, I am still processing what happened on Tuesday. As part of my personal therapy, I wanted to do a bit of brain dump on the road ahead for Democrats as we confront another four years of Trump.

1. Recognize the Scale of the Problem

On one level, Trump’s win isn’t that big. His popular vote margin will end up being lower than Hillary Clinton’s when she lost the Presidency. This was far from a landslide. It looks nothing like Reagan’s victories in 1980 and 1984 or Obama’s win in 2008. But we shouldn’t sugarcoat the size and scope of Trump’s victory. Trump improved on his 2020 performance nearly everywhere in the country and with every type of voter. There was a six-point shift to the right in the country from 2020. Trump did 10 points better in Democratic strongholds like New York, New Jersey, and Rhode Island. He gained ground with men, women, Latinos, Black voters, and voters under 30. If the GOP can maintain that coalition post-Trump, Democrats will have no shot at the White House or the Senate for the foreseeable future. We are in a deep hole, and because of that, it is essential that we contemplate radical solutions about how we communicate, campaign, and govern. Every option should be on the table and every prior should be questioned. Yes, it was a brutal political environment, but this failure was a long time in the making.

2. Understand Why We Keep Losing on the Economy

Post-COVID inflation is the biggest factor in this election. It’s why incumbent parties all over the world have been getting slaughtered in election after election. It’s almost impossible to win an election when, according to the exit polls, 68% of voters rate the economy negatively, 75% say inflation caused them harm, and only 24% of voters say their financial situation is better off than four years ago. But if Democrats just blame inflation for voter distrust on the economy, we will be whistling past the graveyard. Democrats have lost economically-focused voters in every election since 2012. Even in the 2018 and 2022 midterms, which saw huge Democratic gains, we lost the voters who said the economy was their top issue by an average of 36 points!

President Biden passed a bunch of very consequential and popular policies. Yet, his ratings on the economy worsened over time. While I think we should revisit our policy agenda to look for new, bolder ideas that better speak to people’s concerns, this is largely not a policy problem. It’s a brand problem. When you do a blind taste test, our policies are more popular. This is why ballot initiatives like raising the minimum wage and allowing collective bargaining often pass in very Red states where Democrats have no chance of winning elected office. On economic issues, Democrats have a cultural problem; regardless of our policies, voters in the toughest economic situations simply don’t think Democrats care about them, and they haven’t since Barack Obama left office. Republicans have done an excellent job — with some inadvertent help from Democrats — branding our party as the party of elites even though the GOP standard bearer is a wannabe billionaire who offers tax cuts to other billionaires in exchange for campaign contributions. There is little question that we would benefit from more full-throated populism.

3. Close the Communications Chasm

Democrats are losing the information war. Trump and the Republicans are relentlessly communicating their narrative to a wide swath of the electorate, while Democrats are mostly still playing by an old set of rules. The Right is dominating the information space. In the battleground states where Democrats could spend more than a billion dollars communicating to voters on TV and digital platforms, Trump gained three points over his 2020 performance. In the rest of the country, which saw no paid Democratic messaging, Trump gained six points. This means that Democrats got absolutely battered in earned and social media. An average American who just turned on their TV or unlocked their phone or tablet was getting much more pro-Trump and anti-Democratic messaging. This situation is not unique to the Harris campaign. It’s been a problem for Democrats for more than a decade. Democrats cannot reach the wide swath of voters who don’t actively consume political news. According to polling from Data for Progress, here’s the statistics showing how people voted based on the amount they paid attention to political news:

a great deal: Harris +8

a lot: Harris +5

a moderate amount: Trump +1

a little: Trump +8 -

none at all: Trump +15

If you read the New York Times or watch CNN, Democrats know how to reach you. The problem is that we already have those voters. It's very clear that most of Democratic communications is a circular conversation with the people who already agree with us on everything. The rest of the electorate can’t hear us. They are getting no countervailing information to counter the Right Wing caricature of Democrats. Because of Fox News and other Right Wing outlets, Republicans have long had an asymmetric media advantage. However, in recent years, Right Wing messaging has come to dominate non-political online spaces centered on topics like comedy, gaming, gambling, and wellness.

Most Democrats continued running the same communications playbook for the entire Trump era despite massive changes in the media ecosystem. We haven’t incubated our progressive political media enough nor have we been willing to go into the non-political spaces where the most critical segment of voters are getting their info.

Dan Pfeiffer has yet another home run column on how the Democrats can roar back from their shock 2024 losses.

[jadeofblades]

SIGMA MOMENT‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

[rhymeswithumbrella]

you know what really pisses me off? so many people acting like he is the worst person out there and no one will miss him. A LOT of people are grieving now and missing him including people that these people supposedly follow and care about. liam was not the supervillain people wanted him to be. he was messed up and did messed up things likely because of what happened to him. this conversation deserves so much more nuance than people are giving it. and maybe it’s too early to have this conversation now but it’s helping me process and grieve so i’m really writing this for me. people are complex and doing bad things doesn’t make you a bad person or someone worthy of death without being given the chance to make things right. and another thing, it is SO hypocritical to make fun of him and look down on him like he’s the ultimate Bad Guy meanwhile i bet every single person you have ever admired in the spotlight has likely also done bad things or at least things you wouldn’t be proud of. fame is an illness and it can cause people to harm others because they were hurt themselves. human beings are a culmination of everything that they’ve been through and everything they’ve done. he is not only the bad things he’s done and it’s okay and normal to grieve him as a whole person, because he was one.

[threefuckencrowsinaleatherjacket]

Every day we get closer to the last book in the Vicious trilogy and I swear that keeps me fucking alive

[toytulini]

I think making sweeping generalizations of specific traits being considered "ugly" is not great the same way i think its rude and unnecessary to call others ugly, i also think its worthwhile to acknowledge that certain traits ARE considered "Ugly" due to societal beauty standards, that doesn't make them ACTUALLY ugly, bc beauty is subjective anyway, and can be found Anywhere, and even someone who seems to tick every single box of societal beauty Ideals will almost certainly have at least one trait or feature about their appearance that they are insecure about or feel is "ugly", bc even within the constraints of conventional attractiveness theres subjectivity

also this fish was so fucking Ugly and i adored it so much. i miss him.

he was also gorgeous.

[orcelito]

OK so I have an inkling of an idea for a trigun ficlet. A one-shot, really. Not really any plot, but I just have the urge to write my own interpretation of Weird Plant Shit. Like for how much ppl tag this stuff as xeno, most of it's honestly pretty tame. Which kinda makes sense, considering a lot of this is being based off of the plants in stampede, which While uncanny are not NEARLY the amount of inherent horror of the plants in the manga. There's some FREAKY shit going on there. So like. You know. What if I took more inspiration from That for Vash's freaky shit?

[meownotgood]

hey guys so instead of sleeping I have been doing. this.

[milo-is-rambling]

Sometimes this -> :)))) is just not strong enough for what I mean

[acourtofquestions]

No. No, it couldn't have been a dream The escape, Rowan, the ship to Terrasen—

A dream. An illusion. Her escape from him, from Maeve, had been another illusion.

Had she said it? Had she said where the Keys were hidden?

Then a cool, cultured voice purred, "All that training, and this is what becomes of you?" Not real. Arobynn, standing on the other side of the altar, was not real.

"Even Sam held out better than this."

Fenrys snarled.

You could get out of these chains, if you really wanted," Arobynn said, frowning with distaste. "If you really tried."

No, she couldn't, and everything had been a dream, a lie.

"You let yourself remain captive. Because the moment you are free..." Arobynn chuckled. "Then you must offer yourself up, a lamb to slaughter."

Only hearing the King of the Assassins, unseen and unnoted beside her.

"Deep down, you're hoping you'll be here long enough that the young King of Adarlan will pay the price. Deep down, you know you're hiding here, waiting for him to clear the path." Arobynn leaned against the side of the altar, cleaning his nails with a dagger. "Deep down, you know it's not really fair, that those gods picked you. That Elena picked you instead of him. She bought you time to live, yes, but you were still chosen to pay the price. Her price And the gods'?"

Arobynn ran a long-fingered hand down the side of her face. "Do you see what I tried to spare you from all these years? What you might have avoided had you remained Celaena, remained with me?" He smiled. "Do you see, Aelin?"

She could not answer. Had no voice. Cairn hit bone, and—

Aelin lunged upward, hands grasping for her thigh. No chains weighed her. No mask smothered her. No dagger had been twisted into her body. Breathing hard, the scent of musty sheets clinging to her nose, the sounds of her screaming replaced by the drowsy chirping of birds, Aelin scrubbed at her face.

The prince who'd fallen asleep beside her was already running a hand down her back in silent, soothing strokes.

A dream. Just a dream.

She twisted, setting her feet to the threadbare carpet on the uneven wood floor.

"Dawn isn't for another hour," Rowan said.

Yet Aelin reached for her shirt. "I'll get warmed up, then." Maybe run, as she had not been able to do in weeks and weeks.

Rowan sat up, missing nothing. "Training can wait, Aelin." They'd been doing it for weeks now, as thorough and grueling as it had been at Mistward.

She shoved her legs into her pants, then buckled on her sword belt.

"No, it can't."

A gathering storm to the north had forced their ship to find harbor last night—and after weeks at sea, none of them had hesitated to spend a few hours on land. To learn what in hell had happened while they'd been gone.

The answer: war.

Everywhere, war raged. But where the fighting occurred, the aging innkeeper didn't know. Boats didn't stop at the port anymore— and the great warships just sailed past. Whether they were enemy or friendly, he also didn't know.

Aelin scowled. "What." It wasn't so much of a question as demand.

His gaze was unfaltering. As it had been when she'd returned from her run through the misty fields beyond the inn and found him leaning against the apple tree. "That's enough for today."

"We've hardly started." She lifted her blade.

Rowan kept his own lowered. "You barely slept last night."

Aelin tensed. "Bad dreams." An understatement. She lifted her chin and threw him a grin. "Perhaps I'm starting to wear you down a bit."

His canines gleamed. "You need to eat."

"I need to train."

She couldn't stop it-that need to do something. To be in motion.

No matter how many times she swung her blade, she could feel them. The shackles. And whenever she paused to rest, she could feel it, too—her magic. Waiting.

Indeed, it seemed to open an eye and yawn.

She clenched her jaw, and attacked again Rowan met each blow, and she knew her maneuvers were descending into sloppiness.

Knew he let her continue rather than seizing the many openings to end it.

She couldn't stop. War raged around them People were dying. And she had been locked in that damned box, had been taken apart again and again, unable to do anything.

Rowan struck, so fast she couldn't track it. But it was the foot he slid before her own that doomed her, sending her careening into the dirt.

"I win," he panted. "Let's eat."

Aelin glared up at him. "Another round."

Rowan just sheathed his sword. "After breakfast."

She growled. He growled right back.

"Don't be stupid," he said. "You'll lose all that muscle if you don't feed your body. So eat. And if you still want to train afterward, I'll train with you." He offered her a tattooed hand.

But Aelin said, "People are dying. In Terrasen. In-everywhere. People are dying, Rowan."

"Your eating breakfast isn't going to change that." Her lips curled in a snarl, but he cut her off. "I know people are dying. We are going to help them. But you need to have some strength left, or you won't be able to."

Truth. Her mate spoke truth. And yet she could see them, hear them. Those dying, frightened people. Whose screams so often sounded like her own.

Rowan wriggled his fingers in silent reminder. Shall we?

Aelin scowled and took his hand, letting him haul her to her feet. So pushy.

Rowan slid an arm around her shoulders. That's the most polite thing you've ever said about me.

Elide's eyes widened. Widened further as he opened his mouth, and took a bite. His swallow was audible. His cringe barely contained. Elide reined in her smile at the pure misery that entered the Lion's tawny stare. Aelin and Rowan had been finishing up a similar battle when she'd entered the taproom minutes ago, the queen wishing her luck before striding back into the courtyard.

Elide hadn't seen her sit still for longer than it took to eat a meal. Or during the hours when she'd instructed them in Wyrdmarks, after Rowan had requested she teach them.

It had gotten her out of the chains, the prince had explained. And if the ilken were resistant to their magic, then learning the ancient marks would come in handy with all they faced ahead. The battles both physical and magic.

Gavriel met her stare, and Elide again restrained her laugh.

She felt, rather than saw, Lorcan enter. The innkeeper instantly found somewhere else to be. The man hadn't been surprised to see five Fae enter his inn last night, so his vanishing whenever Lorcan appeared was certainly due to the glower the male had perfected.

Indeed, Lorcan took one look at Elide and Gavriel and left the dining room.

They'd barely spoken these weeks. Elide hadn't known what to even say. A member of this court. Her court. Forever.

He and Aelin certainly hadn't warmed toward each other. No, only Rowan and Gavriel really spoke to him. Fenrys, despite his promise to Aelin not to fight with Lorcan, ignored him most of the time. And Elide ... She'd made herself scarce often enough that Lorcan hadn't bothered to approach her.

Good. It was good. Even if she sometimes found herself opening her mouth to speak to him. Watching him as he listened to Aelin's lessons on the Wyrdmarks. Or while he trained with the queen, the rare moments when the two of them weren't at each other's throats.

Aelin had been returned to them. Was recovering as best she could.

Elide didn't taste her next bite of porridge. Gavriel, thankfully, said nothing. And Anneith didn't speak, either. Not a whisper of guidance. It was better that way. To listen to herself. Better that Lorcan kept his distance, too.

Whether the others knew what propelled her, they hadn't said a word. Aelin sheathed Goldryn and loosed a long breath. Deep down, her power grumbled. She flexed her fingers. Maeve's cold, pale face flashed before her eyes. Her magic went silent.

Fenrys sat in wolf form at the edge of the nearest field, staring out across the expanse.

Precisely where he'd been before dawn.

She let him hear her steps, his ears twitching. He shifted as she approached, and leaned against the half-rotted fence surrounding the field.

"Who'd you piss off to get the graveyard shift?" Aelin asked, wiping the sweat from her brow.

Fenrys snorted and ran a hand through his hair. "Would you believe I volunteered for it?" She arched a brow. He shrugged, watching the field again, the mists still clinging to its farthest reaches. "I don't sleep well these days." He cut her a sidelong glance. "I don't suppose I'm the only one."

She picked at the blister on her right hand, hissing. "We could start a secret society-for people who don't sleep well."

"As long as Lorcan isn't invited, I'm in."

Aelin huffed a laugh. "Let it go."

His face turned stony. "I said I would."

"You clearly haven't."

"I'll let it go when you stop running yourself ragged at dawn."

"I'm not running myself ragged. Rowan is overseeing it."

"Rowan is the only reason you're not limping everywhere."

Truth. Aelin curled her aching hands into fists and slid them into her pockets. Fenrys said nothing didn't ask why she didn't warm her fingers. Or the air around them. He just turned to her and blinked three times. Are you all right?

A gull's cry pierced the gray world, and Aelin blinked back twice. No. It was as much as she'd admit. She blinked again, thrice now. Are you all right?

Two blinks from him, too. No,

They were not alright.

They might never be. If the others knew, if they saw past the swagger and temper, they didn't let on.

None of them commented that Fenrys hadn't once used his magic to leap between places. Not that there was anywhere to go in the middle of the sea. But even when they sparred, he didn't wield it. Perhaps it had died with Connall. Perhaps it had been a gift they had both shared, and touching it was unbearable.

She didn't dare peer inward, to the churning sea inside her. Couldn't.

Aelin and Fenrys stood by the field as the sun arced higher, burning off the mists.

Aelin shook her head. Another dream, or hallucination. "If she's on our heels with this army, I'm just ... trying to understand it. Her, I mean."

"You plan to kill her." The gruel in her stomach turned over, but Aelin shrugged. Even as she tasted ash on her tongue.

"Would you prefer to do it?"

"I'm not sure I'd survive it," he said through his teeth. "And you have more of a reason to claim it than I do."

"I'd say we have an equal claim."

His dark eyes roved over her face. "Connall was a better male than—than how you saw him that time. Than what he was in the end."

She gripped his hand and squeezed. "I know."

The last of the mists vanished. Fenrys asked quietly, "Do you want me to tell you about it?" He didn't mean his brother.

She shook her head. "I know enough." She surveyed her cold, blistered hands. "I know enough," she repeated.

[squid--inc]

....

[kethabali]

sorry but nothing can convince me its not disgusting to continue posting thg content when theres an actual occupation and genocide happening right now and the least you can do is post about it like what girl.. how do yall live with yourself obsessing over fictional characters and making your whole life about it when 40k people are dead

[maccreadysbaby]

Some of My Favorite Ways to Describe a Character Who’s Sick

pressing their forehead into something cool or comfortable (this could be an array of things. the table, the floor, someones leather jacket, their water bottle, the countertop)

warm to the touch, or heat radiating from them (could be noticed if someone’s gauging their temperature with their hands, hugging them, or just generally touching them)

leaning into people’s touch, or just spontaneously leaning on them (like pressing into their hand when someone’s checking their temp, or just, like, literally walking up and laying their head on them from fatigue. bonus points if the character is usually feral and the other is scared to engage™︎)

falling asleep all over the place (at the dinner table, on their homework, in the car, in the bathroom — just being so exhausted from doing literally nothing)

being overly emotional (crying over things that don’t usually bother them, like their siblings arguing, or their homework, or literally just nothing)

stumbling/careening/staggering into things (the wall, furniture, other people. there is no coordination in feverish brains. running into chairs, hitting the door, falling over the couch, anything and everything)

slurring their words (could be from fatigue or pain. connecting words that shouldn’t be connected, murdering all of their conversations with the excessive use of ‘mm’ and ‘nn’ in place of words) (this is my favorite thing ever)

being overly touchy (basically like a sick kid — just hold them, please. do that thing where you brush their hair back out of their face, or rub circles on their back, or snuggle them. they won’t care. bonus points if this is also the feral character and they refuse to believe it afterwards)

being extremely resistant to touch (flinching away when they usually don’t so someone can’t feel the fever, not letting themselves be touched because they’re so tired they just know they’ll be putty in their hands if they do)

growing aggressive or being extremely rude (it’s a defense mechanism — they feel vulnerable and are afraid of being manipulated or deceived while they’re ill)

whimpering/whining/groaning (this was in my “characters in pain” post but it’s so good that i’m putting it here too. this shite is gold, especially if it’s just an involuntary reaction to their symptoms)

having nightmares caused by a fever and/or delirium (crying and murmuring in their sleep, or being awake but completely out of it and convinced they’re somewhere else)

making themselves as small as possible (curling up into a ball everywhere they lay, hunching over slightly when standing, wrapping their arms around themselves)

TW for vomiting below cut !!

sleeping in the bathroom floor because they keep getting sick over and over (bonus if someone finds them all weak and pitiful. bonus bonus if they find them there in the morning only to learn they’ve been there all night)

using their hands/other body parts to clamp over their mouth so nothing can come out (like pulling their knees up to their chest and using that, or like, their arm, y’know) (~maccreadysbaby who has emetophobia suddenly gets very awkward about this post~) (~yes i have a phobia of puke and still write this happening to my characters, shut up~) (~it’s about the hurt/comfort okay~)

sympathy pukers (people who aren’t the sick ones but get nauseous/vomit when they see someone else throw up) (~aka me~) (~okay I’m done now~)

dry heaving (it’s gross, but good for making your characters absolutely freaking miserable)

rolling/churning/spinning/cramping/ lurching and all those awesome words that describe what stomachs do when sick (i hate these words with a deep, fiery passion. but they’re good for writing or whatever)

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

okay so,,i got an ask but instead of saving it i posted it unfinished like a dumbass so i had to delete AUGHHH anon man i hope you’re still sticking around n tysm for the ask :((( if you saw this earlier you’re a hacker bc I deleted that AT LIGHTNING SPEED anyways hope yall enjoy <3

Fem reader (boobs), fluff, katsu n reader in their 20s, katsuki is nyasty and a big baby, nakedness and such, katsuki talks about boobies soo suggestive i think?? just to be safe :3

request : i saw this video on tiktok before and thought it was so cute! it was a girl pranking her boyfriend by telling him to leave the room so she could change and he was just so confused, was wondering if u could do that with bkg 🥹 <33

right now, katsuki bakugo is about 99% convinced that there's a stranger in his house.

that, or you're mad at him.

"what ?" he asks again for what he knows is once too many, because you giggle. he feels your hand press against his chest, keeping him from following you into your bedroom. you're all smiles.

"i said, i'm changing."

“..so ?”

"so," you copy, making your voice gruff and nasally in a way that's making his nose scrunch. "you. wait outside." you dig your finger into his firm chest to accentuate your point, talking slowly like he's a dog. katsuki's eyebrows furrow harder.

clearly, you take him for a joke.

"you know i've already seen you naked before, right?"

you splutter at his bluntness and usually it'd make him smirk to see the effect he has on you. You cross your arms over your chest that you're trying to keep him from seeing for some reason. "yes, i know that, thanks for reminding me."

without missing a beat, he grabs both of your arms and pulls them apart, pulling a gasp from you. he's always had this weird trigger with crossed arms. he pulls you closer to him until you're firm to his chest and leans forward.

"so, there's nothin' you gotta hide from me." his voice his gravelly the lower he speaks, half lidded eyes looking you up and down, you do your best not to look too bothered.

" 'm not hiding anything, promise." you wiggle your hands out of his grip to lift them up in surrender. katsuki grumbles, you smirk "i just don't want you following me everywhere."

he leans back like you'd hit him, like you'd popped him straight on his mouth, eyes wide and mouth agape "what the-so what i can't walk around in my own damn house?!"

"and you always happen to be walking where i'm going ? conveniently ?" you cross your arms again, hobbling a bit away from your boyfriend so he couldn't pull the stunt from a few seconds ago.

katsuki, now that you’re out of reach, copies you and throws his beefy arms over each other. “i dunno if you noticed, but this place isn’t that fuckin’ huge. everywhere leads to the same place.” he squints when you giggle with a roll of your eyes.

“uhuh, that’s why you somehow end up in the bathroom just watching me. it’s all connected.” you sass, and you managed to dodge katsuki’s fingers attempting to wedge themselves into your sides with a squeal. you grip at the door in warning.

“i’m slamming this in your face !” you warn, pulling the door open and back to taunt him. he stares at you for a few more seconds before he scoffs, rolls his eyes, and groans dramatically . his arms flop to accentuate how much your denial irritates him.

“fine. since you fuckin’ hate being with me so bad, don’t even know why yer ass even moved in then..” you giggle at his not so quiet mutterings, grabbing his arm you pull him toward you

“i was joking, big baby, you can come in.”

katsuki blinks at you, eyebrows furrowed. then his head drops and he shakes it, hair tussling around as he sighs loudly. you laugh and when he’s finally past the door, he pinches you.

“fuckin’ dumbass, thought you grew a third tit an’ didn’t want me to see or something.”

you spin around, smacking his arms causing him to cackle meanly at you.

“you’re such a child.” you huff, “i shouldn’t have let you in here.” you mutter, kicking off your pants. katsuki snickers behind you, you can practically sense he’s about to say something stupid.

“aw, ‘m flattered baby. ya want me to see your third tittie ?” katsuki swiftly dodges the sweatpants you’d launched at him, continuing to laugh. goddamn pro hero reflexes.