#is this the goodbye seven years of friendship is worth??

[honeysunchild]

It really hurts when it feels like a friend you considered family gives up on you and the relationship

Like, we could have talked about it, we could have found a solution together, we were each others family remember?! But instead you chose to just give up and cut me out

[heliads]

hi!! Can I request Harry Potter x f!reader, where Harry and y/n are dating and during the battle reader gets severely injured almost dead by Voldemort and Harry doesn’t know until after he defeats him he goes looking for reader but can’t find her, getting scared he goes looking for her and finds her under a pile of rubble realizing she’s about to die he uses the resurrection stone or wand to bring her back to life/heal her. Sorry if it’s really I’ve never requested before!

just read manacled so i'm desperately craving to write some hp angst so this request was perfectly timed thx anon xoxo

'someone take me home ' - harry potter

masterlist

The air is dark, choked with the ash and smoke of Harry Potter’s only true home.

Although he is not the one setting fire to the turrets, sending trolls in to demolish the stone parapets, or hurling curses through glass windows, Harry still feels responsible for the destruction. He is the one who challenged Voldemort by trying to hunt down his Horcruxes. He is the one who has brought this needless death and destruction into the castle. When Voldemort made his pronouncement that all of this fighting could cease if they would only turn Harry over to the Death Eaters, Harry had felt the weight of that guilt settle onto his shoulders like a cloak. It is his doing, all of this. He is the one to blame.

The only way he can make up for it is to end this, once and for all. If he does not kill Voldemort tonight– if he cannot end this war quickly– every life lost, every shred of memory and pride lost in the broken castle’s rubble will have fallen because he could not get the job done. Harry is responsible for everything that happens here tonight. He has to be responsible for winning it, too.

Harry is close to the end. So close. He has already died once tonight. He does not want it to happen again. For a moment there, when he went into the woods alone to meet his soon-to-be killer, armed only with a wand, a wish, and a deeply seated terror that would not leave him, Harry had not thought that he would come back. Dumbledore had not had the chance to specify that in his memories, that Harry would survive the Avada Kedavra curse for the second time in his life.

Harry had not known at all. Through Snape’s memories, he had seen that he would have to die for Voldemort to be killed, but there was no guarantee that Harry would come back. When Harry came away from the Pensieve burdened with that terrible truth, he had assumed that the blinding flash of green light would be all. When he said goodbye to Ron and Hermione, he had left them thinking that he would never return. Walking away from them was horrible, the price of seven years’ worth of incredible friendship. The only thing worse than that was leaving Y/N.

Y/N L/N. Harry’s girlfriend. They started dating during their fifth year, coasting on the thrill of sneaking around behind Umbridge’s back to run the DA. He’d liked her for longer, of course, he swears half the boys his year had a crush on Y/N at least since their second winter at Hogwarts, but Harry was the one who got to keep her around. He never forgot how lucky that made him. And, leaving her behind in the ruins of Hogwarts Castle to end his life, Harry reminded himself of it then, too. Even if he was going to die, he had lived a properly good life before the moment the Killing Curse was spoken aloud. He should have no reason to mourn all of the moments he would never have when he already experienced and enjoyed so many.

To distract himself in those cold, empty woods, Harry had reached into his pocket for the small, dark stone left to him by Dumbledore in the shell of a Golden Snitch. It’s probably not wise to carry a Deathly Hallow through the Forbidden Forest in search of a Dark Lord, but Harry was, after all, headed towards his certain death, so he figured that a little bit of risk was acceptable under those circumstances. Turning the Resurrection Stone over in his pocket, Harry had let his eyes flicker closed as he thought of something– as he wished for it, more than anything, more even than he needed to be alive– and then his eyes had opened, and he had seen his parents.

His first thought was that they looked just like their photographs. They smiled at him, reaching out wispy hands to guide him onwards. Remus and Sirius had joined not soon after. It was easier to be brave when he wasn’t alone, and it must have just been his mind imagining it, because he swore that just before he emerged into the clearing containing Voldemort’s camp, Harry saw Y/N there too, smiling and calling out to him.

He just wanted to think of her one last time, that was all. It meant nothing. Y/N was alive with Ron and Hermione. The one-hour truce had probably ended by then, so they would all be fighting again, but his two best friends would keep the love of his life alive. Of course they would. He made them promise.

Harry had removed that worry from his mind, and then he had died and subsequently come back to life. When he was lying on the cold ground, when Narcissa Malfoy had bent over him and asked him as quietly as she dared if her son was still alive, Harry has to admit that he was not thinking about the good of the mission to kill Voldemort, nor how he could keep up that crusade if he stayed alive. No, he thought about seeing Y/N one more time, and so he told her that Draco was still living. Harry didn’t even know if it was a lie or not, it didn’t matter, it worked. It could be true. Harry had no way of telling if Draco had passed away. All he could do was survive, clawing inch by inch until he could make it back to the grounds of the castle and tell for certain who was dead and who was alive.

The ruse, however misguided, had worked, and then Voldemort had crowed with sickly joy and dragged Harry’s body back to the castle. Harry was forced to remain stock-still, terrified to move so much as a muscle lest he give himself away and incur a second Killing Curse.

Now he is back, back here, back in the present moment, back in the castle. Harry is alive and everybody knows it. Harry heard the cheers erupt when he flung himself away from Hagrid to stand opposite Voldemort again, but he dared not look back. One distracted glance gives Tom Riddle a chance to kill him, and Harry cannot– he will not– give himself away like that after everything. His friends need him. Y/N needs him. Harry must do this, he must win.

Harry is no stranger to dueling, both with friends and enemies. When Voldemort points the Elder Wand at Harry, the wand that technically is under Harry’s control, Harry feels the moment thrumming in his veins like a bloodlust even before his opponent casts the spell. His wand hand rises of his own volition, the spell rising to his lips by reflex alone.

Two incantations are chanted at the same time. Avada Kedavra, Voldemort shrieks across the dusty courtyard, his voice like a death rattle. Expelliarmus, Harry shouts back, his heart leaping into his chest. He has never meant a spell like this before, and he swears he never will.

For a moment, all is still, all is quiet. The Death Eaters and students alike watch with bated breath as the two spells arc across the courtyard, but then Voldemort’s bright spark of green rebounds the second it comes into contact with Harry’s, sending both tumbling towards the Dark Lord. The Killing Curse hits Voldemort, and just like that, with no pomp and circumstance, no drama befitting the one who has caused them all so much violence and grief, Tom Marvolo Riddle dies.

Harry doesn’t believe it. Truly, he doesn’t, until he forces his limbs to walk over to the body of Voldemort and stand, staring, at the corpse until he is certain it does not move again. Slowly, surely, the Death Eaters peel away, and the students and members of the Order of the Phoenix come back again, surging around him like an ocean wave, rejoicing in their victory.

Ron and Hermione reach him first, one at each side. They embrace him, half crying, half beaming. Hermione’s saying that he’s done it, he’s won, and Ron is grinning at him proudly, telling Harry that he knew he could do it. Harry waits for the fourth person to join their party, but for some reason, she never does.

Harry pulls back slightly from their embrace. “Guys,” he says uncertainly, “Where’s Y/N?”

Ron and Hermione exchange confused looks. “She was just here,” Ron says vacantly. “Wasn’t she, Hermione? I swear I saw her a minute ago. We were fighting together, then a bunch of Death Eaters split us up. I got back to Hermione as soon as I could, but–”

“But you didn’t see her?” Harry interrupts. His voice sounds harsher than he intends, but a sudden, icy panic is beginning to flood through his system, and he cannot think about anything– he will not think about anything– until he is certain that this fear is unfounded.

He looks desperately at Hermione, the reasonable one, the one who always comes up with answers in times of crisis like this one, but she shakes her head quietly. “None of us have seen her since the fighting started up again,” she whispers. “I’m sorry, Harry.”

“No,” he says forcefully, “No, that’s not right. Y/N is alive. We just lost her in the crowd, that’s all.”

It must be true. Harry won’t look at either of them, won’t see the slow rush of guilt that’s creeping into both of their faces. Y/N has to be here. She wouldn’t just leave him like this.

Harry pushes past the two of them, fighting his way back through the crowds. He scans every face he sees, ignoring friends and professors the moment he’s sure they aren’t her. When he doesn’t see her immediately, Harry looks not at the crowds but the grounds, the walls, to see if she’s lying down somewhere. She could still be resting, or maybe she has a broken leg or something and can’t move. There is still a way that she could be alive. There is still a way that she could come back to him.

No sign of her. Harry is about to leave the courtyard and try searching somewhere else, and then he sees a hand crumpled near a pile of rubble. The hand, bloody and streaked with dust, is connected to an arm, an arm which lies limp from a shoulder, which leads to a chest which leads to a face, a face he knows, a face which is Y/N’s.

Harry is kneeling on the ground in a flash. The body of a fallen Death Eater is somewhere to the side, and Harry has the brief, proud thought that Y/N managed to kill one of them before she– He cuts himself off just in time.

Y/N seems perfectly fine by all accounts, were it not for the ash beginning to tint her face a lifeless shade. It gets everywhere, that stuff, but it won’t matter, they’ll have time to clean up later, once it is all over. It is all over, he realizes belatedly, but not quite yet. Not until she sits up again and smiles at him like she always does.

Harry waits for this to happen, for her chest to rise and fall, for any sign of movement. Nothing comes. It is only sitting here, waiting, watching for nothing, when he realizes at last that Y/N is dead. He missed his chance to save her. Y/N is dead because Harry couldn’t beat Voldemort fast enough.

The grief crashes over him in spasming attacks. He cannot lose her, not like this. It was easier to be the one dying when he knew she would go on to live a long, happy life, but this is wholly different and much worse. Y/N deserved far more than a death at seventeen. She deserved far more than Harry letting her down in this final way.

He can’t allow this to happen. Harry has killed the Dark Lord, he has freed the Wizarding World from death and destruction, he will save his girlfriend and it will be his last victory. Harry claws at his pocket for the Resurrection Stone– he almost lost it in the Forbidden Forest, but not quite, and now he has it still– and presses it with shaking hands against her heart. Harry closes his eyes and wishes with everything he has that she would come back.

He doesn’t want to open his eyelids. If it doesn’t work– he can’t look at her again, fallen and still. He stays in the darkness until someone tells him in a light voice, “You can look now, Harry. I’m alright.”

Harry opens his eyes and almost sobs again. There, sitting up, is Y/N. She smiles at him. “Don’t look so surprised. You know what the stone does, don’t you?”

“I do,” he croaks, “but– I was so afraid, Y/N. I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t have to,” she whispers back. “We’ll always be together now.”

He wants this. Harry reaches forward and embraces her. He can hardly feel her hug him back, but she’s probably still injured from the fight. She’ll have to get up to the hospital wing as soon as possible, Madam Pomfrey can make her as good as new in a second’s flash.

Harry steps back so Y/N can stand up, and then he starts to lead her back through the courtyard. Ron and Hermione have caught up to him by now, and they stare at Y/N with undisguised shock.

“She’s back,” Harry says exultantly, as if they couldn’t tell that already.

Hermione nods faintly. “Harry…”

Her voice trails off. Ron lays a comforting hand on her arm, then turns to Harry. “You found her, then?” 

For some reason, he doesn’t seem nearly as happy as Harry thinks the situation deserves. He’s just found out one of his best friends is alive, after all, but instead he seems as if he’s just come from a funeral.

“I did,” Harry confirms. “I’m going to take Y/N to the hospital wing now, just in case.”

Y/N nods in agreement, which makes Ron and Hermione exchange knowing glances again.

“What?” Harry asks, somewhat cross.

“Nothing,” Hermione says a little too quickly. “It’s just– Oh, Harry, you have the Resurrection Stone, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Why do you ask?”

The look in her eyes is deeply sorrowful. “You have to let go, Harry.”

He shakes his head. “What are you talking about? I just got Y/N back, I have to make sure that she’s alright.”

He moves to brush past them, but Ron holds out an arm. “Here, I’ll take Y/N to the hospital wing. How about you stay and talk to Hermione for a little longer?”

Y/N looks unhappy about this, and although Harry doesn’t quite want to be parted from her yet, he can’t technically see any problems with this, so he agrees, and watches mournfully as Y/N trails away behind Ron. She’s moving slower than usual, but again, that must be due to injury.

Hermione takes him by the arm and steers him away from the quickly burgeoning crowds. “Harry,” she begins slowly, “Do you remember what Xenophilius Lovegood said about the Deathly Hallows, about the Stone in particular? How it drove the second brother mad because his bride came back from the dead, but she was never really the same?”

“I do,” Harry says vaguely, not entirely sure what this has to do with him, “But that’s not the case with Y/N, though, she’s fine. I reckon it’s because I have the Elder Wand too, you know?”

Hermione sighs. “Harry, that’s not the Y/N you lost. She’s different. I think she’s closer to a ghost than a person.”

“No,” Harry says unsteadily, “She’s just like I remember, honestly. I don’t know what you’re talking about. She’s nothing like a ghost.”

Hermione takes a slow breath in and out. She’s obviously fighting tears. “That’s because she hasn’t been herself lately, even before she– even before she died, Harry. The war has been hard on all of us, but her especially. It’s taken quite the toll on her, so much so that you would see a ghost of the girl you knew and still think it was her.”

“That makes no sense,” Harry protests, but a persistent feeling of doubt is starting to shadow his mind.

“I can prove it,” Hermione insists, and reaches into her pocket to pull out a photograph.

Harry holds it in his hands and stares. He remembers the moment this photo was taken more than he recognizes the actual people inside of it. This was one of the last days they had to themselves before the war broke out in earnest and everything went to hell. It had been in the spring, all four of them in the Gryffindor Common Room. Colin Creevey had taken the photo while they were unawares and to punish him, they’d confiscated it. Harry had no idea Hermione had held onto it, but now he’s pressingly grateful that she had.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione all look the same, albeit a little younger, a little less beaten down, but Y/N– the Y/N in this photograph is nothing like the girl he’d just seen. This Y/N is vibrant, laughing uproariously at a joke one of them has just told. The version of her in the photograph turns with a start when the photo is taken, but she’s still grinning up at him, still happy. Harry feels as if a saturation charm has been cast upon the photo, it’s the only thing that would explain why she looks so bright and alive here.

Alive, unlike how she looks right now, because she isn’t. Harry had tried to bring her back, but it hadn’t worked completely. Just like in Lovegood’s story. He thinks back to the past few months and he remembers how Y/N had been, how the light had slowly drained from her. The constant running had been hard on all of them, but it was worst of all on Y/N. She was the one forever thinking of new places to go, new things to try, wearing the locket for the longest, never putting up a fight. Slowly but surely, it had coaxed the life out of her, so much so that Harry couldn’t even tell when she was just a shade he had brought back from the dead.

Hermione nods slowly, seeing that Harry understands at last. “I’m sorry, Harry. I’m so sorry.”

“So am I,” he murmurs bleakly.

“Are you going to end the enchantment?” She asks him.

Harry feels like he’s drowning, engulfed in the ash and flame surrounding him. “I will. Just– let me say goodbye first.”

“Of course,” Hermione says. “We’ll be here when you need us.”

It’s more than he can ask of her right now, both to pull him out and to support him when he’s reeling from the shock of it all. They must be devastated too, Hermione and Ron, both of them have friends here who have died in this final battle and throughout the whole war, but they’re putting him first again. He’ll never be able to thank them enough for that, but he can try.

An idea occurs to him as he walks over to Y/N. He’s still got the Elder Wand in his pocket. He hadn’t needed it for the Resurrection Stone, he hadn’t even been touching it, but maybe– just maybe–

He casts a quick summoning charm to bring his invisibility cloak over, then pulls the Resurrection Stone out of his pocket. The Elder Wand in his other hand completes the triad. All three Deathly Hallows, all together at last. Dumbledore had wondered what having all of them together might do, how one might finally become a Master of Death. He had mused once that perhaps one had to accept the inevitability of one’s own death, to brush it off and greet Death as an old friend, as the third brother had done in the tale.

Harry has done this already. Died. He accepted it then. Facing Y/N, he accepts it now. He may die from doing this, but it would be alright. Y/N deserves to live. Harry embraces his fate, whatever it may be. He has the Hallows, but he would give them up for her, he would give up anything. Even himself. He has not meant a spell like this before, except once, and he swears he never will.

There’s a sudden rush of wind around him that forces Harry’s eyes shut, just for a moment. When he opens them, Y/N is still there, but she’s a shade no longer. This time, when she surges forward and hugs him, he feels the embrace completely. 

“It’s really me,” she laughs, shocked, “I don’t know how you did it, Harry, but I’m really back.”

“You promise?” Harry gasps, half choking on his own surprise.

“I promise,” she smiles.

Harry glances back over his shoulder to where Hermione and Ron are watching with dropped jaws. One look at his friends is all he needs to know at last that yes, this is real. He’s finally won. The Dark Lord is dead. His love is alive.

At last, at long last, the last of his burdens disappear into the faint light of morning. Harry Potter is free.

harry potter tag list: @rogueanschel, @cameronsails, @neewtmas, @lovesanimals0000, @with-inked-solace, @sher-lokid7, @eclliipsed, @frenchgirlinlondon, @23victoria, @ilovexavierthrope

all tags list: @wordsarelife

[dagondelrio]

So I have been thinking about the Wisdom Saga, obviously. I had some thoughts that I wanted to share. Sorry for the angst. Spoilers for the Wisdom Saga.

So we all know that Hermes is going to be the one to get Odysseus off of Calypso's Island while Athena is recovering? dead?. After having begged Athena to help him at the end of Love in Paradise.

Odysseus must have some complex feelings towards that. No doubt, he is relieved to finally get the chance to go home or die trying after seven years of being trapped there, stuck with his own guilt and grief. On the other hand, he knows that Hermes is there only for his own amusement really. Yes, he helped with Circe, but he straight up told Odysseus that this might fail and he would die and made it clear he really couldn't care less. Not to mention, Hermes is a trickster god archetype. Odysseus likely will listen to Hermes despite all that because any chance, no matter how slim, is worth listening to Hermes. Also, he knows better than to piss off another god.

Odysseus also doesn't know that Athena got extremely hurt? killed? to free him as she didn't speak to him or any indication that she had heard and was going to respond to his prayer and help free him. Hermes might mention it to Odysseus, but based on what little I know about Dangerous so far, Hermes won't, and ultimately, it makes sense as Hermes has met Odysseus This isn't Apollo coming to help with a throw away line like "Oh, I wanted to see the mortal that Athena risked her life to help" that would at least clue Odysseus in on Athena being responsible for his freedom. Odysseus wouldn't even ask about Athena as, for as far as he knows, Athena is still pissed at him and ignoring him.

If Hermes did tell Odysseus, imagine his reaction. First, it will depend on how much he knows. Does he know that she went against Zeus for him or that she was just responsible. If he knew that she went against Zeus and suffered greatly? died? imagine what that would do to his survivors guilt. He has already caused so much pain to those he cared about. His son had to grow up without a father. His wife is running a kingdom and likely filled with grief. His mother died waiting for him to get home. He got his entire crew killed either directly or indirectly. Then his mentor, the one who scorned his friendship, put herself in danger for him and suffered/died for him. If Odysseus only knows that she was the reason but not what Athena did, he'll likely be both glad and hurt. He'd be glad that she had heard his prayers and that she chose to aid him. Hurt that she was too proud to face him and didn't come to him herself. I think this one would be the easiest version for their relationship to repair.

Now, if he doesn't know, he'll probably be mad at Athena for abandoning him when he truly needed her. Her would be resigned as he knows he screwed up by not listening to her and likely thinks that there is no repairing their relationship. There is also anger at himself for allowing himself to believe that Athena would come to his aid after she made it clear in My Goodbye that she didn't really care about Odysseus and wanted nothing more to do with him.

Now, in the Odyssey, Athena disguised Odysseus as a beggar so that he could kill the suitors. Epic of course, is its own work, and this moving forward part depends if Athena is dead. (I know Calypso says goddesses can't die but remember she is talking to a mortal who has no divine abilities or divine aid vs the king of the gods fighting hisi daughter) Hermes really could fit this role as he is a trickster god. If Athena helps well, that is where it gets interesting.

Odysseus wouldn't refuse her help. As he knows not to piss of the gods and he at least kind of knows Athena's intentions. I don't see Athena mentioning the risk that she put herself in for Odysseus. She is prideful. I doubt that she would be willing to admit that she had been beaten by Zeus for Odysseus. I don't see either of them bringing it up. I imagine that Odysseus would be bitter now that she is helping when he had previously begged her for her help, and as far as he knows got nothing from it. However, he won't have any allies, and Ithaca has changed since he has left, so he won't refuse her aid. I doubt their relationship would ever truly recover.

Now imagine when Odysseus finds out that Telemachus made friends with Athena. On one hand he would be relieved. He would be glad that at least someone was looking out for his son when he couldn't (also a little bitter that he couldn't be the one protecting Telemachus). On the other hand, imagine how it must feel to have his friendship with Athena dismissed, where as far as he knows, she only saw him as her student, not a friend. That his son got to have that relationship with her. That she was so quick to replace him with someone else. Imagine Odysseus wondering where he went wrong to not get that same relationship from her that he had wanted.

[darthmaulification]

Okay Request idea! On your NSFW alphabet for Boba (btw I loved it so much!!!) you say he has an innocence/virgin kink which caters exactly to me, so could you write something where Boba takes the readers virginity and she’s just a lil innocent angel? I would be forever in your debt my love!!!! 💘❤️‍🔥💕❤️

A/N: I FINISHED IT BITCHES 😳 y’all, this bitch is TWENTY SEVEN PAGES long on google docs.

first and foremost, anon, literally i am so sorry this took SO LONG 😭😭🙏 just absolutely humiliated lmao 😔😢 jk jk but fr tho i hope this makes up for the wait!! 😖

and one final thing, i can’t responsibly post this fic without addressing that virginity is a social construct! it is not innate to a person, there is no medical evidence of virginity, it is a human invention historically influenced by religious and philosophical expectations of what dictates a person’s “purity”! THUS, virginity doesn’t influence your worth as a human at all, regardless of whether you’ve “lost” it or not. 😊👍 boba just likes being people’s firsts, especially when they’re a flustered, shy sub. ✌😌

(also, weirdly enough, this was very therapeutic for me to write, so if any of y’all also struggle with sex aversion/repulsion, i hope this was at least comforting to you as it was to me.)

that being said, i hope you enjoy! 💗

content: angst, smut, SO MUCH set up 💀, grief and healing, fem!afab!reader, 🚨reader is an ex-slave so there is mentions of slavery/servitude🚨, age gap (mostly implied), dom boba, sub reader, loss of virginity, boba is SUCH a service top in this one tho, fingering (f receiving), p in v sex, use of a safeword (not out of pain), emotional sex 🥺, wine and dine bc boba is on some king shit 💯👑, 

word count: 14,185

He arrived in the midst of the blistering afternoon suns, preceded by a round of blaster fire.

Your dearest friend Varduhi recounted that after the sharp-eyed, raven-haired woman blasted her chain and freed her, he simply walked straight to the throne and shot Bib Fortuna dead. Before she fled to you, Varduhi also said that he tossed Fortuna’s body to the floor, and usurped the throne.

Now, she is leaving for her home village on Ryloth, escaping this place and Tatooine (hopefully) forever. Varduhi would take you with her, but the measly credits she’s managed to steal over her years of servitude only covered enough for transport off-world for one, and the small dagger you urged her to buy. All you want is your friend’s safety, her freedom, and you resign yourself to surviving this Hell for a bit longer.

“I will miss you, my freykaa.” Varduhi whispers against your hair, her hands rubbing your back in circular, soothing motions. Her long lekku, a heavy, familiar weight, are slung over your shoulders, like a second pair of arms holding you just as tight. Hugging her tighter, you dig your face into the crook of her neck, where your tears had dampened the black cloth of her top. Both of you have been steadily weeping into each other’s skin since Varduhi finished packing all her belongings into a rucksack. Now, you stand at the door to your quarters, embracing your goodbyes.

“I’ll miss you, too.” You say just as quietly, kissing the lek closest to your lips, then her cheek. The older Twi’lek smiles, as gorgeous and as sad as always, but this time in her smile you can see the relief of freedom. It shows in her eyes too, the regret of leaving you here, but the joy at finally going home. Varduhi unlatches herself from you to place her slender cobalt hands on your cheeks. You sigh at her touch, pressing yourself into her palms as you grip her elbows.

She sets her forehead against yours, her skin smooth and soft, and you close your eyes, relishing in the warmth of her, her friendship, her love, the kinder memories you both share.

Varduhi and you had both been kidnapped from your homes at very young ages, sold to the Palace when it was still Jabba’s. She had been older than you, not by a lot, but she treated you as though you were her little sister from day one, her protective spirit strong.

She kept you safe from the horrors of the Palace; from the criminals, scum, and other vagrants that would’ve had their terrible way with your body, from the humiliation of dancing half-nude for a sneering audience, from the perversion and cruelty of Bib Fortuna, and earlier, from the wrath of Jabba and his horrible Rancor pit.

Varduhi sacrificed so much for you over your years together, took a lot for you. She went through Hell and back, time and time again, for you. If there’s anything that Varduhi has to her name, it would be her gallant bravery, something that no one— not the slave traders, or Jabba, or Bib Fortuna— ever took from her. And it’s that bravery that’s survived her long enough to see the death of her two of her oppressors.

“You deserve this, Varduhi.” You say, breaking that long stretch of silence that was threatening to make you both shiver with doubt and uncertainty. Varduhi nods, her lekku shifting on your shoulders, and as she pulls away from you, hesitant like two magnets being separated, she plants a kiss to your forehead, sealing you with her love. Your hands lock together, and she squeezes gently.

“I will remember you always, and I will love you forever.” She says, her eyes misty, and she concludes by saying your name, which makes your heart weep. Though no tears fall from your eyes, not as you stare at your friend, the beautiful, strong woman she is, all azure fire and survival.

“I love you too.” You whisper, and Varduhi’s lekku twitch in goodbye, and her hands leave yours, fingers trailing down your palms as she pulls from you like a wave receding. The moment her fingertips withdraw entirely from yours, that last physical connection broken, Varduhi pivots on her heel, her violet eyes sending one final look that says “I love you” and “I’m sorry”.

Then, she’s out of the door before you can blink, leaving behind a trace of her desert flower perfume, the musty dark room, all of the spaces that were once her empty, and you, alone. You stand in the same spot for a few minutes longer, until your legs start moving and you sit on your bed in the corner. The thin, cruddy mattress and scratchy blanket are familiar as you lie down, but the absence of Varduhi is not.

You weep again through the whole first night without her.

In the morning, when you wake up from a dreamless sleep and to the brilliantly melancholic dawn of Tatooine’s twin suns, you think of your new... Master. The man on the throne, once a renowned bounty hunter that Jabba employed, who was meant to be long dead in the Great Pit of Carkoon, whom whispers said survived by the skin of his teeth and probably a whole lot of luck too.

A walking dead man, the prodigal son of Tatooine:

Boba Fett.

~

It’s not until two weeks later, when you’re without Varduhi and still aching, does he call an assembly of all the slaves and other staff still at the Palace.

Standing in the throne room next to Batu, one of the gruff Gamorrean guards who is relatively nice to you, you keep as quiet as everyone else, awaiting the arrival of your Master. The woman who had retrieved you, who you assume is the same woman that freed Varduhi, leans against the throne’s backrest, arms crossed over her chest, a long rifle slung on her back. Her dark eyes roam the room, her face piqued with near-unreadable curiosity blanketed over amusement.

“You all are a quiet lot.” She says teasingly, her voice bouncing off the stone walls of the palace, and instinctively you look down. No one replies, all just half-hearted nods and barely there murmurs of affirmation. You learned very long ago that it’s always best if you say nothing and agree silently.

“Jeez. Liven up, people.” She speaks again, pushing herself off the throne, and no one responds again, both because you’ve all been taught that and because footsteps sound from the hall. You suck in a breath and hold it as the heavy footfalls followed shortly by the clink of metal grow closer. Eyes locked on your hands clasped in front of you, shoulders bowed, you shut your eyes the moment his shadow passes by your feet. You hear him sit down, then after a few seconds of silence, he speaks.

“You are all free to leave. None of you are tied to this place any longer.” Your eyes snap open when your brain processes the words, and you look up dumbfounded at the man on the throne. You’re met with the same green, red, and yellow armored man you had seen years ago, with Jabba, when you were a young girl. He’s as intimidating as you remember, the breadth of his armor and dark robes making him look imposing, even though he’s slumped almost lazily on the throne. But how could you forget that cold, lifeless black T-visored face, expressionless but radiating danger?

Boba Fett, in the flesh, and alive. The woman is still up on the dais, but she lurks in the shadows, like a watchful, trusted sentinel.

A murmur resounds throughout the crowd of slaves and servants, some sharing cautious glances, while two brave souls inch towards the exit. They flinch (and you do too, even though you haven’t moved at all) when Boba Fett’s head swivels to them, his gaze piercing despite being hidden beneath black glass. One of his hands raise to gesture half-heartedly to the door.

“Go on. Leave.” He commands, ushering the two Weequay servants with two flicks of his wrist, and the servants scram, bolting up the stairs and out. Boba Fett makes no move to go after them, doesn’t send his companion to chase them down, doesn’t drag them back kicking and screaming just to say it was all a cruel joke. No, there is no assertion of oppressive authority, no consequence, and it astounds you.

“Thank you.” Koro, another Gamorrean guard who you knew was serving a life sentence for stealing from Jabba, blurts from the crowd. He bows, tentatively, and also sprints from the room, presumably to the family he told you he had off world. You watch in awe as more and more slaves, some you’ve known for years, are allowed to run from the Palace, to leave.

It’s only when the crowd has dwindled to a mere handful does he speak again.

“The rest of you.” He starts, and you turn your eyes away again (force of habit), “I assume you have no home to return to, no funds to travel from this place.”

Fett doesn’t ask, he states, and somehow you think it’s because he just knows. A hushed murmur of assent answers him, and you glance around to count the four people you’re standing with. You recognize Inas and Yara, two Lethan Twi’lek dancers who’ve been here as long as you, Gongul, the Ugnaught Palace chef, and Panhssj, a Trandoshan former bounty hunter who lost zis freedom with a bad hand in Sabacc.

“The proposition I have for you all is simple: I will offer you payment for your services,” Boba Fett starts again, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs, the metal of his armor clinking together, “But there will be no blood debts nor life sentences. The services you would provide would be voluntary, and at any point you will have the right to leave.”

It piques your interest, but truly you have no idea what to think. You’ve never done any work voluntarily in your entire life, have never been given credits for the chores you do around the Palace. Briefly, you meet Inas’ eyes and she looks just as unsure as you.

“I don’t...” She starts, but her voice falters when Fett looks her way, and immediately the crimson Twi’lek falls silent, subdued, fearful. You flinch internally, praying to the Maker that Boba Fett is kind to her, that he doesn’t dish out too harsh a consequence for speaking out of turn. The need to fiddle with the ends of your apron, a nervous coping mechanism, makes you gather handfuls of the fabric in your hands.

“Speak. You have the right to do so.” The tone of Fett’s voice shifts so drastically to one of a menacing figure to something that could be described as gentle. Still firm and gruff, of course, but the way he levels with Inas makes your pounding heart calm in your chest. 

“I don’t want to dance anymore.” Inas says, barely above a whisper, but it’s so quiet that her words reverberate throughout the room.

“Then you won't.” Boba Fett replies simply, with a slight shrug, and for the first time in a long time, a smile splits across your face. Inas perks up, eyes bright, and she and Yara hug, chittering happily in relief to one another in their mother tongue of Ryl. They turn to you and Gongul, and Inas takes the gruff Ugnaught in her arms as Yara pulls you into hers.

“We don’t have to dance!” Yara weeps against your dress, and you hug her tight, knowing how the leers and unwanted touches destroyed her and Inas time and time again. You think of all the nights they cried silently, wishing that their lives were different, and you are stricken with the joy at how easily Boba Fett has done just that.

He’s given all of you a choice, and the liberty to do with it as you please. You’ve never had anyone do something so kind to you and your colleagues in your entire life. Yet here Fett is, giving you all the world at your disposal.

Yara parts from you to join back with her sister, and the smiles don’t fall from any of your faces, not even Gongul, who bears a tiny grin. It’s the happiest you’ve seen all of them, and you, and your heart soars at their shared expressions of joy. It’s all so much, just like that.

Boba Fett is different, you determine, he is kind.

Hesitantly, you step forward, and both occupants of the dais turn their attention to you. The sudden weight of both stares makes you falter in your step, this is so unlike you, but they’ve shown enough for you to know that you won't face any retaliation. Fingers wringing your apron, you catch sight of Fett’s dark visor before quickly averting your gaze.

“Thank you.” You tell him softly, dipping your chin in a polite nod. He doesn’t move a muscle at first, and you squirm slightly under his heavy stare, but then Fett nods in return. Only a single dip of his head, but it still makes you feel important, like you’re somebody.

“Of course, mesh’la.” His low, gravelly baritone sends a shiver down your spine, his voice both warm yet easily you can see how it can promise danger. Fett’s gaze lingers on you for a few moments longer, until he turns to the room at large.

“Go about whatever business you wish. Tomorrow, Fennec and I,” He gestures to the dark-clothed woman behind him, “Will have a preliminary plan for the future to discuss with you all.”

Boba Fett rises abruptly, his forest green armor clanking against the stone throne, suddenly looking even more foreboding standing. Strangely, he doesn’t scare you in the slightest, instead, Boba Fett fills you with a fluttery feeling deep in your belly. That, combined with the stare he let rest on you, begins to simmer something in your bones.

“Yesss, Massster.” Panhssj mutters, that sarcastic edge to zis tone more noticeable than it probably should be, considering zis predicament. Boba Fett’s head swivels to zim next, and Panhssj shrinks back upon falling under its weight.

“I am not your Master. Refer to me as Fett or Sir.” Boba says, something clipped about the way he says the word “Master”, like it’s a distasteful food he’s eaten. That makes a mild sense of surprise rise inside you once again— a new King on the throne of the Palace, one who doesn’t want the acquired honorific? That’s rare and humbling all the same.

Boba Fett and Fennec Shand exit the room not long after, citing the immense amount of changes they intend to make to the Palace and how its run. After they leave you with that, Gongul scoffs.

“This simply will not end well.” The elder Ugnaught shakes his head, his wispy mustache shaking, “I have spoken.”

He and Panhssj leave the room, leaving Inas, Yara, and you in the uncharacteristically empty throne room. As your Twi’lek companions excitedly talk amongst themselves, you can’t help but ponder how much evil the Palace has held, and most likely, will continue to hold. Doubt plants itself firm in your chest, especially when you glance over at the trap door, that terrible entrance to the now defunct Rancor Pit.

A shiver runs up your spine, and you exit the room to your quarters.

~

The next day, you wake again with the sunlight that leaks in from your tiny window, and briefly you expect Varduhi to jump on your bed, all smiles and teases.

But she doesn’t, and your heart breaks.

Getting up in the morning is an affair in itself, but you do it fast enough that when you’re out of your room, walking to the kitchens, there’s not a soul in sight. Of course, that’s because the suns have only just arisen, and because your... employer allowed a good 90% of the Palace’s occupants to leave just yesterday. It makes everything feel emptier, knowing that the true bustle won’t occur today, and it makes you simultaneously calmer and lonelier all at once.

“Good morning.” Gongul grunts at you when you enter the kitchen, and you dip your head in response. He offers you the mug of caf next to his, and you take it with a small smile and a thanks, sipping at the thick, hot liquid.

“Did you sleep well, Gongul?” You ask, thanking him again when he slides you a pastry as well. He grunts in response, hobbling with his caf to where he usually works in the morning at the butcher’s table. In turn, you settle yourself on the stool at the counter to enjoy a quiet breakfast.

“I trust him.” Gongul’s voice abruptly sounds minutes later when you’ve nearly finished your food, and you look at him, mildly surprised. Gongul is many things, but quick to trust isn’t one of them, he often keeps his heart of gold under lock and key— He told you once it was how he survives. 

More so, you’re shocked due to the complete tonal shift from the day before, when he was quite unhappy with Fett’s rule. You go to say something about that to him, but the Ugnaught gives you a look that clearly says “Don’t question me” and you wisely settle on nodding instead.

Gongul isn’t trusting, nor is he dense— And it’s also early, and you know he isn’t a morning person either.

Your brain goes through several different words you could describe Fett with; like scary, intimidating, kind, handsome— Wait. Hoping Gongul doesn’t notice the slight color that’s arisen in your cheeks, you decide to say, “Mr. Fett is certainly different.”

Gongul grunts in response again, taking up his caf in one hand and a cleaver in the other. Then, which surprises you the most, Gongul says, “Be careful. I see the way he looks at you.”

The burn on your cheeks spreads like a wildfire all over you. All your thoughts fizzle out in your head and you gape like a fish. Gongul harrumphs, and downs his caf.

“I have spoken.”

And, Maker, did he.

~

Another week passes, and in that time Boba Fett and Fennec have a tentative grasp on the Palace, setting you and the others to work with schedules, breaks, and most importantly, pay. You actually earn for all the chores you do around the Palace, and the sight of all the credits Fennec gave you for your first pay day nearly made your eyes pop out of your head.

“Stars!— That’s so much. Th-Thank you!” You had exclaimed, holding a whole pouch full of hefty credits. You remember that Fennec had looked at you strangely, a mixture of amusement and confusion with something a little more melancholic thrown in, before she added, “That’s only half of what we owe you.”

Of what we owe you.

Those words rang in your head the entire day and then some.

Now, you happily work easy midday shifts, though you still always get up early to eat breakfast with Gongul. Mostly, you do the same as you’ve always done— general housekeeping and cleaning— but now Inas also helps which takes off a lot of the workload.

What’s more, Boba and presumably Fennec have a taste for better foods for everyone in the Palace, and now you’re currently carting off a large basket of exotic fruits to the kitchens where Gongul promised to make something delicious with them (that you could have too). 

Humming to yourself, you zip around the corner, noticing too late that the “wall” seemed to extend out further than normal, and immediately slam full-force into a broad body covered head to toe in beskar.

A shriek passes your lips as you all but go flying to the floor, the basket in your hands landing with a thump like you.

“Osik!” That familiar, deep baritone hisses out a curse in a language you can’t place, both because you’ve never heard that tongue before, and because you’re a bit dazed, still sprawled on the sandstone floor. You look up, and just the most immense, powerful embarrassment fills you to the bone.

Kriff.

You just plowed into your employer. Into Boba Fett. Full force. And now here you are, on the floor, the basket of fruits you had been holding currently rolling away from you in the aftershock, sending all its contents everywhere. Somehow, it feels like the color both rises in your cheeks and falls, leaving you hot in the face and ashen. Kriff, kriff, fuck!

“I’m so sorry!”

“Are you okay?”

Fett speaks at the same time you do, and you suck in a breath to brace yourself for the reprimanding you just know you’re about to receive. Instead, Fett only chuckles low in his throat, the visor of his helmet tilted down at you, and extends a hand.

“Easy,” He says, a single word, but the swirl of emotion it sets off inside you makes you dizzy all over again, “Here.”

You look at his hand for a few seconds, cheeks positively burning and trying not to dwell on that voice of his, before you take it, hesitantly. The moment your hand is in his, Boba all but yanks you to your feet in one tug. The speed disorients you, and you lose balance, stumbling on your feet. For the second time, you find yourself against the hard breadth of his beskar chest and you almost choke when one of his hands grips your elbow, steadying you.

“Hello, sweet girl.” He purrs like a satisfied lion, his other hand finding your other elbow and essentially holding you to him. His armor is cool beneath your palms, and the thought of how flustered you must look crosses your mind, but then you become painfully aware of the situation and the shame sets in all over again. Pushing yourself away from him, you glance at all the fruits on the floor and frown, making a noise in your throat.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you, and then I ran into you, and now everything’s on the floor! Oh, Mr. Fett, I’m so—” The rambling escaping your lips gets cut off when Boba places a finger over your lips and hushes you. Staring at him, eyes blown wide, your heart all but flutters at the contact of his gloved finger on your lips.

“Enough. I don’t require your apology.” He says, and when he pulls his hand away from you, the loss of it is like a band-aid ripped from skin. To your pleasant surprise, Boba bends with a grunt and picks up the fruits nearest his feet. When he holds them out to you, the action springs you into motion, and you rush for the basket.

“Moving too fast for your surroundings, hm?” Boba asks as he slowly places the two fruits inside, keeping his gaze steadily on yours as he does. The teasing lilt in his voice is palpable, even through the crackle caused by his helmet, and his stare, however hidden, is so locked on to you, you feel that he’ll be able to see every reaction you have to him. You catch your bottom lip between your teeth and nibble it nervously, only twice before the subtle tilt of Boba’s helmet stops you.

“Um... Yeah, I tend to work pretty fast.” Your answer comes out far more mousier and timid than you expected, but how can you speak when you're so overwhelmed by the armored man in front of you. Boba tilts his head to the side, almost curious but intrigued, and a low chuckle reverberates from his chest, staticky from his vocacorder.

“Such a meek little thing... I like that.” Boba’s comment sucks the breath from your lungs, as do the two fingers he hooks under your chin to lift your face to his. He’s so close you can make out your reflection in the black glass of the T visor, the face of a blushing woman juxtaposed by an intimidating, domineering man. The cliché of the situation isn’t lost on you, but you can’t help but enjoy it.

“Thank you.” You have no idea what else to say when your heart is pounding and butterflies are fluttering in your tummy. To stave off doing or saying anything else, you move to pick up more of the fruit. Boba’s stare follows you, sears into your skin as you bend over and pluck two jogan fruits from the ground. It makes your face positively burn.

“I have been watching you for a while now.” Boba says, obviously not referring to how he’s clearly taking glances at your ass now, and the comment makes you perk up. Adjusting the basket on your hip, you turn your attention to him, nervously fiddling with the wicker rim.

“Um... yeah? Have I not been up to par, sir?” You ask meekly, hoping that that isn’t the sole reason why Fett is conversing with you now. Thankfully, his reply is more than reassuring of that.

“Of course not. I have seen nothing but good work from you.” Boba steps closer, and you catch the scent of his cologne this time— a quick whiff of something sharp, earthy, like sea salt and pine. His head tilts and he places another fruit into the basket and says, “In fact, I’d like to see more of you.”

Time just stops. All of the thoughts running through your head go careening to a halt, and the breath is squeezed from your lungs from the shock of it. Boba takes in your wide-eyed state with another low, staticky chuckle, wrapping his gloved fingers around your elbow and reeling you in.

“I will be truthful, cyar’ika, you have caught my eye.” He continues and inwardly you marvel at how your trembling knees haven’t given out on you yet. Your grip on the basket tightens, and where Fett has his fingers firm on your elbow is where your skin burns for him. You can’t help but gape, moon-eyed and struggling to gather your thoughts.

“Stars! You want to see me?” You blurt out before you can rebound yourself enough to say something a bit more concise. Boba hums in affirmation, his hand leaving your arm and the emptiness almost makes a whine rise to your throat. You don’t want him to stop touching you, and judging by the dangerous tilt of his head, that black visor flashing, he notices.

“Will you meet me in my quarters tonight?” Boba asks and it takes everything in you to remind yourself that this is actually happening, and not some vivid dream. For the first time, you offer him a small, albeit nervous, smile. You nod and reply with a voice that nearly falters, “Yes.”

“Good. We will have dinner.” Boba announces, suddenly as untouchable as the King he is, as he straightens and parts from you. He rests his stare on you for a few seconds longer before he turns on his heel, walking down the hall, the beskar spurs on his boots clinking. His distancing broadness makes you want to reach out and reel him back in, even if that thought makes your belly flutter with nerves. The dim lamp light of the hallway hues his forest green beskar to something like bronze, earthy like his firm touch and piney scent. It feels like all the blood in your faces rushes down at the bolt of desire that Boba Fett strikes within you.

“I’ll see you then.” Your hasty, almost desperate, call makes Boba pause, and he turns his head to the side, not looking over his shoulder, but acknowledging you. He doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t have to— everything that he could say already is thick in the air. All he gives you is another low, dangerous chuckle that sends a shiver down your spine, and a dip of his head.

Then, like a phantom in the night, he turns the corner at the end of the hall and is gone.

You take a few minutes to focus on breathing and stop your racing heart before you even think about picking up the rest of the fruits. After everything’s back in the basket, and you’re at the kitchen having mindlessly walked there, the blush on your cheeks hasn’t dulled enough to escape Gongul’s notice. Thankfully, the Ugnaught doesn’t say anything, and simply shakes his head, but you’re not as lucky when Panhssj enters the room.

Damn that Trandoshan.

~

By the time your shift has ended, virtually everyone you work with knows your situation. Fortunately, they don’t subject you to much teasing (most comes courtesy of Panhssj) and instead they oddly focus on keeping you safe, of all things. When you had left the kitchen, Gongul had grabbed you by your arm, tight, a look in your eyes you’ve never seen before.

“If he harms you in any way, I will stop at nothing to end him.” Gongul had said with such conviction you believed he really could. Then, as if he remembered his kind temperament and inkling trust in Fett, he harrumphed and said, “I have spoken.”

Panhssj, despite all zis teasing and crude language, offered you much the same sentiment, albeit with more expletives and direct threats about poisoning Boba with zis blood, should your employer wrong you.

Now, as Yara brushes your hair and Inas files your nails, they give you much of the sentiment in their pep talk that’s both hyping you up for the night, and making you unbelievably nervous. Yara reaches a particularly stubborn tangle in your hair and yanks, but the slight jerk and sting don’t even phase you. Inas catches the faraway look in your eye and stops tending to your nails.

“Numa, are you okay?” She asks firmly, cupping your cheek with a slender crimson hand. You avert your gaze to avoid looking at her worried cornflower blue eyes and dismiss most of her concern with a slight shake of your head. It’s not that you aren’t touched by her consideration for your wellbeing, it’s only that most of it is not necessary. You give her a shaky smile.

“I’m not scared, if that’s what you’re asking.” You start, fumbling with the ratty end of your apron. Yara runs her fingers through your hair and the motion comforts you, “I’m just nervous, is all.”

Inas purses her lips in a sympathetic smile and puts her other hand on your cheek and squishes your face. It makes you giggle and the sisters laugh with you. Inas sigh, her full lips pulling into a more excited, sly grin.

“You’ll have fun.” She starts patting both of your cheeks at once. Then, she pulls away, and grabs the nail file again and beckons for your hand as she adds, “You’ll have to tell us how big his dick is.”

You sputter, a furious blush rising to your cheeks as Yara and Inas laugh, both of their eyes glinting mischievously. Yara stands up and retrieves a soft, aged dress the color of toffee from her dresser, shaking it to unfurl its linen skirts. She brings it over to you and places it in your arms.

“Wear this. It’ll suit you.” She smiles, baring her pointed canines as you trace the hem of it’s deep cut collar. It’s a simple thing, but it speaks volumes with it’s unabashedness, a type of mellow that does reflect your nature. You stand up from the cushion on the ground to give Yara a hug, and her lekku quiver with excitement and wrap around your neck.

“Thank you.” You say to both of them, beckoning for Inas to join on the hug, which she jumps up and promptly does. The Twi’leks nuzzle you all over, the three of you giggling with a shared anticipatory excitement about the evening, and presumably (hopefully) night, you’re about to have with the King of the Palace, Boba Fett himself.

~

By the time you’ve reached the door to Boba Fett’s quarters, that same excitement, though still tingling throughout your body, has morphed considerably to near overwhelming apprehension and nervousness. Your heart is doing flips inside you, belly so full of butterflies you have to release some of the anxiousness on the skirt of your dress, crumpling the fabric in your fists. Taking a deep breath, you hold it in as you raise a fist to knock on the imposing door.

The silence that follows your three delicate knocks almost has you wondering if you knocked too gently, in spite of the echoing thuds that had sounded. Biting your bottom lip, you go to knock again when Boba’s rich voice stops you.

“Come in.” The gravelly invitation is muffled by the thick door, but Maker does it feel as though you're signing a pact when you do as he says, and push open the door. Boba is standing by the sandstone wall at the far side of the room, besides a set table, helmetless. He places a wine glass on the table, and when he lifts his head, you suck in a breath.

Boba Fett, the most infamous bounty hunter in the galaxy, has the softest brown eyes you’ve seen. They meet yours and something flashes in them, a smirk curling his plush lips and scrunching the skin at the corners of his eyes. He’s older, a good chunk older than you, but his brown skin and wizened features only enhance how attractive you find him.

“Welcome, sweet girl. Come, sit.” His beckon is akin to the purr of a satisfied Loth cat, and he gestures to a seat at the table where a glass of wine and a plate is waiting for you. It takes a moment for you to gather your courage to even breathe, and when you finally walk forward you feel as though your legs may give out from under you. Boba also steps forward, rounding the table to greet you a few paces away from it.

“Hi.” You say shyly, blushing as Boba lifts a hand to perform that same hooked finger gesture beneath your chin, this time uninhibited by his gloves. His grin, though small and hard, is dazzling, and it’s up close you notice the scars on his face, ones that reach from the back of his scalp. He tilts your chin up, and by the way he leans forward your heart races at the expectation of a kiss, but it doesn’t happen. Instead, Boba drops his hand to grab yours.

“Let us eat.” He says, guiding you to the chair that he’s pulled out for you. Somewhat reeling from losing that potential kiss, you sit almost mechanically, still too smitten with Boba to think straight. The plate of food in front of you, a selection of easy items that look delectable, goes completely unnoticed by you. Boba sits in the chair adjacent to you with a soft grunt, and grabs the bottle of very expensive looking wine. He gestures at you and purrs, “Wine, sweet girl?”

You nod dumbly, blushing when you go to hand him your glass the same time he does, your fingers brushing against his gloveless hand. His stare only breaks from yours to pour the deep red liquid into your glass, and he finishes, tapping the neck of the wine bottle against the rim of your glass with a soft clink. He pours his, and takes the metal cup in his hand, holding it lazily— sitting in his chair with much the same unassuming, lackadaisical demeanor as he does his throne.

“So,” He carries the syllable like a King, “Has your day gone well?”

Boba sips his drink, honey eyes not once breaking from yours. It’s at this moment you snap back to reality, realizing both that your hands are clenched tight in your lap and that you haven’t even touched your drink. You pick it up with an almost unnoticeable shake to your hand, and take a small sip. Thankfully, it’s strength is tolerable, and the taste is actually quite sweet.

“I had a nice day, yes. Thank you.” You reply softly, more to the contents of your cup than the man sitting across from you. Boba hums and picks up his fork, stabbing through a piece of orange-colored fruit much more methodically than necessary, his gaze never leaving yours. It shouldn’t be as tantalizing as it is, so mouth watering, but you watch him with a hunger not satiated by food. Of course, Boba notices and so he guides the fruit to your lips.

“May I, mesh’la?” He asks, voice barely above a low murmur as the melon touches your bottom lip and it drops automatically. Cheeks pink and doe-eyed, you nod and open your mouth further to allow for Boba to slide the fruit in. He groans when your lips close around the melon and pulls the fork from your lips in one fluid motion, no resistance.

“It’s sweet.” You murmur after you’ve chewed and swallowed down the orange flesh, to which Boba smoothly replies, “Not as sweet as you.”

It bubbles nervousness to the surface again, everything done for you thus far— wine, fruit, feeding you— an introduction to the promise that Boba Fett is seemingly more than willing to uphold. You take another sip of the wine to try and alleviate the nerves, but you’re barely able to swallow it. Setting your cup down, Boba takes in your apprehension and places his hand on yours before it can leave the table.

“Am I making you nervous?” He asks, rubbing circles on your knuckles with the rough pad of his thumb. You marvel at the strength of his hand, his assured and practiced touch, the warmth and breadth of his fingers. Licking your suddenly very dry lips, you look back up at him and nod, answering honestly.

“Yes.” It’s meek and breathy, but it’s also true, and you can’t help the twinge of guilt that occurs when Boba’s eyes go downcast. He goes to pull his hand from yours, perhaps to pull his advancements, but you place your other one atop it. His touch is too warm to simply let go.

“It’s not necessarily you, sir.” You explain gently, and you go to continue but Boba raises his hand to stop you.

“To you I am Boba. No need for formalities.” He says firmly, and the leveling of the ground between you makes a smile light up your face. Then, at the sight of that smile, he adds, “I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable.”

“You haven’t,” You shake your head, gasping lightly when Boba’s free hand goes to cup your cheek, “With you I feel…”

Your eyes lock with Boba’s, the stare much more intense than any before it— the connection more meaningful, more poignant. Everything he’s shown you has been nothing but kindness, a type of assurance to all his actions that have been making you wanting more, wanting Boba closer. It both astounds you that you’re so willing to open yourself to a man that you hardly know, but what’s more surprising is how willing Boba is to give himself to you.

As if on cue, he leans forward in his seat, bringing you closer to him by lighting pulling the hand he has wrapped around yours. His face grows so close to yours you notice more tiny scars, particular wrinkles you hadn’t noticed when he was at a distance. Shifting in your seat to better see him, his thumb runs over your lips.

“Do you trust me?” And if the importance of the question wasn’t enough, Boba follows it by sealing it with your name. Not one of the many nicknames he uses for you, not the names given to you by your former masters when you were enslaved, but the name given to you at birth. You nod slightly, swallowing because it feels like your throat’s gone as dry as the deserts.

“Yes.” You squeak, and then his lips are on yours and you’re gone. You let out a muffled, shocked cry, but your eyes flutter shut so quickly that the shock wanes entirely. He all but pulls you from your chair onto his lap, the wine and meal left forgotten on the table. Boba’s lips encase yours, molding against you with a commanding fervor, engulfing you. You sigh happily into his mouth, lips parting to let in his prodding tongue as your arms subconsciously wrap around his shoulders to pull him closer. He claims you instantly, his domineering tongue overpowering yours in seconds.

You’ve kissed before, once with Varduhi (long story) and a couple shy, nervous ones with fumbling smuggler boys who fancied you, but they were never like this. This kiss isn’t anything like the ones before it, the ones that were quick, brief, and secretive. No, this kiss is unadulterated, uncontained— This is a kiss of a man.

You whimper, pressing against him, desperate for more. Boba hums in amusement, his arm around your waist pulling you flush against him. He pulls back to break the kiss, but you greedily nip at his bottom lip, attempting to guide him back to you. It doesn’t work, and Boba straightens up, looking down at you with a smirk on his face. 

“A needy little thing aren’t you, sweet girl?” He rumbles and you look away, flustered. He chuckles and pulls you in for another kiss, one hand holding your chin so that there’s no way you can control the pace or turn your head from him. All over again, it makes fireworks light up inside you, and a whine nearly escapes your lips when he pulls away again. This time, he slides you off his lap and sets you down on shaky legs, getting up from his chair himself with one arm locked around your waist.

Boba looms over you, the broadness of him accentuated by his armor and ink black tunic. The dim lights outline him, shadowing his face all but his eyes that seem to burn.

“On the bed, cyar’ika.” Boba commands, voice so low it sends a shiver down your spine. You hesitantly pull away from him, walking towards the bed on wobbling legs. Boba’s stare burns into the back of your neck and the hair raises with excitement. He’s kissed you and held you, but you feel as though he’s only just seeing you. Glancing over your shoulder, Boba’s pulling his beskar from his body, shedding his armor and leaving himself vulnerable. It makes your stomach flutter, seeing him without the protection, in only his black robes and kama.

When you reach the end of his bed, you hesitate at the precipice of the dark, silken sheets, like the depths of an ocean threatening to swallow you whole. And I’ll let it, you decide as you sit on the bed, excitement tingling you to the bone when the cushion, soft and plush, sinks below you. It’s a better bed than yours, that’s for sure, so as you pull your legs up onto it after slipping off your shoes, you fall back against the sheets.

Sighing happily, you almost forget the fluttering in your belly, your nerves going wild, the wet ache accumulating between your legs... Almost. The sound of Boba’s vambraces clattering to the floor catches your attention, and you look up to see him striding towards the bed, towards you. His eyes, that pretty, honeyed hazel, are darkened, pupils wide and eclipsing his irises.

“For some time I’ve desired you. Thought of fucking you senseless since the day I saw you, mesh’la.” Boba says, and you feel your blush darken, driven wild by the looming and imposing, but so handsome and kind, man before you. You scoot back on the bed as Boba slowly joins you on it, the mattress dipping under his weight. You tremble when your back hits the pillows at the headboard, and when Boba settles himself above you with a soft groan.

“Cyar’ika, you look divine.” He says, and you briefly wonder how he can say that considering you’re wearing a rather plain tan dress and probably looking a mess, but the way Boba slides one thigh between your legs and traps you under him wipes the thought from your mind. One of his hands anchors itself next to your head, the other goes and strokes your cheek. Like before, your arms seemingly on autopilot go to rest around his shoulders, holding him.

“Boba, I—” You start, uneasy, and Boba immediately pulls back slightly, giving you space. Nipping at your bottom lip, you glance to the side and continue in a whisper, “I’ve never done this before.”

Boba’s completely silent, and for a moment you think you’ve gone and ruined everything, frowning at the tenseness of his hand next to your head. The stretch of quiet almost breaks when you go to apologize, but no words come out when Boba’s hand is on your cheek again, guiding your gaze to his.

“You’re a virgin?” He asks firmly, eyes hard, but the hand on your cheek is tender, his thumb rubbing circles into your skin. You smile slightly and nod when you realize he isn’t angry, not upset with you, and still desiring you. Something in Boba’s eyes lights up at the confirmation, and a lilted smirk splits across his face. He leans in until his nose brushes against yours, lips hovering far away enough that you aren’t able to kiss him.

“Well then...” He murmurs, his thumb swiping across your bottom lip and igniting every nerve in your body, making you tremble, “Will you have me, mesh’la?”

Boba’s lips smash against yours so fast it drowns the squeak of surprise that escapes you. The gentle moans that follow are swallowed by the indulgently greedy kiss, and you find yourself lost in his mouth, overwhelmed and subdued by the passion of the slick muscle of his tongue, the taste of him. Before you’re too far gone in the clouds, Boba pulls away and your lips make a wet pop! sound.

“Will you let me give you everything I have?” He hisses, his hand grabbing your chin almost roughly to all but force you to look at him. You nod best you can, desperate for more kissing, and everything else he’s promising. You’ve never wanted anything else so badly in your life.

“Yes.” You squeak and your eyes roll back when Boba’s lips are sucking at yours again, ensnaring you with his teeth he grazes against your bottom lip. This kiss makes the temperature of the room shift, and you suddenly feel so hot and heavy that it makes you feel faint. Boba shifts, and presses you into the bed, the firm breadth of his body boxing you in. He hums in contentment when you whimper, your arms tightening their grip and your hands grabbing his clothes.

“Boba!” You whimper when he presses closer, rolling your skirt up to your waist, and the swelled erection in his pants presses against your inner thigh. You’ve never felt the hardness of a man like this before, and it drives you as wild as it makes your stomach fill with nerves. Gasps leave your lips as Boba kisses your neck, sucking periodically as his hand travels down your waist, hip, and then to your thigh. Instinctively, you tense, and Boba stops his ministrations.

“Am I going too fast? Do you need me to slow down, ad’ika?” He asks, lips leaving tender kisses on the soft skin of your neck. Heart warmed by his consideration, you take a moment to shut your eyes and breathe. Focusing on how nice it’s all been thus far, how Boba has treated you so well, when you open your eyes, your heart’s stopped racing so bad and the nervousness is manageable.

“No, I’m okay.” You reply and giggle softly when Boba pecks your lips, then your cheek. His head dips again and he sighs against your neck, the hand on your thigh going below, and you squeal when Boba grabs your ass from under your dress, fingers kneading the plush flesh. He meets your eyes, a lustful yet determined and aware look on his face.

“I want you to be nothing but comfortable. If I’m ever too much, say ‘rancor’, and I will stop.” Boba tells you, his hand rubbing circles on the low of your back. The tenderness of his calloused, large hand makes you sigh, and you just want to melt. 

“Okay.” You nod, nearly giggling hysterically when Boba guides one of your legs up to his hip where he beckons your heel to rest on the low of his back. It causes the fabric bunched at your waist to roll up further, revealing all of your bare thighs and thin panties to Boba. You’ve never felt more exposed.

This is happening, the excitement bubbles inside you to the point of making you tremble. You’re hyper-aware now, all of your senses on high alert and flooded with the man that is Boba Fett.

“What is your safeword, cyar’ika?” He rumbles between wet kisses on your neck, between the steady rock of his hips between your legs. Each impact has you gasping, the pleasure that his still clothed cock has against your still clothed pussy unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. It’s a more potent desire that has you aching for the main event: Boba nestled inside you, snug, tight, stretched.

“Mm... rancor.” You breathe before you lose yourself to your lust, any other words that were possibly on your tongue fizzling out like a dying star when Boba ruts against you, sudden and hard. It makes you squeal, that simple motion making a noticeable gush of slick dampen your inner thighs and panties. It’s seemingly an action that Boba found himself indulging in, as he pulls back with a growl and leaves you throbbing.

“You are too perfect, such a good girl.” The endearment makes you smile as bright as the stars, more so when Boba rasps, “My good girl.”

His lips meet yours again, this time tender and allowing you to suckle his bottom lip until he severs the connection. Honey brown eyes, heavy-lidded and lustful, meet yours and you’re lost in the dominance they hold. Truly, you’re beneath a King in his bed. Boba notices the star-struck look on your face and chuckles.

“Have you ever touched yourself, cyar’ika?” Boba murmurs huskily against the soft curve of your cheek, breath hot against your skin. Your entire body seems to flush, the question flooding your system with anticipation and embarrassment like a dam breaking. Bashfully, you dip your chin and avert your gaze, the answer on your tongue unreasonably mortifying.

Your entire life, you shared close quarters with people, sometimes many, sometimes few. There just hadn’t been the space nor privacy to do anything regarding sexual activity, personal or otherwise. Of course, others who were less inhibited than you did, but you were always too scared. The inexperience you feel is almost painful, and there’s that doubt inching to the surface again. Maybe I shouldn’t do this...

Evidently however, and what lifts your spirit from sinking to a very dark place, Boba seems to find this more than satisfactory. The hand he has on the flesh of your thigh tenses, his hips doing an almost involuntary jerk as he hisses a foreign curse. A look that can only be described as utterly ravaged settles on Boba’s face, something between desperate and horny.

“Sweet girl,” Boba rasps, supremely amused and something strained in there as well, “Is that a no?”

You nod slightly, and his hand moves from your chin, calloused fingers grazing your jaw, until his palm rests over your throat. Boba doesn’t put any pressure, but his hand is firm. You gasp when his thumb and pointer give your trachea a tentative, controlled squeeze and it compels you to bring your gaze back to his. Boba’s eyes lock with yours, his stare hard and appraising. Shockingly, you don’t find yourself bothered by the hand on your neck, not when it’s Boba, and all it does is send a delectable shiver straight to your core.

“Mesh’la. Use your words.” Boba isn’t asking, he’s commanding, and the gruff confidence in his voice makes your thighs clench together. You swallow, teeth pinching the inside of your cheek as you fumble for the words.

“Um... I— No, I haven’t.” Your reply pitches to a higher octave by the end of your sentence, and it feels like your face is burning with how embarrassed you feel. Boba notices and does away your self-inflicted shame by kissing your brow. When he meets your eyes again, there’s a soft look on his face, one that tells you words everyone should hear.

“There is no shame here, mesh’la. Allow me to show you.” His lips brush against your earlobe, then dip to your neck, then collar bone. He kisses at your burning skin, making goosebumps rise on your arms with each tender, important blessing of his lips. Boba isn’t lying, not as you sigh and moan beneath him, there truly is nothing to be embarrassed by.

What a wonderful teacher you’ve been given.

“Please, Boba.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, and you hold your breath when Boba’s hand smoothes over the top of your thigh, inching closer to your aching core. His fingertips reach where you have wet slick between your legs, and he smears it across your skin with a chuckle and a knowing look. Before you can respond in any sort of way, Boba cups your entire pussy with that hand so fast you jolt with a shriek. His fingers press against your folds, thick and warm, and his thumb hovers above your clit. Even through the fabric of your underwear, you feel every nerve ending get set ablaze.

“This,” Boba emphasizes by squeezing your mons Venus and pussy, making you moan, “Is the wet, sacred cunt I’ll be fucking tonight.”

Vulgarity aside, the possessiveness floors you and arouses you immensely, making the tense entrance of you flutter with need. You feel more of your juices seep out of your needy hole, needy for Boba, and you’re sure he feels it too. Boba does, and responds by rubbing his fingers on the wet blotch above your flowery lips, pressing harder to tease your entrance.

“Boba!~” His name passes your lips in a broken plea, and despite your arms being so tightly wound around the thick muscle of his neck, one of your hands shoots to grab his wrist. It’s all so overwhelming, you want to push the man away, and pull him in as far as he can go. You want those fingers to leave you, and you want them to make you cum again and again. Tears prick your eyes, and you’re not sure if it’s out of neediness and pleasure, or remnants of fear.

Boba rolls his fingers again, this time rolling the sensitive bud of your clit with his thumb, and the skyrocketing pleasure breaks you.

“Rancor!” The second the safeword leaves your lips is the second Boba’s hand yanks away from you as if he’s been burned. You squeeze your eyes shut to avoid looking him in the eye, at any look of disappointment or annoyance you think he may have. You’ve ruined the moment— the night— you just know it.

“I’m sorry!” You blubber, tears thick in your voice, “I don’t— There’s something wrong with me!”

A weeping shudder shakes you, makes you tremble beneath the man who’s silent above you. You hear him shift, the weight of him disappearing somewhat, and another round of gasping sobs consumes you as you think he leaves you until two strong hands roll you onto your side. Instinctively, you curl up on yourself, crying.

“Cyar’ika, breathe.” Boba’s comforting, sincere command comes alongside a firm hand rubbing down the length of your back, then up again. He brushes hair from off your face, tears off your cheeks, and the actions together ground you, pulling you from the dark place you fell into. Sniffling, you’re able to focus on Boba’s mass behind you, assuming he’s laying on his side just as you arm. Your balled up position loosens up, and a shaky sigh leaves you just as Boba places his arm on your waist.

Boba doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even implore you to open your eyes, just lets you gather your breath and holds you. The tenderness, the care, makes your aching heart swell. 

“It was...” You whisper after the long moment of comfortable silence, “A lot. Too much.”

Boba hums, rubbing circles on your back with one hand and circles on your tummy with the other. He tentatively pulls you closer to him, and you let him, not wanting him to feel as though he caused this. You’re still not quite sure what it was, head a bit too frazzled by a lot of contributing factors, but it certainly wasn’t Boba. 

“I’m sor—”

“No.” Boba cuts you off gruffly, his hands halting momentarily. You finally open your eyes, allowing them to adjust to the low lights before you hesitantly glance over your shoulder. Boba meets your gaze, his eyes the most expressive you’ve seen them. They say, above all else, “I’m sorry”. The sorrow in them makes you ache for him.

“You are at no fault. I overstepped— Went too far, did too much.” Boba goes to sit up and faster than you thought you could move, your hand reaches out to grab his wrist, the same one you had before. It stops Boba from moving any further, but he still keeps at a distance, like he doesn’t want to hurt you again. 

“It was too much, but it wasn’t truly unwelcome.” You whisper, tugging a little on his arm to beckon him to you again. Boba has settled an ache at your core, a deep throb in your soul that was just so intense it reminded you of the one other person that had ever made you feel this deeply. 

“I’ve only felt this... profoundly once before— With my dearest friend Varduhi. And now I feel it with you.” You explain, your heart soaring when Boba closes the gap between you, encompassing you with his warmth that he left you missing. He reaches up to cup your cheek and you smile, leaning into his rough palm. Boba’s other hand plants its weight on your hip, grounds you back to him. There’s no one else you’d want to be tethered to more.

“So it was your very runi that I touched?” Boba asks in that same low, husky tone he had when he asked you of your trust, the question so important he sealed it with your name. You’re not familiar with the foreign word, but you suppose it’s significance is correct judging by the way Boba leans in further, for a kiss that he doesn’t give— not yet, anyways.

“Yes.” You breathe, lips hovering just above his, doing that same dance Boba is. Perhaps there’s more here, not just some desire that he’s had for you or your painfully obvious attraction to him— but something else entirely. A teaching of not only sexuality and pleasure, but of intimacy and relationship— of learning to heal and love.

You wouldn’t want anyone else to guide you on this, so again, with truly no shame this time, you whisper, “Please, Boba.”

“My good girl.” Boba rumbles and then he’s on top of you, mouth molding to yours as he presses you into the pillows and the sheets. You moan into the deep, passionate kiss, the kindling flame within your core reignited into a blistering fire. Stars and fireworks and neurons alike all burst at the heat of Boba’s mouth, his tongue domineering yours which you accept gratefully.

Boba kisses with renewed fervor, greedily sucking at your lips and every gasp you release, teeth nipping when your tongue gets too presumptuous. When you pull away to breathe and blink back the stars in your vision, you smile, all glowy and hazy-eyed.

“I really like your kisses.” You say quietly, nimble hands gliding the length of his broad shoulders to rest your fingertips at the base of his squared jaw. Boba’s lips curl again into that smirk, the one that is all confidence and you begrudgingly accept that you’ve stroked his ego. He plants his lips to yours again, a deep open-mouth kiss that ends with a pop.

“Mesh’la,” He praises against your cheek as his hand once again slides up the skirt of your dress, and asks an implied question, “May I?”

Boba tugs gently at the fabrics, and you shiver, your hands leaving his shoulders to scramble for the lace tie holding your dress together. Your fingers find the bow and expertly undo the tie, your dress slackening on your body. Boba wastes no time in grabbing a fistful of your skirts and pulling, yanking the fabric off your shoulders. The bodice of your dress falls, baring your breasts to Boba, who stares so hungrily at them it makes you shiver.

“Sweet girl, you are more divine than all the deathless gods.” He rasps, his hand working at peeling your clothes further off your body as he leans in and kisses your sternum. Between the valley of your breasts, Boba sucks a mark into the soft skin, causing you to whimper. Never had you realized such attention would make you tingle with need, and when Boba pulls your dress from around your ankles, discarding it to the floor, the feeling grows tenfold.

Naked save for your panties, Boba leans back to ogle your body, an attention to it that suddenly makes you very self-conscious to how you look. Your hands back on his shoulders, you have half the mind to cover yourself, but before you can voice any apprehension, Boba pulls his black tunic off his torso. 

The bronzed skin of his broad chest and beefy arms are smattered in scars that range from aged silver ones to newer pink ones. The largest of which, reminding you of tendrils, wrap around his torso, curling on his chest and thick belly in raised, lightning-esque lines. Your mouth goes dry, you want to kiss each scar, the slight speckling of his dark chest hair, both his nipples, and most importantly his barrel belly and the faint happy trail you can see.

“You’re gorgeous.” You whimper, almost sobbing when Boba kisses you again and you can feel his skin against yours, rough in some areas but incredibly warm. Feeling his flesh against yours in all its flaws smothers all of your doubts about yours. 

No shame here, you think as you lose yourself in his taste, as his hand goes and cups one of your breasts, thick fingers catching your nipple between them.

“Boba!” You gasp his name when he rolls your tit in his palm, teasing your perk nipple with his fingers. He pinches it and you whine, arching your back into his body, hips brushing against his. Boba grunts when your core meets his half swollen erection, and he grabs your hips with one hand, holding it still. You whimper, wanting to seek out that pleasure from earlier, something promised if you were just allowed to move.

“Enough, little girl.” Boba teases upon watching you squirm under his immovable hold. He pushes your thighs apart with one knee, the hand he has on your breast still kneading its tender flesh. When the hand he has on your hip moves, and you gasp, he asks, “May I touch you, mesh’la?”

His fingertips ghost the plush of your mons Venus, teasing the crease where your inner thigh meets your hip. It’s where, before, the line had been crossed, where an emotional boundary had been tested. But you don’t think of that now, instead you remember the husky words Boba had said, the ones that claimed your … wet, sacred cunt… as his. You shiver at the memory.

“Yes.” You’ve spoken that word so many times tonight that the single syllable rolls off your tongue on an exhale. In an instant, Boba’s fingertips dip underneath the lace of your panties, glide through the coarse, damp hair of your sex, and brush along the wet lips of your cunt. You cry out, legs lifting when Boba eases his broad fingers between your folds, massaging them as he did earlier.

“So kriffing wet, mesh’la.” He groans, one finger stroking up and down the slit of your entrance and making you squeal. A flash of dirty pride crosses his face and he smirks, “And all for me.”

Boba takes initiative and rips your panties clean off your body, throwing the fabric to the floor and the second it’s out of his hand, his fingers are back on your cunt. You moan when Boba palms your flower, toes curling when two of his fingers focus on your quivering entrance. Combined with Boba’s working hand and the flush beneath your skin, the cradle of your hips is hot, steamy and wet like you never thought it could be.

“Yours!” You squeak, your hands trembling on his bare shoulders as Boba so carefully begins to push one finger into you. The stretch stings, brings tears to your eyes, but it's the wetness of your cunt and Boba’s consideration that eases the length of his entire finger into you. It has you almost weeping from pleasure, such a foreign feeling of having someone touch you like this.

“Easy,” Boba coos, that same, single word again— the one that makes your head spin, “I’ve got you, sweet girl.”

You cry out again, louder, when Boba curls his finger, rolls his knuckles against the tight, velvety walls of your cunt, and teases the part of you that makes a coil in your belly appear. He scissors his other fingers between your pussy lips as his thumb, once again, presses down on your clit. This time though, it’s even better, there’s no fabric to inhibit the rolling motion he does on that bundle of nerves. It all makes your hips jerk, you try to rut against his sturdy hand, but the firm hand on your chest moves to still your shaking hips.

“Look at you, cyar’ika, all desperate for this old man.” Boba states it like it's fact not opinion, and you’re in complete agreement. You nod, lips parted as airy moans pass them, and you can barely keep your eyes from rolling back as the coil grows tighter and tighter. Your thighs tense, calves on Boba’s waist stiffening. Desperately, you pull at him, wanting him closer, wanting more—

“Not so fast, mesh’la.” Boba pulls his hand from you and it feels like betrayal. You groan, upset at how close you were, how amazing it all felt until your impending orgasm was ripped from you like a rug from under your feet. Boba only chuckles at the pout on your face, lifting a hand to rub his thumb across your bottom lip. He pushes it into your mouth and you sigh, eyes fluttering as you swirl your tongue around it.

“Good girl,” Boba murmurs offhandedly when he pulls his thumb from your lips, “My good, sweet girl.”

His hand caresses your face then dips back to your breast and gives it a squeeze, making your body jolt. Boba’s eyes are near fully eclipsed by his pupils, blown so wide with so much hunger you feel as though you’re staring down a Loth Wolf as opposed to a man. He growls upon watching your back arch to his touch, and then he abruptly plunges two fingers straight into your cunt.

The intrusion and slight sting of the sudden stretch both have you shrieking, but no pain follows that would make you instinctively push away. Instead, knuckle deep inside your pussy, Boba’s fingers graze your clenching walls, each “Come hither” motion scraping his fingertips against the most sensitive parts of you. You cry out a garbled sound that is something like his name, legs spread wide, hips fighting against the hold Boba has on them, aching for more stimulation.

“Such a needy girl,” Boba tsks, hastening his fingers to give you what you want, and to loosen you for the main event as he mutters darkly, “I want you to cum on my fingers, girl.”

The gravelly command shakes you to your core, as does the third finger that’s slotted into your entrance, stretching you deliciously. Moans are escaping you at a near constant pace, leaving you breathy and slack-jawed, the coil in your belly being pulled tighter and tighter. The wet squelches that accompany Boba’s fast, skilled hand are so obnoxiously loud you think they echo off the room’s walls.

“Cum, now— Give it to me!” Boba growls through his teeth, the muscles of his jaw flexed and taut, and he doubles his pace, fingers pounding the spongy part of you that sings with pleasure each time they hit. You’re actively weeping his name, the two syllables like a prayer on your lips as more and more pressure mounts in your core. It’s as Boba’s thumb once again returns to your clit that the nerve endings ignite and you oblige to his command.

The noise that escapes you is something near animal, a primal squeal that lasts the duration of your orgasm. It strikes hard, tensing every muscle in your body until you’re quivering, each wave rippling an aftershock that clenches your cunt around Boba’s fingers— hard. He curses when a gush of your liquid sex glazes his hand in you, smearing on your inner thighs as he moves his hand to ride out your orgasm.

When the stars in your vision start to fade, all the endorphins leave you tingling with euphoria. 

“Look at that, sweet girl,” Boba praises, lifting his glistening fingers to his face where he admires his, and yours, handiwork, “The ambrosia of your sopping cunt.”

He licks one of his fingers, and as he begins to slot his hips with yours, pushes them into your mouth so that you can lick him clean. Through the tears of pleasure and happiness, you close your lips delicately around his fingers and suck, humming at the tangy and dewy taste of your release. Boba makes a noise of approval as you swirl your tongue around his fingers, and pulls them away from your lips with a wet pop.

“Good girl,” He murmurs and you watch in rising anticipation as Boba finds the waistband of his pants, hooking his fingers beneath the fabric. He pulls down his pants and underwear together, revealing more and more of his skin, then the tuft of dark hair upon his mons pubis, then his cock.

Boba’s cock, swelled to a prominent erection, is the largest dick you’ve ever seen. It bobs when he pulls it fully free from its cloth prison and you watch the movement of its swollen, red head and fat shaft. Boba strokes his length once, hissing as he does, and you swallow at the twitch of the heady vein on its underside. You let out a gasping sigh when Boba rests the bulbous tip against the wet lips of your sex, not moving or attempting to push in, but letting you ogle at its girth.

“Tell me you want my cock, sweet girl.” Boba grips the sides of your thighs and rocks his hips, parting your lips with the shaft of his member and making you squeal at the sensation. The tip rubs against your swollen clit and you moan wantonly, nails biting into Boba’s neck as your grip tightens on him. He rocks his hips again and again, keeping a shallow, steady grind that won’t go any further until you answer him.

“I want—” Boba rocks harder and you choke, “— your cock!”

He grinds a bit harder at that, and you cry out when his cock catches on your soaked entrance, teasing your pussy before Boba simply grinds against the entirety of your flowery cunt again. He’s drawing out the worst and sweetest of tortures, making you squirm and beg beneath him until you crumble into a million pieces. Your head lolls back, eyes fluttering to prevent tears from leaking down your face.

It all feels so good, Boba’s large hands digging into the plush of your thighs, the firmness of his pelvis grinding his hard cock against your core, the softness of the mattress and sheets under you— It’s all so good.

“Please, please, Boba,” Your broken whimpers are accentuated by your hands pushing him back and pulling him forward, “I’m— I’m a good girl.”

He groans at that, capturing your lips in his for a passionate, wet kiss. His balmy mouth consumes yours, the round tip of his nose digging into your cheek with the force of it. Boba, still grinding steadily, pulls back to take you in and a tender look settles on his face. A drip of sweat rolls down his temple when he says, quiet and gentle, “My good girl.”

And then on the next grind Boba is pushing his cock into your wet heat, and the feeling of a man consumes you. You scream, not out of pain or surprise, but of the pure pleasure that accompanies the aching stretch of your pussy adjusting to Boba’s member. His thick girth fills you to the brim, the velvety walls of your sex quivering around him, and as bottoms out, the blunt end of his cock hits your cervix. You feel Boba in your lungs, especially when he draws out, slow and easy, and pushes right back in by aid of the mess of slick your pussy is drenched in.

“Osik, cyar’ika,” Boba groans and hisses, his head dipping to rest his face against your shoulder as he thrusts again, “You’re tight.”

He takes your unintelligible whimpers as a sign that despite your tightness, you’re feeling nothing but pleasure, that fire in your belly roaring. He starts to move his hips faster, and you moan louder, gripping him tighter. Boba’s practically splitting you in half, your pussy gaped around his fat cock like a second mouth. You begin to weep actively now, tears of pleasure streaming down your cheeks at Boba’s unforgiving, grinding thrusts. He turns his head from the crook of your neck to kiss your parted lips, swallowing a whining sob with his tongue.

“You like this old man’s cock, little girl? This dirty, fat cock?” Boba hisses and you can barely hear him over the loud, obscene sounds of the squelch of your cunt and the slap of his balls against your ass. It’s all so much and you writhe, back arching when Boba angles his hips and hits a new, much more exciting place inside you.

“Yes!” You sob, eyes snapping wide when Boba hits that deepest place inside you, the gummy nodes of your cervix. His pistoning hips hit that place over and over, driving you into the bed and closer to your impending release. Your pussy clenches and flutters around Boba’s thick cock, resulting in him groaning and picking up the pace. After a sliver of quiet filled by your wanton moans and Boba’s grunts, he speaks.

“Cum. Give it to me, sweet girl.” One of his hands moves so that as he’s pounding you into oblivion, his thumb can roll circles on your sensitive bud. You whine loudly, hips bucking and breaking the rhythm before Boba gains control again. The rough pad of his thumb presses down on your clit, sending shockwaves through your body. Boba kisses your crying lips, pulls at your bottom lip, and the pressure in your core raises insurmountably.

“Let go, cyar’ika,” He murmurs against your cheek, and you hyperfixate on his voice above all the other noises in the room— the wet slapping, your own moans—, “Easy.”

Then you cum so hard your vision and hearing cuts out, and all you can sense is your cunt gripping Boba’s cock in a vice. You choke on the poignancy of your orgasm, almost not comprehending Boba’s lips that come smashing down on yours. He groans into your mouth, your pussy fluttering and clenching around his cock as it gushes your release on him, your thighs, and the bed. It takes only one more flutter of your cunt and one more thrust that Boba seizes, his body lurching to lock his hips to yours, and his cock erupts within you.

The foreign feeling of Boba’s member twitching and releasing spurt after spurt of hot cum inside of you manages to pull you back and you sigh, kissing his gaping lips. Boba’s shoulders heave beneath your hands, rocking slightly with the shallow thrusts he does to prolong his orgasm and shoot out all the spend his tight balls gave. You pull him flush against your body, hands rubbing the tense muscles of his back as a few, final rolls of his hips later, Boba stills with a low groan.

“Oh, Stars, Boba…” You moan, blinking away the wetness in your eyes, forehead pressed against his. Boba swallows, his eyes closed, and plants a soft kiss to your lips, which you return by kissing his cheek. When his eyes open, the satiated, calm, and happy look in their honey brown makes your heart soar alongside the tingling buzz in your body. Boba kisses you again, presses closer just so that you can whimper at the feel of his cock softening inside you, still big enough to stretch your cunt.

“I do have the chip, but I should have pulled out.” Boba frowns after he breaks the kiss, glancing at the mess of his sticky cum as he pulls from your body. When you look down too, pearly white lines of his cum are steadily seeping from your swollen cunt, a mess of it on your thighs as well. You whimper at the loss of him, and shake your head, hands scrambling to pull him close again. Desperately, you kiss his neck in a forgiveness that he doesn’t truly need— he’s done nothing wrong.

“It’s okay.” You whisper, pressing your lips to his, “I like it. Feels nice.”

Boba hums in amusement, one hand ghosting over your pleasantly aching cunt, which has you gasping at the feather-light touches. His fingers toy with your flowery pussy lips, scooping up his and yours releases onto a single finger. You watch in awe as he brings the glistening mess to your lips, a possessiveness on his face that floors you.

“Open.” He demands and you submit immediately, parting your lips so that Boba can slide his finger past your bottom lip and stick the mess of cum directly on your tongue. You moan softly, sucking at the flavor of his salty, earthy release and your own unique tang. Boba stares at you the whole time you tiredly suck at his finger, eyelids drooped low.

“Good girl, very good girl.” He praises after you’ve licked his finger clean, going to kiss you for all your effort. This kiss is slow and thoughtful, tender in a way that makes the afterglow of sex all the more sleepy. Boba doesn’t look as tired as you, but he rubs a soothing hand on your hip that practically urges you to sleep. He lays next to you, the mattress sinking under his weight, and pulls you close.

The combination of the praise and endearment, his tender touches, the warmth of his body, and the ache and wetness between your legs all makes you want to cry with the emotion you feel. Evidently however, when Boba lifts one hand to caress your cheek, he wipes away tears with his thumb and you realize you have started to cry. He pulls you in so that your head rests on his chest, nearest where his beating heart thumps in a strong, steady rhythm.

“Sweet girl.” He says, and in the murmur you can hear the question of “What’s the matter?” and the reassurance of “It’s okay” and after a few moments, you sniffle. Blinking back tears, you kiss the pec under your head, the broad muscle soft with relaxation. You meet Boba’s stare and smile tenderly.

“I’m okay, just…” You trail off, unsure of what word to exactly use to describe the absolutely world changing experience you’ve just had. Boba doesn’t speak or try to offer you a word that only might fit, and instead smoothes his hand up and down the slope of your hip. You sigh, nuzzling your face into the soft part of Boba’s neck, not really wanting to think over the buzzing ache of your cunt.

“I feel really nice.” You murmur into his skin and Boba’s chest vibrates with a chuckle, which makes you blush with minor embarrassment. He scoops his arm under your waist, his broad fingers splaying over your back.

“I would hope so,” He replies, kissing you when you lift your face, “I didn’t intend for you to feel anything but.”

The determination and pride in Boba’s voice makes you shudder, that familiar tone making your ruined pussy flutter weakly, but you suppose you should probably stop him before his ego grows too big. You giggle, smiling against his lips which nip at yours to guide you into another kiss. As he claims your mouth again, the sudden revelation of losing your virginity takes over your thoughts.

You pull back from the kiss abruptly, a frown curling your lips downwards before you can prevent it. Immediately, Boba asks in that gruff firmness, “What’s wrong?”

The question shouldn’t necessarily shock you, but it does throw you a tad off-guard considering there technically is nothing wrong. But the slight sting and sinking feeling in your chest doesn’t ebate, especially when you ponder on the topic a tad longer.

“No, nothing’s wrong, I just...” You trail off, tracing one of the scars on Boba’s chest with your fingers. His skin is warm beneath your touch, and you find the heat to be a very good distraction. He silently urges you to continue by pressing his hand flat against your back. Sighing, you purse your lips into a tight frown and half shrug.

“I just— I don’t know— I’ve been a... virgin... and now I’m just... not.” You finish lamely, unable to meet Boba’s stare, so you settle on watching the rise and fall of his chest. Under the dim light, you just now realize a sheen of sweat veils his skin, making him appear dewy. You wonder if you look much the same, glossy from sex.

It’s not that you’re ashamed of losing your virginity— how could you be with the pleasant ache between your legs and nestled in the arms of a man— of Boba Fett, but the feeling is like losing a pet. They’re there and with you and you have them for years, and then in one day (or night, in this case) they’re just... gone. It’s all a lot to take in at once.

“Virginity is only a concept, sweet girl,” Boba kisses your forehead, his hand raising to swipe baby hairs from your face, “It has no true reign over you.”

You exhale against his chest and nuzzle your face into the soft part of his pec, thick with muscle and fat. Boba holds your hand atop his heart, plants it to him like he’s welded it to his body. Of course you know this, the label is as superfluous as it’s importance is deemed highly revered by most cultures. But here, in Boba’s safe and warm arms and bed, to Hell with society.

“Well… I had a very wonderful time.” You giggle sheepishly, looking back up at a very pleased looking Boba, who hums nonchalantly but his eyes express that proud, confident look in them. Ever so slightly, the corner of his lips twitches upwards in a genuine smile, not the smirks from earlier, but something warm that shows in his eyes.

“I should be thanking you, sweet girl.” Boba replies, lips hovering just above yours in a way that makes you wait with bated breath. There’s that tone of promise again, an inkling that teases a very familiar coil inside of you. Boba’s mouth is on yours, open kissing you and messy, but slow. He swallows every little noise you make, hurries his tongue and gnashing teeth when your legs entwine with his.

“Boba.” His name passes your lips, in that same broken plea from earlier when his hands, as they are beginning to do now, touched and caressed all of the places that made you sing. You’ll let him do it again and again. Legs spread, skin touches, hands explore— in a matter of moments Boba has you whimpering and whining again, all desperation and need.

“Good girl,” He coos to you as he rolls back on top of you, snug and hot and tight between your legs, for your ready core,

“My good girl.”

[yurimother]

The Best Yuri of 2020

2020 was hell in every way, and many of us are looking forward to new possibilities and advances in 2021. However, the year brought us many small moments and gifts worth celebrating. Among these, the explosive growth and change within the Yuri genre are among the most precious and most outstanding achievements. This second century of Yuri opened with a bang, as phenomenal new works, creators, and moments made their mark and helped change the future genre.

This annual list is a celebration of just a handful of the fantastic titles, people, and events in Yuri. There are likely some even greater ones that did not make the list because there is so much content in both English and Japanese that even I cannot keep up. However, among the troves of treasure, these titles stood out as shining examples of Yuri excellence. Some were released this year, others were recently adapted into English, and still, others are established titles that rose to prominence to dominate the conversation and my mind this year, but every one of them is worthy of being on this list and in your heart.

Here is the Best Yuri of 2020!

15: The Curse of Kudan Remastered

Japanese Yuri visual novel developers show no sign of slowing down as they continue to push to new heights and try new ideas. These are the same amazing people who brought us the delightful educational Yuri game The Expression Amrilato and the hilarious and surprisingly queer OshiRabu: Waifus Over Husbando’s. However, this most recent release, The Curse of Kudan Remastered, is their best work yet. Released near Halloween, this game brings a new edge of dark mystery and the occult to Yuri audiences worldwide.

The Curse of Kudan is available on MangaGamer, JAST USA, Denpasoft, and Sekai Project.

14: Adachi and Shimamura

English audiences were finally treated this year to Hitoma Iruma’s long-running and wildly successful Yuri light novel series, Adachi and Shimamura. Although the story struggles to gain traction, dedicated readers’ have their patience rewarded with a sweet tale full of gay pining. Alternatively, you can jump into its stellar anime adaptation, with gorgeous visuals and realized characters you will actually be willing to put up with the annoying Yashiro just to see where the title characters go. The series shows no sign of slowing down either, as the manga adaptation is coming to Western audiences next year.

Adachi and Shimamura is available to stream on Funimation. The light novel series is published by Seven Seas - https://amzn.to/3rTSZTK

Honorable Mention: Happy Go Lucky Days

The OVA adaptation of Fragtime got most of the attention this year. Still, director Takuya Satou and Pony Canyon also gave us this much-overlooked “love is love” anthology movie based on Takako Shimura’s manga (Sweet Blue Flowers, Wandering Son). The first short in the film, “Happy,” is easily the best Yuri anime of the year. It follows the beautiful yet realistic queer love story of two women hooking up at a mutual ex-girlfriend’s wedding, only for the relationship to blossom and warm viewers’ hearts. Sadly, while stylized, the budget demanded the animation cut a few too many corners. Additionally, the subsequent stories are at best tedious and at worst alarmingly problematic, which is why Happy Go Lucky Days only gets an honorable mention.

The OVA is streaming on HIDIVE

13: Mieri Hiranishi

The Yuri scene has many colorful creators with a breadth of different ideas and stories in the genre, yet few have provided as much humor and joy as Mieri. This talented creator spectacularly tumbled into the scene with her manga essay The Moment I Realized I Wasn’t Straight, which embodies the brutal honesty and realism of Nagata Kabi and matches it with exaggerated hilarity. She continues to chronicle her painful struggles of being a butch girl in love with butch girls in the monthly series The Girl that Can’t Get a Girlfriend. Alternatively, you can follow her on Twitter for just as much heart and laughter.

Read The Girl that Can’t get a Girlfriend on Tapas and Webtoon.

12: My Next Life as a Villainess: All Routes Lead to Doom!

My Next Life as a Villainess has what can only be described as volcanic bisexual energy. Every character protagonist Catarina Claes encounters is entirely enthralled by her. Of course, she is far too preoccupied with her quest to avoid doom flags and change her ultimate fate to notice any romantic interest. The series is rewarding and well structured, as views are just as focused on how Catarina plans to avoid certain doom as they are with the various romantic misses her band of companions cooks up. While the “friendship ending” did not capitalize on its Yuri potential, it was perhaps the most satisfying possibility for this crazy harem, at least until season two comes out, which looks, unfortunately, to be significantly less queer.

My Next Life as a Villainess is streaming on Crunchyroll

11: Love Me for Who I Am

Kata Konayama’s manga series is less Yuri than a general LGBT work, but it has a lesbian character and explores her identity and struggles in great detail. Few titles before have captured the exciting and nervous waves of emotions that young people feel as they explore gender and sexual identities and try to find themselves. This heartfelt and extremely queer series rubberbands between cute moe dress up to tragic and gripping backstory, keeping readers on their toes the whole time.

Love me for Who I Am is published by Seven Seas - https://amzn.to/3rTSZTK

10: A Summer’s End – Hong Kong 1986

Oracle and Bone’s debut visual novel, A Summer’s End, is set in a vibrant and electric 1980’s Hong Kong. Drawing inspiration from classic Asian cinema, music, and fashion. The worlds of Michelle, a young office worker, and a free-spirited woman named Same collide. The two struggle to comprehend and accept each other’s feelings just as they struggle against society’s expectations and prejudices. An incredibly thoughtful and touching adventure, the creators incorporated vital contemporary elements include Asian LGBTQ rights and growing political unrest in Hong Kong, into this illustrious game.

The visual novel is available on Steam.

Honorable Mention: Goodbye, My Rose Garden

In the same vein as A Summer’s End, Goodbye, My Rose Garden is a beautiful period piece that incorporates LGBT views into its shattering narrative. The story follows a bright-eyed immigrant, Hanako, wanting to make a new life in England as an author at the dawn of the twentieth century. She takes a job as a maid to noblewoman Alice, but their relationship takes a turn when Alice asks Hanako to kill her. This poignant tale is beautiful and an honest depiction of love and its conflict with responsibility and society.

Goodbye, My Rose Garden is published by Seven Seas Entertainment - https://amzn.to/3hFSyaG

9: Shio Usui

Usui’s hit Shaikaijin Yuri manga Doughnuts Under a Crescent Moon could easily take this spot even though it is not even out in English until February 2021. The manga is already making waves and receiving constant praise. The characters and their journey to discover love and self-acceptance are as charming as they are relatable and grounded. However, it is the creator, Usui, who really deserves acclaim. Not just for their work on Doughnuts, but having a second serialized story, Onna Tomodachi to Kekkon Shitemita, in monthly Yuri magazine Comic Yuri Hime simultaneously. It is even more remarkable when you consider these two iconic stories are Usui’s first long-running works, as they only contributed one-shots before.

8: Bloom Into You: Regarding Saeki Sayaka

Bloom Into You is possibly the most iconic Yuri series in the past decade, and while the manga deserves its own place on this list, the best thing to come out of the series as a whole is easily the light novels. This trilogy by Adachi and Shimamura creator Hitoma Iruma dives deep into supporting cast member Sayaka. Readers are treated to a delightful journey as she discovers her sexuality, experiences heartbreak, and finally finds herself breaking free and falling in love. With the help of gorgeous illustrations by Nakatani Nio herself, Iruma masterfully captures Sayaka’s unique voice and emotions in this wonderful series. Whether a fan of the originals or not, every Yurijin must check out Regarding Saeki Sayaka.

The light novel series is published by Seven Seas - https://amzn.to/3hFSyaG

7: Our Teachers are Dating

The best a Yuri can get. This workplace romance follows two teachers at the start of a new relationship taking nervous yet enthusiastic first steps, including saying I love you, going on their first date, and even sleeping together. It is so heartfelt and salacious that readers will squeal the whole time. Additionally, our heroines are supported in their relationship by everyone they know, their students, colleagues, and even the principal. It is a perfect world for these two lovebirds! Our Teachers are Dating would easily be number one or two in any other year, but the competition is fierce in 2020. So even though this is only number seven, it is still a master class Yuri manga.

The manga is published by Seven Seas Entertainment - https://amzn.to/38XY3O9

6: Amongst Us

Who would have thought that a comedy alternative universe story spinoff of a fantasy action series would be the single best Yuri webcomic this year? Shilin’s astounding artwork illustrations the hilarious and irresistible journey of girlfriends Blackbird and Veloce. These two eccentric young women get into all kinds of everyday mischief that bounces between tender and touching romance, completely outrageous comedy, and downright thirst-inducing sorcery. Seriously, you should buy the first volume for Veloce’s back muscles alone. The storyline skips between time, but both their established relationship and their meeting as teenagers are adorkable and captivating.

Amongst Us is available online free on Webtoon and the comic’s website. The first volume is in paperback on Shilin’s site.

Honorable Mention: Éclair

There are a lot of Yuri anthologies out there, and they have done some beautiful things. Many focus on themes like Syrup. Others collect a series of stories by an author into one bound work. However, out of all of them, Éclair is the most successful. ASCII Media Works took some of the genre’s most extraordinary creators and let them do whatever they wanted, and the results are spectacular. The incredible talent behind Éclair somehow packs a full volume’s worth of story and character into just a few pages with every chapter. While the first volume came overseas a few years ago, Yen Press gave Yurijin a gift this year by releasing the entire rest of the series in which readers can get lost.

The anthology series is published by Yen Press - https://amzn.to/38XY3O9

5: I’m in Love with the Villainess

A small trend of isekai Yuri with villainesses emerged recently, and I honestly had few hopes of I’m in Love with the Villainess. The series is pretty popular, but I often find that this does not denote quality, and with isekai having some institutional issues, I suspected this would fall flat. Then the volume three cover showcased an incredible accomplishment, allowing for a lesbian relationship to blossom into a family with children, and it blew me away. Finally, I read volume one and realized that the series has incredible character, some of the best world-building I have ever seen in a light novel, thoughtful discussions of inequality and societal issues, and most impressively, open and frank discussion of queer identity and life Yuri has ever seen! This one is something special.

The series is published by Seven Seas Entertainment - https://amzn.to/3nedvdZ

4: The Last of Us Part II

Yes, I know this one is not Yuri and that a portion of the population despises this game and will likely be exceptionally angry at me for including it. However, I maintain that it was an incredibly challenging masterpiece. Naughty Dog did not take the easy route out and delivered one of the most devastating media experiences I have ever seen. As I said in my article about the game, playing it changed me, and it sticks with me to this day. The Last of Us Part II earns its spot on this list because it pushed boundaries more with LGBTQ inclusion than any other AAA game. From brave inclusion of LGBTQ themes to queer characters and storylines at its center, the game changes gaming and it will never go back.

The Last of Us Part II is available on PlayStation 4

3: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power

She-Ra feels like the culmination of all the LGBTQ progress western cartoons have made over the past few years. From The Legend of Korra to Steven Universe, young people are finally seeing more LGBTQ people represented on the small screen. This epic fantasy concluded with an amazing and powerful lesbian romance, delivering on its queer promise and revolutionized representation in a trope-defying crescendo.

She-Ra and the Princesses of Power is streaming on Netflix

2:  The Conditions of Paradise

The greatest single Yuri work of all in 2020 was the English release of Akiko Morishima’s breakthrough manga, The Conditions of Paradise. Initially released in 2007, this anthology detailed the love between adult women. It was in every way a manga ahead of its time, and seeing it finally get a small piece of the recognition it deserves overseas is a true gift. The fact that we can own this legendary piece of Yuri history and Morishima’s other anthologies is nothing short of a blessing from the Yuri goddess.

The Conditions of Paradise is published by Seven Seas Entertainment - https://amzn.to/38bh4xq

Honorable Mention: Otherside Picnic

This eerie sci-fi horror series combines the best of pulse-pounding thrillers, complex and intelligent hard science fiction, and exciting Yuri romance. Author Iori Miyazawa spends as much time crafting a well-paced and intriguing narrative about a mysterious world where occult creatures roam as he does establishing two believable and grounded heroes in Sorawo and Toriko. The romance between the two may be slow to start, but their chemistry is undeniable and as the stakes and story build, so too does their relationship. Not only are the light novels incredible, but the series’ manga adaptation is coming soon to the West as well as an upcoming TV anime in early 2021.

Otherside Picnic is streaming on Funimation. The light novels are published by J-Novel Club - https://amzn.to/3niiv1g

1. Yuri subgenres

For a long time, Yuri was not a genre of its own, but elements of romances or bonds between women found in other works. Now, thanks to an increasing library of works, the advent of social media, and a wider audience, Yuri is a genre on its own, with many creators telling different stories in different styles. However, 2020 saw the continued emergence of something extraordinary, subgenres. Yuri is now so vast, we can actually categorize the works within. Depending on their characters, like classic schoolgirl romances or spicy shakaijin office affairs, their world, such as fantasy or isekai series and thrilling science fiction adventures, and even other elements within. One of my personal favorites is the feminist Yuri that emerges from titles like Sexiled, where women celebrate the accomplishments of other women and dismantle power structures stacked against them. Now, no matter what kind of Yurijin you are, there is something for you to love.

I am happy to leave 2020 behind, but I bring with me a renewed love and admiration for Yuri. 2021 looks to be a somehow even better year for the genre, and I am thrilled to experience every minute of it that I can. Yuri has transformed into something far greater than I ever thought it would be, and let us all enjoy its evolution and expansion together in 2021.

[lastsonlost]

Monica Young always dreamed of being a teacher despite grim school years

She claims she was bullied, sexually assaulted and ostracised as a teenager

And yet, she went on to sexually assault a 14-year-old three months into teaching

She claims boyfriend at the time was abusive and his family didn't accept her

But he says the allegations are false - and even vows to still 'be there for her'

Monica Young always dreamed of becoming a teacher despite years of classroom bullying, sexual abuse in the playground and struggling with her grades.

And yet, within three months of landing her dream role at an all-boys school in Sydney's southwest, she started to groom and sexually abuse a 'vulnerable' 14-year-old boy.

The 24-year-old was sentenced in the New South Wales District Court on Wednesday after pleading guilty to three counts of aggravated sexual intercourse with a minor.

Throughout the proceedings, the court heard details of her lonely six years of high school, beginning in grade seven when she was sexually assaulted by a peer.

There was little sympathy for the convicted child abuser as she was led to her cell on Wednesday to begin her four year and nine month sentence, but Judge Kate Traill told the court she was given an insight into the root cause of the offending.

Young struck up a relationship with the boy at the school where she was employed as his teacher, groomed him online and eventually encouraged him to have sex with her - on and off campus - on several occasions.

He was too young to give consent and has since told the court the offending ruined his life.

The boy was forced to drop out of school after his peers found out, and his relationship with his brother, parents and extended family has been strained by the proceedings.

The court heard that Young admitted to knowing the feeling. When she was aged 12 and in grade seven, a boy of a similar age sexually assaulted her by pulling her by the ponytail to his crotch area, and holding her face there.

She reported the assault and the boy was subsequently expelled from school.

But her peers, she claims, bullied her incessantly for 'being a snitch' after the assault and the court heard Young struggled to make any friends at school in the years to follow.

One of her only friends came when she was in year 12 and studying for her HSC with dreams of becoming a school teacher.

The friend was a boy two grades younger than her who repeated year 10 because he struggled academically. He sought her out and what begun as a tutoring dynamic developed into a close friendship.

Eventually the duo became involved romantically, but his traditional Lebanese, Muslim family never approved.

Young agreed to a bureaucratic conversion to Islam in an attempt to gain their trust and with that came concessions for the relationship. She was able to begin sleeping in the same room as her partner and travelling away on holidays together.

They later got engaged and Young was again on the outer with his family, the court heard.

A traditional Islamic ceremony took place, but the court heard the union is not recognised in Australian law.

Young's lawyer claims the relationship soured when her partner began cheating on her, took control of her finances, isolated her from friends and family and 'became abusive'.

He denies the allegations, telling Daily Mail Australia he has 'the utmost respect for women' and only ever treated Young the same way he would want his mother or sister to be treated in a relationship.

Despite the serious claims levelled against him, Young's ex maintains he will continue to offer her support even while behind bars - and despite the fact that she is now single.

But he won't be paying her a visit any time soon, acknowledging inmates get little time to accept visitors and that her immediate family deserve priority access to her.

The court previously heard that Young was not particularly bright, exemplified by her Higher School Certificate ATAR score of just 44.

That mark is just 14 points shy of a 'mystery mark' - a black dot which is generally issued on the testamurs of students who score 30 or below.

Most teaching degrees in Australia have a minimum ATAR acceptance ranking of about 65, but schools have been known to accept lower scores in recent years.

Young's lawyer, Margaret Cunneen SC, previously told the court she would not be considered a 'mature person' for somebody her age and struggled to develop both academically and socially.

Read the raunchy texts Young sent her victim begging for sordid hook-ups before having sex with the boy in the school's stairwell - and even a classroom while the rest of the year nine class watched DISNEY

Young initiated contact with the boy on Snapchat, sending him a message which asked him to 'send pics' in exchange for provocative photos of herself, the NSW District Court's agreed set of facts reveal.

She would also FaceTime the year nine student as she performed sex acts on herself.

Young struck up a relationship with a boy who she taught six times a fortnight in geography, PDHPE and science when they began communicating closely because of the Covid lockdown which shut the school.

On one occasion, she messaged him asking him to hug her at school the next day, and when he didn't, she sent a follow up accusing him of 'not having the balls'.

The dare became a frequent tactic Young used to convince the boy to lure the boy into sexual liaisons.

On another occasion, she sent a message which read: 'It's dangerous if we get caught, but if you do it it'll be worth it'.

The duo exchanged messages about the sex acts they wanted to perform on each other, with Young initiated the 'sexting' on several occasions.

The most brazen of her offending occurred inside the school's classrooms, once where she messaged her victim to meet him in an English room to perform a sex act on him, and a second time where she groped the boy at the back of the classroom while the rest of the year nine class watched Disney movie, WALL-E.

During the movie, a friend of the boy even sat on the other side of him as the sex act took place.

The victim was also encouraged to lie about his whereabouts, telling his mother on one occasion he stayed back late at school to get help on an assignment, and even skipped afternoon classes to spend time with Young.

On the last day of school, the duo met on the staircase at 3.20pm to kiss goodbye, and Young performed oral sex on the 14-year-old.

She then returned to the staff room, the statement of facts read.

When she finally landed her first job at an all boys high school in Sydney's southwest, she was a new graduate specialising in PDHPE, a coveted role among teachers.

Instead, she was assigned 23 geography classes, with a smattering of science and PDHPE classes.

When she took to the stand during her sentencing hearing two weeks ago, she admitted to being overwhelmed by the workload.

Young didn't want to admit she was struggling and ask for help, so she did her best to stay one page ahead of her students by studying the textbooks and teachers' notes each night before class.

Within three weeks, the Covid pandemic closed the schools and Young, along with all of her students, was forced online.

It was during this time that the line between student and teacher was 'criminally blurred', and after years of struggling to bond with people her own age, Young claims she befriended her victim.

But there was no 'friendship'. The boy admitted in a victim impact statement supplied to the court that he never expected Young could hurt him and that he learned to trust her.

To him, she was the 'cool' teacher.

She sought him out on Snapchat and the relationship progressed from there. At one point, there was a group chat between Young, the victim and his friend, the court heard.

They had sex on multiple occasions between June 24 and July 6 2020, including at least twice on the school's grounds and once in her car at a local park.

On one occasion, she messaged him asking him to hug her at school the next day, and when he didn't, she sent a follow up accusing him of 'not having the balls'.

The dare became a frequent tactic Young used to convince the boy to lure the boy into sexual liaisons.

Teenage sexual abuse victim reveals how his life was 'ruined'

In a victim impact statement read to the court, the boy described how his relationship with his brother, parents, only friend and cousin deteriorated when they found out about his relationship with Young.

The boy said he 'feels like a failure who let his entire family down' and has only recently realised the extent of the abuse.

'He says the offender has ruined his dreams… ruined his school and his relationship with his family and friends and trust in others and ruined his life,' Judge Traill said.

The court heard the boy constantly hears his parents bicker and blame each other for not noticing the abuse sooner.

His brother 'hates him for embarrassing him in front of his friends at school' and the victim says he can no longer go on family holidays due to a strained relationship with extended family.

The victim never returned to the school he once loved because all of his peers were aware of the court case, and he is now enrolled at TAFE, despite once having aspirations of becoming a physiotherapist.

'He struggles to smile about anything anymore,' the court heard.

On another occasion, she sent a message which read: 'It's dangerous if we get caught, but if you do it it'll be worth it'.

The duo exchanged messages about the sex acts they wanted to perform on each other, with Young initiated the 'sexting' on several occasions.

The most brazen of her offending occurred inside the school's classrooms, once where she messaged her victim to meet him in an English room to perform a sex act on him, and a second time where she groped the boy at the back of the classroom while the rest of the year nine class watched Disney movie, WALL-E.

During the movie, a friend of the boy even sat on the other side of him as the sex act took place.

On the last day of school, the duo met on the staircase at 3.20pm to kiss goodbye, and Young performed oral sex on the 14-year-old.

At the beginning of her sentencing hearing, she tearfully told the court: 'I just never imagined I'd be one of those people… I've never been in trouble with the law. I hope he and his family can forgive me.

'I was foolish.'

She wrote an apologetic letter to the victim and his family in which she said she regrets letting the relationship progress and understands that both her victim and his family will carry the trauma of the offence 'for the rest of their lives'.

'I knew it was wrong, I knew my actions were inappropriate but I couldn't let myself believe it,' she said. 'He trusted me and I abused that trust.'

On Wednesday, the court agreed.

Judge Kate Traill described her offending as a 'violation of trust' before delivering her sentence. Young will be eligible for parole on October 31st, 2023.

'[You] exploited his vulnerability and manipulated him,' Judge Traill said.

Young was ultimately sentenced to four years and nine months' custody, but with time served she will be eligible for parole in a little more than two years.

She will never be employed as a teacher again, and Judge Traill acknowledged she would need to be reintegrated into the community and her life post-sentence.

'But for these very serious offences she is a very impressive young lady… she was in a very bad relationship and made very bad decisions,' Judge Traill said.

[space-pot8o]

Inspired by a post by @toedenandbackagain

The advertisements were how they found each other, every once in a while, when the world changed too quickly. The newspaper was the only form of media to remain consistent. There was just too many ways to communicate now, Crowley thought. He’d had a hand in creating the internet, and now the humans were so invested even he could barely keep up with it.

Of course, he had a cell phone, but Aziraphale didn’t. He’d already tried the bookshop’s landline to no avail. It was like the angel was allergic to any technology made after the mid-nineteenth century.

He paid the man at the newspaper stand, scooping up a paper and opening it to the personal adverts as he wound through the crowd. He barely needed to pay attention to where he was going; people just seemed to veer out of his way.

Halfway down the page, he found what he was looking for.

Angel will be feeding ducks at St. James’ Park on Monday at 10am. Company would be appreciated.

“Found you,” Crowley muttered. Or at least, he hoped. The last time he’d been wrong, it had been the most awkward of situations. It was… well, let’s just say there was a reason Crowley didn’t respond to adverts that fit his physical description anymore. Or those looking for an ‘evening companion’, as much as that sounded like a term Aziraphale would use. No, he only responded to ones that specifically said ‘Angel’ now. Less chancy.

Crowley glanced at his watch, the shimmery dark face reading quarter to ten.

“Perfect,” he murmured, snapping the newspaper shut and tucking it under his arm. Aziraphale might like to read it, he supposed. He also supposed that perhaps he should stop talking aloud to himself so much.

Thirteen minutes later, Crowley arrived at St. James’ Park. In the distance, on the bench where they usually met, sat a prim figure with a shock of light hair and a cream colored jacket. One side of his mouth drew back in a grin as he sauntered over, keeping his eyes on the ducks in the pond as he came up beside the bench.

“That one was a bit obvious, don’t you think, angel?”

“It’s Angela, actually.”

Crowley froze, turning to look at the person sitting on the bench, who was not in fact Aziraphale but instead an old lady with pinned up white curls and a glimmer of mischief in her eyes.

“Oh, I suppose I must have mistyped it when I was sending it into the newspaper. I just can’t get the hang of these computers.”

Crowley blinked, glancing around uncomfortably as the shock began to pass.

“I think I’ve answered the wrong advert,” he said, taking a step backwards.

“Oh,” the lady said, her face falling a bit. “Well you’re here, would you like to feed the ducks with me, anyway?”

Crowley hesitated. As disappointed as he was that it wasn’t his angel, there was something compelling about her.

“Well alright, I suppose,” he heard himself say as he sank down onto the bench beside her.

“Here you go, dear,” she said, handing him a chunk of bread from the bag beside her. He accepted it as she threw a handful of crumbs into the water.

“My best friend Peggy just passed away, you see, and feeding the ducks used to be a regular outing for us, especially as we got older. I only put the ad in the paper because I don’t have too many friends left and I’m just at such a loss without Peggy.”

She gave Crowley a sideways glance.

“It seems to me you feel the same way without whoever you meant to meet here, your angel, considering how disappointed you were to find me instead.”

Crowley gave a noncommittal shrug, shifting uncomfortably. She was right, of course, but he wasn’t going to admit that.

“The ducks seem to like you though, don’t they?” Angela continued. “Do you come here often dear? I swear they remember faces. They would certainly remember Peggy every time, though I think she was coming here to feed them long before we started coming together.”

She threw a bit more bread in the water.

“Oh, that reminds me.” She reached for her bag. “Would you like a sandwich, dear?” I brought an extra, it was always for Peggy, she was always running around and I swear she would never stop to eat unless I made her.”

She pulled out a paper-wrapped square, which Crowley accepted reluctantly. He would have refused, but there was something in the woman’s eyes that warned him against fighting too hard.

He unwrapped the paper, revealing a ham and cheese sandwich on good homemade bread. He took a bite to be polite, and Angela smiled.

“There’s a good boy. You’re quite a skinny one, aren’t you? You remind me of Peggy’s husband when he was young, only you’re much taller. Of course, that was before the war.” She trailed off, tossing another handful of bread to the eager ducks.

Crowley took another bite of the sandwich, surprising himself. Usually Aziraphale was the only one who could get him to eat.

“I just realized I never got your name, dear,” Angela said, turning back to look at him.

“Anthony,” he replied after a moment, deciding Crowley would be too hard to explain. “Though not many people call me that.”

“Oh yes,” Angela replied. “I know how that is. My given name is Angela, but I’ve never met someone who didn’t call me Angie instead.”

Crowley nodded. Nicknames were such a human thing, he thought. You have one name but everyone just calls you something else.

“Some people have called me Tony,” he said slowly, trying not to show his distaste. “You could call me that instead.”

Angie glanced over, her eyes shrewd.

“You don’t strike me as a Tony,” she replied. “Anthony suits you just fine, I think.”

Crowley relaxed a bit at her words.

“One of Peggy’s friends had a son named Anthony,” Angie continued. “Now he was someone better suited as a Tony. I always felt the name Tony was meant for a troublemaker, but that doesn’t seem like you at all. But young Tony, he can’t seem to stay out of trouble. I think he does it on purpose. No, you’re much too polite to be a Tony.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. Where had this woman been for the last six thousand years? Under a rock? Crowley, polite. What a concept. Though, he supposed, Aziraphale would likely agree with her.

“My angel keeps telling me I’m a good person,” he said, tossing some bread into the pond. “I’m not inclined to believe it, though.”

“Why ever not?” Angie replied. “You seem perfectly nice to me.”

Crowley did his best to ignore the uncomfortable prickle her words sent over his skin.

“My job… it requires me to do some things, that most people would agree, do not make me a nice person.”

Angie was silent for a moment.

“And it’s not like I hurt anyone, of course not,” Crowley continued. “I just… inconvenience them.”

“Does it bother you?”

“What?” He jerked his head up.

“Does it bother you,” Angie repeated, “That you do these things? That some people might think you’re bad?”

Crowley blinked, truly stumped for the first time in four hundred years.

“I mean, it’s my job,” he replied. “It’s who I am.”

“Oh, psh,” Angie replied, waving her hand. “I can’t even count anymore the number of times I’ve had this very conversation with Peggy. Her job always had her doing these questionable, dangerous things. I’m not sure her employers cared about the means as long as she got to their end. It wore on her, too. But you are not defined by your job, you are defined by what you care about. Now I’ll ask you again, does it bother you?”

“I suppose it bothers me that I don’t feel like I live up to my angel’s view of me,” he admitted. And it was true. He never felt as good on the inside as Aziraphale seemed to think he was.

“Well then, there you are. Bad people, truly bad people, don’t care about being better. So from what you’ve just told me, that proves you’re not a bad person.

Crowley froze again as her words washed over him. Never, in all his time on earth or in hell, had he ever considered that. He still wasn’t inclined to believe her, but she said it with such conviction that he couldn’t help but wonder if it was true.

Angie glanced at him again, her gaze shrewd but soft.

“Surely if that’s what I see, your angel sees it too.”

It was all Crowley could do to nod.

They sat together a while longer, Angie telling stories about the trouble she and Peggy got into after the war. Crowley nodded and made the appropriate remarks required for polite conversation, and he found himself actually enjoying her stories.

All these years, he’d never bothered to connect with a human. They seemed so dull, and their lives were over so quickly. He hadn’t thought it was worth it. Besides, he had Aziraphale and that friendship was plenty for him.

About an hour later, their stock of bread was finally depleted. The ducks, of whom a great number had congregated on the water before them, began to disperse once they realized the supply of treats had run dry.

Angie dusted off her coat, watching the ducks swim away with a sigh. Crowley glanced at her, but her gaze was fixed across the pond somewhere in her memories.

“I know I wasn’t who you were hoping to meet,” she told him. “But I am glad to have met you. You’ve made me feel a bit less lonely just when the world was starting to seem big and empty. Thank you, Anthony, truly.”

He shifted in his seat.

“Well I suppose… well, I could meet you here again. If you’d like.”

“I would,” Angie said, her blue eyes misty as she gave him an enormous smile. “Same time next Monday?”

Crowley gave her a nod, stretching out his legs as she stood.

“Goodbye, Anthony. See you then.”

He watched her totter off down the path until she was out of sight, then turned back towards the water. What an odd turn of events, he thought. What she’d said to him ran through his mind as he sat there, waiting to see if perhaps his angel would still show.

For the next seven Mondays, without fail, Crowley would meet Angie at the park to feed the ducks and listen to stories about her life. She enjoyed talking about her adventures with her friend Peggy more than anything, which Crowley was surprised to find sounded a lot like some of his adventures with Aziraphale; In particular, one dicey evening involving a church, some German spies, and a few rare books.

One morning, on the eighth Monday in fact, Crowley was early. He sat on their usual bench, waiting for Angie to appear around the corner, when he felt a presence beside him. He turned his head slightly to the right, just enough to see a flash of cream coat, and his mouth tugged into a grin.

“Hello, Angie,” he said, turning his eyes back to the pond.

“Hello, my dear Crowley.”

Crowley froze. He knew that voice, and it certainly wasn’t Angie.

“Trying out a new nickname, are we?”

He whipped his head around to see Aziraphale standing there, looking ethereal in the morning light.

“Er, no,” he replied. “What are you doing here?”

“I was walking by and I saw you sitting alone. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, angel,” he replied, the words coming out a bit harsher than he intended. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t really want to tell Aziraphale about Angie.

“Alright,” Aziraphale replied, his face falling the tiniest bit. “I’ll leave you be. I’ll be at the bookshop later, if you feel like catching up. Perhaps we can get a bite to eat.”

“No wait, I’m sorry, you don’t have to go,” Crowley straightened abruptly, catching Aziraphale’s sleeve.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to disturb you.”

“Sit down, angel.”

Aziraphale took a seat beside him, settling in as he always did.

“Are you quite sure you’re alright?” He asked again, glancing at Crowley worriedly.

“I’m fine, I told you. I just come here sometimes to¬—”

“Anthony! There you are.

Crowley’s adrenaline spiked again as he turned to see Angie making her way up the path towards them.

“I see you’ve brought a friend today. I wish you would have warned me so I could have made an extra sandwich. Here’s yours, by the way— honestly, do you live on air, Anthony? You’re still so skinny.”

She paused for breath and handed him the paper wrapped sandwich.

“It’s nice to meet you, I’m Angie,” she said as she took her seat on his left, reaching out her hand to Aziraphale.

He shook it, his expression still dumbfounded as he glanced back and forth between the two of them.

“Angie, this is my friend, Aziraphale,” Crowley told her.

“A.Z. Fell? Oh, you own that lovely little bookshop in Soho, don’t you? I’ve been meaning to stop in there for ages, but it never seems to be open when I drop by.”

Crowley could sense Aziraphale relaxing at the mention of the bookshop, and he let out a quiet breath of relief.

“Here you go, Anthony dear, I daresay these ducks have waited long enough,” she said, handing him a chunk of bread.

He threw some in the water, handing a piece to Aziraphale as well.

“Oh, here comes that swan again,” she told him, throwing bread in the opposite direction from where the white monstrosity was silently gliding towards them.

Aziraphale tossed his crust of bread towards it, and the giant bird slowly began to sink. He jabbed Crowley in the side with his elbow, and the swan resumed bobbing on the surface.

“You know, two weeks ago that naughty bird came right up and stole my bread bag right out of my hand. Anthony jumped right up and tried to get it back, and the poor dear almost fell in the pond! It was quite a sight, though, to see him fighting a swan in the middle of St. James’ park.” She let out a laugh. “But he’s always doing such nice things like that, he chased my hat when it flew away and he’s always helping me around puddles and such.”

Crowley sank a bit lower in his seat, his ears reddening as he saw a small smile of amusement on Aziraphale’s face.

“Cr—Anthony is such a nice person, I tell him all the time but he doesn’t believe me,” Aziraphale replied, casting a kind look at Crowley, who was presently trying to sink through the bench and the ground and down to somewhere he could escape this embarrassment.

He shot an irritated look at Aziraphale, who simply smiled back.

“Oh that reminds me, Anthony, I brought this for you,” Angie said, reaching into her bag to pull out a long, cream colored scarf. “It’s getting colder every day and you’re all skin and bones, you must get dreadfully cold and I don’t want you getting sick.”

Crowley took the scarf, reluctantly looping it around his neck. Aziraphale’s amused smile returned as Crowley shot him a look— one he knew the angel would understand even if he couldn’t see his eyes, that dared him to say anything about it.

Of course he wouldn’t get sick, but he wasn’t going to tell Angie that, nor was he going to hurt her feelings. She continued telling stories and Crowley began to relax as Aziraphale joined in the conversation. He smiled, thankful that the worst of the awkwardness had passed. He threw a handful of bread to the ducks, only half paying attention to the conversation for a few minutes until Angie leaned forwards a bit towards Aziraphale, reaching over to pat his perfectly manicured hand.

“I’m so glad he finally brought you to meet me, my dear. Of course, he’s told me so much about his angel I feel as though I know you already.”

Crowley’s eyes widened behind his glasses. He didn’t dare look at Aziraphale, though he was sure the angel’s smile mirrored Angie’s.

“Ngh,” he said, crossing his arms and shifting uncomfortably, wishing very much in that moment that he was elsewhere.

“Oh, you’re just like Peggy,” Angie chastised. “She was always so easy to rile. Very well, I’ll leave it alone if only so you stop looking like you’re trying to hide inside yourself. Here, feed the ducks some more.” She handed him another piece of bread, which he accepted.

“But really, Mr. Fell, you’ll have to tell me more about this knitting club. I could always use more good friends like Anthony.”

Aziraphale obliged as Crowley sat and listened, nodding and replying every once in a while as would be polite in a conversation between friends. The three of them sat happily on that sunny Monday morning and fed the ducks, as they did on every Monday that came after.

[gleekto]

Fic: Crush Into Me (21/22)

 Summary:  Third year NYADA student, Kurt, returns to Lima for an internship coaching the Glee club. The leather jacket and eyebrow ring-clad senior, Blaine, thinks he’s cute.

slightly older teacher-ish!Kurt/ badboy!Blaine

One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty

Day Twenty-One (Blaine) (word: Work and Rise is in here unintentionally!):

Blaine’s eyes open and his clock is blinking at him that it’s 8:30am. He feels hot all over and a bit sore. He turns to go back to sleep but there is someone in his bed. Kurt. In only his boxers. 

It’s Sunday morning after they won sectionals. And he and Kurt had sex. And a sleepover apparently. Fortunately his parents are away until tonight. Kurt is curled up in a ball, sleeping peacefully on the other side of the bed. It gives Blaine enough time to brace himself. Last time they had only kissed and it led to days of Kurt’s friendship turning to cool neutrality, made better only by a gentleman’s truce to cooperate and win. And now the high of winning had led to so much more than kissing. Blaine readies himself for a quick goodbye and a thank you, with barely an acknowledgment next week in Glee club. He’ll have to manage.

Blaine knows it’s his fault and he knew what he was getting himself into. He told Kurt that there were no strings attached. He’s sure Kurt wouldn’t have agreed to come home with him if there had been. It was worth it - God, last night was incredible. Better than Blaine’s wildest fantasies. And most of all, Kurt was open and into it and into him. Blaine could feel it in the way he looked him in the eyes and in his touch. The connection was real, however fleeting, and Blaine could never regret it. Still, ripping off this band aid is going to sting. He stands up and grabs a t-shirt. This is not a moment he wants to be half naked for.

“Blaine?” Blaine’s shuffling has apparently woken Kurt up. “What time is it?”

Blaine glances over “8:50.”

“You’re an early riser. Come back to bed -” Kurt looks around suddenly. “Unless, oh my god are your parents home?” Kurt sits up quickly.

Blaine laughs. “No, no. No parents in sight. Was just getting ready for the day, I guess.”

Kurt pulls aside the blanket, making room for him back in the bed. “How about you start the day in bed?”

Blaine looks at him suspiciously. “So is it after that that you’re going to remind me there are no strings attached and pretend last night never happened?”

Kurt looks taken aback and Blaine crosses his arms defensively. Kurt purses his lips. “I guess I don’t have a great track record.”

“No. Not really. And if you remember before we,” Blaine pauses, “had sex, you had already admitted that you didn’t know what you wanted. I knew. I know. But I asked for last night and I said no strings attached,” He sighs. “So you’re free to go. Cord cut.” Blaine gestures to the now open door of his bedroom.

Kurt shakes his head. “No.”

“What no?”

“No. As in, no I don’t want to go. And no need to cut the cord.” Kurt sits up, mussed hair and bare torso with Blaine’s quilt surrounding him. The scene is so domestic, it tugs at Blaine’s heart and he quickly shakes the thought away. “Just to be clear, because I guess I haven’t been - I know what I want. Actually already knew before last night. But if sexual chemistry is any indication of how things are going to go - and it isn’t -” Kurt looks up. “It sure would have sealed the deal.”

“Wait,” Blaine searches Kurt’s face. “What exactly are you saying?”

“That the sex was amazing.” Kurt is biting his lower lip and almost bashful. 

“Obviously,” Blaine says dismissively, but he feels lighter, a smile escaping his lips. Flirty. He sits back down on the bed. “But it isn’t an indication of how things are going to work.”

“No. But our friendship is.” Kurt leans over to Blaine and kisses him softly on the mouth. Blaine kisses back. Wow. Okay. This morning has turned out much better than Blaine expected. He pulls Kurt down back under the covers with him. Blaine smiles. “So aren’t you going to say anything?” Kurt is fishing now. Welcome change.

“Yeah,” Blaine nods and turns on his side to face Kurt. “I told you so.” 

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

Male Selkie: Jaemos

Anon ask: Could you write a love/lemon story about a lonely 17 year old who goes to the ocean to shed seven tears into the sea in hopes to summon a male selkie? And perhaps you could have the selkie be named Jaemos or Robert. As for looks the selkie should have a fair complexion, sparkly hazel eyes, and gorgeous curly brown hair. Tysm. ;)

I would feel uncomfortable writing a lemon since the reader would be under 18, but I will probs write another part to this soon.

Warnings: some language

Male monster x GN Reader

Seven Tears to Shed

It seemed easy enough, but it appeared ridiculous. But in the end, what more could you lose?

The water waded through you, swaying and parting as you got deeper into the lake of sapphire. Hopping into your small boat and sailing out, you appreciated the weather being so calm – thank God – with few to no ripples that swayed the boat you sat on the further you got out. You didn’t want to be dealing with nausea if the boat was swaying from bad weather, so that was something to be thankful for.

Would this work though? You held your scepticism, unveiling the crude crumpled note from your jeans pocket, the scribbles of jotted notes you had taken that you had copied so plainly. Seven tears to shed to gain another. The fable was spread from fisherman wives than to book and to social media; some holding the theories that it worked compared to some who thought of it as nothing more than a hoax.

But you liked to think of yourself as someone who expected so much but only got so far for disappointment, knowing full well that this would not go so well.

You looked to the jotted down instructions, each numbered with your own notes added to help your thoughts. Now, the easier part was done, the hardest was getting into the mood to cry. Easier said than done. You snorted, looking over the calm water, seeing the glum figure you couldn’t recognise staring back up at you.

Number one: Someone you once loved.

You snorted unflattering in the cold air to yourself, “This is ridiculous.” 

But the ridiculousness of it all would help. Someone you once loved, simple: your crush of Jeremy Miller in the 7th grade. Popular, smart, blond hair and blue-eyed, he was the golden child, not a jock like all the other boys your age, Jeremy was well known for his love for acting. You had only shared a conversation with him maybe once, and that had been by accident, but you and your naïve mind looked way into his simple word of kindness for someone like you. But that crush died and crumbled like ash to the ground when you found out that your secret crush on him had been spread thanks to your cheerleader Eloise got hold of your diary, choosing to tell everyone and him. He turned out to be just as much as a dickhead as she had been, and for the rest of the year, you chose to hide along the school walls, the standing joke everyone looked for.

That first tear had come easier than you had expected: the anger helped especially. It ran down your cheek and slipped into the water with little force to break the surface, disappearing. So long, fucker. You anger dissipated before moving on.

Number two: Someone you lost.

This was more sentimental to you, and upon seeing the way how your handwriting became illegible, shaky to the end of the line, it told you it would be rather difficult. You clasped the side of the boat with an unsettling exhale, the one person that only came to mind was your grandmother you had lost a few years ago. Old age had taken her but it had taken her away so beautifully, bringing her to join the nature you were surrounded by now. You could feel her no matter where you went, a twirl of the breeze in your hair, a canary’s singing when your window was open, you knew she was always there.

The second tear was followed with a cry that resounded in your chest, too close to your heart, and took some time to finally calm. The water rippled with its decent to guide your tear gently, engulfing it smoothly. You wiped the back of your red wet face with the back of your sleeve, telling yourself to resume before you got too caught in the moment.

Number three and four were similar, both requiring you to of lost something but for you to gain it once again. In the end, it didn’t matter whether that thing was personal to you, you had to say goodbye to it. You had lost the happiness you once felt as a child, but to the benefit of it all, you resided to your privacy by drawing. It wasn’t much, but it helped keep bad thoughts away on some days, allowing you to do what you loved best.

Number five was someone you missed the most in your life, and although the memories stung like the previous tears, the face that stuck was your best friend at the time, Jade. And although the good times could be seen, it didn’t hide the stuck up and two-sided personality she wielded, using you for her own gain. In the end, the friendship ended with much more ease than sorrow. But seven years’ worth of torment could get anyone relieved for it to be over, and so those tears were in her farewell.

Number six and seven had arrived with little to no faith you held in how it would end. Proving that maybe after all that crying, it would be pointless. You sighed heavily, reading over the last two, drawling the right thoughts.

Number six: Yourself

Though there were many things you loathed of yourself, you didn’t want others to feel sympathetic to your story, nor other the fact that you were indeed lonely. Your story was long and convoluted, but you wished someone was good and decent enough to read it from the beginning. This farewell for your own loneliness was the one you wished to see gone the quickest.

All these tears: one for anger, two for loss, two for relief, one in farewell whilst the last was for a new beginning. It could be anything you wanted, wished or craved for – but better beginnings sounded all too promising.

Number seven: A final wish

“I wish… I just wish for someone patient to listen, not to question, but let me feel something.” You said aloud, finally ripping at the paper as you scattered it to the wind, allowing that final droplet to run down your cheek.

You weren’t expecting instant miracles and in those seconds of having said your wants and crying away the past, you listened to the rush of water surging closer to your boat, and at that moment when you opened them, you were surprised with a little visitor.

The fur of the seal was plump and grey, silvery in contrast to the murky waters as it twirled and moved closer to your boat, its wide black eyes staring up into yours as it made eye contact with you as it continued to travel, passing by you and coming up behind the boat, where you believed it would disappear on with its journey.

You snorted to yourself, “I’m losing it. I can’t believe I was talking to a seal.”

“Correct, but I suppose that’s what people like to believe.” A sudden voice was so clear as rain, smooth and whimsical startled you so that you almost rocked off the side of your boat, coming from behind you. “These waters have never been so calm, heh, though… it’s not every day someone comes to shed their seven tears.”

This couldn’t be true… you were in the middle of a lake, yet you were certain you could hear a clear voice almost next to you. “Who’s there?” Your confusion and worry were evident in your tone, where the voice - clearly male - replied, “You could call me what you want, but I would like to call myself your listener.”

“That’s bullshit—you must’ve followed me… there’s no way you could’ve magically appeared… unless,” then it hit you. The grey seal, following along the side of your boat when you cried your final tear, moving behind the boat. No-

You turned to peer over the edge of your boat with some hesitancy, believing all you would see would be a small adorable seal, when in fact you were totally wrong. The first thing that came into your sight was the blinding porcelain white skin that seemed almost blinding in the deep waters. They were drenched, with only their mop of wet curly brown hair on show, and wide hazel eyes that seemed to almost sparkle in the water’s surface. This man was too beautiful to be anything but your saviour. No, maybe a swimmer coming through or just a weird dude who was creeping on a 17-year-old-

“You seem lost, dear,” the handsome male stretched up until more of his bare torso was out from the water. “Penny for your thoughts?”

This person could’ve been a madman, preying on young people like you, and you were out in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to defend yourself with. That’s what you should’ve been thinking, but your mind only came to think of one thing at that moment.

“You’re a seal?”

“A selkie, your people usually call me, though it’s not every day I’m called that.” The male laughed, supporting himself so casually by propping his lithe arms against your boat. “Any other questions?”

You shook your head in disbelief, trying to gauge at what you were really believing. Was your head that mad that you were imagining a completely different creature to you? “Were you listening to me? Listening to me cry?”

“As creepy as it seems, to shed seven tears grants you the final everlasting wish you so dream for,” the selkie replied. “You wished for someone – a friend – perhaps, and well… here I am.”

“So, you listen to everyone crying and you grant wishes? Do you grant the same wishes to everyone?”

“Not quite,” he laughed. “Everyone has different wishes, and so did you, but I just so happen to give the perfect gift of all.”

You titled your head, eyebrows raised incredulously, “Yourself?”

“My power does not lie between what I allow and grant, but… I thought I would allow myself to help with your certain request.”

There was an awkward pause that waved itself in the air between the two of you. “So, you’re like my friend or something?”

“I’m a protector, whatever you wished for, so a listener,” there was a loud thud that resonated within the boat, and when you looked, he had thrown something thick like a grey blanket in, sopping wet. “That there is yours to keep.”

“What—your skin?”

“You don’t know many things about selkies, do you, dear?” He laughed, pointing to the pelt. “When a human catches a selkie and keeps its pelt, the selkie cannot transform or return to the water. So, forever more until you get bored of me, I am forever bound to you.”

You snorted out in disbelief, “No, you can’t be serious.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I cannot lie, I tell the truth as we speak.” This man-

“No, listen, I’m 17. What are my parents going to say when I return with some naked stranger who I found in a lake? They’ll think I’m insane, more so than already!” I can’t be this guy’s carer, I can barely even look after myself.

“Hey,” the selkie’s voice was calm yet cheerful when he brought you out of your freak-out. “We’ll get through this together. I’m sure your parents wouldn’t mind me looking after you.” If only you knew my parents. You dreaded, before finally coming up with an idea.

“I cannot keep your pelt.”

The pale male’s face had dropped suddenly at the drastic sombreness of your words, his eyes turned downcast. “Oh, right.” He went to let go of the boat’s side but you were quicker to grab his hand, making him turn back to you with surprise. “No, what I mean is, for the safety of both of us, you can stay here. Where you’re at home, and I can come to visit, since if you are to be my listener, we need to make sure you’re comfortable too, right?”

He wanted to reply to you, his mouth opening and shutting but finally, he said, “I guess. But, you must promise. If we are to be friends, we must trust each other. I am certain on my word, are you?”

You still couldn’t believe everything that today had thrown at you, let alone you were wanting to agree, but you were too curious for your own good. “Yeah, sure. I promise.”

He beamed a white smile back at you again, your chest rising and falling as something warm replaced what was usually so empty, fading again before you could realise. It was… nice. 

“What’s your name then, Mr seal?”

The selkie was halfway through putting back on the seal pelt, melding seamlessly with his human body as if he was zipping up a costume without needing a zipper. It looked comical to you, but it was still amazing to witness.

“Jaemos, or Robert, though that was thanks to some little girl deciding to call me that one time,” he laughed to himself, his teeth just as white as his skin. His bright eyes looked back into yours once more. “Whatever is easier to remember.”

“Jaemos it is then since it was the first option.” You smiled softly, grabbing at the ores to begin your way back to the shore before you looked back on him. “Hey, if it’s not too much trouble, could you lend me a flipper to push me back to shore?”

“You would never be too much trouble, dear,” he replied, lifting himself onto the side you were on so suddenly, almost like he was throwing himself in the boat, before affectionately twisting a piece of your hair behind your ear, laughing when he saw your beet-red cheeks warm. “That’s something troubled people would say.”

[sapphicwhxre]

bubble gum

♡ pairing: fleur delacour x reader

♡ summary: you reach out to fleur, telling her you regret not telling her how you felt before she returned to beauxbatons. (loosely based on bubble gum by clairo.)

♡ warnings: some angst, fear of rejection

Sorry I didn’t kiss you

But it’s obvious I wanted to

Bubble gum down my throat and it’s a curse

But my luck couldn’t get any worse

staring at the blank parchment in front of you, you sighed with frustration. not even the words ‘dear fleur’ were written down yet. there were too many possibilities, would it even be worth the trouble?

the day fleur and the other schools left hogwarts, you were beyond devastated. you’d swear by the gods that the french beauty took a shrapnel of your heart with her. of course the friendship was always doomed to end once she left, but it didn’t hurt any less. really, the reason it hurt so much was the goodbye. it was incomplete.

you should have leaned in and kissed her lips ─ they looked so soft and sweet. you should have done more than hold her hand and say you’d miss her. but fleur had to know you wanted to, right? there was just no way she didn’t see the longing in your eyes or notice that you held on to her goodbye hug far longer than normal. whether fleur knew it or not, it didn’t matter. you hadn’t kissed her. the words, the courage, all got lost in your throat.

but you still had to know. trembling slightly, you dipped your quill in ink and started to write. your luck was already hell simply due to the agony of not being with with fleur. getting closure couldn’t worsen the pain.

‘Cause I swallowed the bubble gum

Oh, and these seven years will be pretty dumb

Pink flowers grow from my skin

Pepto Bismol veins and I grin

the words started to come easily, once you began to write. although difficult at first, you poured your heart out to fleur delacour. you reminisced, telling her of the joy you felt when you were with her. you put into words the comfort she gave you when you had no one else. you flattered her with every bit of truth, telling her how sure you were that she must be an angel. you told her that this was how, in the short time you'd had together, you’d fallen in love with her.

tears pricked your eyes and fell from your cheeks, barely missing the parchment. sniffling and gripping the quill, you started to write the most important part of your letter. you said you were sorry. the regret of not telling fleur how you felt about her had wrecked you inside, but what she needed to know was that you were so, so sorry for doing this to her. you were sorry that it took so long to write, for starters, and now you were throwing this all at her. most of all you were sorry that you’d fallen in love with her, sorry that you’d kept it to yourself instead of just assuming that your love would be rejected. that was her choice to make, not yours.

but the fear of her not returning your feelings was wonderfully taken away and you smiled down at your handwriting ─ the handwriting that had lifted a weight off of your chest. the words and the courage that had gotten caught before reaching fleur had finally broken out. the infatuation and the butterflies of sweet love replaced the pain. you signed your name, closed an envelope, and stamped it shut.

You look so nice in your shirt

It’s sad because it just hurts

I’d do anything for you

But would you do that for me, too?

one last emotion flooded your senses. fear. your owl looked at your curiously, expecting to be handed the letter in your hand. what ifs clouded your mind and threatened your determination to finally tell fleur what you’d been thinking all this time.

her image was crystal clear in your mind. you imagined her pretty face in her bedroom light, pink balmed lips parting in surprise at the letter arriving at her window. in your mind, she was wearing blue. you’d always told her how much the colour lit up her beauty. she’d open the letter, maybe smile at the sight of your name.

but then what? would her face drop at the realisation that you were confessing your love? would she scrunch up her delicate features in disgust? would she simply toss the parchment you'd thrown your very soul onto in the garbage? you love fleur delacour. would she love you the same?

‘Cause I swallowed the bubble gum

Oh, and these seven years will be pretty dumb

Oh, pink flowers grow from my skin

Oh, Pepto Bismol veins and I grin

Oh oh oh

you broke your own heart with every terrible possibility playing like a movie in your mind. why hadn't you just said something? why hadn’t you worked up the nerve to just kiss her? instead you let it simmer and simmer until it became the reason for your torture.

taking a deep breath, you tried your best to think of better reactions. perhaps, she’d beam, grateful that you finally said something. maybe she’d be elated to know that the connection was real. the thought of seeing her again made your heart race. the sound of words never said echoed in your head. fleur’s voice, accent of elegance but the less elegant luxury of bubble gum on her breath, whispering to you,

“i love you too, y/n.”

adrenaline ran through your blood. it pumped in your heart and stretched a hopeful smile onto your lips. unlikely? it very well may be. but that sliver of a chance with fleur would make a thousand lifetimes of terrors worth every second. the slightest chance of fleur being yours was enough. you handed the letter to the owl before you and watched its wings flap in the wind, disappearing in the horizon. with the purely exuberant sense of thrill, you sat down and thought to no one in particular, but hoped the wish would carry through the heavens.

bring her back to me.

──────────♡

[wrenhyperfixates]

Love Poison

Pairing: Loki x reader Summary: You plan to take extreme measures to catch Loki’s eye. Unfortunately, things backfire terribly. Can something good come of the mess? Warnings: use of a love potion (putting this here because in case that bothers some people) but I think that’s it A/N: For @tom-hlover​. Thanks for requesting and hope you enjoy!

Tag List: @lucywrites02 @frostedgiant​​ @lunarmoon8​ @twhiddlestonsstuff​ @lokistan​ @thelokiimaginechroniclesficrecs​

Disclaimer: Picture not mine

You glanced out the window of Tony’s lab. In the week since you’d been promoted to his personal assistant, you’d seen more of the Avengers than you had in your almost five years of working at the Tower. In fact, you’d seen all but the one you’d really been hoping to. Loki. You had a little crush on the god, you would admit, but you had no hope of getting to know him if he never stopped by the lab. You considered asking your boss about him, but decided that the embarrassment wasn’t worth the risk. So, instead, you kept on waiting.

Your lucky break came one day when Tony sent you to the kitchen to get him some coffee. A large part of you wanted to suggest sleep instead, since he’d pretty obviously been up since you’d left the Tower last night. But you were still too new to the job to be so bold. You were in the middle of pouring Tony’s drink when a certain raven haired god came rushing in, snickering to himself. He stopped in his tracks when he noticed you.

“Who are you?” he asked sharply, as if he had been caught in the middle of something. Judging by the box of glowing vials he had with him, you supposed he might be. “How did you get in here?”

“Oh! I, uh, I work for Tony. I’m his new lab assistant,” you responded shyly, telling him your name.

“Ah, I see. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Loki of Asgard. That doesn’t happen to be Stark’s drink in your hands, does it?”

“Actually, yeah, it is. May I ask why?”

Loki peered over his shoulder before turning back to you, a mischievous glint in his eye. You were almost certain your heart would beat out of your chest if you stayed in this close proximity to him any longer, but he finally began to explain himself.

“I was hoping to slip a potion into it. I had been planning on just dumping it into the coffee pot, but it would much easier if you could help me sneak it into the cup. Do not worry, I will not let you get into trouble. I will gladly take full blame. And, before you ask, it is completely safe.”

You contemplated for a minute trying to choose between your new job and Loki. The choice was pretty obvious, though, as you always tended to think more with your heart than your head. Maybe this could even spark a friendship between you and the god.

“Ok,” you nodded. “What’s it going to do?”

“It will make him burst out into uncontrollable laughter,” Loki explained as he set a few vials on the island, looking for the right one. “A harmless prank, really, but all I can get away with these days.”

A few moments later he was saying goodbye and hurrying off to enact his next prank. So much for that friendship you were hoping would bloom. Except, he’d left a potion behind. Maybe you could return it to him, and at least get another conversation out of it. But then you looked at the label and got another plan entirely. It was a love potion.

Ten minutes later you were staring at the bottle of glowing purple-pink liquid. Tony had run out to yell at Loki, knowing immediately who had been responsible for his sudden laughter. There were blueprints to be working on, you knew, but you’d had an idea, and it was proving nearly impossible to get it out of your mind. If you could just see Loki again, find him again, you could give him a drink with the potion in it. Not a lot, just a drop. Just nudge him into having feelings for you. Then once he got to know you, maybe the potion would have worked its way out of his system and his feelings would be real.

Almost without knowing what you were doing, you were pouring some of the contents in a cup of water. You poured yourself a cup of water, too, suddenly feeling very anxious. Was this right? You hadn’t technically stolen it or anything. But deep down, you knew that wasn’t the issue. This was crazy. It was manipulative. Everything about your relationship will have started out as a lie. Maybe you just needed another sip of water to calm down.

“Shit,” you whispered to yourself as you realized you’d drunk out of the wrong cup. Your mind went into full panic mode before focusing solely on Loki.

You skipped through the halls of the Tower, looking for your otherworldly prince. He said your name in a question as he almost collided into you. Immediately he knew something was off, he just couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It would bug him until he could.

“Did Stark send you after me?” he questioned. “I do not suppose you would be willing to help me out a second time?”

“Tony didn’t send me,” you brazenly replied. “I’m here to ask you on a date, Loki.”

“And why,” he said in a sharp laugh of disbelief, “would you do that?”

“Because I’m in love with you.”

His eyebrows shot halfway up his face. Not only was that an outrageous thing to say because you hardly knew each other, it was unbelievable because he was, well, him. Plus, you seemed a lot more bold than you had earlier. He almost didn’t believe it was the same person. Maybe you had a twin running around. Or maybe it was drugs. But no. He’d seen the effect drugs had on Midgardians before, and this was different. Still, he could not figure it out.

“That is lovely, but-”

“He would love to!” Thor cut his brother off as he appeared from around the corner. “How about you get some coffee? You like coffee, right brother?”

“No.”

“It’s perfect considering how we met,” you giggled as Loki grimaced. “I know a place that has coffee and tea, if you like that better.”

Loki desperately wanted to decline, but it was the last thing he needed for his image. Besides, he was pretty sure Thor would drag him there even if he said no.

“Very well. I shall meet you in the lobby at seven.”

“See you later, Loki,” you giggled as you waved goodbye, leaving to go doodle his name in your notebook.

“Well, well, brother,” Thor said. “I had no idea you had finally realized what an eligible bachelor you are. Good for you, putting yourself out there.”

“I suppose you were not at the same conversation I was,” Loki said wryly. “You put me out there. I was about to say no.”

“Come now, it will be good for you. Why do you seem so dismayed?”

“It does not make sense that they like me. No, they said love, actually. For one, I hardly know them. For two, I am me, don’t forget. Harbinger of destruction in the Battle of New York. Something is not adding up.”

“Just enjoy this, brother. Someone has realized how wonderful you are and asked you out. It is just how things work on Midgard.”

“Perhaps,” Loki mused, wracking his brain. “But I must do some research. There may be magic involved.”

“You know what,” his brother sighed, “I am going to help you just to prove this is real.”

“If you must.”

The search proved fruitless, but Loki was determined to comb through more of his enchantment books later. Right now, however, he had to meet you. For a date. The whole thing still sounded absolutely absurd. Though, he would admit you did look rather adorable bundled in your coat, ready to go out in the cold night air. Being the gentleman that he was, he offered you his arm, which you excitedly took as you giggled. That was another thing, why were you suddenly so bubbly? It was a far cry from the shy, easily flustered person he’d met earlier. He added it to his mental list of possible symptoms of whatever was afflicting you.

About an hour later, the two of you were still seated in the small café you’d brought him to. Loki was, surprisingly, enjoying himself. He had to keep reminding himself that this was not real, that he shouldn’t get too attached, for he was sure he’d figure this out sooner or later.

“Really?” you laughed as he finished his story.

“Yes, the entire chair just gave out from under him,” he recalled, telling you of one of the many times he’d pranked Thor in their youth. “After all, he’d just said to stop gluing him to it. Everything else was fair game. The best part was father never could prove I was behind it.”

“I wish I was clever like that. Or could do magic.”

“Well, I’ve never heard of a Midgardian working seiðr before, but I suppose nothing is impossible. I fear I may not be the best teacher, though. I lack the patience a good teacher should possess.”

“You seem plenty patient to me. Loki, you’re...” you said, nervously casting your eyes down to the floor, “well, you’re amazing.”

He blushed at your words, but accepted them with a small thank you. You’d calmed down considerably throughout the course of the evening, now seemingly fully captivated in your conversation with Loki. And he even found himself thinking that he didn’t mind your company, a rare thing indeed. Maybe Thor was right after all. Maybe this was real. As much as he wanted to believe that, deep down, he still knew something was very, very wrong.

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

Loki took you out again a week later. After a dinner out in the city, he had nervously brought you back to the Tower for a movie on his couch. It had been Thor’s idea, though he seemed to have been hinting at something else by suggesting Loki bring you back to his quarters. But, thankfully, you didn’t seem particularly interested in any of those things. Rather, you were content to just sit with Loki and let the movie play. You were curled into his side, cuddling him. It took someone actually wanting to be near to him to make him realize how touch starved he actually was. It alarmed him at first, to have you so close, but he relaxed as you began methodically braiding and unbraiding a few locks of his hair. A small smile played at his lips as he thought of the domestic simplicity of it.

“Hey, Loki,” you said. “I’m really glad I met you.”

“I am too. And to think, it all started with a simple prank.”

Loki suddenly stood up from the couch, accidentally pushing you off him. He apologized as he rushed over to his bookcase. Remembering how you’d first met had made him think of something; he’d been searching for an enchantment, but he’d never considered it being the effect of a potion. Reading the page in the book, he realized you were exhibiting all the symptoms. He sighed and checked his potion box, hoping against hope that he would find nothing missing. Unfortunately, he did.

He’d packed up his things so quickly that he must have left one behind and, one way or another, you’d consumed it. And of course it had to be that one of all the options. It was more love poison than love potion, he thought to himself as he scoffed. He sat down and plopped onto the couch, burying his head in his hands.

“Loki?” you hesitantly asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, my darling, I am so sorry. It is all my fault,” he apologized, taking your hands as confusion sparked behind your eyes. “It may take a little time, but I will fix this. For now, you should go home.”

“But, Loki,” you sniffled. “I don’t want to. What’s happening? Can I see you tomorrow?”

He hesitated. He really shouldn’t let this continue, for both your sakes. “I... Yes, I will you see you tomorrow. Do not worry about what is going on, I will take care of it.”

You sniffled some more, but acquiesced. After placing a kiss to his cheek, you set off towards your flat, leaving the unfinished movie playing in the background. Loki immediately started preparing the antidote. It would take nearly a week to fully brew, and he tried to figure out what to do with you in the meantime. He feared that if he kept seeing you, you would hate him when you came to. But, if he rejected you now, you might become violent and unpredictable. Better to keep you safe. And, if he was lucky for once in his life, maybe he could have a chance with you once you were in your right mind.

As soon as the antidote finished, Loki prepared to give it to you. He’d found the bottle of love potion hidden in Tony’s lab and concluded you couldn’t have used more than a few drops. He even dared hope for a second that you hadn’t used it, after all, but then he noticed the seal had been broken. The small dosage must have been the reason he didn’t recognize the side effects as belonging to it right away. The larger the dosage, the more intense the effects.

“Hi Loki,” you greeted as he opened the door for you.

“Hello, darling.”

“Is something wrong?” you asked, cupping his cheek. “You seem upset.”

“I am fine. May I interest you in a glass of water? Tea? Anything to drink, really.”

“Oh! I guess water sounds good. Thanks,” you smiled.

He handed you the cup and waited while you took a sip. The effects were almost instantaneous, filling him with both joy and sadness at the same time. You gazed around the room with a dazed look on your face. Loki helped you to a chair as you regained your senses.

“Oh my gosh,” you gasped. “Loki, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what, darling? I am the one who left the potion lying around.”

“Yes, but,” you started, wondering how much you could get away with. You decided it was just best to come clean. “I should have returned it as soon as I saw it. Not... not try to give it to you. Serves me right that I accidentally took it myself.”

“You were trying to give it to me?” Loki inquired with furrowed brows. “What would you do a thing like that for?”

“Because,” you gulped, “I really do have a crush on you, Loki. I was desperate, I guess. But that’s no excuse, so yeah, I’m sorry. I should go now.”

“Wait,” he called after you before you could run off. You were rather charming, he thought. And he did believe that he got to know a bit of the real you through the potion. Besides, maybe Thor was right, and it was time he put himself out there. “I know we did not start under the best circumstances, but I would like to take you on a real date if you will allow it. Say, tonight?”

“Really?” you squeaked in disbelief. “I would love to, Loki.”

“Just do me one favor, darling. Stay away from potions, please.”

“Believe me,” you nervously laughed, “I plan on it.”

You scurried away to text your friends about the crazy turn of events. Loki smiled after you before destroying the rest of the love potion, happy that some good was able to come out of the whole mess. But there was one thing he knew for certain; he’d be swearing off potion making for quite some time.

[oldfritz]

I'm genuinely curious and don't want to start something! Just wanted to ask what you make of the 'Old Fritz might've been asexual' take, I don't know much about him and I feel you're one of the best people to ask esp since you lean towards 'he was probably queer in some way' too

Hey there! So, first off, don’t ever worry about me interpreting you asking me a question as starting something. As much as I love making dumb jokes about the guy, I love nothing more than doing this kind of stuff and defending or explaining my points. There’s two degrees I want to get over the next decade: first my JD and then my MA in Prussian history. I live for this stuff! Always have! Second off, I’m very sorry for not getting to this sooner. Things have been incredibly stressful for me for a variety of different reasons which have made answering your question, until now, rather difficult. Putting this under a cut because, holy shit, it got long!

My personal reasoning for why I think he’s bi (which, correct me if I’m wrong, I’m assuming is what you meant instead of ace and could be a different post entirely since some historians have tried to argue that) stems more to do with some of my lingering questions about the nature of his relationships with certain woman, rather than that of his relationships with men. To me and my modern, queer eye, Fritz’s relationships with men like Hans Hermann von Katte, Francisco Algarotti, Michael Gabriel Fredersdorf, and (much to my personal vexation) one Monsieur Voltaire are either outright homosexual/homoerotic in nature or very, very easily lend themselves to that interpretation rather than strictly romantic friendships (which Wikipedia does a fairly good overview of and, if you’re coming to me from AmRev perspective, uses Hamilton and Laurens’ relationship as a familiar example). While I’m avoiding those relationships in this ask, I’d be more than happy to elaborate upon one/all of them in a different one. 

Before I go into the big pauses that Fritz’s relationships with Madame von Wreech and Countess Orzelska give me, I want to deny the use of Fritz’s wife as an example of Fritz’s attraction to woman. While this, admittedly, may sound odd, we have ample evidence of how turned off and repulsed Fritz found Elisabeth Christine. Before he had even met her, Fritz was complaining about how she was ‘not very pretty, speaks but little, and acts like a blockhead’ (Asprey, 87) and, later, admitted to Grumbkow his plan to ‘keep my word,...get married, but afterwards it will be a case of that is that, and goodbye, Madame, and fare thee well’ (Jones, 52). For Christ’s sake, the man pitied her knowing how his treatment would leave her as ‘one more unhappy princess in the world’! Which is little consolation when you remember he also referred to her with such romantic terms as ‘this unpleasant creature,’ ‘the abominable object of my desires,’ ‘the person,’ and claimed to have preferred to marry ‘the biggest whore in Berlin’ (Asprey, 87). And while we (fortunately? unfortunately?) know quite a bit about their sex life, Fritz largely regarded it as just another duty - to quote him, ‘I will only have the duty to fuck’ (Ibid, 87). And while Seckendorf heard - first, presumably from Count von der Schulenburg and, later on, Count Friedrich von Wartensleben, a close and intimate friend of the then-crown prince - that Fritz would ‘fuck and refuck’ Elisabeth Christine and that said act occurred in the afternoon, it still was out of a sense of obligation (Bely, 481-2). When reminded that if he wanted more money for frivolities, he’d need to produce an heir, Fritz bemoaned that he ‘cannot sleep with my wife out of desire, and when I do sleep with her, I do it out of duty rather than inclination’ (Clark, 50). All this in accumulation, as well as the myriad of other quotes and incidents I’ve left out, makes one wonder why his relationship with Elisabeth Christine is sometimes used by historians to prove any sort of heterosexual impulse in the man when she’s the woman with the weakest supports for that argument.

That being said, now we get to the women with a more muddled places in his romantic escapades, if you will. What exactly happened between Orzelska and Fritz during his trip with his father to Dresden in 1728? The main source for everything that occurred during this trip is Wilhelmina, who didn’t attend and without anything about this specific incident coming from Fritz or Friedrich Wilhelm I, make it rather hard to use as concrete, irrefutable proof. Now, if her recollections were contemporaneous - like coming from a diary or journal she kept at the time - that would be one thing. But it comes from her memoirs which, while a delightful read 10/10 recommend, are written decades after this trip took place and, memory being a finicky thing, can’t be taken to the bank. All those disclaimers, here’s the story as told by her:

‘One evening...,the King of Poland [note: Augustus II] insensibly led the King of Prussia to a very richly decorated room...The King of Prussia, delighted with what he saw, stopped to contemplate all its beauties, when [all of] a sudden a tapestry was rolled up, which procured him a very novel sight. It was a lovely female in a state of nudity [note: Countess Orzelska, the Polish king’s daughter], carelessly reclined on a couch. Her beauty excelled that of the finest pictures of Venus and the Graces; her body seemed of ivory, whiter than snow, and better shaped than that of the Venus de Medicis at Florence.

...Scarcely had the King cast his eyes on the fair one, than he turned about with indignation; and seeing my brother behind him, he rudely pushed him out of the room, and left it immediately after in a violent irritation against the trickery they had attempted to practice on him. ...In spite of the King’s vigilance, [Frederick] had had time to contemplate the Venus of the closet, who did not cause him so much horror as she had done to his father. (Wilhelmina’s Memoirs, vol. 1, 107-6)

Wilhelmina then goes on to claim Fritz had fallen ‘passionately in love’ with Orzelska and that the illness Fritz experienced upon returning home was simply being lovesick. Pinning the accuracy of this story is incredibly difficult because, again, we have only one source relayed decades after the fact and from two volumes of memoirs known to have inaccuracies. While I, personally, would love if he had had a tryst with Orzelska (who is such a badass in her own right and deserves more recognition than as a footnote in this guy’s story), there’s no one way to say with more than 30% confidence. I am inclined to believe something along these lines happened because if someone told me a story like this, lord knows I wouldn’t forget it for the rest of my life. And, with Wilhelmina being so close with her brother, it lends a bit more credence but as to the actual emotional or physical response Fritz had to it, well, without my time machine, I can’t and don’t want to say.

With Madame Eleonore-Louise von Wreech, things are a little more concrete. For starters, Fritz actually talked about her! In written correspondence that survived! We even have seven letters between the two of them that survived, which is a bigger win! As Blanning says, they’re ‘ardent but light in tone, ironic, almost flippant, and highly stylized’ (Blanning, 58). Their relationship was known to those close with Fritz at the time that Schulenberg felt compelled to visit and warn the crown prince against devoting himself to women because ‘the slight pleasures gained cause a million displeasures.’  Fritz’s response? To tell the poor guy that he may have ‘the gift of continence, but I assure you that I do not’ (Asprey, 83-4). Firtz even went so far as to send a letter to her mother, waxing poetic about Louise’s ‘beauty, her majestic air, her bearing, and her entire department.’ It’s worth noting that Louise eventually broke off the affair due to being bored by how he ‘loved [her] too much and often annoyed [her] with his clumsy love’ (Ibid, 84). Contemporaries, including Friedrich Wilhelm, believed Fritz had impregnated her with a daughter who her ‘cuckolded husband would refuse to recognize’ (Blanning, 58). Blanning is the only source I’ve seen dispute this due to this news coming from Seckendorf, who didn’t reveal how he came about this information; that Fritz and Madame von Wreech’s correspondence doesn’t indicate a physical relationship; and on the fact that she was not pregnant. I haven’t been able to find the birth dates or any sort of records for Louise’s two daughters to figure out where their conception could’ve been in the timeline and if it matches with the likely dates for the affair, but I also don’t have the resources Cambridge would afford Blanning. Either way, while the physical nature of the affair is in dispute, the emotional aspect certainly was there. Especially when taking into consideration the fact that she’s the woman Fritz was likely referring to in the 16 August 1737 letter to Voltaire where he claimed she had taught him how to love (and also inspired him to write poetry, which we shouldn’t be thankful for). Specifically, all these years later, he stated how ‘this little miracle of nature possessed every possible charm, together with good taste and delicacy. She sought to transfer these qualities to me. I succeeded well in love but poorly in poetry. Since that time I have very often been in love and have always been a poet’ (Fritz’s Oeuvres, vol. 21, 96).

All this to say, there’s a bit too much evidence of some degree of opposite-gender attraction in Fritz to completely write off the possibility that he could’ve been bisexual. While it’s undeniable he held a preference for men and that’s whose company he typically enjoyed, I still do find it interesting the two exceptions (one potential and the other with a fair degree of certainty) to this. And, while I would never want his attraction to men be minimized in favor of that to women, it still remains important to note to get the most comprehensive picture of the man.

[just-jordie-things]

Hi could I please get a 53 and 3 for Sokka?

prompt 3: drunk/sloppy kiss prompt 53: against a wall kiss ___

In hindsight, going to a local pub with only Aang as your designated Appa flyer and voice of reason wasn’t a good idea.  Mostly because Aang was pretty relaxed when it came to being the sober one of the group, which meant that the amount of drinking you, Katara, and Sokka were doing went unchecked.

And so five shots later, you were chittering away in Aang’s ear, most of your words slurred and incomprehensible, and the ones that the Avatar could make sense of, still didn’t make any sense.

“Toads.  That’s all” You said when Aang had thrown you a confused look, causing you to repeat whatever strange thing you’d just said that he didn’t understand.

“Right...” The boy mumbled, brows furrowing as he turned to the person on his other side, who was laughing at his own jokes that no one had heard.  “Hey Sokka?”

The laughing boy made a loud humming sound to show he was listening, his slightly hooded eyes meeting Aang’s the way Toph’s would.

Sokka was looking at the arrow tattoo on Aang’s forehead rather than his eyes.

“Is (y/n) always this much of a lightweight?” Aang asked, worriedly.  “She’s only had two shots” 

Sokka burst into boisterous laughter that echoed around the entire pub- probably annoying the other patrons but since he was with the Avatar no one was going to complain- while (y/n) giggled into her hands.

“Nice job!” Sokka declared, reaching over Aang to high five his best friend.

“What? What’s happening?” Aang asked, his confusion only increasing with everything Sokka did.

“I had- like- I dunno, Sokka how much did I have?” (y/n) asked.

“I dunno, five? Six?” The boy shrugged his shoulders.

“(y/n)!” Aang scolded.  “You’re supposed to be telling me when you’re drinking, I’m supposed to be keeping tabs on you!” 

“Sokka had like seven!” (y/n) argued, and Aang swiveled around to deliver the same scolding on the boy.

“Sokka!” 

“(y/n)!” Sokka whined.

With the Avatar’s back turned, (y/n) quickly flagged down the bartender and threw back a sixth shot of whiskey.  Aang would have never noticed, had Sokka not tattled.

“She just took another one!” 

Aang spun around once more, just in time to see (y/n) setting the tiny empty glass back on the bar.

“(y/n)!” Aang shrieked.

This got the attention of Katara, who had been at a music box trying to find a good song.  She wasn’t nearly as drunk as her brother and friend, but she was still pretty buzzed.  Enough to start laughing along with them while Aang freaked out.

“I’m fine, it’s fine!” (y/n) said, putting her hands up to show her innocence.  “I can handle it” 

“Hey (y/n),” Sokka called, getting the girl’s undivided and drunken attention.  “I saw a toad over there” He said, pointing down the bar.

“Really?” 

(y/n) leapt off her stool in a second, her features brightening and her voice raising a couple octaves from excitement.

It was adorable, and worth it, but Sokka couldn’t contain his laughter.

Aang rolled his eyes.  Both of his friends were beyond saving.

Katara appeared next to him then, her smile a little lopsided as she rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry so much,” She says.  “This is just how they get” 

“I’m going to get some fresh air!” You declared, louder than you needed to, before walking as normally as you could- which was stumbling- out of the bar.

“She’s probably just gonna-”

“Yeah, she’s looking for toads” Sokka confirmed before Aang could finish his sentence.

Before Aang could ask him, the Water Tribe boy had already gotten out of his seat and followed her outside.

“See?” Katara said, motioning to the door Sokka had just slipped out of.  “They’ll be fine.  They look out for each other.  They���re in love you know” 

“I know” Aang sighed, remembering all too well what it was like to be around the angsty pair of friends during their travels.

But since the war had ended, Sokka and (y/n) didn’t get together like everyone thought they would.  Sure, there was the complication that they were best friends, and they were both too shy to make the first move or ruin their friendship, but everyone had thought that they would be together by now.

The longer neither of them made a move, the more their feelings began to swallow them whole.

“You good?”

You spun around from where you were balancing on the curb of the sidewalk, grinning from ear to ear as you saw Sokka there.

With surprising grace, you skipped up to him, not once tripping on the curb.  Sokka was impressed, because he definitely couldn’t keep his balance simply standing on the curb.

“Sokka!” You called for him with nothing short of delight, and as you reached him, your hands grabbed ahold of his shoulders.

He couldn’t tell if it was so you could balance yourself, or if it was just because you were more affectionate when you drank.

“I’m so glad you’re here, I need your help!” You tell him, eyes blowing wide. “With what?”

“With finding the toads,” You told him in all seriousness.  “I know that there has to be some around here, I just can’t find ‘em” 

He chuckles at your antics, but nods his head before following you along the sidewalk as you kept your eyes out.

“I feel bad” You say after a few minutes of teas searching.

“Sick bad?” Sokka asked, ready to take you to the nearest garbage bin if you were going to throw up.

“No,” You answer.  “Just bad-bad” 

“What about?”

“For lying to Aang and drinking too much,” You tell him, your lips tugging into a frown.  “Because now he’s worried and I didn’t wanna worry him, just wanted ta’ mess with him a lil’ bit” 

Your eyes are round and sad, and if Sokka didn’t know any better he’d have thought you were going to cry.  But you didn’t usually get the kind of drunk where you poured your emotions out and burst into tears.

You got the kind of drunk where you held on to him and didn’t shy away from looking him in the eyes.  You got the kind of drunk where you’d take him on a little mini adventure, like toad catching, while your friends were busy.

He started to realize that he really liked drinking with you, because it was the only time where it felt the way things used to.  The unspoken thing between you lingered, and it almost felt like you were more than just friends.

“He’ll be fine, don’t worry your pretty lil’ head about it” Sokka said, patting your head for emphasis.

A blush crept over your cheeks as you giggled, any negative emotion you felt before disappearing at Sokka’s comforting voice.

As you smiled up at him, you caught something move out of the corner of your eye, and the almost intimate mood between you was gone as you whirled around.

“Toad!” You screeched, kneeling down to the ground and catching the creature in your hands with great swiftness.

Sokka had forgotten you were such a good hunter when you were younger, of course you would use your skills as a trained warrior to catch an animal friend in your drunken haze.

“He’s so big!” You said with delight, lifting the animal cupped in your hands up to your face.  “Hello” You whispered.

To Sokka’s surprise, the animal croaked back at you.  You didn't seem as surprised, but you were very much delighted at it’s return of your greeting.

But when you leaned in closer to the animal, Sokka intervened.

“What are you doing!?” He shrieked, reaching to take the toad from your hands.

“I was gonna give him a tiny kiss!” You said, and Sokka held back a gag.

“(y/n), no” 

“(y/n) yes!” 

However before you could go through with it, the little amphibian jumped from your hands, and was scurrying back along the street.

You frowned as the toad ran away, and you waved goodbye.

Sokka laughed, and took your hands to help you back up to your feet.

“Come on sweetheart, we walked too far, we should go back to the bar”

You didn’t say anything, but followed by his side.

“Can you believe it’s been two years?” You asked, referencing the war.  “I can’t believe it still” 

“We’ve been busier than ever, it flies by fast” Sokka agrees.

You hum, and you take hold of his hand as you continue walking.  

Sokka tries to act casual about it while you intertwine your fingers and swing your hands back and forth to an off-beat rhythm, but his heart feels like it’s about to burst out of his chest.

He thinks he might be having a stroke, but he can’t be too sure.

As you near the bar, you slow your pace, and stop just outside the doors.

“I don’t really feel like going back in there” You admit, biting down on your lip as you look up at Sokka.

He seems taller right now, you think.

“I don’t think I’ve grown since the last time I saw you” Sokka says, and your face turns pink at the realization you’d just said that out loud, and not in your head.

He doesn't question your weird comment, probably because he’s had just as much- if not more- to drink as you.

“Do you want to go home?” Sokka asks, but you shake your head.

“No, I just don’t feel like being around a crowd of people right now,” You huff, and let go of his hand to wander closer to the bar.

He thinks you’re going to go inside anyways, but you stop at the brick wall, and lean back against it.

For a few seconds, you rest your eyes, and embrace the cool roughness of the bricks against your back.

“I just wanna hang out with you a lil’ longer” You say, softly.

His heart melts as he smiles back at you, and nods as he comes to stand by your side.

“Fine by me,” He answers, bringing a smile to your own lips.

He loves the way that you smile when you’re drunk, because it always reaches your eyes and makes them shine.  He knows you’re never faking it.

“You’re my favorite company” He says in a cheesy way, and you giggle, but do him one better.

“You’re my favorite person” You respond, sounding far more sincere than his joking tone, and Sokka blinks as he looks at you.

He knows you mean it, because you’re still smiling at him, and you didn’t duck your head and laugh it off after you said.  He also knows you mean it because history had proven it to be true.

You’d known each other for years, you became best friends within a day of your meeting, hell, you followed him around the world because you had more fun with him and the Avatar one a couple days than you had in your Earth Kingdom city all your life.

As you thought about it now- how you left home for a boy when it came down to it- you knew in your heart you made the right decision.  Had you not gone with him that day he and your friends had fled from the Fire Nation, you would have regretted it your whole life.

Maybe you were just a little too drunk and overthinking it all, but your life had gained purpose that day.

It had been quiet since you’d murmured the simple little statement, and with every passing second Sokka swore his heart beat louder.  Soon he knew you’d be able to hear it.

And then it just clicked.

Something in him told him that if he didn’t kiss you now, he might never have the courage or the right moment to again.  And right now, everything seemed to just fall into place.

It helped that when he leaned down towards you, you were quick to reciprocate, all but jumping to the tips of your toes to reach him.

Your lips slotted over his with ease, although it was rushed and a little sloppy, it couldn’t have been a more perfect first kiss.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, and you pulled him in front of you as you kissed him fervently, trying to make up for the years you spent waiting for him to kiss you.

His hands were everywhere, he didn’t know where to hold you, he just wanted to touch you, to have you in his arms, just to say I took her and I kissed her.

The flew to your hair, tangling in the soft strands that had fallen from your ponytail, before sliding around to cup your face, thumbs stroking over your cheekbones and your jaw, tracing and mapping out your face until he was certain he had it committed to memory.  And then they reached down to your hips, grabbing roughly as he brought you impossibly closer to his chest.

He could fell your lips quirk into a smile as you were pressed back against the wall.  Your senses were absolutely flooded by him, and it was more intoxicating than all the liquor you’d both had.

Even after a few minutes of your uncoordinated impromptu drunken make out section, it was still too soon when you parted, breathless, enamored, and a little giggly.

Your eyes fluttered open to meet his, hands traveling from his neck to his jaw, just to be sure that he wouldn’t move so far that you couldn’t get a good look at him in all of his glowing glory.

“You’re so pretty,” You murmur, your shoulders lowering as you let out a sigh of adoration.  “I’m so in love with you” You add, as if it were as plain and simple as an after thought that ran across your mind. 

Sokka lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in, and his arms circle around your waist.

“I think I’m supposed to say that” He says, making you giggle some more, before pulling him back down to you so you can place your lips back on his where they belong.

Not too long after, Aang and Katara come outside to check on you, and the sound of their jaws hitting the ground pulls you from each other, and reminds you that you aren’t in fact the only two people in the world. ___

xoxo ~ jordie

[myelocin]

Diver | Miya Atsumu

Synopsis: For you, decisions have always resulted in one, then two, then twenty steps back from the jump you know you want to take, but never find the courage to do so. Miya Atsumu was one of those decisions, and it baffles you how he makes the edge seem so inviting.

Characters: Miya Atsumu, You

Warnings/Tags/Genre: Self reflection, Slice of Life, Fluff (atsumu is cute lmao), Mentions of sitting on a cliff, Friendship w Bo!!  Pining!Atsumu, hard to get reader when irl ur just confused , more sky references are surprised? no

WC: 4.6k+

a/n: this was purely based on my desire to explore atsumu and the y/n i headcanon’s character more. this is also to those who struggle to decide which risks are actually worth taking.  (atm this is not edited bc im just gonna do that tomorrow lol)

playlist: Hello by Elijah Who

++note: please click keep reading bc whole thing is posted!

-

You remember standing at the edge of the cliff and thinking about how big and beautiful the world looked at age seven. You think back to the words your grandfather tells you when he sits on the ground next to you and begins to tell the familiar tale of the boy who lived life too scared to leap. You don’t think it was a true story; some elements changed every other time the same story was retold but you listened with rapt attention either way.

Every summer when you visited your grandfather in that little house by the cliff hours away from the rush the city brought, more than half of your days were spent sitting by the edge watching the clouds chase and envelop one another. You’d watch as the blue moved into gold, then orange, then red, then back to blue—and finally dive into black. There was never a day where the chase looked exactly the same.

At nine, you still thought the world looked too vast and beautiful and now you think it was because there was still so much you didn’t know. At sixteen, you remembered seeing more streaks of pink along the horizon in the distance but when you look back at the photos now—it was still really just swirls of red and kisses of orange. Maybe that was the summer you first felt love, because the world you saw in those days were through the rose colored lenses that only you wore.

When your grandfather would ask you why you preferred to sit out by the edge instead of run in the field with the kids you knew nearby you only shrugged and said you didn’t want to miss the stories in the sky later that day. Some days, he’d sit next to you and you’d listen to the story of the boy who never leaped again, but during the last few years of his life when he became too frail for the world, he’d only ruffle your hair and go back inside the house.

There wasn’t a particular reason either; no dramatics that told a heartfelt backstory towards your infatuation with the sky, or a long spill about how you love letting the sounds of the waves crashing silence your thoughts—it was quite the opposite, really. Even when your first love told you it wasn’t working out and you spent the entire evening and the next crying over a story ended, you still sat and watched the colors changing with the expression of wonder that stayed constant since you were a child.

“I still care for you,” you remember him saying and his voice clear in your head doesn’t fight over the sounds of the waves crashing on jagged boulders below.

“—we’re just not meant for each other,” he says again but you don’t feel the need to look away from the sky because the sun’s beginning to dip into the horizon and the violets are starting to paint swirls in the sky.

“I don’t think I ever loved you, (y/n),” you hear along with the cry of a seagull somewhere on your left but you only let out the sigh you’ve held in when the show is over and the black curtains cover the sky. You remember closing your eyes to try to search for that twinge of pain you always read about when your first love is over. But, when you breathe in, you only hear the water below roar. When you breathe out, you hear your grandfather’s call from the house behind you.

That night when you stood up to leave, you dusted the dirt off of your pants and stepped closer to the edge; you weren’t going to jump but you wanted to step into that line of uncertainty to feel that rush.

The feeling you always get when you’re tipping your seat back and you let your fingers graze off of the table you’re supporting yourself with—and you’re dipping into the territory of whether you’ll fall forward or backward. Whether the fall either ways could mean good, or bad.

“Can’t we work this out?” is what you knew you wanted to try to say in the moment he turned his back. And then the first step towards him became one, then two, then three—before your hand stopped short of grabbing his shoulder because you realize you don’t want to say it.

Maybe because you were sixteen and the chemistry test you had to take next period was a more important thought than this, or maybe because this was the kind of puppy love where it as quick as it started—so you didn’t want to tarnish the final chapters with an ugly fight. But, really, you began to think, as your hand curled back into a fist and you watched him with dry eyes turn the corner and disappear, you just don’t have a reason to want to work it out.

So then as the bell rang, you turned to take a step that went from one, to two, to three, four—and then eventually six steps back.

Six steps away from the edge where you let yourself be dangled by uncertainty.

-

The strange part is you don’t remember what began shifting afterwards; when you lost sight of the horizon you spent years losing yet finding yourself in all at once.

After that night, for the years that led up to now it felt like there was never a balance when it came the climax of your decision making. Every time the atmosphere tensed and you feel your gut twist with the pressure of the outcome, your brain is suddenly creating loopholes to mend the situation and your body is already in motion—every single time moving one, to two, to twenty steps away from the drop. That way, you could rock your heels to the side or tip the back of your chair as far back as possible without the need to pull back because you know the steady ground would always break your fall.

You weren’t sure if you necessarily enjoyed it but the cliff by your grandfather’s house doesn’t look the same anymore. This time, you’re sitting in a chair on the porch, a heavy distance away from the pull of gravity down below. Because it’s safe, you reason, but the horizon from your spot doesn’t look quite the same. Peering at the strokes of colors in the 6pm sky through cracks in the porch’s rooftop makes the world feel so little.  You hear the sound of the TV running inside the house instead of the water roaring below and you know it isn’t the same.

But when the sun peeks in finality before diving the world into dark, you stand at the edge of the porch like you did at the edge of the cliff so many times before.

One foot hovering over the ground below and you know your balance is tipping, but you don’t feel anything. There isn’t a hitch in your breath and the feeling of weightlessness and heaviness simultaneously nipping at your skin.

You sigh in blankness as you thrust your body forward and let yourself dive. Before you even leap you already feel the ground beneath your feet.

The ground is only two feet below you. 

-

In your mid-twenties, Miya Atsumu came into your life in a whirlwind of laughter and expressions.

He wasn’t really that spectacular. Sure, Atsumu could twirl a pencil like the honor roll kids as well as he could land a service ace, but that was kind of it.

How the two of you became close friends was always a wonder to you as well. You knew his twin brother—Osamu, after frequenting his onigiri shop every day for lunch, but your interactions with him were mostly limited to the “hi”, “how are you”, “thanks”, and “goodbye”.

Atsumu was, well, interesting to talk to because of all the expressions that substituted some verbal cues in the conversation.

It took getting to know him for about a year and joining him in the last minute road trips he pulled with you to realize how much Atsumu embodied uncertainty.

He was like the push and the pull of the wind when you’re standing at that edge again. Like somewhere between the moments of unfiltered fear from plunging down into the ocean you know you can’t swim in, and that step back of reasoning that tells you a two more steps further means two more steps safer.

He was neither of those, but at the same time, made you feel the magnitude of both simultaneously. Atsumu, to you, was the cliff, the rocking wind, the steady ground, and the plunge below.

And it was frustrating because you couldn’t read him at all.

-

When he asked you one day if you wanted to join him for dinner, this time, just the two of you while the apples of his cheek blushed a visible shade of red despite the dimmed lighting of the sky—you felt your gut churn in uncertainty.

For a while you’ve felt he wanted to push the boundaries of your friendship into a territory more unknown to the both of you, but you thought it would just stop at the experimental prodding. You weren’t blind. You felt how his eyes would trail your profile when he thought your attention was too engrossed in a book, knew that the unmarked box of chocolates were from him because he wasn’t subtle in hiding the special instructions written on the bottom of the box. You saw the triumphant spark in his eye when you told him the gift he gave you on your birthday was exactly what you wanted even if he just shrugged and said he guessed lucky.

And that’s the thing—Atsumu was painfully obvious. He wasn’t explicit about his intentions—he was just obvious; you know he wasn’t dumb enough to leave all these hints and expect you to still not know so that frustrated you even further. Did he want you to find out? Did you want to find out?

“Do ya think you wanna get some dinner tonight?” he quips beside you, “—just us two?” he adds, finishing awkwardly as you two come to a halt in front of the train station.

You think about his offer; you really do. The feeling in your gut doesn’t go away and your left foot is subconsciously rocking backwards. One step back.

“Maybe next time,” you hear yourself say. Atsumu’s deflating in front of you and his right hand rests on the back of his head while he shoves the left into the pocket of his jeans.

Two steps, “I’d love to—“ you continue, “but I may miss the last train and I don’t really wanna take a taxi tonight.”

Atsumu’s nodding his head saying, “Of course! Of course. Yeah, definitely. Next time!” And in a way you’re thankful he doesn’t mention the fact that he could always drive you back instead of letting you take a taxi.

Three steps, as you wave at him from the top steps of the station’s exit.

Four steps, “For sure next time!” you call out as he waves at your retreating figure with a smile. Neither of you really have faith on when next time will be, nor were sure if either of you believed it in the first place.

It’s when the train doors close and you’re holding on the railing where it dawns on you that you just took about 20 more steps back.

-

Two weeks after Atsumu’s offer of a dinner date was when Bokuto comes to you to say that he understands why you rejected the offer.

“You and him are just too different from each other,” he says like he made a profound discovery and not like he’s commenting on your love life.

“Aren’t opposites supposed to attract?” you ask.

“Not all the time,” Bokuto answers almost immediately and you nod your head choosing to not expand on the topic while your mind begins to whirl at his words.

On the bright side, you were glad neither you nor Atsumu spoke much about it. The days where you’d spend the afternoons with the team until practice ended, if nobody wanted to catch dinner the two of you would eventually just part ways at the train station he walked you to every night.

“I could always drive you home, ya know, I’m a good driver,” he says when you search through your bag for your PASMO card.

“I live in the opposite way you’re going, ‘Tsumu,” you laugh, albeit still appreciative at his offer.

“I know,” he replies and rattles his keys in his hands.

You’re still digging through your bag as you look for the card you know you must have left at home before you finally sigh and look at him looking at you holding out his keys.

“C’mon, (Y/n), I won’t speed I swear!” Atsumu laughs as he leads the way to the parking lot.

-

A few more weeks pass and you’re glad no one mentions the fact that you follow Atsumu into the parking lot every time practice ends. The day after he drove you home for the first time, you flashed the PASMO card you made sure to have with you this time and told him thank you for dropping you off the day before. He only rolled his eyes as he grabbed your wrists and pulled you in the car with him.

In hindsight, you could have said no and waved him off like usual, but your feet were matching the steps in his before you could even process what you were doing. He just drove you home, made small talk, and asked about your days most of the time—so all in all it was pleasant.

And you lived in the west side of town so drive always meant that the both of you had a front seat view to the sky’s art show. One thing you noticed (and appreciated) about Atsumu was the duality in his focus.

First hand, you’ve seen up close the intensity of his focus during his serves. The air would whip itself into a deafening silence at the drop of his hand and his eyes steeled over as fast as the sounds came to a halt—it was eerie, almost. In the way that sent chills down your spine and admiration bubble in the pits of your stomach. Then, as quick as the ball slams on the spot of the ground he aimed towards—the yell of triumph he’d express and the smile that would break into his face would overflow from his whole being. Like exhaling shakily after a sharp intake of breath—Atsumu was everything intense.

But, Atsumu, you think as you peek at him looking at the skies in front of him, was also serene. The kind of focus that pulled you in all the right ways. Like the gentle teacher you had from elementary who would coax you softly to focus sounding out the words in the passage you had trouble pronouncing. His hands were steady on the wheel, at 10 and 2 and the car would slowly come to a stop at every red light instead of the sharp lurch your body moves into when you press the brake a little too harshly. He only sometimes put music in the car—he told you he prefers to have your voice as company instead of hearing about the weather from the radio.

It surprised you, but at this point Atsumu brought nothing in your life but surprises. Then again, it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing—you were just used to feeling the ground before you fell so his uncertainty was still very much of an unmarked territory for you.

-

“Is it something about me?” he asked when the two of you exited the car and stood outside the entrance to your apartment building.

You know what he’s talking about, but you opt to stay silent and look at him with your head tilted instead because you already feel the urge to take one step back.

He’s still looking at you even as the passing moments are stretching into an awkward silence so he sighs and shoves his hands back in his pockets—something he does when he’s nervous, you noticed—and waved you off when you opened your mouth to try to retaliate. You’re thankful because you aren’t exactly sure what it was you were going to say anyway.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he says as he turns.

“See ya tomorrow?”

He waits for you to nod and wave a goodbye at him, which he first smiles at, before he starts the car and drives away.

-

His question “doesn’t keep you up at night,” is what you try to convince yourself when it’s 2:05 am on a Tuesday night and all you’ve done so far is toss and turn in bed. To prove your own point, you’ve sat up and turned the bedside lamp on while you scroll through some unopened emails on your laptop.

Halfway into retyping the same email you know you’ve been staring at for the past hour, Atsumu’s contact photo chimes in your phone in the form of a text message.

“you up?” it reads from the notification bar and you automatically shut your laptop close, turn off the lamp, and throw your covers over your head.

“No,” you reply out loud and you internally groan because of how ridiculous you’re being.

Your thoughts from the night before still remain in your head as you’re sitting on the bench beside the court later that afternoon as you type away at your laptop. It’s still the same email you never replied to last night, but you try to ignore that. You also ignore the fact that you’ve kept count of how many times the ball slammed on the opposite side of the net when Atsumu practiced his serves.

You don’t notice it when Bokuto takes a seat next to you and looks over your shoulder at the email you’re not even halfway through typing.

“That’s the same email opened since this morning,” he points out and you groan before turning to face and quickly shush him.

He’s laughing when he takes a seat next to you.

“You know,” he begins, “I think you’re just scared to feel something for Atsumu.”

You close your laptop—the draft of your email unsaved, like it had any coherent content anyway.

“Bo, you’re being silly,” you reply knocking your shoulder against his in laughter.

“You’re avoiding the conversation, (y/n),” he laughs back and you wave him off towards the court in laughter when the coach calls for him.  He stretches when he stands back up and tells you, “We’ll talk about this later because I think you need it,” before jogging off to the other side of the gym.

Inwardly, you heave another sigh, because this was one of the times where Bokuto’s being more serious. You had to give him credit—the duality in his personality and harsh line when he switched from jesting to seriousness was impressive. Bokuto Koutarou wasn’t smart in many aspects of the domestic parts of life—he didn’t understand taxes, or why you needed to change the oil often, but he had a way of looking through the layers people build around themselves.

At first, it caught you off guard because two weeks after you met you had only been sitting outside a convenience store watching him lick the melted parts of his ice cream on his hands when he suddenly turns to you and says, “(Y/n), I wish you would take risks more. You’re too cautious.”

He never brought it up again, but every time he chose to tell you something—it was always something you knew, never acknowledged, but needed to hear.

So when Atsumu waves at you and shouts that he’ll just shower and be out in thirty minutes, you ignore the urge to step back, and smile at him instead.

You’re thinking about Bokuto’s words again as you listen to Atsumu yell something at Sakusa from inside the locker room.

You’re too different from each other.

You suppose there are differences, especially in the way you address your friends—Atsumu’s not afraid to clap your back while he laughs while you choose to keep your hands to yourself. He’s not afraid to let his intentions be known while you try to wrestle with your thoughts every time you’re shifting closer to the edge.

You could always walk away, you tell yourself every day, but every day you also choose to not do that. You know day by day and sunset after sunset you watch with Atsumu you’re nearing that edge again—and you want nothing more than take twenty more steps back but each day he offers you a new joke that you genuinely laugh at you know it’s a couple centimetres closer to where you’re afraid of going.

Bokuto’s right, you’re different from each other, but you know deep down that you’re alike in so many ways. When Atsumu talks about what he wants to do accomplish in life outside of volleyball, he talks with such a childish wonder in the certainty of the tone of his voice. At times, he was stubborn to the core—just like you were, and you realize that would clash between the both of you some day but Atsumu smiling as he’s jogging towards you has you realizing that you don’t really mind at all.

“Ready to go?” he asks and you could only nod as you follow him out the door.

Bokuto’s looking at you and giving you a thumbs up which you nervously return with a smile of your own.

During the car ride back home, you’re thankful that Atsumu chooses to flip on the radio this time; you didn’t plan on telling much of a story, and your thoughts are too jumbled up with everything for you to even settle with small talk.

“You good?” he asks, then looks over at you at the red light. You nod yes and shift the bag sitting in your lap.

“The sky looks pretty today,” you begin, “—the sunset today looks like the ones I grew up seeing when I was a kid at my grandfather’s by the coast.”

Atsumu hums, but it’s still heard over the low volume of the car’s radio, “You should take me to see one day.”

Your gut churns and you curse yourself when you habitually chose to stay silent.

“I don’t mean it like I’m inviting myself there, (Y/n)—“

“It’s okay, you should visit with me next time,” you reply then turn to watch his expression shift from flustered to surprise from his profile. You’re watching him with baited breath and your heart thumping can almost be heard when the radio dips into a silence in the commercial.

The light switches to green and Atsumu eases his foot off of the break as the car slowly gains momentum before he’s nodding his head and saying a soft, “Yeah. Sure. Totally.”

It’s quite uncharacteristic for him to be so muted with his replies, but you suppose these are one of the similarities you’re discovering you have with Atsumu. He’s confident and barks out his comments when his emotions are running high, but at the moment you know the both of you are tiptoeing around that line of uncertainty at the moment.

When his pointer figure taps the steering wheel in an unknown rhythm, a nervous habit of his, you feel yourself slightly relax. The difference this time from that hallway breakup you had when you were sixteen was both of you were at the same page. That boy who said he didn’t love you let the certainty in his intentions be known in the way you could already anticipate the long term ending for. There was nothing more to be uncovered—and you didn’t find the push to dive down for more.

This, with Atsumu, was a different story. You had curiosity with the unclarity. You craved to unravel his truth. 

Truthfully, every decision you’ve made so far had you already seeing the outcome—that’s why you’ve only felt like you were only jumping to a ground two or three feet under you.

With Atsumu, you’ve come to realize that he personified the edge. At the same time, he was the push and the pull of the wind when you’re balancing yourself between curiosity and reason. You know the frustration you feel when you can’t read him comes from the fact that you’re only seeing him from the surface. You see licks of who he is with every slam of the ball and every spark in his eye. 

But just when you feel that knot in your stomach, you allow reason to cloud your desire to jump into the blurred lines of variability— Every. Single. Time.

And it frustrates you because twenty steps back have become too comfortable for you to try to leave. You hated it, but you knew what was waiting for you every time, so you learned to find the comfort in it.

The truth is, you’ve always had the curiosity towards what it felt like to plunge. Like the story your grandfather would tell you—it ended with the boy dying by the edge he never found the curiosity to jump in, surrounded by the questions that ultimately died with him. It was a pitiful end, and up till now you believe the entire story could have been avoided. You know you’re always thinking about the dive and what comes with it, but never found quite the push that’d lead you to want to throw your body forward and seek.

You know Bokuto always had a point in the passing comments he tells you when you least expect it. Bokuto presented them to you in forms of declarations not even in questions.

The sky in front of you is the same sky you stood under when you dangled your feet over the edge, fearless, years ago. Atsumu feels like the push and pull of the wind, and the tug of gravity under your soles when he looks at you as you stand in front of your apartment building.

You’re not in the cliff side this time but you see the horizon you forgot you loved when Atsumu shoves his hands in his pockets and offers you a smile.

You hear the cry of the waves below and the call of the seagulls to your left when Atsumu says, “About earlier, you don’t have to worry about it—I was just jokin.”

“You’re scared to feel something for Atsumu,” you hear Bokuto tell you when you itch to take a step back, then, “I wish you’d take more risks.”

“I wanna take the risk,” you say out loud and Atsumu looks at you quizzically, before softening his eyes when he realizes what you’re trying to say.

And you could almost laugh because of course he understands what you mean. Atsumu knew more than he let on and you could laugh again at the mirroring of your personalities. It was opposite and identical at the same time: identical like the both of you understanding each other’s metaphors without explanation, and opposite in the way he always addresses them while you do, well, the opposite of that.

“I wanna jump,” you say even if it doesn’t make sense because you’re confident the message will reach him all the same.

Atsumu’s beaming and you think it looks like the sun that’s looked at you from the horizon for years. When he takes your hands in his, you inhale yet feel breathless because the balls of your feet feel weightless and your body is leaning forward.

And when the clouds in the sky blend with the painting and Atsumu leans forward, you let gravity take you—

Then, you’re diving.

-

[singingaboutwishingx]

Sam/Josh, 19+37

19. summer camp + 37. coming out

sam and josh are nineteen years old, but they’ve been coming to camp since they were nine. they’ve gone from the babies of the camp to the counselors, the top of the food chain. they’ve been best camp friends for years, but it’s mostly a “we’re best friends for eight weeks out of the year, and we like each other’s instagram posts during the other forty-four, but we don’t really stay in touch because, yeah, we can call and text and facetime, but we both have lives, and it’s just not the same, you know?” this is partially due to the fact that sam lives in california and is about to be a sophomore at ucla, and josh is from connecticut and is about to be a sophomore at harvard. the bigger, unspoken reason, is that they’ve both been pining for the other for YEARS. 

the kicker (because we couldn’t have a story about these two without one, now could we?) is that they’re both dumb teenagers who think the other is straight. sam has been in love with josh since they were fourteen, and josh just as long, but it took him a couple more years to come to terms with it. they’re both too afraid to say anything because they think they’ll ruin the precious friendship they have.

and so here they are at nineteen, back for the last summer they’ll ever spend in these woods, sad and a little apprehensive and so, so in love, but determined to make this the best one they’ve ever had. one of the other counselors somehow managed to sneak in a fifth of cherry vodka for each of the last-year counselors (there were only four of them, but still impressive). it’s awful, cheap as shit, but hey, nobody’s died yet, and it gets them drunk.

at the end of week one, josh and sam sit alone, very tipsy, at a dead end of one of the hiking trails they know by heart. they’ve been sitting uncharacteristically quietly for like five minutes, and josh decides he has nothing left to lose. he’s going to tell sam how he feels. if sam doesn’t take it well... well, it’s seven more awkward weeks and then they never have to see each other again. before he can say anything, though, sam just blurts out “listen, i’ve been sitting on this for, like, four summers now, but i’m in love with you.” josh is absolutely stunned. “sam... i didn’t even know you liked guys.” “it’s not really public information.” it takes josh another minute to collect his thoughts, but he finds his words eventually. “i mean, i would say it’s good thing you told me because i’m in love with you, too.”

so they date in secret that summer. it’s everything a summer romance should be: passionate, emotional, ephemeral. they try long-distance for a few months when they go back to college, but it just doesn’t really work out. they meet halfway over winter break and spend three days in iowa, knowing that they’re saying goodbye. they agree to at least stay vaguely connected on social media, and to not close the door permanently. you know, just in case.

sam publicly comes out the following november, and josh the june after that. they send each other pretty generic “hey, i’m proud of you” messages, but that’s the last they really talk for a while.

eight years down the line, sam’s on the fast track to becoming a junior partner at gage whitney pace, and josh is helping run grassroots campaigns anywhere they’ll hire him. when a prospective new york state senator calls him, his heart stops a little because new york is where sam is, but an acceptance tumbles out of his mouth before he can think about it. he needed a job anyway. what was he going to do, turn it down?

after josh has been there a few days, he drops by sam’s office. not in the middle of the morning, interrupting his meeting, but at 5:30 pm. he’s half hoping sam will already be gone for the day because josh has exactly no plan (there are few things josh is scared of in a big way, but his affection for sam, still there after all those years, is one of them). sam isn’t gone, though, and his assistant escorts josh to sam’s office and lightly shuts the door.

sam’s initial shock at seeing josh soon gives way to delight, and he comes around his desk to give josh a huge hug. and they just talk for a while, catching up on the past eight years. sam, at first, leans back against his desk, josh wandering around his office (and, oh, how it reminds sam of all those summers--sam would sit on the bottom bunk, josh pacing the wooden cabin floors in front of him and talking more with his arms than his voice).

eventually, a half-baked plan pops into josh’s mind, and once again, before he can think about it, he’s standing completely still, but a foot away from sam, and the words “are you seeing anyone?” come out of his mouth. sam looks at josh for a moment and slowly shakes his head no.

josh takes another step closer, and sam stands up fully. they’re at eye level now, so, so close, and josh is struck by sam’s eyes, just as blue as they were when he was nine years old. something distant in the back of josh’s mind knows that anyone could walk in and see them inches apart, but he doesn’t care.

with a last burst of courage, he leans forward and kisses sam. it’s soft, tentative, but not unreciprocated. sam pulls away soon, though.

“not here,” he whispers. “you wanna go get dinner?”

they get dinner, and they go back to sam’s apartment. sam lends josh a t-shirt and sweatpants and curls into josh’s side when they go to bed. the years have changed a lot, but not how they fit together.

they effortlessly slip back into it, and josh starts taking more new york-based jobs. slowly, they build a life together. they get a brownstone and a dog and a marriage license, and not a day goes by without them both silently thanking god that they got drunk on terrible vodka when they were nineteen because, hey, maybe they had killer hangovers the next day, but the fact that it led to this? worth it.

color palate/vibes: every shade of green, the crystal blue of a lake. the faded orange of a camp t-shirt, worn soft by years of wear, and the steely gray of a skyscraper. shy glances and messy kisses and initials carved into a tree. secret handshakes and “love ya, man,” said at a normal volume and a whispered “i love you” after so no one else can hear.

send me two tropes and ship and i’ll tell you how i’d combine them into one story!

[libsterslobsters]

Communication Breakdown

Summary: Friends make life much sweeter. That is, until you realize that you've accidentally fallen in love with your only friend. But that's not a problem. The reader can just keep pretending that she has absolutely no romantic feelings for Bucky whatsoever... right???

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x fem! enhanced! Reader

(Reader sees bits of the future, understands all languages, and processes information abnormally quickly)

Warning: Angst, fluff, strong language, and truly terrible communication between two grown adults who should really know better

Author's note: As per usual, the reader is unnamed so that this can be read as a self-insert if that's your jam, but when I'm writing this particular character, I call her Violet.

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

 They day starts out the way most days do. There’s the normal ding of her phone at seven a.m. signaling that she’s received another “Good morning” text from Barnes (six months, and he’s yet to miss a day). As usual, she sends back her own “Good morning” and they exchange a few well wishes for the day ahead. Only this time, a pang goes through her heart as she turns the phone to silent and places it in the drawer of her desk in preparation for her first class. Pushing it to the side, she greets her students and starts in on her lecture about verb tenses.

 She’s almost forgotten her momentary lapse in feelings when her phone rings at twelve. Time for their daily lunchtime phone call. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about the words they exchange. He’s doing laundry today, does she want him to stop by and pick up hers as well? Yes, thanks, that’ll save her some time since she has a mountain of papers to grade. Does she need to reschedule tonight’s dinner? He doesn’t mind if she does. No, she has time. Can she bring anything? No, just herself. Then a joke about how hasn’t she heard that one somewhere before. She almost slips up and tacks an “I love you” onto the goodbye, but remembers just in time. That’s not a thing friends say to each other (or at least, not in this friendship). Of course, friends also don’t spend far too much time imagining what the other person’s lips would feel like against theirs and their skin doesn’t tingle like they’ve received an electric shock every time they so much as brush hands.

 “You got a boyfriend, teacher?” One of her students ask teasingly as she puts her phone away.

 “No, nothing like that. Just my friend.” 

 Her afternoon is a blur (the only part that stands out is when one of her students is asked to form a sentence in the present tense, and his example is, “I am asking teacher to marry me.”; it was a joke, and she responded with, “Teacher is flattered, but she is saying no.”), and by the time she’s on the bus back home, a backpack full of papers in the seat beside her, all she wants to do is sleep. Of course, then her phone dings with, “Be at yours in thirty.” and she finds she has a little more energy.

 It’s unhealthy, a sign that she doesn’t know when to quit, but as usual, she begins to pretty herself up a bit before he arrives. She should just stop. They’re friends. Bucky is her friend. All he will ever see her as is a friend. What does it matter how she looks? Frustrated, she throws her hair up in a ponytail (she wasn’t succeeding in getting it to lay right anyway) and pulls on an old flannel with several holes in it over her shirt. There. She’s got this completely in control.

 She’s just finished washing the makeup from her face when, right on time, a knocking comes from her front door. It’s just a formality at this point; he has a key. Speaking of… she shoves a pair of socks that got mixed up in her laundry last time she did both of theirs in one go into her pocket and goes to answer.

 “Hey.”

 As per usual, they share a hug, and a part of her whispers that hugs between friends don’t last this long. She knows it’s foolishness, though. She hasn’t had a friend in years, so she’s remembering things wrong more than likely. He doesn’t get much interraction outside of her, not much touch, so that’s why he doesn’t let go. That, or he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings by pulling away.

 Eventually it does end, and she can feel that her cheeks are warm.

 “Hey, Doll. Ready to go?”

 She swallows hard. It’s a sweet nickname, one that from what she’s read, was a common way to address females you’re familiar with back in the days before he went in the ice.

 “Sure.” She pastes a smile on her face and closes the door behind her.

 They’re in the elevator before he speaks again.

 “That shirt-” His fingertips brush the skin on her wrist as he examines the cuff. “-it looks kinda familiar.” Her mind has gone all fuzzy, but it’s still clear enough that sudden realization dawns on her; it’s actually his. A loaner from months ago when it was colder than she had expected by the time she got around to leaving his apartment far later than she really should have. She can’t believe she never got around to returning it.

 “Shit. Sorry, Buck. I’ll wash it and get it back to you.”

 Yet another reason why he would never be interested in her. She’s absentminded. Seeing bits and pieces of the future leaves her so scattered that she forgets what she’s supposed to be doing in the present. In fact, for the first month or so after they really started to become friends, it was a constant struggle; her asking him about something she could’ve sworn he told her, only to find out it had yet to occur, or worse, it had happened but he sure as hell hadn’t mentioned it. These days, whenever she makes a mistake with her timing, he just responds with a joking, “You’re ahead of the game again.” She’s lucky to have him as a friend.

 “Nah, don’t worry about it.” The doors squeak open as they reach the ground floor. “Looks better on you anyway.”

 God, she wishes he’d stop saying things like that, stop being so kind. It only serves to make things get even more tangled in her mind. She needs a distraction. Now.

 “So, what’s tonight’s plan?”

 He chuckles.

 “If I tell you, it’ll ruin the surprise.” She doesn’t even bother to supress a groan at that.

 “I think I have enough surprises in my life already.”

 “Funny thing to say for a girl who sees the future.” Not like she can argue with that. “Just trust me. You’ll like it.”

 She does trust him, and that’s part of the problem. It’s been a long time since she’s had anyone in her life that she can honestly say she relies on.  She needs to stay in control, or else she’ll lose him like she’s lost everyone else.

___________________________________________________________________________________

 She’s oddly quiet tonight, reserved. Maybe even a little sad. Bucky shakes his head, silently chiding himself. He’s imagining things. If something had happened, she’d tell him. She’s probably just tired. It’s the middle of the working week after all, and she’s having to do one of her least favorite tasks as a teacher: prepare exams. She’s told him many times how much she hates it because, “I don’t feel like it’s an accurate gauge of how much they’re really learning. Lots of people do poorly on tests because they get nervous but do well in class discussions and on the homework. It shouldn’t count for so much of their grades, but I have to stick to the rules.” It’s yet another reason he loves her, even if he hasn’t said as much.

 As they stop by different street vendors, collecting what they need for the night ahead (which he still isn’t one hundred percent certain will be a success, but after copious amounts of internet research, it was the only thing he could come up with that would fit  the current bounds of both budget and time), he asks about her day. Usually she gives an animated account of everything that happened, but this time, she just sticks to the basics. Even when she shares that a student teasingly proposed to her, the smile on her face seems hollow, unreal. Okay, maybe he’s not imagining things.

 When they’re a block away from their destination, he stops and turns to her.

 “Close your eyes.” Her response is a frown.

 “I think I’ve heard this one before, and I’m not falling for it.”

 “Come on.” Nope. Still nothing. Time to pull out the big guns. “What was that about trusting me?” It’s a guilt trip, and he hates to do it, but it’ll be worth it.

 “Fine.” She groans, and her eyelids lower. “But if you’re about to put a spider on me, I’ll smack you. I don’t care that it’ll probably break my hand.”

 He snickers.

 “No spiders involved. Promise.”

 It’s not the first time he’s held her hand, but as he covers her smaller one with his, a rush of warmth travels from his fingertips up his arm. It’s so hypnotizing that he almost forgets he’s supposed to be leading her. Almost, but not quite.

 “This way.”

 “Don’t let me fall.”

 “I won’t.”

 If anyone notices that there’s a woman with her eyes closed being led around by a man in a baseball cap and sunglasses even though the sun is setting, they don’t show it, and it’s a relatively peaceful walk into the park. Now, he remembers there being a bench… there. Great. And the lake is completely theirs. No other people around.

 “You can open them now.”

 The look of cynicism melts from her face as her eyes open and she takes in the scenery surrounding them. In a bustling city, they’re in one of the few places that is completely green. More than that, there’s-

 “Ducks!” She laughs, and he can’t help but chuckle at her enthusiasm. “In the middle of the city! Wild ducks!” Looks like his gamble paid off. “How did you-”

 “I didn’t know for sure.” And in truth, he felt a little silly googling ‘parks in Bucharest with wildlife’. “But there was a web page that mentioned wild ducks tend to populate lakes, swamps, and rivers even here, so I took a shot that, maybe since there’s a lake here, there’d be a few.”

 “Is that what this is about?” She taps the loaf of bread they aquired on the way over.

 “No, that’s actually part of dinner. This-” He hates to do it, but he has to let go of her hand to dig in his pocket, finally producing a bag of oats. “-is for the ducks.”

 She smirks. “You’ve done your research.”

 “Be prepared.”

 “Alright, boy scout.” Even as she says it, she’s staring out at the water.

 “I know it’s not ‘catching a mouse in your apartment’ different, but-” The corners of her lips quirk up at the memory. “-I thought it might be a nice change from sitting around watching movies.”

 “Thank you.” Even though it’s getting chillier with the sun going down, that smile more than makes up for the lack of warmth. “You didn’t have to do all this-”

 “No, but I wanted to. Thought it might make you smile.” That’s apparently the wrong thing to say, because she freezes, and that smile melts into a frown. “Everything okay?”

 She starts to nod, but then stops short.

 “Bucky, I can’t keep doing this. I’m sorry.”

 Without any other explanation, she’s off, heading back in the direction from which they came. And, like that first day all those months ago, he chases after her.

___________________________________________________________________________________

 

 “Hey! Slow down!” Ten seconds. He must not’ve had his Wheaties this morning if it’s taken him this long to catch up with her. Still, just this once, couldn’t Barnes not follow her? Take it easy on a girl for a change? That’s the whole point of running away, after all. To put some distance between yourself and whatever it is you’re running from.

 She keeps moving, walking fast, but he’s right on top of her.

 “When are you gonna stop running away from me?”

 “Depends. When are you gonna stop chasing me?”

 “I’m not. Thought that was understood.” He takes her hand (when did they start doing that? Most friends don’t… then again, what does she know about friendship) and she has no choice but to turn around and look at him.

 “Talk to me.”

 She can’t. If she starts, she knows those tears she’s keeping at bay will spill over.

 “Alright.” Dropping her hand, he crosses his arms. “I’ll wait, but it’s starting to get dark, so I’d appreciate it if we could do this sooner rather than later.” Dammit.

 “I just can’t do it anymore.” Deep breath in. Deep breath out. No tears. “You’ve been nothing but kind to me. You’ve never lead me on or acted like anything other than a friend, so please don’t think you’re the problem.”

 “Problem? Doll, what-” She pushes ahead, ignoring his confusion.

 “The problem is me. Somewhere along the way, I got my wires crossed.” Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Now keep going. “You’re a good man, Bucky Barnes. And a-” Her cheeks are on fire. “-a good-looking one too. Anyone would be lucky to have you. And selfishly, I started wishing that “anyone” was me. I didn’t mean to, but I fell in love with you.” She has to finish it, or else she’ll regret it. “I just can’t keep going like this. It hurts too damn much. I’m sorry. I need to not see you for a while, and I get it if you never want to talk to me again.” It’s no use. The tears fall, and she starts walking again.

 “When the hell did I say any of that?”

 She can’t stop. She can’t do this. Not now.

 “Will you stop running away from me? Just for five minutes?”

 He hasn’t touched her, but it doesn’t matter. She freezes in place, just as if he’d grabbed hold of her and held her there.

 “Please, just this once, let me walk away.” Can’t he spare her that one last dignity?

 “You wanna walk away? Go ahead. But like I said, I’m not gonna stop chasing after you. Not until you hear me out.”

 He’s in front of her now. There’s no way of hiding that she’s full-on crying, so instead she shuts her eyes so she won’t have to see his face.

 “Dammit.” She couldn’t have said it better herself. “None of what you just said made any sense. You want us to stop seeing each other because… you’re interested in me. Have I got that part right?” She nods, still keeping her eyes closed. “That’s what I thought. See, the part I’m a little confused about is, why would that be a problem?” She opens her mouth to explain it all over again. “I thought it was pretty clear I’ve been trying to date you for the past six months.” What? She’s never been more befuddled in her whole life. It’s enough that she has to open her eyes. “Not as clear as I thought, obviously.”

 He’s scratching the back of his neck, something she’s realized over time is a nervous habit.

 “This is my fault. I should’ve come out and said something, but I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable or…” He clears his throat. “...well, sound dumb if I’m being honest. Granted it’s been a while since I’ve done this, but seeing each other pretty much whenever either person has free time, eating together and watching movies, phone calls…” He trails off. “...I thought that was dating.”

 Oh.

 “So, all this time-” She starts.

 “Looks like it. Sorry.” He grimaces. “Not that I wouldn’t want to be your friend, if that’s all you wanted. I mean, you’re a great person and I like you in more than just THAT way. I just sort of assumed.”

 She can’t help it. A laugh slips out.

 “God. This would’ve been a hell of a thing to have a vision about.” Good. He’s smiling. At least they’re starting to recover.

 “I thought for sure you must’ve; something at least, with all you see me doing before I do it.” Sometimes, she really hates her powers and how selective they can be. “Figured it was just one of those things you don’t talk about but you both know. Pretty dumb, in hindsight.”

 “No…” She reaches out to grasp his arm, but stops short. “...I can see why you’d assume-”

 “You too, now that I think about it.” He chuckles. “This is a nice mess, huh?”

 “One of my best, I think.” Honestly, she could’ve avoided all this trouble if she had taken a cue from third graders and passed him a note that said, “Do you like me? Check yes or no.”

 “Can we start over? Maybe have a redo with less assuming and more actually saying things?”

 She nods, a genuine smile on her face.

 “I’d like that.”

 “Okay.” Clearing his throat, he sticks out his hand. “Hi, I’m Bucky. I’m the man who’s been falling in love with you for the past six months, and if it’s alright, I’d like to be your boyfriend. Or, whatever the term is these days.”

 “Pleased to meet you.” She’s struggling not to laugh as she shakes his hand. “That term’s kind of cringey, but I think it’s still in use. And if it’s alright with you, it’s alright with me.”

 It’s been long enough; she really should let go of his hand, but she can’t bring herself to. He seems to be having the same problem, so instead, he takes a step closer, and she does the same in response.

 “I have one more question, and I’ve been meaning to ask it for a while.”

 They’re chest to chest now. She can almost feel it every time he takes a breath.

 “Shoot.” 

 “Can I kiss you?”

 This must be what people mean when they refer to getting butterflies.

 “You’d better.”

 It’s not her first kiss, and if she had to bet, it’s probably not his either, but it’s unlike anything she’s felt before, making everything else pale by comparrison. They may have gotten off to a rough start, but at least for now, they’ve ironed it out. Oh, and he loves her too. That’s also good.