#it isn’t until he gets his first hard on after a particularly nasty argument that he goes I Feel Wrong

[15-lizards]

Modern AU Bramie worst couple on gods green earth. She’s a college sophomore on a sports scholarship just trying to get through her classes. He works at Tywin Roy’s multi media empire bc nepotism and he sucks so hard at his job he couldn’t tell you his title. They met while she was on her daily 5 am jog outside of campus and found him hungover on a park bench after a two week bender with coke in his pocket and 30 missed calls and 55 suggestive texts from Cersei. She thinks he’s a bum but gives him her water bottle out of pity. They meet again a week later at some business soirée Tywin is throwing that Briennes dad got invited too and they meet eyes and immediately feel some kind of godawful connection they are Locked In now. He beelines over to her bc he subconsciously thinks she’s Mother Teresa but then verbally starts making fun of her for having a social climber daddy. She asks how his monthly detox at rehab was. They’re snippy with each other all night. A few days later she’s getting coffee with Sansa after class and she looks over to see who Briennes texting and goes why are you arguing with a thirty two year old man over his college sports highlight reels. Aaaaaand scene.

[hargrove-mayfields]

Back when things were still easy, Billy and Max used to have sibling days on the weekends when Neil wouldn’t be home, setting aside their issues to have just one day that was meant for doing something fun together.

The tradition had been dropped after the move to Hawkins, and Max thinks that’s where a lot of the strain on their relationship comes from. Without those designated times to let go of some of the tension building between them, they fall to pieces.

There’s one day in particular where it’s just Max at home all by herself, her mother and Neil having gone on a trip to the city she opted out of, when Billy shows up much earlier than he said he would be back, ruining the calm when he slammed the front door so hard a picture frame fell off the wall.

Neither of them say a word to the other, all she gets is an apologetic and glossy looking glance for the noise as he storms past her like she isn’t even there.

She doesn’t see Billy again for a long time after that, just hears the angry music blaring in his room. By now, she’s wisened up enough to know that meant he was probably crying in there, and though she doesn’t know what happened, she feels bad.

It’d been far too long since they acted anything like real siblings, not that they were actually related, but they used to be just as close, so after her brother’s been brooding for literal hours, she knows she wants to do something.

Her opportunity to bring it up comes when Billy makes his grand appearance at her door, stopping by to ask if she ate dinner just so he, quote ‘wouldn’t get any shit for it.’ She nods in agreement and asks, “Do you know what day it is, Billy?”

He shrugs, “28th of June.”

“Well, doy, but it’s also Friday.” Billy raises an eyebrow, missing the point, and Max rolls her eyes. “Friday. You know, like, the one day we get to hang out.”

Too cool for that stuff anymore apparently, he scoffs and leans against the doorframe, and she just knows he’s going to say something snarky, so she turns the puppy dog eyes up a notch, “Please? It’ll be fun.”

It works, Billy sighs way over dramatic and steps into her room, throwing himself down onto her beanbag chair. She can’t contain the smile on her face when he asks with fake defeat, “What did you want, shitbird?”

“I want a makeover day. Like we used to do.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“Why?” She crosses her arms, “Just because that’s what I want to do?”

He fixes her with a look that says ‘seriously?’, and explains, an edge of frustration to his voice, “No, because you know what’ll happen if I’m struttin’ around in nail polish and shit when Neil gets back.”

“They’re not supposed to come back until like, Monday though,” in response to her excuses, he mimics her in crossing his arms over his chest, so she tries harder to reason with him, “And we can always just take it off when we’re done.”

“That’s just a waste of your stuff, then.”

“Come on, Billy, please?” she’s out of actual arguments and he’s winning, so she brings out the big guns, the little sister privilege, the one surefire way she knows will always knock her brother off guard, “I miss you.”

He squints at her, seeing through the attempted guilt trip, but he can’t muster a frown, and he must know it wasn’t all fake, because he says, “Whatever.”

She knows that’s his version of a yes and he’s just too proud to admit he caved, so she squeals and claps her hands together, taking off like a shot to dig under her bed for the stowed away beauty kit. It’s a little wicker basket filled to the brim with nail polish and makeup, the same one they’d used years ago before everything went wrong, and it makes her happy, bringing the old thing back out.

She stops to put a record in her player, choosing Queen as the closest thing to a middle ground between their respective music tastes, they at least both weren’t supposed to listen to it, and drops down into the other chair beside Billy.

On the latch-hook rug in front of them, she starts to empty the basket, lining up all her brightly colored bottles of nail polish, slightly dried out after months of not using them. “What color?”

“Why do I have to go first?” Billy asks. All Max has to say in response is a know-it-all “Because I said so.”

“Fine. You pick.” The moment he says it he looks like he regrets it, Max is notoriously bad at making decisions, but she ignores him and starts holding up bottles anyways.

First, after few minutes deliberation, she chooses a pretty dark green, and he scrunches his nose and doesn’t say anything. She picks a purplish color, which he tosses away on the bed, a very firm ‘no’ that makes Max giggle. Then she gives him a bright orange bottle, and he holds in front of his face, studying it before turning that one down too.

“God, if I knew you’d be so annoying I would’ve just painted them all the colors.” She remarks, lining up her polishes so she could do just that.

“That’s actually probably not a very good idea, kiddo.” Looking a little panicked, he digs through the bottles himself, settling on one he pulls away and stares at for a second before handing it to her and telling her, “Just do ‘em red.”

It confuses her, but she agrees regardless, and makes him turn in his seat so he’s facing her and his hands are flat on the floor. His hands are a little shaky, so her paint job isn’t the best, she even drips some on the carpet, which she hopes her mother won’t notice, but Billy doesn’t say anything about the mess.

With his nails done she moves onto his hair, she wants to do double braids like how he taught her to do in her own hair, so she shoves his arm to get him to turn around. “Scoot.”

He lets her push him around until he’s in the right place that she can reach his hair, but once he’s facing the far wall he tells her, “Don’t you dare use that brush on my hair, Maxine.”

“Jeez, relax. I’m not gonna mess up your princess curls.” She mocked, but she still went for the comb to run through his hair instead.

She waited until she could get it through without catching on any tangles before bothering trying to talk to him. When Billy was upset, he tended to clam up, but she didn’t particularly like feeling awkward in the silence, leaving all the talking to the record player. “Can we talk about why you were mad earlier?”

“Nope.”

“Would you tell me if I told you about my day?” She tries, but he shuts it down again with an “Unlikely.”

“I’ll tell you anyways.” Max didn’t know what had happened with Billy, but she knew she hadn’t had the greatest morning herself either. “I had to ask Lucas to bring me home early because me and Mike got in a fight.”

Billy snorted, and spoke with just as much sarcasm as Max had used on him. She learned that from him anyways. “You and Mike? No.”

“Yeah. He was being a total ass about El, trying to like, own her or something, so I told him to lay off ‘cause that’s totally not fair.��

She knew that Billy, having graduated and turned 18 now, was probably getting a little old for this type of drama, but he was a good listener, no matter how much he pretended not to care, always giving little bits of insight and saying things to make her laugh.

She continues, “Well, anyways he like, totally bit my head off for sticking up for her, so then I told him he was just a miserable mouth breather who’s jealous of El being happy, and he tried to kick me out.”

Billy laughed at that, muttering a little ‘ow’ when the action made Max pull his hair, “But you left before he could kick you out right?”

“Duh.” She sighs a little, the fun part of the story over. “Then when we pulled up outside, Lucas said something stupid about it being my fault or whatever, so I dumped him again.”

“Good. I told you not to take any shit from them anymore.” Billy had been less than happy with her friends a lot recently, when she’d come home from school or from hanging out upset over something they said. They never meant to hurt her feelings, but Billy didn’t like it all the same, and made her promise she’d stand up for herself a little more. Like she did to him.

“Yeah, I guess.” It makes her feel light on the inside, to know Billy was proud of her for following his advice, in his own way at least. “So? What happened to you?”

He shrugs again, and blows her off, “It’s nothing.”

“You were crying.”

“Yeah, and it’s none of your business.”

“Maybe not,” she fumbles with the braid and loses it, Billy’s stupid uneven mullet making it way too hard to braid so many different lengths of hair, “But I’m like, an expert now. El says she likes my advice.”

Under his breath, Billy mutters, “‘Course she does.”

Max purses her lips and pretends she didn’t hear that before continuing her offer, “Anyways, I can always try to help.”

“Listen, it’s just stupid dating stuff. Nothin’ you need to be worrying about.”

“But I’m a girl. I can give advice about that.” She thinks about it for a second, “I mean, I know more about being a girlfriend than having one, but it’s probably about the same.”

“Maybe.” Billy mumbles, focusing all his attention on picking at the nail polish that had missed the edges of his nails, and just from the way he tensed up she can tell she’d overstepped Billy’s boundaries in some way or another.

She finishes of the braid she had already started over twice now and puts a blue scrunchie on the end of it, giving him a minute.

When she starts combing out the rest of his hair is when Billy speaks again, not a drop of his distinctly Billy attitude in his words as he admitted softly, “You know, shitbird, I never said anything ‘bout having a girlfriend.”

That’s confusing to her at first, because he had just told her it was a dating thing, but Max’d been hearing all the nasty things Neil said about Billy for years now, and while she might just be a kid, might be the clueless and annoying little sister, she still knew the weight of what he’d just admitted to her.

It had always made her sad, to know Neil didn’t really like Billy, all the mean words he used, ones she wouldn’t dare repeat, to describe Billy and his friends, all the lies he told about him behind his back. But she doesn’t buy it, what her asshole step-dad had to say.

Her brother was cool, and she liked hanging out with him, when he wasn’t being such a jerk. The fact that he had a boyfriend instead of a girlfriend didn’t change that in the least bit.

She hums, trying to gather words and, her voice strained against the outburst of happiness, says “See? I can totally help with boy stuff.”

[closedmadness]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐄, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄

summary: you and alec hated each other — or at least, pretended to in front of everyone. behind the scenes, however, you two are insanely in love with each other

pairings: alec lightwood x male reader

warnings → fluff & nsfw・swearing・fake arguments・make-out session・blowjob・anal penetration・slight possessive alec

a/n: please i didn’t mean for this to be short nsfw but my fingers moved on its own✋😭 it was supposed to be just cute, fluffy and sweet💀

“you can’t tell me that it wasn’t your fault we failed our mission today.” alec’s voice boomed in the institute as soon as all of you got home, irritation clear in his tone.

rolling your eyes, a sigh escaped your lips. you really don’t want to do this right now after that particularly bad, failed mission — a bunch of female mundanes swarmed over you while on duty, disturbing you and making you unable to guard over the demons that were wrecking havoc on that club itself. those females were a distraction; they wanted to get into your pants, thirty for some love from a incredibly good-looking man like you.

deciding not to deal with his crap as isabelle and jace scolded alec, you went to walk pass him before being stopped quickly with a grab on your arm. “i really don’t want to do this right now, lightwood.” you immediately said after turning around, refusing to let him talk first. “i feel responsible of this mission as much as it’s hard to believe that, and i don’t want you constantly nagging me about it.”

“as you should.” he retorts with the same cold, emotionless face he always plastered on. “and of course, i will nag you about it, it was an important mission! we got to kill those demons but we didn’t get to find out their intention.”

you scrunched your brows together, “why didn’t you ask any of them when those mundanes were crowding over me? i’m sure you had plenty of chances.” eyes glinting with suspicion, you stepped forward towards him. “or maybe you just didn’t want to do anything so you could frame me on the failed mission.” you accused.

alec’s brows furrowed and his lips curved upside down in a frown at that. he narrowed his eyes, offended and upset. “you’re accusing me now? great, (y/n)! of course, you would find a way to accuse me somehow!” he exclaimed sarcastically.

you scoff and rolled your eyes, done with his bullshit before storming off the heart of the institute towards your room.

“seriously, alec?” isabelle gives her brother a look, hands resting on her hips, but all the male lightwood did was glare at her and storm off as well.

she didn’t know why you and alec are always on each other’s throats; it’s almost as if you’d kill each other when left alone together, there isn’t even any clear reason you two should hate each other yet you still do. it’s probably because of the feud between maryse and your mother, but even then, she still did not understand. in her eyes, alec was longing for your touches and just you in general, yet he’s pushing you away. isabelle has been wanting the both of you to get along — though, it might be the hardest one to achieve.

jace and clary glanced at each other, knowing how she feels about this whole feud thing. “they’ll come around soon, izzy.” the former comforts, placing his hand on her shoulder.

“yeah, let’s just believe in them.” clary joins, taking up the space opposite jace. “you know what they say; the more you hate, the more you love. who knows? they might actually get along someday.” she tried her best to cheer up, which worked miraculously as isabelle reveals a smile.

perhaps, she should be patient as the universe works in its own wonderful ways. all these small, petty arguments are getting tiring and she just hopes something will change for the better.

walking down the hallway leading up to your room, alec looks around first cautiously and makes sure no one’s witnessing anything before eventually stopping in front of your door.

it was already unlocked, with you peeking from the tiny bit of space between, grinning up at him. alec smiled and assured you there was no one around, which made you open the door wide and pull him in. giggling together, he closed the door behind him and made sure to lock it as you captured his lips on yours, cupping his face with both hands.

he smiled into the kiss, moving to wrap his arms around your waist while yours wrapped around his neck, pulling each other close. feeling a gentle squeeze on your butt, you took that as a signal to jump and wrap your legs around him, alec not missing a beat to catch you. with lips still attached together, alec moved to sit on the bed, his hands beginning to roam around your body. breaking the kiss to catch your breath, he took it as an opportunity to run his lips and tongue across your neck, licking, sucking and biting. you moaned, tilting your head back to give him more access.

“alec...” you whimpered breathlessly as he sucked harshly on your skin, creating a pretty visible hickey. “they will- don’t make one where they can see it.” complaining, you slipped your fingers through his soft hair but didn’t stop him from continuing his work.

he hums, the vibration making you shiver. “you can always cover it, (y/n). i know you like it when i leave my mark on you.” he mumbled against your skin, tightening his hold. a moan once again leaves your lips when he bit on your sweet spot, the blissful sound making him groan and slip his hand in the back of your pants. “you know today was not your fault, right?” he suddenly whispers, staring into your (e/c) eyes that never failed to make him lost.

you stared back at his hazel eyes, nodding your head and resting your forehead against his. “of course, darling. i never meant anything i’ve said either.”

this is always what you did — argue, act like enemies, be nasty, throw insults at one another, speak with distaste in the front, but once behind the closed doors, you apologize to each other and make sure the other didn’t take it to their heart, as well as show love, so you’d be reassured of everything.

alec smiles, his eyes shining with admiration and love. oh, how angelic he looked with that smile of his. only you could see him so soft.

“truth is, i couldn’t ask the demons because i was focused on you.” he admitted, looking down for a second before returning his gaze on you. “those mundanes,” distaste filled his tone at the mention of those creature, “had no right to touch you like that. acting like you’d sleep with them, be their man.” his lips pouted at the thought as jealousy clouded his chest.

chuckling, you pecked his lips when found his jealousy cute. “alec, darling, you know i’m only gonna do that with you. i’m completely yours.” talking with a loving tone, your fingers played with his hair that always made him feel good.

alec smiled in fondness and gently pulled you by the back of your head, capturing your lips in yet another heated kiss. you bit on his bottom lip, erupting a groan from him as he pushed the jacket off of your shoulders, it falling on the floor along with your black shirt. alec only ever broke the kiss when he removed his jacket and shirt, and quickly smashed his lips back on yours, tongue slipping in smoothly and exploring your mouth, fighting against your own wet muscle for dominance.

he then flipped you both to lay your back on the soft mattress, never breaking the kiss as his hand ran across your chest and abs, tracing every bit of your body. you moaned into the kiss when he palmed your cock through the thick layer of pants.

“mhm, alec...” calling his name breathlessly, you unconsciously buckled your hips onto his hand, trying to get some sort of stimulation.

alec groaned in arousal at your reaction, quickly unzipping your pants and tugging it off of you along with your boxers. a cool of air hit your manhood as soon as it was released, making you shiver, eyes closing in response.

the lightwood took his time to admire you completely; your eyes glistening with lust, lips swollen from all the kissing, chest rising up and down with every breath you take, fully naked, presenting yourself to him without shame or hesitation. no matter how many times he looked at every part of you, you never ceased to take his breath away. it was sort of amusing, how even after all this time you still have him wrapped around your finger and willingly refusing to ever unwrap.

god, he’s so lucky to have you.

alec starts kissing your chest downwards slowly until it reached your hard erection, laying a peck on the tip which had you twitching. giving your tip a kitten lick, his hand pumped your cock painfully slow as you whimpered. he licked off the dripping precum before fully taking you in, the walls of his mouth rubbing against your shaft making you moan and throw your head back, eyes almost rolling to the back of your head. he didn’t stop until he took all the way in and starts to bob his head upwards and backwards, twirling his wet muscle skillfully on your shaft while doing so, keeping his gaze fixed on you.

you gripped the sheets tightly until your knuckles turned white, wave after wave of pleasure hitting you like a tsunami as an uncontrollable moans escaped your lips. “fuck, alec! t-that feels so good.” you praised, arching your back to get more stimulation.

alec kept you in place with his hands as he continued sucking you off, the bulge in his pants implying his intense arousal upon the delicious sight in front of him. his cock was painfully hard underneath that thick fabric.

saliva as well as your precum dripped his chin, but he couldn’t careless as he only wanted you to feel amazing. and indeed, you were feeling just that.

he could see your legs quiver in the corner of his eyes. you were close, he could feel it by your cock twitching and pulsating in his mouth. an all too familiar feeling builds in the pit of your stomach as tears blurred your vision, your mind reminding you how close you are to your climax. “ohhh, fuck! alec! i’m close- aghhh!”

“cum for me, (y/n).” alec speaks, and although it was muffled due to your cock still buried between his lips, you understood. he fastened his pace, slowly sending you over the edge until finally, you let out a loud moan of his name as white seeds shoots out from your cock in his mouth. your hips jerked while you ride out your orgasm, his lips still wrapped around the manhood in an attempt to swallow everything that spills out of it.

he then released your cock from his mouth with a loud ‘pop’ and hovered above your panting body again, capturing your lips in a gentle kiss. you could taste yourself along with his saliva as your wet muscles danced together lazily.

a shaky sigh leaves his lips after feeling how painfully hard he was and finally moved to remove the rest of his clothes, pants and boxers altogether — his hard-on springing up as he released a relieved sigh from the freeness. his pants were getting too tight with his as-hard-as-a-rock manhood inside.

“alec,” you breathlessly called, bringing your hands up to cup his face. “go ahead and put it in. i want you now.”

“but without preparation-”

“it will hurt, i know.” you cut him off, giving him an assuring look. “we did it yesterday, it’ll be okay. please, just fuck me right now,” you placed your lips just above his ear, “show me those mundanes aren’t better than you.”

“you really...” he growled. you really knew how to rile him up.

without a warning, he slammed his cock into you in just one go and ripped out a scream from your throat, eyes rolling to the back of your head from the sudden feeling of being filled with his thick shaft.

thrusting his hips, alec groaned at the warm feeling of your tight hole around him and kissed your collarbone to muffle his own noises while his ears are blessed with your constant whines, moans and whimpers.

“shit, ah! alec! more!” you desperately whined, hips moving on its own to meet with his rhythmic thrust.

“fuck, (y/n)...” he grunted right into your ear, making you shudder.

his pace was fast and rough as he fucked you mercilessly into the mattress while leaving hickeys everywhere he can, angling his thrust so he’d perfectly hit your prostate. “you’re only mine. no mundanes, or shadowhunters, or downworlders can get to lay their hands on you but me. i’m the only one who get to fuck you like this...” his words went straight to your already hard-enough cock, arousing you even further.

it’s always hot whenever alec gets possessive over you, and you loved that.

“oh my god, alec— right there!” you moaned, now tears rolling down your flushed cheeks. his thrust starts to get sloppy as both of you near the edge, you could feel his cock pulsing and twitching inside your hole.

it took three harsh and hard thrust to completely throw you off as your eyes rolled to the back of your head, loud moans that sounded almost like a scream erupting from your throat, back arching and body squirming underneath him as white loads shoots out again from your manhood, landing on your exposed chest and stomach, cumming hard. your walls tightened around him while you cum and that was enough for alec to spill his hot seed inside you, filling you up good like always.

pulling out, he collapsed on the bed beside you, catching your breath together and slowly calming down from your high. “great thing your room is soundproof.” alec comments, making you both chuckle.

“yeah, that’s one thing i love about this room.” you laughed and he did as well before pulling you so you could rest your head on his chest, listening to his even and rhythmic heartbeat.

cleaning up can wait tomorrow. for now, you two wanted to cuddle up with each other knowing there has to be a lot of pretending again.

jace, isabelle, clary and magnus all sat exasperated on the couch as they watch you and alec go back and fourth over the cup and valentine, both arguing and insulting each other for about an hour now.

it’s a usual day, with you and alec hating the other using the sharpness of your tongues, but they were getting tired of this constant bickering and slight sexual tension that always rose in the air.

magnus had just recently discovered your hatred for each other and at first he found it amusing, but that soon turned into boredom when it became an occasional sight for him. though, he can admit that your tongue is sharper than alec’s and he’s impressed by that.

“valentine is a shadowhunter, alright? he’d be able to get the cup from here.” you argued, giving the lightwood a pointed look.

alec folded his arms, “not if we guard it.”

you raised your brows and a ‘really?’ look crossed your face. “have you forgotten that he killed thousands of shadowhunters and downworlders, or did you become so old that your memory gaps is getting worse?” he shot you a death glare at that, not liking the tone you use on him.

“okay so,” clary stands up, “why don’t you both just calm down and figure this out in a friendly way?” you and alec snapped your gaze towards her, eyes practically sending daggers. she held her hands up, “or maybe not. but can’t you just... uh- not fight, for once?”

“not my problem he’s irritating.” you retorted with arms folded above your chest.

alec rolled his eyes, “well, not my problem either that he’s annoying.” he exclaimed while his index finger pointed at you.

“you two look like an old married couple.” isabelle comments with a teasing smirk dancing on her lips. you and alec froze in your places and looked at her with unreadable expression before turning back at each other.

it felt good hearing that, since you two are dating.

the conversation were interrupted when maryse approaches, her hands fiddling with each other and a nervous look on her face.

you sighed, stepping away to walk out, but maryse quickly stops you when you walked pass her. “stay, please. this involves you, too.” confusion laced your face at that, but didn’t say anything as you stepped back.

“i know that the feud between (y/n)’s mother and i have caused some troubles within you, and we’re very sorry for that. we decided... it’s better to forget what happened between us rather than drag it down and have it affect all of you.” she turned around and gestured for someone to come, your mother walking up to her, their hand intertwining in a friendly manner as smiles coated their faces.

surprise filled everyone’s face, brows raising. “wait, does this mean you two are friends now?” isabelle asked.

your mother smiled, nodding her head. “we had a genuine conversation last night and found out we had more similarities than we thought we would.”

jace, clary and isabelle smiled at one another while magnus sipped on his drink, feeling quite happy for them. this meant you and alec had no reason to hate each other.

“so this isn’t a joke? you’re not pretending?” you asked, suspicion on both yours and alec’s face. they shook their heads and smiled.

you stared at them before turning to alec who looked back at you, silently conversing.

finally, a sigh leaves his lips as you simultaneously looked at the two mothers with a smile. “that’s a great news, mother. i hope you have fun together.” he congratulates, smiling. “now, (y/n) and i have somewhere else to go. i assume there won’t be any missions for today.”

surprise looks coated everyone’s faces and their eyes almost popped out of their sockets when you intertwined your hand with his. you waved at them, alec beginning to drag you two away.

“hold on a second, where are you going? and what does that mean?” jace quickly asked, pointing at your intertwined hands after he stood up from the couch.

“isn’t it obvious?” alec gives him a look, “we’re going on a date. now, make an effort not to interrupt us.” he continued to pull you.

“have fun with mom, mrs. lightwood!” you said with a smile before disappearing out with alec.

everyone still looked shocked.

“well, that took a turn.” magnus smirked, drinking his tequila.

© prettymadness — all rights reserved. do not repost or translate without my permission. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[songsformonkeys]

Burning Alive (dave york x reader)

summary: Dave York smut, inspired by the lyrics to the song Fire Meet Gasoline by Sia

word count: 2600

rating: explicit

warnings: there’s no plot here, just filth

notes:  Thanks to my lovely friend @yespolkadotkitty​ for beta and enabling this weird and sudden obsession with Dave York <3

Link to AO3

Burning Alive

It's a beautiful house, small but picturesque. It has a big wrap around porch and it is painted in a light shade of blue, which you suspect makes it blend into the sky on cloudless days. It's too dark to tell now. There isn't really a garden but rather a big expanse of grass with the occasional appletrees strewn about and, standing just outside the front door, you would have the most beautiful view of a mirror-flat lake during daytime. The place would look like the perfect postcard. If it weren't for the four dead bodies inside and the, close to, overwhelming smell of gasoline.

”Come on now. Strike the match,” your partner says, a little impatiently, as he emerges from the depths of the house with the now empty canister of gasoline. You have half a mind to tell him to chill and ask him if he'd preferred that you set fire to the house while he was still in it, but you're a little too afraid of what the answer would be. Besides, you know that whatever argument you start with a man like Dave York, you're going to regret later.

Dave snaps his gloved fingers. The sound of the snap is dulled but it gets the point across. You pull the box of matches from the pocket of your jacket and strike one. For a moment, as the small flame flares up, it feels like time is slowing down and you look up at Dave's face. He's watching the tiny flame too and the harsh shadows the glow casts across his face makes him look just as dangerous as you know he is. You want him to kiss you senseless, take you right then and there against the car. Your grip on the match tightens and you toss it into the house before you accidentally snap it in half.

The flames immediately take hold and start spreading. Dave spares it only a moment's glance to make sure the match survived the trip through the air before turning back to the car. You stay for a few moments longer, to watch, feeling a sense of wonder at the beauty and power of the flames as they engulf the house.

When you eventually tear your eyes away and turn to join Dave, you catch him leaning against the side of the car watching, not the house but you. It's too dark to make out the expression on his face but you know and as you walk over to him you put a little extra sway into your hips.

¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨

The car ride back to the motel is silent, apart from the purr of the engine. The purr might as well be coming from you. The thrum of excitement and anticipation has your body feeling taut like a bowstring. Every time Dave moves, you almost jump out of your skin. You never know when the first touch will come and his face is impossible to read, even after years of watching him. Sometimes you don't even make it off the scene of the crime before he's on you, and sometimes he suggests you stop for dinner on the way home and by the time his hands finally touch you, you're close to tears. You can't tell which scenario you prefer.

You and Dave have been working together for five years. On the job, you know just how he works and what he's capable of, but outside of the jobs you do, you know next to nothing about him. You don't know what he does other than killing, if he has a different job or a family even.

Dave knows more about you than you know of him. You don't know exactly how much. He knows where you live at least. He proved that a couple of years ago.

It had been a particularly nasty job. Things had gone to shit, the wrong mark had been killed and you had decided that was the final straw. You wanted out. So the next time the phone rang with an offer of a job, you ignored it. It rang again half an hour later. You ignored that too. After the third time, it stopped ringing. As the day passed, you felt lighter, like the air was a little easier to breathe. You went to the movies by yourself and watched a movie you had little interest in, but you felt normal. On the way home afterward, you even bought a bouquet of yellow tulips. You felt free.

Right up until you'd entered your apartment and found Dave in the kitchen. He'd been furious, demanding to know where you'd been. He'd paused for a second when he spotted the flowers in your arms. It had been as if he couldn't quite fit the puzzle pieces of you with flowers, instead of a gun or a knife, together. The confusion lasted for a brief moment before he'd stalked over to you. You'd dropped the flowers, ready to defend yourself, but Dave hadn't fought you, at least not in the traditional sense. Instead, he'd crashed your mouths together with a force that you thought might crack a tooth. That was your first time. After a kiss that felt like a punishment, you had proceeded to rip each other’s clothes off, the tulips trampled to bits on the floor, before Dave had bent you over the kitchen counter. And as he'd sunk deep into you, he'd leaned over your back to hiss in your ear:

”You don't get to quit. We burn together, you and I”.

Sometimes you still entertain the thought that he will show up at your home again, but deep down you know that if he does, it'll be to kill you.

¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨

You get to the motel and Dave kills the engine. He doesn't say anything and there's a frown on his face. It doesn't matter. You know the drill. In a smooth motion, you slide out of the car and walk towards the front desk. As you walk, you can feel the slick between your legs that has begun to seep through your panties. You rent a room for the night and the person behind the desk hands you the keys without barely even looking at you. You wonder if that's something they've trained themselves to do. The people who come to a place like this don't want to be seen.

As you walk out, you wave the keys in the air for Dave to see before heading straight for the room. You hear the car door open and slam shut behind you. The numbers on the keyring are a bit worn and it takes you a minute to figure out whether the last number is an 8 or a 9. In the end, you're 90% certain that it's a 9 and you decide to try it.

You have barely gotten the key in the lock when two hands suddenly grip your hips roughly and pull you back against a hard chest. You jump, hadn't heard Dave come up behind you, and as the surprised noise escapes your throat you hear him chuckle.

Dave bats your hand away from the key and unlocks the door himself. He yanks the key out and tosses it on the table, where it skids to a stop just before it slides over the edge and onto the floor. And damn if that isn't symbolic of what you're pretty sure is about to happen.

Dave propels the two of you forward, kicks the door shut behind you and before you have time to register what he's doing, he has you pressed up against a wall. His forearm is like a vice across your chest and he uses one of his knees to nudge your legs apart. He's staring you straight in the eyes. There's a wildfire there and you know, without a doubt, that you're gonna let him burn you.

”Dave,” you breathe and when he reaches a hand up towards your face, you think for a second that he's going to caress you. Then he presses the tip of his index finger lightly against your lips and murmurs ”Open.”

You immediately obey and suck the digit into your mouth. Dave makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat and presses closer. You can feel the hard line of his cock firmly against your hip.

The pad of his finger feels rough against your tongue when you suck it deeper into your mouth, still holding his gaze with yours. His hand smells faintly of gasoline.

When Dave pulls his finger out, it's with a soft 'pop' from your lips. His other hand has cleverly worked open the button of your pants and the slow 'tic tic tic' as he pulls the zipper down, sends shivers down your spine.

You've done this so many times before. There's never a question of if this is going to happen, only of when and how. There's an unpredictability about Dave which makes every time feel as exciting as the first.

He holds you trapped against the wall as he works his fingers into your pants and into you. You gasp at the first stretch of his fingers and he wastes no time before hooking his fingers to rub at that spot inside you, that's he's well aware drives you absolutely wild. Your eyes fall shut. You toss your head back and it connects with the wall behind you with a thud.

”Careful,” Dave says, in one of his rare moments of showing consideration.

”The wall isn't what's gonna kill me,” you whimper as his fingers pick up pace.

”I know,” Dave says and your eyes fly open as he roughly thrusts his fingers deeper inside you, forcing you up on your tippy-toes. You don't ask him to elaborate on his comment.

Dave knows just how to keep you balancing on that fine line between pain and pleasure. He's rough but it's what you need, to know for certain that you're still alive. Years of working these jobs have turned you numb to so many things in life. These moments with Dave are the only times when you truly feel something. It's not love. That's too sentimental an emotion. But desire, pure and raw, and all-consuming. You want Dave, and there's no scenario where that ends well.

Your first orgasm has your knees buckling and it's only Dave's arm, still across your chest, that keeps you standing.

In yet another act of kindness, he lets you catch your breath slightly, before he pulls his fingers out and holds them up to your mouth. You lick them clean and he watches you like a starving man.

His fingers are soon replaced by his lips and he gives you a bruising kiss. Dave's left hand rests gently around your throat, his thumb and index finger only just grazing your jawline for support. He doesn't press down, not yet anyway. But with Dave, you can never quite know how far he will take it. Sometimes you suspect that he doesn't quite know either. More than once, after the heat and flames have died out, you've caught him touching a bruise on your skin with an almost surprised look on his face. Like he can't quite remember marking you that way.

It's all part of the Dave York experience, and you want more. Reaching between you, your fingers find the zipper to his green camo jacket. You yank it down and push the jacket off his shoulders before reaching for his pants. Dave doesn't help you. Instead, he just watches you, with his own face inches away from yours and with an infuriating smirk on his lips, as your desperation increases over not getting his clothes off fast enough. It's only when your fingers attempt to sneak under the edge of his underwear that he steps back and lets you go. You stumble as the pressure of his body against yours suddenly disappears, but manage to regain your balance just in time to catch Dave kicking his pants off. He stands before you and for a few seconds, you allow yourself to just drink in the visage of this man before you, wearing nothing but a worn t-shirt and a pair of underwear.

Beautiful isn't the right word, but your body yearns for him.

So you quickly shimmy out of your own pants and soaked underwear, and pull your shirt and sports bra over your head.

Dave holds his hand out for you, like he's asking you to dance. In a way, that's just what this is. When you take the hand, he yanks you close and bites down on your neck as he lets his hands rediscover the newly exposed skin. You can practically feel the bruises forming as he grips your hips tight and grinds you against him for some friction.

”Bed,” he orders and by God if that doesn't send a surge of heat through you. You grip the hem of his t-shirt and begin walking backwards towards the bed. Dave follows but lifts his arms to allow you to pull the shirt off. As soon as he's free of the fabric, he manhandles you onto the bed.

It's half wrestling, a half-hearted attempt for dominance, but Dave always wins and soon he's got you on all fours in front of him, keening as he runs his thumb along your slick folds. You can't think straight. You hear the tear of a condom-wrapper and when the head of his cock pushes into you, you feel like crying from desperation.

Luckily, Dave is well past the teasing portion of the evening and so he immediately sets a brutal pace that would have had you banging your head against the headboard repeatedly, if you hadn't anticipated this and given yourself some extra space.

You moan and say his name, the sounds forced out of you which each violent thrust. His breathing is labored but he doesn't say anything. You're used to this. Dave isn't really a talker, unless it's to give orders.

Your second orgasm is rapidly approaching and you can feel Dave's thrusts getting more and more erratic, which is a sign that he's drawing close as well. Balancing your weight on one arm, you reach down to touch yourself with the other. You're impossibly wet already and your finger slides easily over your clit, which is good because the pleasure is making you rapidly lose all fine motor skills.

Dave comes first, with a low groan and a few more punishing thrusts before he folds his upper body over you to suck a mark into the skin of your shoulder and to reach around and help push you the last short distance over the edge. The second orgasm is just as powerful as the first and this time you actually do collapse onto the bed, with Dave still on top of and inside you.

¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨

Afterward, Dave is still silent. But it's a different silence from the one before, less charged. This is where you take the reins. This is where he shrinks and you grow. He's next to you on the bed, with his head resting on your chest. He looks smaller somehow. Softer. This is where you get to push his buttons.

You grip his chin gently and tilt his head up. Then you kiss him like he's something precious and with each kiss, you feel him break a little against your lips.

”You and I, we burn together,” you whisper. This is all you have and there's no telling for how long. There's no happy ending for people like you. Just a box of matches and the promise of a spark.

[dxll-hxuse]

“ i’ve never cared about anyone the way i care about you. ” for july!!

title ; 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 !

genre ; 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭

warnings ; 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭, 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠

focus character(s) ; 𝐣𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐢, 𝐥𝐞𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐡𝐨

other/mentioned characters ; 𝐧 / 𝐚

date ; 𝐧𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟎

word count ; 𝟏.𝟐𝐤 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬

— ‘ two of swords: indecision, stalemate, information overload, communication, guilt

the moon was high when lee minho had called his “arch nemesis”, july to hang out with him at twelve in the morning. “how do you have the lead dancer position? you literally have two left feet.” it was cold in the jyp practice room, and july was in leggings and a sweater with a sports bra under it, she was freezing.

“oh fuck off, i don’t even know this song!”, minho laughed as he turned the music off, that stupid cheeky grin on his face. “ok then, princess, then what songs do you know?”

“first of all, don’t call me princess, this isn’t a 2012 good girl x bad boy wattpad book.” he threw his head back, laughing at the girl’s ultra specific comment, “second of all, i know plenty of songs. better songs than whatever crap you just put on.”

minho gasped in offense, she couldn’t have known if he was exaggerating or not, but he was, he sure was convincing. “that is tia tamera by doja cat and rico nasty, you take that back right now!”. july laughed and started jumping around, mocking him. “not until you take back the two left feet thing.”

“well that was just the truth. if you can’t even freestyle to a song you don’t know, that lead dancer position isn’t deserved.” july stopped jumping and smiling when he said this. she had never been particularly confident in her dancing, she knew she was good but there was always someone better than her, and people wouldn’t hesitate to tell her about it. she knew minho was just trying to make her mad, but she was tired of the back and forth they felt they always had to do because of their past together. “right, did you call me hear just to make fun of me?”

minho looked up from his phone a little shocked, realizing where he might’ve gone wrong. “no, of course not. i just thought we were doing our little banter thing.”

she hummed in response and stared at herself long and hard in the practice room mirror. he’s right, you two always do this. plus, he’s said worse things to you and meant it. why is she so upset about this one little comment?

“ok we can dance to montero, you know that song, right?” july snapped out of it and turned her head to look at him. she smiled, “yeah, i know montero.” he smiled back, seeing he didn’t really offend her. he got back on his feet and let the music play.

and they danced, they danced for like an hour or more, and by the end of the playlist the two of them collapsed onto the floor. it seemed that minho and july could’ve spent forever together just existing, just being.

july hadn’t thought much about anything in that hour, not about her group, not about her family, not even about minho. she breathed heavily and looked over at him. his eyelids were heavy, his cheeks flushed, and his hair stuck tightly to his forehead, he was breathing heavily as well. july noticed she had been staring at him for far too long, but when he looked like that, how could she help it.

july’s eyes widened to the size of bowling balls. you could swear her life was flashing before her eyes, and it was. every little moment, every little second of her rivalry with minho. all the terrible things they said to each other, how they slowly started tolerating each other, the game of push and pull that her heart played with her brain every time she’s seen him since the moment she met him at 18. she was painfully aware of what it all meant now. painfully aware. she had to leave right now.

she got up on her feet and started walking over to her stuff. “jules?”, minho was lost in his thoughts as well but he suddenly took notice of july’s presence when she jumped up from the floor like that.

“i gotta go.” she spat quickly, a million thoughts flying around in her head for every second that passed. she remembered now, how every time she wanted to rip his face off, she had simultaneously wished to kiss it. his beautiful, beautiful face. how could she be so blind?

“wait, why? wait, jules.” he started getting up too, getting up to stop her. and that fucking nickname. her family called her that but no one else seemed to attach the name to her face, but the same day she met him, he guessed it. did she look like a jules? no, but she was a jules, inside. had minho seen right through her since the beginning. always seeing jules, never july?

july turned the handle to leave, she was half way out the door when minho’s voice startled her. “july!”, he said sternly, like he used to say when he was about to start an argument. “why’re you leaving?”

something in july snapped, something that had been there for three years, growing, waiting. she was a ticking time bomb, and her time just ran up. “because i hate you!”, she yelled loud enough for anyone who was in the building at this ungodly for some reason to hear. “i’m leaving because you make fun of my dancing, because y-you always ask me if i’ve eaten and to stay healthy even when i told you you were and fat and to go starve yourself. because you always saw right through me, when i was mean and bitter and i was july, no matter how awful you treated me, you knew i was really jules.”

tears were starting to stream down her face, why is she making such a fuss about this?!?, “i’m leaving because i hate you.”

minho looked like july just stabbed his puppy and ran him over hundred times. tears were threatening to fall from his eyes as well. he choked out the words, “why?”

“because- i hate you because-“ she stopped to compose herself. all these three years of nonsense and fighting, all of this to hide the truth from everyone, including herself. “i hate you because i love you, minho. and you fucking made me care about you. i've never cared about anyone the way i care about you. it’s fucked up that you did this to me.”

minho stared blankly at july, his eyes not expressing hurt anymore but more of a passion, an anger. he walked over to july, who by now was hiding her face in her hands, embarrassed. he lifted her head up and held her chin. “now, why would that be a bad thing, jules?”

he leaned in and placed the softest, faintest, ghost of a kiss on her cheek, kissing the tears away. “because i’m a terrible person, minho. i don’t deserve you.”

minho giggled softly, his coffee stained breath hitting july’s face. “jules, we’re both terrible people. we deserve each other, if anything, we were made for each other.”

july couldn’t help but stare at his lips, i mean they were right there! minho took notice of this and placed another soft kiss on hers. pulling back quickly to mumble an “i love you too.” against her lips before he kissed her again, this time with a bit more force.

after a few seconds, july pulled back, looking up at his eyes, dark like the void deep within her, a void that minho could never fill, but boy did july wanted to let him try. she knew the night was far from over.

— now playing void by the neighborhood

[lovemademoisellebelle]

Uh oh... did we do that?

Pairing: Draco x y/n

Warnings: underage drinking, mild swearing

A/N: been reading and writing fan fiction for years but I've never uploaded any of my own work, so please be nice! any feedback is highly appreciated. P.S. this sounded and looked a lot better in my head 

inspired by Emma Watson dancing in The Bling Ring, endless amounts of videos on DracoTok and the vibes that 212 by Azealia Banks gives me

Slytherin common room party – think low-key green lighting, firewhiskey, Draco in an all-black suit that kinda thing 

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

In the hundreds of years since Hogwarts’s conception, not once have the Slytherin house hosted an ‘all houses invited’ party. Sure, they were invited (and rarely came) to the Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Gryffindor parties, but they never thought to return the favour. That is until Pansy’s raging crush on a Ravenclaw boy in the year above prompted her to throw an all-inclusive rager, much to the dismay of her Slytherin classmates.  

Naturally, this caused some concern from the other houses, as the new spread around the Great Hall the morning of the so-called ‘unmissable’ event. There was a palpable buzz of deliberation from the separate tables, with the clearly same queries on everyone’s minds.

��I don’t know Ron – I mean, these are the Slytherin’s we’re talking about,” Hermione cast a furtive glance to the sea of emerald robes on the far side of the hall, much to Ron’s dismay.

“Oh come on ‘Mione, what’s the worst that can happen?”

“Oh I don’t know, how about humiliation from Malfoy’s smug face when we realise it’s a prank, or maybe a fight where irreversible hexes are thrown around?” Harry quipped, clearly sharing Hermione’s caution.

Ron and y/n shared a knowing look, both being the more carefree members of the group.

“Here’s an idea,” y/n explained rationally, “how about we just show up anyway – fashionably late, of course – and if the whole thing turns out to be some big joke, we can host our own impromptu party in the common room? That way it won’t be a complete waste of time… or alcohol.”

It was Harry and Hermione’s turn to share a look, knowing no matter how hard they tried they were inevitably going to give in eventually.

“Fine,” Hermione grumbled, “but if it all turns pear shaped, I’m sending you both to the hospital wing with a nasty bat bogey hex.

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

The much-awaited night had finally rolled around, and y/n felt that nervous but excited anticipation that she often felt before occasions such as tonight’s. All day the latest gossip of the party could be heard between the older Hogwarts’s students. At one point, Madame Pince had to usher around 20 students out of the library for whispering ‘too loudly’ about the event. Multiple classmates had come up to y/n throughout the day, all asking the same question: ‘Are you thinking of going tonight?’ As usual with Hogwarts, news never failed to travel fast.

“Are you sure this looks ok?” Hermione twisted her hips side to side in the dorm’s full-length mirror, trying to discern if the length of her skirt showed to much leg or not.

“’Mione, are you kidding? You look incredible, seriously. Ron’s gonna flip when he sees you, won’t be able to take his eyes off your a-” y/n’s sentence was cut short by a well-timed pillow being tossed at her head by Hermione, who had started to form a pink blush across her cheeks.

With both of them re-checking your outfits and makeup in the mirror, y/n and Hermione did a quick, pre-party shot for luck and headed down to the common room to meet the boys.

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

By the time they had arrived at the Slytherin common room, the party was already in full swing; couples were spotted around the corridor outside, claiming to ‘need some air’ whilst making out against the stone walls, and the pungent smell of firewhiskey with a slight cut of something sweeter (butterbeer?) hit them like a brick wall as the group entered. The room was encased in dark green lighting, highlighted by the murky lake shimmering some light into the otherwise darkened room.

It seemed as if almost every student – 5th year and above – were present, either seen dancing and grinding on the makeshift dancefloor at the back, loitering around the drinks table in search of another drink or, if you were Pansy Parkinson, sat on one of the plush sofas on the lap of a Ravenclaw boy, who looked equal parts satisfised and confused about his current situation.

Either way most people were already fucked, or at least on their way.

“What were you saying earlier about a prank Hermione?” Ron smirked smugly, as he grabbed her hand and pushed his way over to the drinks table with a blushing Hermione trailing after.

Y/n couldn’t help but think, maybe tonight will be fun after all.

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

An hour later, and y/n could definitely feel the numb tingling of the firewhiskey spread throughout her body, offering a pleasant release from the previous week’s stress. Though not yet brave enough to venture onto the dancefloor, she swayed her hips lightly to the music as she chatted happily with Luna in the corner – apparently the Ministry were behind the recent surge of wrackspurts in the air, using them to control our minds.

“Well well, if it isn’t Weaslebee and Scar-head polluting my common room,” a little ways across the room however, Ron and Harry were having less of a pleasant time.

Turning around to see the towering, slender figure of Draco Malfoy with his signature smugness, flanked by his usual cronies Crabbe and Goyle. Stood tall in his black turtleneck and blazer combo, with his platinum hair perfectly styled (of course), Draco was unsurprisingly catching the attention of most of the girls (and a fair amount of guys) in the room. Wherever he moved, eager eyes tended to follow, with the hope of him glancing their way. Harry and Ron, however, were unfazed.

“Malfoy,” Harry briefly and glumly acknowledged Draco with the turn of his head, before turning back to people watch.

“You know, I’ve always heard that Gryffindor parties are supposed to be some of the best,” Draco taunted, “but I have to say your lot seem pretty boring to me. I mean, I thought you were supposed to be the ‘fun ones’”. Crabbe and Goyle sniggered behind him, always quick to boost his ego.

“This is nothing,” Ron countered, the alcohol only intensifying his competitive nature, “you should see the way y/n and Hermione get when that bloody muggle song of theirs plays – they go mad.”

“Yeah right,” the blonde scoffed, “they’re both too stuck up to ever actually have fun.”

“Oh yeah? I’ll prove it to you!”

“C’mon Ron, let’s just leave it-”

“No Harry, there’s no way I’m losing this argument. Oi Lee,” Ron hollered to Lee Jordan, the trusted DJ at every Hogwarts party, “put on that song – you know – that one muggle song… can’t remember the bloody name now,” Ron started to trail off.

Luckily, Lee was able to decipher Ron’s drunk slurs, “You got it Ron.”

As soon as the first few beats thumped out of the speakers, y/n let out a squeal of joy. Searching for Hermione, they caught eyes from across the room and both knew what they had to do; meet on the dancefloor between them and let loose. Both being muggle born, the two girls shared a love of muggle music that their magical born friends didn’t. It bonded them when they first became friends and now had influenced even those who weren’t muggle born to enjoy it too.

As the beat dropped, the girls started to dance. Bopping their heads from side to side, they swung their hips in time with the music. With her back to Hermione’s chest, y/n let her head roll back onto her friends’ shoulder as they drunkenly laughed for no apparent reason. Y/n’s black mini dress had begun to ride up her thighs slightly, meanwhile her hips continued to roll and grind suggestively – neither girls remotely aware of anyone around them, nor the shock of particularly their Slytherin classmates, who weren’t used to seeing this side of them.

Especially not Draco Malfoy, his jaw slack as his eyes were entranced in the girl’s direction.

“Uh oh,” Harry teased, “looks like Malfoy’s got his eyes on your girlfriend.”

“Um Harry,” Ron stared at Draco’s face in disbelief, with a slight hint of amusement, “it’s not ‘Mione he’s looking at.”

Unaware of the intense gaze from her long-time enemy Draco Malfoy, y/n continued to dance seductively.

Draco’s initial expression of shock had now turned into his signature grin, his icy blue-grey eyes trailing over y/n’s curves. His eyes expressed admiration (something rare for someone who usually showed distain for almost everything) and apparent attraction for the girl. His head filled with lewd thoughts as he yearned to know more about her – until now he thought he’d had her sussed, but now he started to question his good-girl perception of her. His hand rubbing at his jaw slightly, completely entranced by every swing of her hips.

“Godric, he’s looking at her as if he’s in love with her,” Harry uttered, entirely bewildered by the look on Malfoy’s face – it was a look of attraction and almost tenderness that was starting to scare him.

Ron brought a hand up to his forehead, “Uh oh… did we do that?”

hey, if you managed to get all the way to the end, thank u sm!! any feedback is appreciated. I have an idea for part 2 if anyone wants that :) 

[dmndmyth]

⧼   stana katic, cis female, she/her  /   this is me trying by taylor swift + dried flower petals littered everywhere, stacks of books beside a too neat bed and the wind blowing her hair, pulling it from the crasp of a broken clip.   ⧽   ━━   hey, isn’t that ROLANDA HOOCH? i read a daily prophet article on them, once ; the FORTY FIVE year old [ half blood ] WITCH is a [ RAVENCLAW alumnus who has gone on to be a HOGWARTS QUIDDITCH COACH AND PROFESSIONAL QUIDDITCH COMMENTATOR]. i’ve heard they can be quite COMPASSIONATE & INTUITIVE , but i don’t know… they came off very EVASIVE & ARGUMENTATIVE in that interview. it really is hard to know what to believe these days though, isn’t it?   

tw: death, murder, war

Imagine a little cottage by the sea. The sound of the waves there to ease one to sleep and to gently rouse them to wakefulness. The best that England had to offer. That’s what Rolanda Hooch’s parents used to tell her as they would sit out on the deck eating their dinner, little Ro’s legs crossed underneath as she nestled happily in between her mums. Mama was her biological mother and a powerful witch at that with Mum being a woman that Mama had met surely after Rolanda’s birth and the subsequent leaving of her father. Mum was a muggle who got broiled up into the world of magic and children  and took it like a camp. That’s how Mama used to talk about it.

Ro’s childhood was as idyllic as one could be. Surrounded by blue skies and plenty of books with parents that loved her. It seemed like nothing could go wrong. Even once she hit Hogwarts and had to figure out what homesickness was and how to deal with it or through all the trials and tribulations that all teenagers go through, she was good. Ravenclaw had become another home and she became the seeker for Ravenclaw at just thirteen. To this day, Ro says that was one of her best achievements. It wasn’t until the later years of Hogwarts where the world that was so bright and colourful slowly started to turn grey and dark and the places that once held wonder now held fear. 

Upon graduation, Rolanda was offered a spot with the Holyhead Harpies. Their seeker was about to retire and little Ro (not that she was little anymore) had a reputation. With rumours of Voldemort and his army becoming more than just whispers, she was determined to enjoy something and so she grasped that chance with two hands. It was also upon graduation that like many others in her year, she joined the Order. This was done without the knowledge of either one of her mothers. She knew how they would react and everyone was so certain that those who didn’t know anything would be space. Sometimes, she wished she also knew nothing but she did and her position on the team gave her a unique chance to travel and scout that most did not have. She never did much actual fighting. 

She wishes she had. After all, her lack of fighting or time at home didn’t save Mama and Mum. She was twenty years old and was so excited to be home after a long season. It was supposed to be a surprise. Turns out, she was the one in for a surprise. The dark mark was visible before she had even walked down the lane.

Her memories of that night are spotty. Even now. She knew that there was someone holding her. Someone from The Order, many someone’s maybe. She knew that there was crying and that there was ash, because it had stuck to her tears and gotten in her eyes. Her home was gone and for no reason at all then her Mama was with a muggle. Senseless. That’s what it was.

Time became a blur after that. The next year was different homes and another season that pretended that the world wasn’t about to fall apart. Perhaps that was the right thing to do because before it could, Lily and James Potter died and little Harry Potter killed Lord Voldemort. She was twenty-one, yet like everyone else her age, she felt twice that.

As the world recovered, she endeavored to do the same and gave everything to Quidditch, grasping for the joy that the First had just about taken from her. She was Seeker for the Holyhead Harpies for another nine years. In that time, she found love, a wonderful man by the name of William Picard. He was a wizard from America. He was so kind and so good and at twenty-nine when she gave birth to his child, a beautiful boy by the time of Adam, it finally felt like she had grasped onto life again. 

Only a few months after he was born, at her first game back after maternity leave, a particularly nasty bludger knocked her off her broom. It should have been an easy fix but even magic couldn’t fix the damage it had done to her hip. It wasn’t that she’d never fly again, it was that playing at a professional level had fallen from her grasp. She was newly thirty years old and sometimes still that hip causes her pain. It was okay though, because she had William and Adam and she would find something else. Right?

And find something she did. Six months after the injury, Albus Dumbledore contacted her. Hogwarts was in need of a Quidditch Coach and he thought she would be perfect for the job. Turns out he was right. Her days were spent at Hogwarts before she would head to Hogsmeade and apparate home.. Somedays Adam would come in with her and others William would have him. It wasn’t necessarily easy to figure out, but they made it work. Somewhere amongst all of that Ro also began to commentate for the British and Irish Quidditch league. Things were good.

And then in 2012, Voldemort came back. There isn’t much to say about the three years following, other than that Ro felt like she was twenty years old again, scared for her family and trying to pretend at work that things were okay. In January of 2014 however, doing so became much harder. She had eagerly left Hogwarts that day, desperate to be out of the dark and fearful place it had become. That day however, she apparated to a painfully familiar sight. The dark hovering over her home. William and Adam, only ten years old, were inside. It happened again. She had wanted nothing more then to run then, but instead she had simply gone back to Hogwarts and sent a Patronus to a member of The Order. Students needed her. 

Then May Fourteenth happened and once again the world had to rebuild. She threw herself into it, desperate to continue to ignore what had happened, what she had lost. Stopping was out of the question because if she did so, she was certain she would unravel. And unravel she did when it all finally caught up to her. After all, she was now a widow (even if they had never officially gotten married) and a mother without a child. Who came back from such a thing?

It’s been six years now and sometimes she almost feels like the woman before the Second War. After all, she works at Hogwarts again (but now she lives there) and still travels occasionally to commentate (but now there is no one to send letters too). Even so, she knows that to be false. Especially now as history seems to be on the brink of repeating itself. Well, at least she has no family to get killed this time.

---

if you read all of that i’m very proud! i certainly did get a little carried away there. either way, i would love to plot and am open to most things! i hope you like her, she’s a new character for me so i’m very much still figuring her out!

[barnesandco]

Third Time Lucky (Expanded)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Kissing

A/N: I wanted to expand the original drabble, but I’m leaving the original up as it is instead of editing it bc it’s smol and I like it. 

The first time she kisses Bucky, it's an accident.

He, along with Earth's mightiest heroes, is helping her move into the apartment she bought because she wanted her own space. An escape, a personal sanctuary, away from the Compound. 

Not away from Bucky, though, never away from him. Much like him, she's quiet, still hesitant, only four months in as an Avenger. Her calm demeanor occasionally interrupted by bouts of laughter at his dry remarks, usually aimed at Sam. Bucky finds himself speaking more in an attempt to elicit that magical sound, not knowing that she's managed to bring him out of the shell he's been in since he left Hydra. In a number of weeks, she's unwittingly and effortlessly accomplished what they've all been working at for months - Steve's incessant mothering, listening to Sam at the VA, his therapy sessions, Shuri's cheerful video-calls, hours and hours in the gym to work out all that anguish. She hasn’t fixed him, and she isn’t trying to. But she’s made him comfortable, and that’s all any of them were asking for.

She can't remove his pain, nor he hers, but they've established a silent companionship; alone together. She prepares his coffee in the mornings, accepting a quirk of his lips in return. Breakfast passes with him pretending to read her newspaper upside down - he's actually studying the movement of her lower lip as she chews at it thoughtfully. 

On the days they don't have missions, or meetings, or meet-and-greets, they'll spend the whole day on opposite ends of the breakfast nook. Surrounded by history books and a laptop - all Bucky's - and cocooned by her blankets and the scent of the flowers that grow in her vicinity when she's at ease. And she is, around him at least. His gentle, inaudible movements now useful for something other than assassination. Tranquility only broken by someone in the kitchen - mostly Sam for lunch, or Wanda, teaching Vision. The bustle of the Avengers filtered out between the tapping of her nails against her phone, and his pencil scratching against half-full notebooks. Peace is a rare thing for a soldier, and yet, here she is giving him some that soothes his very bones.

All of this without apparent affection, other than a fond look when he laughs at a meme she shows him, or the urge to hold his hand when his forehead wrinkles at a particularly nasty detail in the books before him. Averse to touch, after the kinds they've experienced. 

Until now, and it’s a thoughtless, subconscious action that finally introduces Bucky’s skin to the feel of hers, the feel of her lips, actually, and it’s electrifying.

He holds the door for her on his way out to pick up more of her stuff, and she absently pecks him on the cheek in thanks, despite the box full of books straining her arms. She moves forward quickly, not knowing that the soldier now cannot, the split-second sensation like being tased, and the current runs from his face to his feet, stopping his heart momentarily.

The first time she kisses Bucky, he's left standing in the doorway, rowdy sounds from his teammates playing in the background as he tries to calm the furious blush painting his face.

---

The second time she kisses Bucky, she's flirting. 

They've been dancing around whatever the hell this is for months, and she’s sick of it. Growing closer was inevitable, a predetermined destination with the course they were taking, but she didn’t think that getting addicted to the scent of his cologne was a prerequisite for becoming attracted to Bucky Barnes. Which she is. Hopelessly, ridiculously, unfairly attracted. As a consequence of their growing friendship, she’s become more familiar with him, providing excessive material for the Bucky-involved part of her brain to think about. The cool metal of his left arm around her shoulders, the way his nose scrunches up when he laughs. The sound resonates through the room and then through her heart as if it’s an empty cavern, even though it feels so, so full when she’s close to him.

Right now, she’s very close to him, as they're dancing, metaphorical situation having manifested itself in real life. Surrounded by S.H.I.E.L.D. employees at the office party, Billie Holiday on the Stark sound system, courtesy of Steve’s unwanted wingmanning. He doesn’t need the wingmanning; does just fine on his own. Took him a while to loosen up, but even he - forties boy that he is - knows the tension between them is palpable. Uses it to his advantage, loves making her shy away, and loves it even more when she responds to his 9mm shots at her with a .950 JDJ. In fact, he's about to tell her her skin glows in the fairy lights when Sam - cockblock that he is, vodka-drunk off his ass, asks to cut in, and bows so low he almost falls at her feet. 

She giggles and then gives Bucky an apologetic look, before the innocence gives way to something more, and she stands on her tiptoes to murmur in his ear. His hands automatically fall to her waist when she holds his shoulders to steady herself.

“Sorry, Buck. Thanks for the dance.” It’s a millisecond exchange, over just as Sam straightens up, rolling his eyes when she winks at Bucky, and pulls away from his hold.

The second time she kisses Bucky, he's left in the middle of the dance floor, rubbing the spot where his jaw meets his neck, just below his ear. Wondering if the whisper against his skin is a phantom feeling, or if she actually nipped him with his teeth in goodbye. 

---

The third time she kisses Bucky, it's to interrupt his tirade at her recklessness. He had been grounded for this mission, and she was on a self-destructive streak because she blamed herself for the injury responsible for his obligatory bedrest. Three gunshot wounds and a shattered arm. He could have died. She knows this all too well, having spent a consecutive 36 hours at his bedside thinking of nothing but his absence. 

They’ve just gotten back from another mission, where she went after the ringleader of the illegal weapons manufacturing they had gone to shut down. Normally, that’s their aim. However, when you disconnect your coms, and go in without backup to kill, instead of arrest, a powerful, well-protected man, it is very much a problem. She could have died, and he’s thankful that she didn’t, but presently the gratitude has been pushed back as the anger and fear elbows it’s way forward. 

The team waits awkwardly for the argument to end from the next room so they can have their well-earned meal. 

“Well, someone needs to get laid.” 

“Tony!” Bruce hisses furiously, and the others erupt into discussion, Steve doing his best to disguise the smirk on his face. Silently, he agrees, as the battle of wills rages on.

Not much of a battle, really; Bucky's yelling his face off as hers gets more and more tense until the rubber-band finally snaps. 

“Are you out of your mind? Do you still not underst-” She grabs him by the face, pushing her mouth to his, all tongue and teeth and flesh. It's inelegant and angry, and this is not how she imagined it would be, but it doesn't matter because it's him. It's Bucky, and he's holding her by the waist, as well as he can with his arm in a sling, uncomfortably pinched between them. She doesn't care, focuses instead on the feel of his hair in her hands. The deep groan that she feels rumble from his chest where it's pressed to hers when her nails scrape against the nape of his neck. His tongue, warm and wanton, learning hers thoroughly, attentively. The gentlemanly Brooklyn boy, both corrupted and saved by the tinge of copper on her lips, and the beating rhythm of her pulse under his hand on her neck. 

“I can’t lose you. Not you.” Bucky says against her mouth. Chest heaving, she nuzzles her nose to his, shuts her eyes, and breathes him in.

The third time she kisses Bucky, he's left out of breath and with a raging hard-on, metal fist cracking the counter behind her. They pant against each other, lips rasping against one another, foreheads bumping. She kisses him until she finally, finally, loses count.

Taglist: @suz-123 @mermaidxatxheart @buckyreaderrecs @shield-agent78 @corneliabarnes @kentuckybarnes

[sortinghatchats]

Sorting Teen Wolf

In this system, we like to talk about Primary Houses (WHY characters do things) and Secondary Houses (HOW characters do things). Read more on our tumblr, at sortinghatchats.wordpress.com, or take our quiz: https://ejadelomax.itch.io/sortinghatchats 

Scott McCall is a Hufflepuff primary: his morality (why he does things) is based in fairness, in people and the idea that every single one deserves consideration, in community and in loyalty. He’s a Puff secondary, too: his best methods (aka his secondary) (aka how he does things) are compassion, team building, and helping others. (Hello Mr. Every Time Someone is in Pain I Take it on Myself).

But Scott thinks the way he is supposed to act is brave, direct, and forceful. So he tries. He models Gryffindor, and he has nightmares about that particular bravery’s violent extremes.

Once upon a time on a little show called Teen Wolf, Stiles Stilinski told Scott McCall he didn’t have to save everyone, and Scott gave him the blankest, most incomprehending look imaginable. 

Stiles is a Slytherclaw— the precise, ruthless loyalties of a Slytherin Primary acted out by a Ravenclaw secondary’s planning, strategy, research, and learning. The kid reeks Slytherin. Refusing to tell his father about the supernatural, to keep him safe, even at the expense of other people’s lives— Stiles only backed down then at the terrible might of Scott’s puppy dog eyes, which: understandable. 

Let’s kill Jackson, says Stiles, because he doesn’t care. In Allison’s voice that would have the ruthlessness of idealism, not “he’s not one of mine.” I guess a good distinction would be this: Allison would consider killing Scott, if he was murdering people, and Stiles never would. (This is not indicative of a greater connection between brother and brother or lover and lover; this is just pointing out that Allison would do, first, what was right (she would certainly fight her hardest to save Scott, but if there were truly no other options she would sacrifice him). 

Stiles’s morality doesn’t work like that. He would keep his father in the dark even if it meant letting people die, because his father’s life is more important to him than theirs. Stiles is a Slytherin with a very short list of people. 

I think in the S1 Stiles might have modeled Slytherin Secondary on top of his Ravenclaw secondary. He’s into manuevering and deception a lot more then than he is in the later seasons— especially after the nogitsune. 

“I’m 147 pounds of skin and bones; sarcasm is my only defense.” I think that says a lot of it— Stlies has been becoming more and more powerful in his own Ravenclaw skills, enough that he can rely on them instead of hiding behind Slytherin modeling. I’m not sure he feels safer (the world keeps getting more dangerous) but he’s been up against enough now to know that he can survive, and that what keeps him safe tends to be his steady mind and anxious preparations.

Lydia is a Ravenclaw/Ravenclaw who models Slytherin Secondary (eight million times better than Stiles does) and performs Puff (about as badly as Stiles models Slytherin—you can tell she’s putting it on for politeness, when she smiles and doesn’t mean it). 

In this way, her and Stiles’s journeys parallel each other, which makes their friendship one of my favorites. They’re both slowly coming to accept and value their Ravenclaw— to recognize that this is a kind of strength and perhaps even beauty; and that it is theirs.

Until Lydia starts breaking, she almost looks like a Slytherpuff—or, well, a Slytherin/Slytherin with a Puff performance. Her Puff is really unconvincing. But her outward facade of Slytherin Primary is magnificent. Even in the first season, though, her Claw peeks its head out now and then.

(Also: it looks like Lydia’s mom is a Ravenpuff? Which makes me wonder where Lydia learned that she should be a Slytherin. Because she’s so ashamed of her Ravenclaw, early on, both the primary’s idealism and the secondary’s intelligence and curiosity. She has this idea that beauty and power are the things required of her and that she must fulfill them. Only her world shattering around her made her vulnerable enough to reassess and embrace her Ravenclaw. It makes me want to meet her father, or other formative influences in her life, and perhaps see what her mother acted like in that marriage).

Alison Argent takes up her family’s moral legacy and rewrites it in her own words. She does what she thinks is right in defiance of foes, friends, and family. When she decides what right is, when she has watched and learned the world around her and slowly, deliberately built her own code out of the truths she’s found there—then Allison goes after her goals with a single minded intensity and a direct, sometimes violent efficiency. This, my friends, is a Ravenclaw/Gryffindor and she is beautiful.

(ALLISON I HOPE YOU ARE ENJOYING BACKPACKING FRANCE WHILE YOU RECONNECT WITH YOUR COUSINS AND FIGHT FOR TOLERANCE IN THE HUNTER COMMUNITY. I LOVE HOW YOU CALL LYDIA ONCE A WEEK ON SKYPE.)

Malia and Stiles boned over their shared Slytherin primary, which delights me. Malia looks like a Slytherdor, but I wonder if she might be a Slytherin/Slytherin who’s living in her “neutral state” because she doesn’t give a toot. I think if Malia needed to, she’d be happy to lie, coerce, adapt, transform to get what she wanted. She just so far doesn’t think highly enough of anyone to manuever in any way but straightforwardly. 

Kira is a Gryffinpuff, I think. She’s certain and forward and brave, and she goes after her goals with kindness and determination.

Derek is a Hufflepuff with a Claw secondary. “We’re brothers now,” he tells this young kid just because the kid got chewed on by his uncle. He is desperate for community (see: the terrible choices of the Worst Alpha Ever aka S2). Even when he’s creepy (often), even when he’s a failwolf (…more often), he’s doing things to help people simply because they are people.

But he was going to kill Lydia, right? When we thought she was the kanima. Yes, he was— to save other people. Scott, wasn’t, but they’re both still Puffs, because Derek is what happens when a kid like Scott loses hope—or gets a truer idea of the real world, depending on who you ask. 

Scott doesn’t believe in victories that come with comprimises attached. He doesn’t believe in heroism with trade-offs and consequences. Scott was going to save Lydia. But Derek? One girl’s life to stop a monster? He was going to save everyone else. 

(Which— he was wrong, it was Jackson, you failwolf. But I’m more interested in both of their why’s than I am in the realities of the fictional situation).

Derek, like Scott, also models Gryffindor and probably… shouldn’t. He’s worse at it than Scott is. Which, like, wow. Calm down kiddos, please. Neither of you wants to be alpha dog, not really. Embrace your inner pack mom. Take pain from people and take Kira leather jacket shopping and brush the hair out of Cora’s face and hold Lydia’s hand when she’s making hard decisions about what kind of person she wants to grow up to be. Here are your strengths, boys. Here is your heroism.

THE PARENTS

Melissa McCall, Mama McCall, the beacon of Beacon Hills, is a Slytherdor. Her son’s in danger? She will forcibly waken one of her own patients when she herself has warned against it. She will sit with Ms. Yukimura and wonder why their children have to fight this war. (Ms. Yukimura, who’s some sort of idealist House, will respond that otherwise they would be running and hiding, but Melissa will remain unconvinced because this is her boy). 

Melissa’s a Gryff secondary because she is direct, no-nonsense, and doesn’t care if she steps on people’s toes on the way to her goals. She’s amenable up until someone gets between her and something she wants, or something she wants to protect.Melissa models Hufflepuff occasionally, sometimes at her job, but most often around her ex, which makes me wonder if Melissa used to be a Slytherpuff, or a Huffledor, but went “no, screw this!” at the same time she threw her husband out of the house.

Papa Argent, I think, House shares with Derek Hale: Hufflepuff (his morality is informed strongly by the people he loves: his father and sister, and then his daughter; the best argument to get to him in S1 is “Scott hasn’t hurt anyone yet”) with a Ravenclaw primary (plans, preparation, and knowledge), and a Gryffindor modeling because it’s what his family expects of him. 

Scott doesn’t have that many Hufflepuff role-models, does he? His mom, who is extraordinary and wonderful, is a Slytherdor. You can get farther from Puff/Puff but it’s hard. He doesn’t particularly bond with Papa Argent.

The best role model is probably Sheriff, who might be a Puff primary, but who Gryffindor secondaries so competently. Gryffindor secondaries just aren’t where Scott’s skills lie. Or maybe he could find a role model in Deaton, who models Puff but I think Deaton’s really just a Ravenclaw/Ravenclaw. The Puff all goes away when things get serious.

No wonder the kid isn’t comfortable with his Puff. All of his heroes win their wars in other ways.

THE VILLAINS

Peter is a burned Hufflepuff. Literally. People who aren’t his family have ceased being people to him. He presents effectively as a rather nasty Slytherin, but I do think it’s ultimately coming from a Hufflepuff place. But maybe I’m wrong and he really is as simply and shallowly selfish as he seems. … yeah that’s quite possible. 

Peter’s got a slimy Slytherin secondary, and he models Ravenclaw, which is the Chessmaster set up, the mold for the manipulative schemer who (would like to think he) is two steps ahead of everyone. 

(This is opposed to just a Slytherin, where you get adaptable and interpersonally effective tactics, but no long term “mwuahaha” strategy, and just Ravenclaw (think Sokka. think later seasons Stiles) where you just have the strategist).

Gerard, the manipulative douchebag, is a Slytherin/Slytherin who performs Gryffindor to cajole people like Kate and Allison into following him.

Kate is a Gryffindor/Slytherin who models and performs Gryffindor. I’m so sorry Gryffindors.

[gaiatheorist]

“50% Feminine.”

I’m going mad again, I’m listing probable reasons, but going mad isn’t reasonable, it’s something that just happens to me from time to time. This is one of the slow, creepy-uppy episodes, not one of the sudden, explosive ones, possibly less dangerous, but incredibly draining. It’ll pass, it always does, it had better do, it’s bloody horrible.

Standard disclaimer, I am at increased risk of harm, but I have no intent or ideation of deliberately harming myself, apart from drinking too much cheap-and-nasty wine, which is my standard maladaptive coping mechanism.

I woke up at 1.30am, and, after a brief discussion with my wonky brain, acknowledged that I was Awake-awake, and there was no chance of going back to sleep. This will have a knock-on effect for a few days, there’s a fair chance I’ll fall asleep in my dinner, but it’s mostly containable. (The madness, as well as the dinner.) Scrolling through Twitter, to see if I’d ‘missed anything’, I found a link to ‘My Gender Coordinates’, and decided to take the quiz, no better or worse use of my time than a Fakebook quiz to tell me what sort of sandwich, or shoe I am.

There are 35 questions, I can’t remember exactly how they’re worded, but it’s along the lines of “I am...” or “I consider myself...” about various character traits, or behaviours, you ‘answer’ on a sliding scale from double-thumbs-up to double-thumbs-down. There’s a ‘middle’ option, which, when I’m going mad, is always a bit tempting, I’m indifferent, I don’t care much about much when I’m in this state.(Until I do, and get all emotionally peaky, HATING an empty shampoo bottle on the bathroom floor, but refusing to move it, because it’s not mine, or finding myself close to tears because I think I’ve offended someone, and not quite knowing how to check.) 

The ‘results’ come out on a quadrant-graph thingy, Masculine/Androgynous/Undifferentiated/Feminine, I deliberately didn’t look at that first, because I would have skewed my answers, aiming for ‘undifferentiated’, I’m awkward like that. My results were that I ‘fall between quadrants’, no big surprise there, my dot was bang on the line between ‘masculine’ and ‘androgynous’, all in the top half of the square, ‘68.3% Masculine, 50% Feminine’, I don’t know how that works, it’s numbers, and maths and stuff, and my brain doesn’t work like that. (Haha, because I’m a girl, and girls are better at biology than physics. Bullshit.) 

What does it mean? In all likelihood, nothing, it does look kind-of scientific, which is why I answered all of the questions, instead of giving up at the first hint of a cartoon dinosaur, or a ‘pick which colour-scheme appeals to you’. (Cartoon dinosaurs are my new pet hate, I’ve recently had to wade back through the clip-art infested worksheets from the last mental health course, and I’m fairly certain I’ve imagined a cartoon dinosaur, but that’s a tangent I’ll try to avoid.) I have strong opinions on the concept of gender, for however-many years I’ve been writing on here, I’ve identified as ‘meat no-one eats’, my biological sex is female, and my uterus is certainly reminding me of that fact this week. My gender? Human. Probably. 

“Identified as”, how very modern, it’s not ‘really’ a new thing, to me, or the world, what I’m trying to do here is type out a safe-release, to vent, I suppose it all boils down to my resentment of being ‘told’. There are vague childhood memories of being told “Ladies do/don’t do...”, and I have a ridiculous rage-bubble of “Yes, and sloths poo once a week, what’s your point?”, too late one thinks of what one might have said. I’m no more a lady than I am a sloth, I’m probably leaning more towards sloth at the moment, I’m overdue a bath.

Working through the statement-ratings, I noticed I was pulling a face at some of them. All of them, to be honest, which surprised me, because, with a diagnosis of autism, there’s the preconception that my response would be binary-linear, black-or-white, always/never. It wasn’t, my response was invariably “That’s a stupid question.”, and they weren’t questions, for every single statement, I decided “Unable to answer without context.”, and had to imagine a scenario to contextualise “I am generous” or “I am decisive”, or whatever. ( I *am* decisive, given sufficient context.) I need to watch that I don’t fall into a psychopath/sociopath rabbit-hole here, my sometimes-linear approach could be viewed as psychopathic, and my bending/masking could fit a sociopathic profile. Too many personality quizzes in my teen-girl magazines, and an on-going desire to name and categorize things.

I was pulling a face at the statements that are usually associated with the concept of femininity, there really isn’t a male-brain/female-brain. (All brains smell horrible, I have smelled my own brain, wasn’t pleasant.) There are some biological differences, most notably the reproductive bits, but not really a great deal else, the ex used to say that humans were evolving to be more androgynous, but I see now that he was trying to justify the societally-imposed feelings of inadequacy that I was as tall as him, with more body-hair. He ascribed to the concept of androgyny when it suited him, lauding Bowie in public, and insisting I was ‘better’ at housework in private. A product of his upbringing, but deeply coercive-toxic. He enjoyed my androgynous-atypical nature up to a point, I was a trophy in more ways than just my long legs and pretty mouth, I confused the hell out of his ‘traditional’ family, though. 

The statements that made me screw up my face could have been coloured pink, they were the ones that ‘ladies do’, some, I consciously, deliberately-don’t, and some are just a natural hard-no, nature vs nurture in evidence. I have learned behaviours, and innate, natural tendencies, there was a bit of a domestic issue the other day when I noted my son being manipulative, and destroyed-devastated myself wondering if he’d learned-observed that from me.  I don’t think so, my avoidance-behaviours are quite different. I was pulling faces at the stereotypical ‘female’ traits, initially an “Ew, no, I don’t do that!” response, but, as I realised I was doing it, I wondered WHY I was repulsed. There’s nothing ‘wrong’ with being kind/sensitive/compassionate, they’re human responses, not ‘masculine’ or ‘feminine’, but even the quiz itself refers to them as  “Traits commonly found in people of the ... gender.” (Androgynous is referred to as high in male- and female-typical traits, undifferentiated as low in both.) Commonly, not exclusively.

Part of the issue is that I associate femininity with vulnerability and weakness. I choose not to ‘present as’ female most of the time, my sex usually isn’t obvious until people get close, and I don’t let many people get that close. (Even before the virus-distancing.) There are ‘historical and complicating factors’ behind some of that, but there’s also the gender-conditioning I grew up with, girls-should, and boys-should, I didn’t have particularly positive experiences or role-models, but, even aside from that, the general concensus was that male was stronger, better, more important, female was secondary and subservient. To do something ‘like a girl’ was an insult, but, by the same token, I was often criticised for not being ‘girly’, ever the outlier. I’m wondering how much of the non-femininity is reactive-protective, how much could be part of the autism, and how much is just ‘how I am’? 

Girly-females irritate me, vacuous conversations, hair-and-make-up, dependence on others, incessant diets and fads, I don’t ‘get’ any of it, and I don’t buy into it, I don’t see why I should, just because my genitals are in the more difficult-to-kick arrangement. (True to form, my son has more make-up and hair-stuff than I do, I can’t remember how he referred to my presentation a few weeks ago, but it might have involved goblins, and a bin.) Occasionally, people tell me I could be attractive if I made an effort, my go-to response is “What for?”, I do generally look as if I live in a tree, it doesn’t bother me. That’s not wholly a girl-thing or a boy-thing, I do know some very well-presented people of both flavours, but I’ve genuinely never overheard a group of men discussing razor-blades or underpants the way I’ve heard gaggles of women banging on about make-up and such. 

Women who talk in baby-voices, women who giggle and simper around men, women who don’t even try to pick things up themselves, I think what I’m saying is that I don’t like women who ‘act as’ women, and it is an act, my mother’s phone-laugh used to make me want to scream. 

Before I became annoyed at myself for placing more value on the traits more commonly associated with masculinity than femininity, I’d had a mini-argument with myself that it was impossible to rate any of the statements objectively. Am I kind? It depends on the situation, last week I helped a little old lady sort out a mis-delivered parcel, but the week before that, I’d sped up my walking pace, so I could get into the corner shop before the person behind me, it might have been the same little old lady, I wasn’t paying attention. I’d viewed the thumbs-rating as a never-always continuum, so, technically, all of the responses ‘should’ have been middle-option, for ‘sometimes’. (There might have been an explanation in the site somewhere, it was daft o’clock in the morning.) For each behaviour, I was thinking of a situation, which was wrong, I think I should have been rating least-likely to most-likely. The situation has an influence on the behaviour, if I had friends, I’d behave differently with them to the way I’d behave with a doctor, or a manager, or my son, and even that behaviour would depend on multiple external factors, it wouldn’t be static-consistent, it would be dynamic. We all do it, we’re socially conditioned to behave according to audience and environment.

I didn’t go to finishing school, I didn’t even go to university, there were no elocution or deportment classes at my rough-as-arseholes comprehensive school, and most of my childhood meals at home were eaten from a plate on my knee, on the sofa, in front of the TV. There were still expectations, though. Standing up if a teacher came into the classroom, not interrupting an adult speaking, letting elderly or otherwise infirm people on the bus first. I don’t remember my brother being given as many instructions as I was, though, and I think that was more to do with me being a girl than being two and a half years older, he did pretty much as he pleased, and was a ‘rascal’, or a ‘scamp’, whereas I was told to sit down (nicely), be quiet, smile, be helpful etc long before the wear a bra, brush your hair, show a bit of leg nonsense started. 

I’m fairly certain that the gender-specific conditioning is part of the reason my autism wasn’t diagnosed until I was 42. I’d had expectations drummed, and sometimes beaten into me all my life, everything was already an act, a performance, so I just assumed everyone else was ‘faking it’ all the time, over-riding gut-instinct on everything, and acting according to these confusing social scripts. The “What for?” streak in me is problematic for other people, I’m viewed as difficult, challenging, sometimes plain rude, and overly bold ‘for a woman’. I don’t speak much, but, when I do, I make it count, I’m tenacious and determined, and, most of the time, completely exhausted trying to remember and correctly apply rules and boundaries, scripts I don’t understand the reasoning behind, and constantly-consistently assess environments and audiences, to avoid ‘getting it wrong’. 

I am blunt at times. I can be articulate and eloquent, but sometimes a situation demands just-enough information to convey the salient point. I don’t tend to ‘waste words’, and am frustrated when people fanny about with “Does that make sense?” and “This might sound silly, but...” Anecdotally, I hear that from women more than men, we’re discouraged from being too much to-the-point, to go the long way around things, instead of straight at them, and to check for reassurance. I speak ‘like a man’, it’s more efficient. (”Does everyone understand what they are to do?” was my preferred meeting-closing-statement, I’m brutal.) 

I sometimes see the reverse-of-me in my son, he isn’t the least bit blunt or brutal most of the time. (He did shout “Stop it!” at me quite forcefully one day last week when I was having a meltdown after getting bin-juice on my face. He saves his command-voice for emergencies.) He ties himself in knots about communicating with people, and avoids most conversation, although he’ll babble incessantly to himself to process thoughts and ideas. (I have sores inside my ears that won’t heal, because I keep putting my earphones in to drown out his waffling about D&D plots and such.) He’s nervous-anxious where I’m bold, he’s scared of a million things that I’m not in the least bit concerned by, but then, I am an idiot. Biological sex is not gender, but neither of us are really binary-gendered. (I’m not going to suggest he does the quiz, he’s so incredibly indecisive it would melt his brain.) I never conditioned him ‘male’, he’s always just been another human to me, but he has had conflicting messages from his Dad’s side of the family, boys-don’t-cry, come-and-kick-this-ball, look-at-the-tits-on-that, and the girly-girl aunts and cousins. Confusing times, but he has referred to himself as a pan-sexual trans-humanist, and I don’t really know what that is. (He hasn’t asked me to use different pronouns, or a different name, so he’s still ‘him’.) 

I’m rambling. I’ve been pecking away at this for hours, but I do feel a little more settled for doing it. I didn’t go off on as many ranty tangents as I thought I might, which is reassuring, this episode of going mad has been mostly-irritable, and I don’t like it. Catch-22, there, as a female, I’m ‘supposed to’ be all pink and fluffy, and nice, but the lazy stereotype of a woman can also be a nagging old harridan, I’m straddling that line as well as the line between quadrants on the quiz. I bet you 10p that if I did the quiz again, I’d be able to skew the answers to place the dot dead-centre in the grid, but I might blow up the internet if I did that, and imagine the mess that would make.          

[madlymiho]

Hi~~ I just want to say I love your writing so much!!~ Could I get nsfw hcs for Kidd, Crocodile, and Zoro being asked to implement weapons in the bedroom, and how they would use them?

Hi there ~ Finally got you on this request! Hopefully you will like the outcome, sweetie! 💖

Enjoy your reading!

Warning : NSFW

Kid :

• When you tell Kid that you want to spice things in the bedroom, and ask him to add more toys for your steamy sessions... You seriously scratch something dangerous within him, and even if your request was only to bring more pleasure between the two of you, he's not happy about it

• Thing is, Kid is a proud rooster, and always believes that his cock is seriously enough to satisfy your needs. So adding stuff to spice the game? Oh girl, you lost him on this!

• But since you want to play a silly game, and that he somehow appreciates the idea to punish you, Kid decides to accept the rules, even if he clearly has no idea of what you're expecting by "bring weapons on the bedroom and use them on me". And since he really doesn't want to be teased by his fellow companions for his lack of knowledge, he goes with his own idea... and too bad if you don't like it!

• So the day you're back on his bedroom, his lips seeking for yours, and his hands gettind down to grab your rear, you gasp when you feel cool and uncomfortable metal chain circling your wrists and restraining your movements. You wouldn't think that he would use something that... raw for your first session

• Kid watches you closely, lips curled up while he chains you to the bed, his power somehow slightly useful to control their grip on you, and sometimes squeeze your skin if he finds you too talkative. Fact is, he starts to have some fun with you in this position, your hands and legs spreaded to offer him the perfect vision on your naked and offered body, as you're unable to make him stop

• Kid doesn't really know how bondage and SM sex work, so he skips the safe word consultation, and directly goes on your core to hungrily eats your pussy, punishing you for wanting something else than his dick and his fingers. And since he wants to play, Kid suddenly pulls out a knife out of his pockets, staring at your surprised and slightly scared eyes

• Despite his raw and imprevisible nature, Kid finds it funny to run the tip of the knife on your inner thigh, never hurting you, but somehow intimately ordering you not to make a single move while he eats you vividly, until you eventually reach your first orgasm under his tongue, as he feels like he's winning his solitary argument

• Kid suddenly slams the blade into the mattress, angrily looking at you as you gasp and try to move, now convinced that this session would turn ugly. He snarls and catches your cheeks, squeezing them ferociously, his eyes locked on you and he breathes heavy... All of his previous anger is back

• "Why do you need toys when you have already the best thing in the world?" Kid snaps, making his point, his proud nature coming back like a wild fire. He doesn't even let you answer, he only releases your ankles from the chains and rolls your hips on the mattress, burying his dick hard inside of you as you don't even see that coming

• He pounds hard, every time making sure that you understand the lesson, his ego deeply hurt because of this silly request. He takes you strongly, slightly harder than his usual habits, until you eventually end up by screaming his name, apologizing for your fantasy about the weapons in the room

• Once the two of you are done, you better be sure that Kid would brag like a damn king, holding you against his chest while he almost makes a poem about his own cock, and the way he's able to please you without anything else

Crocodile :

• Crocodile is a man of experiences. He knows that having sex can actually bring something primal in the bedroom, and he clearly doesn't mind to add some spices, especially if you are requesting it, with your odd and own words on the matter

• Crocodile has a fierce nature, and it sometimes explodes in your most intimate moments, when he's able to fully dominate you, satisfied to hear your adorable little moans coming out of your throat, as he doesn't let you even think straight, not even for a second

• So weapons, darling? Oh he sure does have his little ideas on the matter. He has already a collection of little toys you might enjoy, but he would refuse to hurt you in anyway. It's about pleasure, and not torture. And he would initiate you in the most suave way possible

• Far from knowing what he's going to do to you, Crocodile starts to roll his tie around your wrists, behind your back, so he can have a proper access to every part of your body, your desperate stare looking at his slow and mastered ministrations, as you can't touch him back

• He first starts with his hook, still shining in the softened light of the room, the flat and harmless tip of his favorite weapon slowly opening the buttons of your shirt and putting aside the material, while he gazes at you with a dangerous smirk. He undresses you gradually, exposing your skin inch by inch, the coldness of his hook travelling through your body while you anticipate his every movement

• Then Crocodile switchs on something much more interesting for him. He wishes that you would understand he doesn't need so many toys to make you scream while he takes care of you. His ringed hands are enough to create those adorable waves on your rear, the golden jewels slapping your butt easily while he takes his time to put you in the mood, either by making him sucking his large cock, or simply by eating your pussy, your hands still restrained behind your back

• If he feels like it, Crocodile uses a martinet and a blindfold, especially when he's in the mood to make you wait and beg loudly, keeping slow and dominant gestures, his cock sliding gradually inside your core to make you pant hard and nasty, his hook brushing the skin of your back with a sort of genuine tenderness, calling you his good girl all the time with his biggest grin

• But if he thinks that it bores him to use such weapons to please you, he quickly starts to impose his pace and wishes, taking you hard and good, only pleasuring you by the feeling of being filled entirely, until your burst into multiple and powerful orgasms, leading him to his own end when he believes that you had enough for the day

• Satisfied with your new requests, Crocodile might start it again whenever he feels like it, or when you will ask for it and behave. After all, your pleasure is always a reward, and you should earn it first

Zoro :

• Zoro isn't particularly a kinky man in bed times... But if you want to explore something different, he's not entirely against the idea of adding a few stuff in the room

• But Zoro is slighty confused by your request... and he clearly doesn't want to look like a fool, so he certainly keep things somehow pretty casual for your first time into this grey and obscure area

• The best weapons are his swords, and since Zoro knows how to use them, you better be sure that he loves to gently brush your skin with the flat of his katana, asking you to seat at the edge of the bed so he can have a proper access to your fully dressed body

• Piece by piece, and with expert gestures, Zoro makes the temperature hotter than before as he slowly rips the buttons of your shirt, destroying every single material with quick movements of his blade, never ever scratching your skin as he asks you to hold still and to watch the show

• He might fondle your skin with the tip of his katana, but he's clearly slightly worried that you might move and end badly hurt, so he doesn't really last long with this game, confused for a moment, but excited by your hungry stare and the way you lick your lips when he's close to your most sensitive parts

• Weapons mean a raw and primal sexy session for him, and since you feel like it, he uses his kimono's belt to restrain your voice, rolling it around your mouth as a gag to muffle your noises as he starts to play with your body, to eventually penetrate you since he can't hold it anymore

• Despite his usual classic sex, Zoro likes to use something else to spice it, loving to take you on your four as you can't properly talk or moan, his thrusts deep and powerful, to the point that it causes you a strong orgasm

• Zoro wouldn't mind to change your position though, and letting you having your own fun on his body, but only if you don't use his katana. He likes being under your control, despite his lack of patience when you are naked and so close to him. Even though, and you know it, in the end, he would certainly rip off his handmade handcuffs or blindfold, and would take you strongly, groaning hard in your ear as he takes the advantage back

• These kind of sessions happen more often that you would thought. Zoro is a dedicated learner, and when he trains for something, he alway does it with all his besg commitment, until he becomes the best in town

[twinkletoes-rp]

Princess Tutu College AU Ch. 1 - “First Position”

Title: Of Fairy Tales and Ballet Shoes Fandom: Princess Tutu Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship. Romance, Rivals, Enemies to Friends to Lovers Rating: T (to be safe) Relationships: Ahiru/Fakir, Background Mytho/Rue Characters: Ahiru, Fakir, Rue, Mytho Words: 4,078

(Can also read on FFN | AO3 | Next)

Summary: College AU. Ahiru is the worst dancer at Gold Crown Fine Arts College, and her rival and accidental roommate, Fakir, never fails to let her know. But words can hurt more than anything, especially when hearing them from all sides, and after nearly losing Ahiru for good, he knows he needs to make things right. Resolving to help her catch up in her classes and even teach her some more advanced moves for good measure, they eventually become friends. The question is, just how close can they become?

--

“You’ll never be good enough to get in the advanced class if you can’t even get the basics down.”

Ahiru bristles, gritting her teeth and narrowing her eyes. She knows that voice…

Turning around, her shaky fourth position practice forgotten, she clenches her fists and growls at the older boy who’s come her way. “What do you know, Fakir? Just because you’re in the advanced class, it doesn’t mean you know everything!”

He huffs a laugh, glaring down at her. “I know more than you ever will.”

“So? That doesn’t mean I can’t be as good as you someday!” She pokes his chest. “You’ll see! One day, I’ll even beat you and become the best dancer this school’s ever seen!”

He scoffs, looking away from her like he can’t stand the sight of her anymore, arms crossed over his chest. “Right. Keep dreaming, Little Duck.” With that, he turns to walk away, throwing over his shoulder at the last minute, “If you want to keep staying after class for the rest of your college career, be my guest.”

Ahiru is left squawking after him, clenching her fists even harder in her fury before she throws all her frustration into practicing even harder than she was before. Stupid Fakir! What does he know anyway? She’ll show him! She’ll show all the other students who laugh at her and call her names behind her back – and even the ones who don’t believe in her to her face, like Lilie and Pique!

What was he even doing here anyway? His advanced class ended way before now. The sun is going down. Did he get back to their dorm and see she wasn’t there, so went to go look for her? Why would he do that? He knows her dance instructors usually force her to stay behind to catch up to the others. Her clumsiness and, well, natural inaptitude for such graceful activities don’t exactly cut her any breaks in the Dance Major department, particularly not the Ballet Division.

He’s always like this, though, so she shouldn’t be surprised. Always being mean for no reason, insulting her dancing and putting her down, always making her feel like she can’t do anything. She doesn’t think he knows that last part, but still. She always fights back against it, of course, always tells him he’s wrong, always twists it so it makes her feel more determined and hopeful than before. But lately…

Lately, she doesn’t know why, but it’s been bothering her more and more. She’s steadily felt a lot less enthusiastic, a lot less focused in class, a lot more confused and sad and…wondering if this really is the best path for her. Pique, Lilie, Rue, and Mytho have all been worried about her, the former two not grinding on her as much and the latter two trying to cheer her up and help her out where they can. She’s pretty sure she’s even overheard Rue and Mytho telling Fakir to be nicer, too.

Honestly, it probably wouldn’t be so bad if they weren’t roommates on top of everything – which, actually, was all a huge accident in itself. According to the Rooming Committee, Gold Crown Fine Arts College had been so flooded with applications this year (more than they’d ever had, like magic!) and Ahiru’s handwriting had been so terrible, in all the confusion, they’d thought she was a boy and put her in the boys’ dorm. By the time they’d realized their mistake, the other students had already been sorted and refused to relocate, so…here they are. It’s already almost eight months into the school year at this point, so while she might be able to find someone willing to switch by now…really, it’s so late, she doesn’t see much of a point. She’d probably have better luck just waiting until this year’s over and finding a new roommate ASAP once the new term starts.

But still, going home to face him every day is…not one of her favorite things. It’s not for her neighbors either. She’s sure the Rooming Committee’s gotten so many complaints about their loud arguments that they’d kill to have one of them switch. But coupled with the timing, she’s stubborn as hell and hopes he’ll change someday, that she can change him by at least making him acknowledge her and see that she can do this, that she can be a great dancer like she dreams! (In her heart, she wants…to dance like him…!)

And yet, she still does. She goes home and studies in her room, eats the food he makes for her (because, in his words, ‘if he doesn’t, she’ll forget to eat like a moron’), cleans up the dishes and pots and all because it’s the nice thing to do, and she does her best to stay out of his way. When they do talk, they mostly end up fighting.

The thing that confuses her the most about Fakir, though, is that she knows he isn't really as mean as he wants people to think. She's seen his softer side, what she thinks is the real him, a few times.

Once, when she had a really bad fever and was too dizzy and woozy to even think of getting out of bed, he made her soup, got her water, helped her to the bathroom, and made the trek back from classes throughout the day to check up on her. He probably thinks she was too feverish to remember it, but she does. Another time, she heard some jealous upperclassmen talking badly about him and called them out, only to get some nasty bruises and cuts for her trouble. He carried her home and patched her up rather expertly (thanks to years of practice with Mytho as his adoptive brother, she supposes). When she cried and cried because someone stole her prized possession, a necklace with a pretty red pendant she'd had since she was a little girl, he somehow got it back and returned it to her (with mysteriously bruised knuckles...). And once, when she found him crying after a bad one-off fight with what sounded like his father, all he did was say she caught him at a bad time and hug her tightly, like she was the only thing keeping him afloat right then. She still doesn’t know why he did that instead of telling her to leave. She tried to ask how he was the next morning, but he pretended not to know what she was talking about (if he thought she couldn't see his bright blush, he’s crazy), and she never pressed.

So...this flip around he does just...she can't wrap her mind around it most times. How in the hell can they be the same person? And yet, they are, and she’s his roommate, so she has to deal with it.

Really, in the end, she just wishes she knew what to do. She only enrolled here so she could dance, the only thing she’s wanted to do since she first saw Mytho dance. She liked to swim in the lake on the outskirts of town growing up, and it was on one of those excursions that she caught him dancing there. He kept coming (and whether he knew she was there or not, she’s not sure), and it wasn’t long before she fell for both him and the art of ballet. So, when it came time to enroll in college, she chose the best ballet school she could, the same one she’d overheard Mytho talking about once when Fakir came looking for him. Of course, upon enrolling, she’d learned how Rue felt about Mytho, and after helping them get together, well…really, she’s not sure how she feels anymore.

Not just about Mytho either, but…everything. She’s the worst dancer in the school – and no, she’s not exaggerating, they have actual scorebooks, and she’s already had to work her way back up from the apprentice class once – she’s so clumsy and ungraceful and not even pretty like a ballerina is supposed to be, and watching her classmates be so much better and Fakir and Rue and Mytho be so amazing naturally despite being just a year ahead of her just…makes her think she really has no idea what she’s doing.

Well, actually, that’s not quite true. Since coming here, she’s at least realized it’s not all about Mytho anymore. She really does love to dance, she really does want to be good, she really does want to make Fakir realize she and her dancing aren’t disasters – but she doesn’t know how, doesn’t know what more she can try, has gotten to where she feels like she can’t do anything, so…she wonders if she should just…stop.

With that thought weighing on her mind, she decides she’s practiced extra enough today and opts to head home. It’s past dusk, so if she’s lucky, Fakir will already be in bed. She really doesn’t want to deal with his snide remarks right now.

The universe might just be smiling on her for once (or maybe it’s smirking and laughing at her instead; she wouldn’t be surprised) because when she gets there, lo and behold, Fakir’s in bed. He left dinner for her, and she’s not sure if it’s because it tastes so good or out of frustration or both that she cries throughout the entire meal and dishes, but by the time she changes into her nightgown and slips into bed, she’s even more exhausted than when she arrived. She hopes tomorrow will be better...

--

Unfortunately for Ahiru, things just get worse over the next few weeks. She falls farther and farther behind in her classes no matter how hard she tries, she has to stay behind every single day, she’s almost pushed to the apprentice class more than once, and things are to the point where Fakir’s words are pretty much white noise by now in comparison to her own dark thoughts. She feels more and more lost and depressed each day. Even seeing Mytho, even seeing him dance, doesn’t remind her of why she wants this anymore.

As for Fakir himself, well, if she thinks he hasn’t noticed, she really is a moron. He’s kept an eye on her since the start, watched her more and more, closer and closer, as time went on, and this change in her…it scares the shit out of him. She doesn’t even bite back at his derisive comments anymore, doesn’t snort and laugh in his face and wave her fists at him, but freaking agrees with them instead, which sends off instant alarm bells. She doesn’t have that stubborn resolve to get better despite the odds being against her, doesn’t seem to have that fierce shine to her pretty blue eyes anymore, doesn’t seem to have much to any hope left of reaching her dream.

The fire in her is gone, and it’s left him freezing.

--

It all comes to a head one morning mid-April.

Fakir wakes up feeling…strange. Like something or someone is off. Looking around, he doesn’t notice anything amiss in his room, but that just makes him more anxious. Throwing off his covers and crossing the hall before he can blink, he goes to knock on Ahiru’s door…but it just swings right open. Odd…

But looking inside, he sees why.

She’s gone.

All of her belongings – her books, her bedclothes, her uniform and day clothes hanging in the closet, even her ridiculous, yet adorable giant stuffed duck she sleeps with and that giant birdseed bowl she keeps by the window to feed the growing number of friendly birds every morning – are gone, too, down to the last pin in her photos of her and her friends (himself included in a few) on the walls. There’s nothing of her left.

Fakir is frozen, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. If she’s not here, where could she be? Did she find someone else to room with and not bother telling him? No, she’s too considerate for that. Was there some kind of family emergency she forgot to tell him about? No, as far as anyone knows, she’s an orphan. Is she freaking camping out in her class so she won’t fall behind again? No, she would warn him of that, even sarcastically, so he wouldn’t worry, at least. So, if it’s not any of those, then—?!

Suddenly, he remembers the look in her eyes the past few days, even duller and darker than the last few months, which was worse than back in January. Just yesterday, he remembers her leaving later than usual and coming back even earlier, eyes bloodshot both times, what he realizes now was…her crying in the middle of the night…—

Shit!

Heart seizing in his chest, he bursts out the door like hellhounds are chasing him (and they might as well be, this is all his fault, damn it!). He bypasses the headmaster’s office. Knowing her, she’s already been there, got up before the sun to thank him for everything before heading out. He’s sprinting for the front gate like his life depends on it. Please let her be there, please don’t let him be too late, please don’t let this be—!

He sees a familiar flash of red and blue and skids to a halt. There she is, suitcase packed, just about to take that first step off the grounds! He made it in time! Thank goodness!

"Ahiru!"

He’s pretty sure half the campus heard that, but the only one he cares about is right here in front of him. The girl in question freezes, pausing mid-step. No... It couldn't be...wouldn't be...right...? But she turns anyway, and her eyes widen. A tiny gasp leaves her, but whether it's out of shock or the sharp pang in her chest at seeing him, she's not sure. Angry, hurt tears prick her eyes, but she turns partly away so he won't see them, puckering her lips like a duck's bill as she tries to fight back her tears. "What do you want, you big jerk?" The ‘Haven’t you done enough?’ is implied, but not at all missed.

He's just watching her, panting with chest heaving from the run and panic and adrenaline rushing through his veins, somewhat disbelieving and yet thanking everything he made it in time. He doesn't understand why it hurts so much to see her cry (or maybe that’s just what he tells himself), but it feels like he’s being torn askew. So he can't help but breathe a laugh, a bit choked as he finds himself wanting to tear up, too, when she calls him a jerk. He gets it. God, does he. He’s disgusted with himself, too. "Yeah, you're right. I am a big jerk. I deserved that. I deserved all the things you haven't been calling me, too, the things the real you would've called me a thousand times by now."

She looks over at him, blinking, tilting her head some. "'The real me?'"

Hesitantly, giving her plenty of space to pull back, just like he will if she's uncomfortable, he takes a step forward, and then another. He stops within about five feet of her, not wanting to push his luck. He considers himself impossibly lucky to be allowed this far. He nods, a look on his face she's never seen before. It's...a smile... It's...gentle and kind and angry, but at himself, altogether disarming, and she...somehow, it makes her feel better than she has in months.

"The real you. The you who'd always tell me to quit making fun of you, vow to show me who was the best around here, swear you'd knock me off my high horse someday. The you who was so full of determination and hope that it inspired everyone around you, no matter how down they were feeling." Something in his face grows fonder, and Ahiru feels her cheeks heat up slightly. It's like he's looking right into her. "The you who always puts other people's feelings before your own," he remembers how she helped Rue get with Mytho, even though he knew for a fact that Ahiru was the one in love with him, "who's the first to jump in to save people," he flashes back to the day they met, the first day of college, when Ahiru saved Mytho from cracking his skull open in trying to rescue a falling baby bird, "who always does your very best at everything you do because, as you see it, you’re just an ordinary girl, but somehow, someway, that's more than enough."

And then, his expression turns sad, even heartbroken, and despite herself, Ahiru aches to know what's wrong. Luckily, he doesn't keep her waiting long. "The you who's only felt so awful about herself and who's only about to throw away her dreams because of me." He takes a deep, almost shaky breath. Everything inside him is desperate to turn away, hide his face and his feelings, but he can't. If he does that...if he does what he usually does...well, that's how they got into this mess, isn't it?

When he opens his eyes again, his expression is even softer, warmer, than before, and Ahiru's breath leaves her lungs. Something tells her she's the only one besides Mytho and maybe Fakir's father who’s gotten to see this side of him. Maybe, even for them, it's been a long, long time. "I know it'll sound empty after everything, and you certainly don't have to accept it - hell, I'd honestly be surprised if you did - ...but I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Ahiru. I never meant to hurt you like this. In my own way, it..." he hates what he's about to say, curling his nails into his palms and gritting his teeth, mostly to get himself to be a man about this and keep eye contact, not hide like he always has before, "...it was meant to encourage you. It was meant to give you something to work toward, a goal to reach and, yes, maybe someday, even surpass. I thought of us as rivals, so..." in a moment of weakness, he looks down, away from those wide, disbelieving, still slightly wary, yet hopeful blue eyes, but he finds his way back after another, "...it was meant to make you better..."

There's a large boulder on the grass behind him, and he sits down on it with a heavy sigh, resting his arms on his knees and hunching over in a way she's only seen him do when he's particularly frustrated with himself. "But it seems, as usual, I messed up. I hurt you, and knowing you, it's probably more than you'd ever truly tell me," the way his eyes flick up to her fills her with a charging energy, and she can tell he's giving her all the power here - it's exciting, but frightening, too, "and that's not something I ever wanted to do."

She hunkers down on the grass in front of him after a beat, hugging her knees to her chest, heedless of the way the fresh grass will probably stain her hilariously-yellow shorts with the wings that match her name. Secretly, he's always thought those were adorable, but he gets the impression they wouldn't be nearly as on anyone but her. She puckers her lips again in a thoughtful pout, and he waits on bated breath for her response, heart hammering in his chest.

"You sure have a messed up way of showing affection, Drosselmeyer."

A quip isn't the first thing he thought she'd say, but honestly? Perhaps it should have been. He's so startled that he actually laughs, and Ahiru snaps up at that, eyes wide. He's never done that before. As in, not in class, not in the mess hall, in their room, talking to Mytho or Rue, never. So she doesn't think she can be blamed for the way her cheeks glow a bit from how delighted he looks. He finds himself smiling at her again, far easier this time, and she wishes she could capture this moment to remember forever somehow. "Believe me, you are not the first person who's told me that. Hell, they've told my foster father, and he just laughed in their faces."

She makes a sound not unlike a duck's quack, smirking his way in a manner that catches his breath in a vice he'd, again, rather not analyze right now. "Oh, I can believe that easily.”

They both laugh this time, the tension of the last months bleeding out of them, and when they’re finally done, Ahiru drops her chin into her palm and just…looks at him. It’s a little unnerving, so after a few silent moments, he looks away, pointedly ignoring the red coloring his cheeks.

“So...do I really suck that much?” she asks all of a sudden, and he whips back around to look at her so quickly, it actually smarts a little. There’s a small, sad smile on her face, and for whatever reason, that hurts more than any wound. Realizing how that might sound, she waves her hands in front of her and blushes to the tips of her ears, down her neck, and keeps going. Fakir refuses to let his eyes follow. “I mean, I’m not an idiot! I know I do, I’m so clumsy and can’t even dance without shaking!” She pokes her fingers together and looks at her feet. “I just meant, um…can I…with everything you’ve said…” taking a breath, she looks back at him, “…do you think I can improve? At all? Even a little?”

It’s Fakir’s turn to stare. Her eyes and expression are so hopeful and earnest, fierce underneath it all, something he’s missed dearly, and he can’t help the relief and absolution that flood him. Because he knows that’s what all this is for her. He shakes his head, an undercurrent of laughter to it. “Well, you’re definitely not very good,” her face falls, and he’s quick to fix it in standing up and holding out a hand to help her up, “but you have potential, and I think I can help.”

She gasps and snatches his hand to stand even faster, clutching it with both of hers, eyes shining. “Really?! You’d do that?” Thinking for a moment, she cocks her head to the side. “Wait, is that even allowed?”

Fakir blinks and then smiles at her softly again, almost helplessly, his hand unconsciously squeezing hers at the same time. She doesn’t know why her heart skips. “Yes, I will.” He starts leading her back toward the main grounds, taking her suitcase from her with gentle hands. “To be honest, I don’t know, but I don’t see what it can hurt. I’m just helping a fellow student, after all.” She sees his strategy in those last words, and he opens one eye to smirk over at her, making her giggle. Taking a breath, something in her finally soothes. This is certainly a page she didn’t see her life turning, him helping her out, them teaming up, but…she can’t say she isn’t excited and definitely grateful. “I’ll even teach you some of the more advanced moves. How about that?” It’s the least he can do to even begin to make up for what he’s put her through.

“All right!”

They talk meeting times and places (and Fakir’s theory that her instructors simply don’t know the correct way to teach someone like Ahiru) as they make their way back to the headmaster’s office, and after explaining the situation, Ahiru is allowed to move back in and continue her enrollment. Fakir accepts the few days’ suspension for ‘bullying’ gladly, pointedly ignoring her glare when he stops her from defending him, and then they head back to their dorm.

It’s mostly silent while they get Ahiru’s room back in order, each lost in their own thoughts. Things aren’t quite patched up yet, they know. There are still a lot of things they need to work out. Hell, this is only the start of them becoming hopefully-friends after eight-and-a-half months of being enemies. They’re going to have to start over, take things from the top…but at least, with any luck, it’ll be easier now.

Everyone notices the change in their dynamic even before class starts (mostly from the lack of arguing or, more recently, tense silence), and they all know one thing for sure: things are going to be interesting from here on out.

[more-magpiie]

stitches

This one's a twofer 😘

It's been a few hours since their last scrape, and Sweeney's still bleeding from an ugly gash under his collarbone. Laura glances over at him in the passenger seat, pressing a balled up bit of cloth hard against the injury and wincing every time they hit a bump in the road, and purses her lips.

"Shouldn't that be healing already? I thought you were meant to be magic."

"Fuck off."

When they finally reach a truck stop, it's starting to get dark. She asks if he wants anything and he shakes his head dimly, eyes distant and skin near as pale as hers, and she frowns at him for a few moments before heading inside.

When she returns, she ushers him out of the car and sits him on the hood, under a buzzing streetlamp. There's not a lot of argument in him - he can barely keep his eyes focused on her. She climbs up to sit cross-legged next to him and starts pulling items out of a little plastic bag: a pocket sewing kit, a bottle of vodka, some hand sanitizer, a pack of tissues.

"More of a whiskey man, if I'm honest," he mumbles, eyeing her warily as she tries to thread the needle.

"It's not for you to drink," she tells him distractedly. "Although.. it might help." She uses it to clean her crude tools, tugs his shirt down to clean the wound off too - he hisses at the sting and grabs the bottle out of her hand, glowering at her as he takes a swig.

"I can't say I like where this is going. Don't recall you telling me about your medical education."

"Yeah, well, I've seen it on TV," she says defensively, folding her arms. "I don't really know what else to do, okay? I can take you to the hospital if you want, but I'm guessing you don't have great insurance. I guess I could just watch you bleed out for the next few days. It beats listening to you complain." He grimaces, then turns away and takes another sip from the bottle.

"Alright," he says finally.

"Alright."

She starts out trying to be gentle, slow, but he squirms against her and it just keeps bleeding, and the mess is getting hard to deal with. For a while he'd been flinching and cursing under his breath at every awful tug of skin, but now he's just tensed against it, eyes closed and breaths measured. "I'm sorry. It's nearly done." He turns his head away until she's finished.

She ties off the string carefully, cleans the blood off his chest and her hands as best she can, waits in silence. His head is spinning and he wants to throw up, but finally he nods at her and she helps him back to the car. He's asleep almost as soon as she pulls back onto the road, and she turns the radio off so she can listen for breathing.

The wound heals pretty fast after that, and Sweeney complains about her jagged stitches and the scar they leave, but sometimes when he thinks she isn't looking she'll see him dip his fingertips under his shirt collar to feel the raised line of it. It's the closest he gets to thanking her.

That is, until one night a couple of months later. She's been especially prickly with him the past couple of days. Nothing particularly abnormal has happened, and he hasn't been any more of a dick than usual - not on purpose, anyway. It's late one night when he sees it, out of the corner of his eye - her pulling nervously at the nasty joint where her arm meets her shoulder. It's coming loose. He snaps his gaze away, stares out of the window, wonders how long she'll let herself fall apart in secret.

When they check into a motel that night, he comes to her door with a sewing kit and a bottle of vodka, and she can't bear to look at him when he starts threading the needle and gently moving her arm into the proper place.

"Don't think there's much risk of infection," she laughs mirthlessly, gesturing vaguely at the bottle with the arm that's still firmly attached, and he shakes as head as he leans in to study the tattered edges of flesh.

"Nope. That's for me."

"Of course it is..." Her gaze trails to her shoulder and his gaze moves to her, watching her face twist with misery and disgust. He pauses, hands still, trying to think of something to say to lighten the mood, but she speaks first. Her voice is so soft he can barely hear. "Thank you for doing this."

Sweeney takes a deep breath, and a long drink, and carefully gets to work.

[moviegroovies]

oh my go d i swore to myself i would stop until at least tomorrow with the headcanons but now that i’ve opened up the floodgates they just keep coming so here we go, part 2!!!!

out of all the lost boys (other than michael, obviously), paul is the one who would get along the best with sam, if the vampires and the emersons ever figure out how to make peace with one another. in fact, they have pretty similar interests; paul’s into mtv, too, and he hangs around stores with tvs all night trying to catch a glimpse of it, probably running into sam once in a while without even noticing when sam’s out doing the same. plus, he’d never admit it, but he thinks sam’s clothes are pretty cool...

not that he’d give up his rocker style for it

or that david would LET him ruin the group’s aesthetic by giving up his rocker style for it dshgfdhg

in general paul’s pretty good with kids, but in like a “fun uncle” way. he’s DEFINITELY not suited to be a child’s main caretaker, but he likes things they like, so he’d be good at having fun with them: taking them out for ice cream or the arcade, palling around, that kind of thing. he’s probably the kind of guy who dares kids to do dangerous shit without ever considering whether or not they’ll, you know, be okay.

dwayne on the other hand is intensely cognizant of that stuff, to the point of anxiety; even if he doesn’t actually stop the goings on he’s just Super Aware it’s happening and he won’t relax until the kid’s feet are on the fucking ground, thank you. 

which isn’t to say that kids don’t think dwayne is fun. really, all of the lost boys (including star) are more suited to be fun uncles + aunt (or more accurately, fun older sibling types) than actual parents. the whole group is mostly about having good times forever, so it’s not like them to get bogged down in responsibility and adult stuff. that’s not on their radar. 

marko and paul goof around together a lot. you know how i said paul would unthinkingly dare human children to do dangerous stuff? IMAGINE the kind of shit he tries to get an invulnerable immortal to do. half the time they spend with each other is just spent trying to think of increasingly awful things to wish on the other until one of them finally backs down from a dare, which can take weeks.

other people can get dragged into these battles; dwayne is the most frequent victim until michael shows up and does so many dumbass things because he doesn’t quite realize he’s being hazed. 

david HATES it

he thinks they’re all being dumb and immature as hell, but at the same time, he’s no more mature than they are, no matter how much he likes to act it. if one of them goes “i triple dog dare you,” he’s going to hold out for about three seconds before his pride gets the better of him and oops, there he goes, off to do the stupid thing

michael figures this out about him fairly quickly, and one such dare is the way he finally gets his revenge for getting tricked into giving up his mortality and that whole incident with the train on the bridge

one fought shark and two weeks of watching david regrow partially missing limbs later, nobody fucks with michael anymore. go figure.

ok honestly i have even less to go on with jasper than i do for the rest of the lost boys, which is already fairly sparse, but i want to think about him so I Am.

based on the lost boys: the beginning script (what little there is of him in it, honestly--he’s definitely got the least lines, never mind that he isn’t even in the real movie), my characterization of him would revolve around him being a bit of a dandy. kind of thinks of himself as a gentleman thief, the montparnasse of the group, if you get what i’m saying. he’s not actually all that slick (never mind the bad poetry he writes), but he tries to dress a little better than the others, and they let him think he’s a wine connoisseur when they really suspect he’s just teetering on alcoholism. 

underneath the prettyboy poet thing, he has the capacity to be kind of nasty if the opportunity presents itself (on the sliding scale of control to bloodthirst from my last post, i’d put him below dwayne but above marko, making him semi-controlled, but still liable to go vicious on a hunt), but when he was human, he mostly preferred to run from fights rather than fight them--he was the fastest of the group (after his death, david briefly took that place, until star showed up), and had the best hands for pickpocketing.

he’s also a little bit of a dork underneath it all. when he’s had a little too much to drink he’s liable to gush about his affection for his friends, or a stranger, or anyone who gets within gushing distance. everybody gave him a hard time about it, but once he’s gone, they secretly feel like they should have appreciated it more when he was around.

on the other hand, he could be somewhat prone to bouts of melancholy. 

dwayne said Gay Rights. 

when jasper was alive, the two of them were the closest, having a pretty steady (though not entirely monogamous) relationship over the course of about a year of their human lives and around three or four solid decades of vampirism. the other guys knew, naturally, but apart from some mild teasing, they mostly just let it be. it’s not like any of them are particularly straight--if anything, they were probably just jealous that they found each other and had a relationship that made them that happy. not that they’d ever say that, of course.

the end of the prequel script almost made me think that jasper died then, somehow? but then he said something new a few lines after the line that made me think that, so i’m just going to work off the assumption that he lived through that and died later.

instead, i think he was killed by grandpa emerson and some other vampire hunters when grandpa was in his prime.

in the wake of jasper’s death, the whole gang kind of falls apart. even after all these years of killing, none of them have ever dealt with real loss, the loss of a blood brother (or, in dwayne’s case, a dude he’s been in love with for a much longer stretch of his life than the part where he wasn’t) before. the only thing they can all agree on is that they have to get revenge immediately. 

even though he’s never been on the front lines of these hunts, it’s a unanimous agreement that dwayne lead the charge to find the hunters who killed jasper. for once, when they get to the group, dwayne isn’t feeding, he’s just annihilating every single person even tangentially involved. the only person who escapes the massacre with his life is grandpa emerson, who just barely makes it out unnoticed in the aftermath of the thing, when david finally has to physically remove dwayne from the corpses and take him back to the cave for his own good. even then, he’s in no condition to hunt vampires for months, and even when he recovers, he never gets his full health back. instead, he lies low, the thought that the vampires will one day realize what they missed eternally ringing at the back of his mind, and moves his wife and young daughter outside of the city limits, staying away from santa carla as much as he can. 

that’s pretty much it on hunting for grandpa emerson. at least, for the next few decades, that is...

after a few years, things go more or less back to normal for the lost boys, except with the loss of the relatively quiet, subdued jasper, the group’s dynamic takes a little bit of a turn for the worse. dwayne’s more nonverbal than ever, and also a little wilder, a little more inclined toward violence when he remembers the last humans who got too close to their dwelling. marko, seeing the opportunity, tends toward more extreme violence in those days, and paul, who gets easily drawn in by the smell and sight of blood, tends to follow suit. even david finds himself lost in the kill sometimes, coming to hours afterward and realizing that he’d been clumsy, even reckless, in his hunting the night before.

they’re all making mistakes and egging each other on, and david doesn’t like it. he’s got the presence of mind (not to mention the eternal protective instinct regarding his friends) to realize that they’re spiraling, and if they keep it up like this, more hunters are going to rise in the place of the ones they killed. this starts a search for a more level-headed member of their group to replace jasper, a search that, naturally, leads him to star.

her inclusion to the group definitely helps things. the guys, having lived in pure testosterone for some 60 odd years, are a little awkward in her presence, and for the first year or so, they’re quieter when she’s around, trying to impress her. 

they all go out and get the canopy bed especially for her (they do like her, from the beginning) when it becomes obvious that star’s penchant for long skirts will only make things awkward if she tries to sleep upside down with them, not to mention their mutual unease regarding a co-ed bat cave. 

they have no idea what girls, especially girls in the 70′s, like, but they try to dress it up and they’re very proud when they present it to her.

from the beginning, star doesn’t trust marko all that much--she refuses to be alone with him, and forms a habit around being on the other side of the room from him in group settings. it sort of pisses marko off (mostly just because he doesn’t understand why), but david sees this and understands, intervening in such a way that leaves marko no room for argument whenever he tries to confront her about it.

star doesn’t like david, either, mostly due to the growing resentments she builds over the decade and a half she spends with them for him letting her become a vampire. her hatred, given that it was her decision (that she’d asked him specifically to make her a vampire) pisses david off a lot, but he lets her get away with a lot, too, because he remembers how much he fought against being turned, and can understand her moral dilemma. 

star feels the safest when dwayne is around, but she had some fun times goofing off with paul and dancing to the radio. those times were probably the ones where she regretted her decision to join the lost boys the least. 

dwayne’s residual anger and bloodlust from the incident with jasper finally starts to fade when she shows up, which david notices and appreciates

still, her inner conflict over joining them is obvious and leads to a different kind of tension in the group, so he has to keep searching for another member to cool things down. 

hence: laddie

honestly i can’t tell what i think about the origin of his inclusion. part of me thinks it could be a claudia in iwtv situation, where david tries babytrapping star, banking on the idea that she won’t be able to leave if she knows there’s a little kid there that she has a duty to protect. on the other hand, david intentionally condemning a little kid to a kind of stunted half life where he can’t grow up and is taken away from his parents sort of conflicts with the david that unrobbed a dude because he saw that the guy had little kids relying on him, and anyway, up until this point, david had only known star as a somewhat reckless teenage girl; banking on her having a maternal instinct he’d seen no proof of seems like an awfully big gamble. 

so what i’m thinking is more like: david kept looking for a sixth member, but he was looking at the young adults in their age range on the boardwalk, not children. instead, some unforseen event happens around the same time as he’s looking (i’m thinking maybe the boys go too far when hunting one night and laddie got seriously injured in the crossfires, leading dwayne or star or david to take him back to the hotel for blood to save his life), and bam: sixth member.

i think his inclusion kind of does what david wanted it to do and kind of Doesn’t. 

like, as soon as he shows up, star completely lets go of any notion of leaving the group and running away, which is good. at the same time, though, she resents david even more for turning laddie, even if it saved his life (naturally, it was the boys’ fault that laddie was in danger in the first place, so she kind of has a point) and now she’s always preoccupied with questions about turning back and she spends a lot of time mourning her humanity.

so david is still fucking looking for another person to even this new mess out.

i think laddie and star both have instincts on some level (or, if laddie doesn’t, he’s guided by star, and star does) about the safest place to be in the semi-volatile vampire den at any time. like, star visibly doesn’t get along very well with david, but she still knows that he’s got the most self control and at least some semblance of a moral code, so when it comes down to it, she hovers around him. they’re definitely not dating, and never were, but it could easily seem that way to an outsider; on the boardwalk, when she’s with the boys, she sticks as close to david as she can, and if she’s riding on the back of anyone’s bike, it’s his (she also only lets laddie ride with either david, if she’s not riding, or, more often, dwayne. paul and marko are strictly off limits). 

david is also possessive of her, because to david, she’s one of them, and he can tell that half the guys he’ll find her with (the way he found her with michael), she’s just throwing herself at because she wants out of the group, away from the lost boys, and he feels like he’s got to remind her where she belongs. 

it’s pretty toxic, really. over the tense year or so the group exists as we see it at the beginning of the film, david, dwayne, marko, paul, star, and laddie, things only get worse as david’s temper starts to heat up and star clashes with him at just about every opportunity. things are getting to the point where they HAVE to break, and finally they do:

michael moves into town.

at first, david sees him as just another escape for star (the same way star sees him, really). when david issues a challenge and michael responds to it, and not only that, for a split second, he’s winning, beating david’s bike despite being indisputably outclassed, though, david starts to see potential... a potential which shines through when michael shows his anger, picks a fight (and what passion!), and still follows them back to the cave, not because star is going to be there, but because david is. 

on the way there, he decides that michael is the final missing link they’ve been needing. he doesn’t know, yet, about max’s infatuation with lucy, or the plan to put the blood sucking brady bunch together. he just knows, in that moment, that his boys are teetering on the edge of irreconcilable dysfunction, and michael is the final piece he needs to fix it: he’s calm enough that he won’t add to marko and paul’s mania, but still fiery enough that his voice will come into play in favor of more thought-out decisions. plus, he can tell the boys are starting to like him (of course, they like anyone who takes a swing at david, even if they’d be tearing the perpetrator to pieces in seconds if they thought the swing was taken with legitimate malice behind it), and he knew from the first second that star did. michael is one of them.

with this thought in his mind, david is the one who becomes reckless in his need to convert michael. he gets sloppy.... but, since these are my headcanons and i get to choose the rules, i’m just going to say that eventually, things work out, michael becomes the final member of the gang, and everyone lives happily ever after.

holy shit, i just wrote a goddamn timeline.

i mean. wow, i think i’ve written less intricate fanfiction, fuck.

well, if you’ve made it this far, i’ve got a few more fun and low-stakes (ha, ha) headcanons as a reward for you, before i give this post the mercy killing it is begging for

david likes movies.

not just good movies.

david and the gang sneak into the cinema pretty much every time they get something new, and no matter how cheesy the dialogue or how predictable the plot twists are, he’s totally entrenched. it makes sense on a certain level, probably, if you consider that when he was growing up even silent films weren’t so much as a whisper on the horizon, but still, there’s a definite element of cognitive dissonance involved in watching the strict and intimidating leader of their gang clap and cheer at the end of every shitty b-movie that comes to their local theater. i mean, really.

it’s after he goes on a few of these movie nights with everyone that michael finally starts to really warm up to david. he wants to still be mad about the way things went down, but at the end of the day... it’s kind of hard to be scared of a guy you’ve seen cry at the end of working girl. 

marko and paul really like action flicks; paul gets into action-adventure, while marko is more into the slasher genre (although secretly, he’s more than a little intruiged by pretty, indie movies they show in the art house... not that he’d be caught dead there in a million years). dwayne, on the other hand, goes to those movies with them, but in his heart he just really likes comedies. they’re fun. sue him.

david would say he prefers horror, but it’s only barely the truth. he does like horror movies... but at the same time, he likes every other genre and practically every other film he’s ever seen. vampire movies are always his favorites, though, for personal reasons. 

star doesn’t go to the movies with them a lot, but she enjoys the occasional blockbuster with the guys, and she takes laddie to see more family-oriented films when he asks. 

michael..... likes romances. he’s always so embarrassed to be there with all the ladies his mother’s age, but there he is in the audience, hiding his face behind his hand, totally fucking loving this. hey, at least david is there too,  throwing popcorn at the horny couples making out in the row ahead of them and getting just as horrifyingly into the plot as he is. 

they never talk about those movies after they’re over. what happens in the santa carla movie theater stays in the santa carla movie theater. 

not that this is any particular place for a good end for this post, but this is the last thing i have for now: when michael moves into the hotel with everyone else, he elects to sleep in the canopy bed with star, rather than hanging from the ceiling with the guys. they start ribbing on him constantly for this--saying that the main room of the cave must be reserved for women and children--but the joke’s on them, in michael’s opinion--not only is he not hanging by his feet from the alcoves, but he’s also the one who sleeps holding a beautiful girl every day. things could be a lot worse.

[theawkwardterrier]

things left behind and the things that are ahead, ch. 11

AO3 link here

Shelby Peterson’s family has been to Disneyland and Disney World, which means she has been on an airplane four whole times. Shelby Peterson has taken pictures with Mickey, Minnie, Pooh Bear, and all seven of the dwarves. Shelby Peterson’s favorite rides is the Rocket Jets, but she likes the Alice in Wonderland teacups too because sometimes they spin so much that her little sister throws up. Shelby Peterson thinks that the Swiss Family Treehouse is so boring that she considered writing to the people at Disney Studios to tell them to come up with something better. Shelby Peterson thinks it’s a real shame that not everyone can experience the most magical place on Earth.

Steve hates Shelby Peterson.

He knows she’s a fifth grader and he knows he’s never met her, but if Nate brings even the specter of her into the house again, Steve’s banning her name.

It’s only because it’s Nate that he hasn’t already. He doesn’t say any of it in a wheedling way, or faux casually while peering up through his eyelashes to see how the information is landing. He doesn’t put it forward as if demanding anything. He drops the comments randomly - after spitting toothpaste into the sink, as he pulls out his math folder in the afternoon, when he asks if the peaches on the backyard tree are still too hard to eat - as if they are always turning over in his mind. His words are always simple and considered, the way Nate is, but there’s a jealousy there, a deep longing that makes Steve’s own brain start working.

“Have you thought about what you want to do with your vacation this year?” he asks Peggy. They have made sure over the past few years that Peggy takes at least two weeks off from carrying too much of the world on her shoulders. “I thought this summer might be a good time to take a trip. Rosie’s going to be starting college in the fall, Drea’s had a pretty tough year, and where have our kids gone in their lives? Brooklyn, up to Howard’s place in Maine, a little time at the beach here and there?”

They stand side by side at the kitchen sink - it’s one of their nights to do the dishes. Steve’s wedding ring (the replacement, which he’s grown quite fond of in its own right) sits on the countertop as he scrubs and rinses a frying pan then hands it to Peggy to dry. She circles the towel over it with an amused expression.

“Is this about Shelby Peterson?” she asks indulgently, slotting the pan into the rack. “Have you finally been convinced to experience Mr. Disney’s dreamland despite the expense?”

Steve finishes the last of the cutlery and hands it off to her, letting the scummy water circle down the drain. “Not exactly,” he says. “But if you can free up some time in August, I thought we might experience something else.”

They shuffle the kids out of bed at 6 AM, dressed in sweaters and comfortable clothing for the car and carrying their own pillows and blankets. The station wagon was packed the night before, its spacious trunk filled with suitcases, and once everyone is tucked in and already dozing again, they set off.

Peggy squeezes Steve’s hand and leans to take a catnap herself. The sun rising behind them, Steve pulls out of the driveway. As they move easily through quiet, empty streets, Steve looks in the rearview at his sleepy family. When he takes the time to consider it, when he isn’t caught up in the day-to-day routine of it all, there’s a strangely tinged sweetness in looking at them. They are the loves of a life he nearly didn’t have, and he is so grateful that he has had the opportunity to know them and be loved by them, for them to know and love each other.

He smiles to himself: he has no idea why Peggy thought this would be a rough trip.

By 9 AM everyone is up again and clamoring for breakfast.

By 10, they’re returning to the car following a nasty fight in the diner between Rose and Drea over whether they should both get pancakes or if one of them should get French toast (Rose: “It makes sense to have one of each! Then we can trade, a taste for a taste.” Drea: “You wouldn’t stop at just a taste! You’d probably eat all of yours and half of mine!”).

By 11, everyone is stewing in the aftermath of the argument between Nate and Drea as they’d returned to the car (Drea: “You can’t have that seat - you know we’re supposed to trade, plus I had dibs on that one and you know I get nauseous.” Nate: “The first part of the ride was short! Trades only count when it’s been hours. And we all know you’re faking because you just don’t like the back.”) and another between - surprisingly - Rose and Emma because Rosie refused to root around under the seats for Em’s sky blue colored pencil (Emma: “But you have the longest arms! They’re so long, it will be easy for you.” Rose: “I’m sorry, my weird long arms are busy.”)

Steve refuses to look over at Peggy, even as they stop for bathrooms, gas, and lunch around 1.

They divide into a kids’ room and a parents’ room at the motel in Indianapolis that night. Through the wall, Steve can hear the four of them bickering about who should have to share beds with who.

“I have no idea whether or not Rosie’s snoring is the equivalent of Nate’s kicking, but if they don’t go to sleep soon I don’t know that it will matter,” Peggy mumbles.

“If they’re tired out, it might make things easier tomorrow,” Steve suggests.

“I’m not certain that you’re in a place to comment,” she tells him, and rolls over to go to sleep.

Peggy takes the first driving shift the next morning, outfitting herself with sunglasses and a determined expression. They’re supposed to make it to Missouri by tonight.

“You look great today,” Steve tries about ten minutes down the highway, but Peggy just raises a waspish eyebrow at him and puts her foot to the gas. He sighs and tries to find a comfortable way to stretch his legs as he takes out his book.

The kids are following his example in the back, having each apparently elected to give the silent treatment to the rest. He isn’t sure how effective it is when they’re all doing it, but at least it’s quiet. Quiet enough that with the road whizzing beneath them and the scenery blurring outside, Steve actually falls asleep.

When he wakes up, Peggy is saying sternly, “No dirty words, Rose,” and Rosie is replying back, “I just said that we should look for signs that have the letters F and U in them! We’ve gone through the whole alphabet already, we have to move on to combinations. It’s just logic.”

“I can do without that logic,” Steve tells her, straightening in his seat and clearing his throat. “Your mother’s right, pick something else.”

“Hello, again,” Peggy says to him as he scrubs his fingers over his eyes to clear them. Behind them, the kids are reminding each other of the rules for Twenty Questions.

“Hey.” He smiles over at her. “I didn’t think I’d slept that long. Are these our same kids from this morning?”

“They are, they’ve simply remembered that they actually like one another.”

“Mom, Emma says that Drea’s pushing on the back of her seat!”

“That’s what happens when I’m all the way back here! My legs need somewhere to go.”

“Well, they like each other most of the time,” Steve says, and points to an awning beside the road proclaiming Dolly’s, the smaller print below reading Hamburgers, Floats, Fries. “And they’ll probably like each other more after lunch.”

Their motel that night has a pool, and the fact that none of the kids beg for a swim before bed should probably be a tipoff that something is up. Steve is still awake and reading at 11 when there’s a splash outside the window. He brushes back the curtain and stretches up as much as he can from his position sitting up against the wall. Rosie and Drea have already jumped in, and Nate is climbing down the ladder. Emma seems content to simply dangle her feet, at least for now.

“Are you going to tell them off?” Peggy mumbles into his shirt from where she’s dozing on his shoulder.

“Nah.” Steve closes his book and puts it on the bedside table. He leans over and rests his face into Peggy’s hair for a moment. “Hey, Peg,” he finally says, kissing the top of her head with his eyes closed. “You brought a swimsuit too, didn’t you?”

The night manager comes out at half past midnight to grumble at them that the pool’s closed, and when they go to check out, a charge has been added to their bill for a noise violation. Steve’s about ready to argue that he isn’t paying for any made up fine, but then he watches Nate and Emma guarding the luggage in the corner, interrupting each other with eagerness as they recall the underwater somersault contest they had with Peggy the night before.

He pays the charge.

They drive past a sign advertising a local square dance in one of towns near the border of Oklahoma, and even though they’re meant to just be driving through, the kids want to see it badly enough that they while away the rest of the day and put together the most appropriate outfits they can find from what remains in their suitcases.

It’s too intimidating for the kids to actually participate. Even Rose, who is usually difficult to embarrass, doesn’t attempt a venture into the fast paced synchronicity in front of her. But they enjoy themselves anyway, clapping along to the beat that echoes from the huge tent which has been set up, trying to translate the unfamiliar language of the dance for Emma, and appreciating the energy of the caller, a grinning, red-faced man whose enthusiasm only increases as the evening goes on, until he’s ending each number with a bellowed “Yeehaw, it’s done!”

For the rest of the trip, whenever something is completed - a meal or a book, the drive through another state - it will be inevitably and solemnly announced, “Yeehaw, it’s done.”

The plan had been to have arrived in time to celebrate Nate’s birthday, but the stop in Oklahoma puts them a bit off. They end up in a joint called Elmer’s for his celebratory dinner, which Steve doesn’t think looks particularly promising, until he meets Myra, the brains behind the operation.

She doesn’t even let them order, just brings out family sized dishes of lasagna and garlic bread and some kind of broccoli dish that all the kids actually eat. When they mention that it’s Nate’s birthday, she nods solemnly and asks how old he is. The cake, topped with eleven candles plus one to grow on, arrives at the end of the meal, so enormous that Myra has to balance it on both arms.

“How did you know what kind I wanted?” Nate asks her, wide-eyed, as they get ready to go. “No one ever guesses that I like white frosting but chocolate cake inside.”

Myra taps the side of her nose. “Restaurant owner secret.”

(Emma won’t leave until Myra’s given up her lasagna recipe, even though she and Steve have been perfecting their own for years.)

“If we’re just going to find a place for the night,” Rosie asks slyly as they return to the car, “why don’t I drive?”

“No,” Steve says firmly, only to find himself echoed by everyone else. Rose is a maniac driver. He’d tried to give her a couple of lessons but couldn’t concentrate on advice when he was consistently formulating strategies for evasive maneuvers - he was certainly getting older, but he could probably still get the two of them out if it came to it. It is common family wisdom that she’d only been licensed to drive because the examiner had interpreted her handling of the test course as a direct threat on his life.

Keeping a tight grip on the keys, Steve says, “I’m actually in the mood to drive a little more. You all go to sleep. I’ll wake you up when I find somewhere to stop.”

He turns off of I-40 around 5 AM. The sun is just beginning to trickle up the horizon. He leans over and runs his fingers over Peggy’s cheek.

“Are we there?” she asks, her voice soft and sleepy. She blinks a few times, slow, groggy, barely opening her eyes, and stretches a bit. “Have you accomplished your latest bullheaded idea?”

“Almost. Thanks for agreeing to come with me.”

“I always will,” she says. “You know that.”

He drives the rest of the way with one hand on the wheel, the other hand holding hers.

They don’t quite make it before sunrise, but that’s alright. There isn’t anyone much there: it’s chilly, a Monday morning. The kids bundle themselves up in their blankets as they stumble from the car. They are still in their clothes from dinner last night.

They stand together on the rim of the Canyon, looking out.

“This is it,” Steve signs when no one says anything first. He wonders if they’re regretting letting themselves get dragged all the way across the country. Maybe this isn’t enough for them the way he had thought it would be.

Then Drea says, “The world is so big.” For once she does not stretch the sign to exaggeration; it is held against her chest in wonder, a whisper. She looks up at him. “Dad, did you know the world is so big?”

He smiles down at her. “I had a bit of an idea.”

They start to drive back at night after two days at and around the Grand Canyon. It’s the only way Mom is going to get back in time for her to start work again, and everyone still has to go back-to-school shopping.

“At least you let us prepare this time,” Rosie grumps as they climb into the car. “No one likes sleeping in their jeans, Dad.”

Dad just kisses the top of her head and says, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Nate, like all his siblings, falls asleep pretty easily on car rides. But he wakes up a little while later and isn’t sure why. It’s really dark out, even darker than at home, and the stars look pretty from where his head is leaning by the window. Mom and Dad are talking softly up front. He likes when they do that. It makes him feel safe.

“I’ve been thinking,” Mom says. “It seems to me that once the cost of the various food and lodgings, the gas and souvenirs and all the rest have been tallied up, a trip to Orlando might have been more cost effective.”

“Maybe,” says Dad. “But wasn’t this worth it?”

“Hmm,” says Mom in that smiling way she does when Dad makes a good point. “I suppose it was.”

Nate remembers doing handclaps across the car seat with Emma until his palms were sore and they declared themselves world champions, making Rosie laugh until she’d almost peed in the pool, trying to remember the square dance steps with Drea even though he was too short and she was too tall and they kept tripping over each other. He remembers his birthday cake. He remembers Mom leaning over to Dad that first day at the Canyon and asking very quietly, “You really never saw it before? In all that time?” and the way he’d replied, “No. I guess I was waiting to see it with all of you,” and how Nate had felt all lit up inside from hearing that.

Worth it, Nate thinks drowsily, and closes his eyes again as Dad drives them steadily through the dark.

He’ll have plenty of stories of his own to tell Shelby Peterson when sixth grade starts.

[doubledeaky]

Leaving Home Ain’t Easy

Late-60s!Roger x Reader

A/N: Hey, everyone! First, thank you so much for all the love! It’s really motivated me to continue writing. Second, thank you to the lovely anon (anon if you’re reading this, message me and let me know if you liked it, always love to hear feedback!) that requested this; you're a sweetie! I really loved the idea and knew I had to write a good lil’ angsty piece. Don’t worry, y'all will get the fluff you all deserve ;). Also, the time period in this piece is around 1967-68, just before Roger started college. I imagined that Roger and the reader are seniors in high school and close to graduating, I’m sure y'all catch my drift. Anyway, I had a good time writing this so I hope you all enjoy! As always, feedback and requests are very much appreciated! Much love! - m :) 

Summary: Being in high school was a bitch, that goes without saying. For Roger though, it sucked even more when he had to spend seven hours in hell and then go home to his parents constantly arguing. School work didn't even stress him as much as the environment his home often subjected him to. After a particularly nasty argument between his parents, Roger high-tails it out of his bedroom window and to your humble abode, a place that always felt safe to him. Especially because you were always there to grace him with your presence and make him feel the love he often lacked at home, and maybe because he was in love with you. Roger was in love with his best friend, but maybe your feelings weren't much different from his own. This particular night, things go differently than either of you could have imagined but in the best way possible. 

Note: The title is actually a Queen song; there is literally one for every situation lol. Go listen to it, it’s amazing. Also, I know Roger has a younger sister but I didn’t feel comfortable including her in this.

Word Count: 2,502 words

Warnings: mentions of domestic argument (no physical violence) and a rough home life, angst 

(it’s insane how hard it is to find decent pre-Smile era pics of Roger)

Roger hated nights like this. Nights when muffled yelling and the loud thuds of items being thrown kept him up until the early hours of the morning. He threaded both hands through his hair and felt his growing anxiety travel from his chest to the tips of his fingers, which were quickly growing numb. Roger couldn’t pinpoint the particular emotion he was experiencing. He was angry, frustrated, and exhausted; but most of all he felt helpless, maybe even numb. Nights like these weren't few and far between anymore, it was almost every night now. It was normal for Roger to walk out of his room the morning after a bad spat between his parents to be greeted by broken decor and brand-new holes in the drywall. The atmosphere of his home had changed. What was once familiar and welcoming had grown hostile and at times Roger felt the tension was suffocating him. Anticipating an argument was worse than the argument itself, always being on edge was tiring. Another loud thump interrupted his thoughts, his bedroom window was looking mighty tempting at this point. Roger hadn't even noticed he was crying until tears began to blur his vision. He didn’t know why he still cried when his parents fought. Maybe he was scared or maybe he longed for the life he had before moving to Cornwall. Either way, he didn't know or possibly didn’t want to know. He looked back to his window, rain pebbling against it softly. Roger knew he wouldn’t sleep well in his own home tonight so he might as well go somewhere he could. He quickly got up from his bed, pulled on a coat and headed towards the window. Roger wasn’t brave enough to run the risk of being seen by his parents so the window was always far more appealing than the front door. It wasn't like his parents would notice, they were far too busy making his life hell. He carefully opened the window, immediately feeling the chill of the rainy, February night. He shivered but didn't hesitate to hop out, landing firmly on both feet onto the muddy ground. Roger pulled his coat closer to his frame and stuffed his hand into the pockets of his jeans. He looked down, trying his best to shield his face from the harsh rain and began the trek north up his street. The tears that streaked his face felt frozen and his nostrils burned from the frigid air. Roger arrived at his destination within ten minutes; the journey was usually fifteen minutes but the cold encouraged his normal pace into an almost slow run. When he finally reached the front steps of a flat very similar to his own, his nose was running, tears soaked his face, and his fingers were nearly numb. Roger climbed the porch steps and gave the door a soft knock with a shaky hand. He heard movement within the house and the familiar sound of a door unlocking. The door opened about a third of the way and you poked your head out. Your eyes immediately focused on your best friend soaked in cold rain and his own tears. 

“Rog?” You questioned, confused, opening the door the door the rest of the way. When you finally took in the state of your best friend you almost immediately registered the situation and your heart broke. You gave him a sad smile and opened your arms to invite him into your warm embrace. 

“C’mere.” You said, gesturing to yourself. Roger immediately clung to you, burying his face into your neck. His skin was freezing against yours and you shivered. Regardless, you wrapped your arms around him, hands gripping the fabric of his coat. Still wrapped tightly in his embrace, you walked backwards a few feet to bring him into your warm flat; no one was catching pneumonia on your watch. You pulled away from Roger momentarily to shut and lock the door. Turning back, you took in his appearance under proper lighting. You felt your own tears build in your eyes, but you forced them down, it would only make things worse. It was bad, you'd never seen Roger like this. You gave him a soft smile, but he didn't return it and you wouldn't expect him to. You wordlessly guided him into the living room and in front of the roaring fireplace. You sat him down and gestured towards his soaked coat, helping him peel it off. Worry was evident in your face and Roger felt the pang of guilt in his gut. You hung up his coat and returned to his side. Sitting down, you took his hands in yours. His attention was on you in seconds and it was hard to ignore the warmth of his hands and face. 

“Roger Meddows Taylor, are you absolutely mad walking to my house alone on the coldest night of the year, not to mention, in the rain?” You said, trying to sound light-hearted instead of stern. Roger grinned and you felt relief flow through you. When you made him smile you knew you had won him back. 

“I’m so sorry, love. I just...can’t stand it there anymore. It’s driving me mad.” He trailed off and you knew he was trying not to cry. You scooted closer to him; he was still shivering, and you pulled a blanket over you both. You cuddled into his side and his head came to rest atop yours. You felt your heart ache and you brought a hand up behind him to rub circles over his back. 

“I know, Rog” You said quietly, almost a whisper. His shaking suddenly became more pronounced and you immediately turned to pull him into your arms. His face was pressed against your sternum, which did little to quiet his sobs. Your hand came up from his back to rake through his hair. You began to massage his scalp and he relaxed slightly, his hands were still clutching your sides with an almost bruising strength. You continued to comfort him until his sobs turned to quiet sniffles and his hands were relaxed, running his thumbs over the exposed skin of your sides. Roger’s breathing finally steadied, and you no longer felt his hot tears on your chest. You cupped his face with both hands and brought him up gently to look at you. Roger looked absolutely defeated and tears pricked your eyes. 

“Oh, Rog...” You cooed, running your thumbs over his cheekbones. His own hand came up to wipe your bitter tears away. 

“Please don't cry, love.” He said in a weak, pained voice. Roger hated his situation, but he hated how it affected you more. Now he was the one comforting you, his arms came around your frame and you cried softly into the material of his jumper. Roger didn't know if he could bear the pain in his chest any longer. You shifted your head to the side so your words wouldn't be muffled into the material of his shirt. 

“I’m sorry, Rog. It’s just...you don't deserve this, you shouldn't have to deal with this.” You said, eyes still watering. He felt the compassion and love you held for him in every word and his heart soared. You wiped your tears and sat up to face him, taking his hands in yours and squeezing them tightly. 

“It kills me to see you like this all the time, Rog. It breaks my heart.” You sighed, trying not to cry. He gave you a soft smile and gripped your hands even tighter, if that were possible. 

“It kills me to see you like this, love. I’m sorry for bringing you into this shit. It’s not your responsibility. It shouldn’t be.” He said, looking down. Your laugh surprised him, and he looked up to your face pulled into a smile. His heart jumped in his chest.

“Roger, are your joking? There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you. You should know that, considering how much of a smart ass you can be.” You laughed and for the first time this evening, so did Roger. He finally felt the calmness only you could bring.

“You'd think, huh?” He quipped, laughing. Your Roger was finally appearing, the Roger an hour ago was a person you didn't know or care to know. You only wanted him happy, you hated seeing anything but a smile grace his features. Your giggles eventually died down and Roger suddenly grew serious. 

“Is it okay if I stay awhile...just the weekend?” He asked, nervous of your response. You smiled, he was precious. 

“I think you already know the answer, you goof.” You laughed, and he joined you. 

“Of course, Rog. You can take my room and I’ll take my parent’s room, they're out of town until Monday.” You explained, standing up to lead Roger to your bedroom.

“Well, in that case, we might as well share a bed.” He said with a smirk, both brows quirking up. There was the good old Roger Taylor, your Roger. 

“Don’t be a creep.” You scolded, giving his left arm a smack. He rubbed it gently and pretended to be mortally wounded. 

“Calm down, you animal. I’ll go get you some of my dad’s clothes, you're not sleeping in my bed in that.” You said, gesturing to his dirtied clothes. He feigned offense and you smiled wide. Roger felt his heart clench, the effect you had on him was insane. You emerged from your parent's bedroom, plaid pajama pants and university sweatshirt in hand. You held them out to him, but he only laughed. 

“Why did you even bother, Y/N? You know I don't wear clothes to bed.” He said, shit-eating grin included. 

“Gross.” You groaned, shoving the clothes into his chest and he was hysterical. You gave him an exaggerated, stern look and he only smirked. 

“Just shut up and change, Taylor. It’s bedtime.” You said yawning, stretching your limbs. His eyes widened slightly as he noticed the skin of your lower stomach, exposed by your lifted shirt. He looked away quickly and you left to brush your teeth. “Keep it together, Taylor,” he thought. 

After Roger changed, he sat on your bed and fiddled with some things on your bedside table. He looked around your room; he'd been in here so many times but now it felt different, looked different. You walked in, giving him a warm smile and pulling your hair out of your face. He was still above the covers and you gave him a confused look. 

“Rog, do you need me to tuck you in or something? Get in bed, silly. It’s late.” You laughed softly, walking over to him. He blushed and looked down, quickly obeying your request. Once he was under the thick blankets, you walked over and placed a feather-light kiss on his cheek. He smiled and relaxed into the mattress. You moved to leave but he stopped you by gently gripping your forearm. You looked at him, confused. 

“Y/N..can you stay?” He asked with pleading blue eyes. You felt your heart melt and his grip loosed on your arm, moving down to lace his fingers with yours. 

“Rog...” You trailed off, looking down at your intertwined hands. 

“Please.” He whispered, gripping your hand tighter. You couldn’t say no to him, so you sighed, and Roger was giddy because he knew he had won you over.

“Okay, you big baby. Move over.” You said, gesturing for him to make some room. You climbed in next to him and his arm came to wrap around you, his warmth calming your racing heart. You couldn’t help but lay your head on his chest and bring your right hand up to play with the hair at the nape of his neck. His own hand moved to massage your scalp. Both of you laid silently in the dim light, the moon illuminating your figures slightly. The only sounds were quiet, calm breaths and a record playing softly from the corner of the room. Roger interrupted the silence, per usual. 

“Y/N?” He asked quietly, ceasing his movements. You hummed in acknowledgement, craning your neck to look at him. He was quiet for a moment. 

“Thank you, for everything.” He said giving you an expression that could only be described as adoration. You smiled and snuggled closer to him. Now it was his turn to feel nervous; he was sure you felt his heartbeat change pace and if you did, you didn't say anything. 

“Of course, Rog. I’m always here.” You said sleepily, feeling your fatigue finally settle into you. He smiled at your sleepy state, bringing the hand not wrapped around you to brush hair from your face. You smiled at his gesture. 

“God, what did I do to deserve you?” He asked, and your heart soared. 

“I wish I knew.” You joked. Both of you were laughing now, until Roger grew quiet. 

“Seriously, Y/N. Thank you. You're too good to me. I-I love you.” He said growing quiet again. You froze, he'd said this to you before, but it was different this time. His words held more purpose, the meaning behind it had changed. You sat up a little, looking at him square in the face and he mirrored your actions. His hand came up to caress your face and you felt your eyes close, leaning into his touch. You didn't feel yourself move closer to him or notice him lean in. Your eyes shot open when Roger pressed his lips to yours softly. You felt electricity move from his lips to yours and then throughout your entire body, a true shock to the system. It took you a moment to kiss back but when you did Roger sighed in relief. After a beat, you both pulled away, panting. You copied him and brought your own hand to caress his face. He smiled wide and you could feel his face heat up. 

“I love you too, Roger.” You said, bringing yourself closer to him. He wrapped both arms around you, finally feeling completely content for the first time in a long time. You both settled back into your bed and within minutes Roger noticed you had knocked out, breathing softly. Your cheek was pressed into his chest and an arm was slung over his waist. 

“Goodnight, my love.” He said, more to himself than you, kissing the crown of your head. He laid back completely, trying to relax after his night long adrenaline rush. Roger gazed out of the window, his thoughts keeping him awake. They were happy thoughts though, thoughts of you. Home for a lot of people is a structure, wood and brick, but not for Roger. No, Roger’s home wasn't something many would consider a home, but he knew his home was far superior to any fancy mansion or expensive penthouse. You were his home. Roger felt his eyes flutter shut, falling asleep surrounded by your presence and knowing that as long as you were around, he would always have a place to call home. 

A/N: Thank you for reading! Feedback and requests are appreciated!