#let me know if this is terrible so i can never do it again

[blakeswritingimagines]

I Left Something Turned On At Home

Summary: Attempting to teach your boyfriend to cook was harder than it proved.

Warnings: Teasing, Fem leaning reader, Clay cooking, Flirting, Kitchen sex, PnV, Unprotected sex, Nipple/Breast play, Can't honestly think of what else.

Word Count: 3.3k

Clayton is standing in the kitchen with a clueless expression on his face as he looks at the ingredients and utensils scattered across the counter, his blue eyes darting around like a lost puppy. "I have no idea where to even start," he says with a slight chuckle. You stand by him, arms crossed and an amused smile on your lips as you study him. You're aware of his lack of skills in the kitchen, which adds to your enjoyment. "That's why I'm here to teach you, silly." Clayton gives a sheepish grin in response before turning his attention back to the counter. "I feel like a total novice in here." He picks up a wooden spoon and taps it against his palm, an action that betrays his nervousness. You can't help but find his clumsiness endearing as you step closer to him and pick up a whisk. "Every expert starts somewhere." The smile on your face is both encouraging and teasing.

Clayton sets down the spoon, a slight pout on his face as if he's being scolded. "I'm terrible at this," he admits, leaning his hip against the counter, crossing his arms. "Cooking is not my forte." You reach out and gently nudge his shoulder with your own, a gesture that tells him you're taking his self-criticism lightly. "You haven't even started yet." With a smirk, you nudge him again. "Stop complaining. Let's just see how much of a disaster you'll be." Clayton lets out an exaggerated sigh, his shoulders slumping. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he accuses, a playful hint in his tone. "Seeing me fumble around like a fool." You can't deny his words, so you simply give him a mischievous smile and hold up the whisk in your hand. "It's just amusing to witness the great Clayton Keller struggling with simple kitchen tasks." Clayton rolls his eyes but it's obvious he's not really offended. He pushes off his hip, standing straight again. "Alright, alright. I get it, I'm hopelessly inept in the kitchen," he acquiesces, running a hand through his hair. The sight of his slightly tousled locks makes your heart flutter in your chest. "But I'm a fast learner."

You can't help but raise an eyebrow in mild skepticism, a smirk on your face. "Oh, really? We'll see about that," you say. "Let's start with something simple. You can handle chopping vegetables, right?" You pick up a knife and a carrot, handing them to him. Clayton's confident expression falters as he takes the knife and carrot from you. He looks at the carrot in his hand like it's some alien object he's never seen before. "Uh… sure. Chopping vegetables, how hard could that be?" His words are more bravado than conviction. You watch as Clayton attempts to chop the carrot, his movements slow and awkward. Instead of smooth, even cuts, he ends up with uneven, messy chunks. It's clear he has zero confidence in what he's doing. You try your best not to laugh at his disastrous effort but it's getting increasingly difficult. Clayton's face turns a shade of red as he looks at his butchered carrot pieces. "This is harder than it looks!" he defends himself, trying to justify his poor job. He glances up at you, seeing the amused twinkle in your eyes, and sighs dramatically. "Stop smirking. I know it's not perfect but I'm trying here." You can't help but let out a small laugh at his wounded ego. "Trying, yes, but succeeding… not so much," you respond, a teasing tone in your voice. "Here." You stand closer to him, adjusting his grip on the knife, and guide his hand through the motions with hand over hand like he was a child. "Like this."

Clayton's cheeks flush an even deeper shade of red as you stand close to him and maneuver his hand with yours. It's a strange contrast, the confident and charismatic Clayton Keller being directed by someone else. However, he doesn't protest; instead, he lets you guide him, his gaze flicking between the knife and your face. "Okay, maybe I do need some help," he mutters, his pride slightly wounded yet softened by the warmth of your proximity. You continue guiding Clayton, showing him the correct way to hold the knife and chop the carrots. "See? It's not so hard," you encourage him, a gentle smile on your face. Despite his initial awkwardness, Clayton is slowly getting the hang of it. His hand moves with more confidence, and the chopped pieces are starting to look like actual vegetables. "You're getting it," you praise him, watching him intently. Clayton's expression brightens a bit with your words of encouragement. He nods, a hint of determination in his eyes as he continues to chop the vegetables with improved accuracy. "I guess I just needed a bit of guidance," he admits, his tone lighter than before. "And maybe some distraction from having a beautiful woman pressed up against me." He grins playfully, the familiar flirtatious nature of his returning. You roll your eyes but can't hide the small flush on your cheeks. Typical Clayton, always trying to steer the conversation in a suggestive direction. "You're impossible," you retort, though the humor in your voice betrays your mock annoyance. "Focus on the veggies, Casanova." Clayton chuckles at your retort, his hand momentarily pausing. "Can't blame a guy for trying," he replies, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously before focusing back on the vegetables. "But you make it incredibly difficult to concentrate." He gives you a sidelong glance, a smirk on his face, and resumes chopping the vegetables.

As you continue guiding him through the cooking process, Clayton finds it increasingly difficult to keep his attention solely on the vegetables and stirring them. His gaze keeps involuntarily drifting to you, taking in the subtle nuances of your features, the way your eyes crinkle when you smile. His fingers brush lightly against your skin each time he takes another ingredient from your hands, sending a jolt of electricity through you both. "You're a lot more distracting than I anticipated," he murmurs, his voice laced with a hint of desire. You try to maintain a casual tone as you respond, your heart pounding in your chest from his proximity and his low, intimate voice. "I think that's payback for all the times you've distracted me with your charming grins and witty comments." You take the pan from his hand, your fingers grazing over his knuckles slightly. "Now stay focused, tough guy." Clayton's eyes flash with a mix of challenge and playfulness. He leans in, his chest nearly brushing against yours, and whispers, "It's hard to focus when I have a beautiful woman invading my personal space, giving me orders." His warm breath fans across your skin, making you shiver. His hand lightly touches your waist, the gesture an almost subconscious move of possessiveness.

The close proximity makes your breath hitch in your throat, your mind struggling to focus on anything other than the way he's looking at you, the heat radiating from his body. You try to regain control, attempting to sound nonchalant, but the slight huskiness in your voice betrays your emotions. "I'm merely here to ensure you don't burn the whole kitchen down." Your heart skips a beat as his hand on your waist tightens slightly, his fingers tracing light circles over the fabric of your shirt. Clayton's lips curl into a wolfish grin as he hears the huskiness in your voice. He steps even closer to you, his body almost pressed against yours, the distance between you so slim it's barely noticeable. His hand on your waist pulls you a fraction closer, his touch possessive and intimate. "Is that so?" he murmurs, leaning closer to your ear. "Or are you just secretly enjoying bossing me around?" Your heart rate accelerates at his closeness, his words sending tingles down your spine. "Bossing you around?" you respond, trying to maintain composure, but your voice betrays a hint of both desire and defiance. Despite your attempts, your body seems to gravitate towards his, your hips gently touching. "Maybe I just like seeing you out of your element. Humbled and needy for once." Clayton's gaze darkens with desire at your response. "Needy?" he echoes, his hand on your waist sliding to your lower back, pulling your bodies flush against each other. He leans in, his face only inches from yours, his breath warm on your cheek. "You have no idea how badly I need you right now." His other hand comes up to cup your face, his thumb gently brushing against your jaw. The tension between you is palpable, the kitchen fading into the background.

Your heart flutters at the raw desire in his words, the intensity in his eyes making your knees weak. His touch is both gentle and demanding, sending waves of heat coursing through you. "You're a contradiction, Clayton Keller," you whisper, your gaze meeting his, your breath quickening. "Cocky and arrogant on the outside, yet vulnerable and needy deep down." Your hand finds its way to his chest, feeling the firmness of it. Clayton's eyes soften momentarily at your observation, a hint of vulnerability peeking through. He presses his forehead against yours, his hand at your face shifting to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling gently in your hair. "You see through my bullshit, always have," he mutters, a hint of admiration in his voice. His thumb traces the outline of your lower lip. "And you always know how to break down my defenses." Your heart stutters at the rawness in his words and the tender gesture. Your hands find his hips, gripping on to him slightly, your body betraying your desire to close the last remaining distance between you. "And you never play fair," you respond, your voice laced with a hint of both accusation and affection. "Your cocky smirk and smooth talk always get to me."

Clayton chuckles softly, a sound that's filled with both arrogance and adoration. His fingers gently tug on your hair, tilting your head back slightly to expose your neck. "Guilty as charged," he murmurs, his lips hovering just above the sensitive skin there, sending a shiver down your spine. "But you love it when I get cocky." He presses a soft kiss to the base of your throat, his warm breath hot against your skin as his hands move down to lift you onto the kitchen counter. A gasp escapes your lips as he lifts you effortlessly onto the counter, his body now standing between your thighs. Your hands cling to his shoulders, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. The proximity and his mouth on your neck make your mind hazy with desire. "You're insufferable," you whisper, your voice barely hiding how utterly and completely he affects you. Clayton hums against your neck, his lips tracing a path up to your jawline, the stubble on his chin scraping gently against your skin. "Yet you can't get enough of me," he responds, his voice low and smooth. His hands slide up your thighs, coming to rest on your hips, his fingers tracing lazy circles against the cloth of your pants. He pulls you closer to the edge of the counter, his body pressing firmly against yours. A soft moan escapes your throat at the sensation of his lips on your neck, his hands on your hips. Your head falling back slightly to give him better access. Your fingers tighten their grip on his shoulders, nails scratching lightly through the fabric of his shirt. "You have no idea what you do to me, Clayton." You whisper, your voice husky with need. "Every touch, every kiss… it sets my whole body on fire." As he pulls you closer to the edge of the counter, you wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, feeling the hard length of him pressed against your core. "But if you burn the food you're meant to be learning how to cook. I'm not forgiving you."

He chuckles softly against your skin, the vibration traveling through your body. "Don't worry, baby. I've got this under control." His hands move from your hips to cup your face, tilting your head back further so he can look into your eyes. The intensity in his gaze takes your breath away. "I want to taste every inch of you," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "To feel your body respond to mine." He leans in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss that leaves you dizzy. One hand slides down to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him while the other tangles in your hair. When he finally breaks the kiss, you're both panting. "Tell me to stop," he challenges, his voice rough with desire. "And I will, and we can continue with our cooking lesson." Your heart races as he cups your face, his intense gaze sending shivers down your spine. When he captures your lips in a passionate kiss, you melt into him, your body molding perfectly against his. The challenge in his voice makes your pulse quicken, your resolve wavering. You know you should insist they finish the meal first, but the heat building between your legs is becoming impossible to ignore. "Clayton…" you breathe out, your hands sliding up his chest to loop around his neck. "If we don't eat soon, we might pass out from hunger later." Despite your words, you arch into him, craving more of his touch. "But maybe just one more minute?" You suggest, biting your lower lip teasingly.

A slow smirk spreads across his face as he hears your suggestion. "One minute?" He repeats, his voice laced with amusement. "Oh sweetheart, I think we both know that won't be nearly enough time for what I have planned." He steps back slightly, his hands moving to the hem of your shirt. With a swift motion, he pulls it over your head, tossing it aside carelessly. His eyes darken as they roam over your exposed skin, taking in every curve and dip. "God, you're beautiful," he whispers reverently, before leaning down to press open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. His hands find the clasp of your bra, unhooking it with practiced ease. The cool air hits your breasts as he pushes the garment off your shoulders, exposing them to his hungry gaze. You gasp as he removes your shirt, the cold air hitting your bare skin making your nipples pebble instantly. His heated gaze sends a wave of arousal coursing through your body, leaving you aching for his touch. "Clay…" you whimper, arching into his kisses, craving more contact. As he reaches behind you to unhook your bra, you let out a soft moan, your body trembling with anticipation. Once your bra falls away, you reach for his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours. "Please," you plead, tugging at the fabric impatiently. "I need to feel you."

He doesn't hesitate, quickly removing his own shirt and tossing it aside. The warmth of his skin against yours sends electric jolts through your body. His hands explore your curves, mapping out every dip and swell with reverence. "So perfect," he murmurs against your skin, trailing kisses down your chest until he reaches your breast. He takes a nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud. His hand massages your other breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers. You moan loudly, your head falling back as pleasure courses through you. His free hand slips under the waistband of your pants, his fingers finding your most intimate area. "Already so wet for me," he purrs, rubbing slow circles over your clit. "Fuck, baby, you're driving me crazy." Your body arches into his touch, a high-pitched moan escaping your lips as he lavishes attention on your breasts. The dual sensations of his mouth on one nipple and his fingers playing with the other send waves of pleasure radiating through your core. "Yes! Oh god, yes!" you cry out, your hips bucking against his hand seeking more friction. "More, please Clay, I need more!" As he rubs your clit, you feel yourself growing wetter by the second, your juices coating his fingers. "Touch me," you beg shamelessly, your hands frantically working to undo his belt. "I need to feel you inside me. Please, Clayton, fuck me right here on this counter." He groans at your desperate pleas, his cock twitching in response. In one fluid motion, he stands upright and undoes his belt, letting his pants fall to the floor. His boxers follow suit, revealing his impressive erection.

He stands fully naked now, his eyes never leaving yours. "Look at you," he growls, stepping back between your legs. "All spread out for me, begging to be filled." He grabs your hips, yanking you to the very edge of the counter. He thrusts deep inside you, stretching you deliciously as he gives you a moment to adjust. "Fuuuuck," he moans, his head falling back in ecstasy. "Always so tight for me." He starts to move, setting a steady rhythm as he pounds into you relentlessly. You cry out in pure bliss as he fills you completely, your walls stretching to accommodate his girth. "Yes! Oh god, yes!" you scream, your nails raking down his back as he begins to move. Each powerful thrust sends shockwaves of pleasure through your body, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. "Harder!" you demand, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist. "Make me come, baby. Make me come all over your big, thick cock." Your words seem to spur him on, his pace becoming even more frenzied. You can feel your orgasm building rapidly, your muscles tensing as the pressure becomes almost unbearable. "I'm gonna… I'm gonna come!" you warn, your voice strained with impending release. He feels your walls starting to flutter around him, signaling your approaching climax. "That's it, baby," he encourages, his thrusts becoming erratic. "Come for me. Let go." He reaches between your bodies, finding your clit and rubbing it furiously. That extra stimulation proves to be too much, and you explode around him, crying out his name as wave after wave of intense pleasure crashes over you. "Fuck, yes! Just like that," he groans, continuing to pump into you as you ride out your orgasm. The rhythmic squeezing of your walls pushes him over the edge, and with a final, powerful thrust, he buries himself deep inside you, spilling his seed. He collapses against you, both of you panting heavily as you try to catch your breath.

Your entire body shakes uncontrollably as your orgasm rips through you, your vision going white as wave after wave of intense pleasure consumes you. "Clay!" you scream, your voice raw with passion. As he follows you over the edge, filling you with his hot cum, you cling to him desperately, riding out the aftershocks together. When it's finally over, you slump back against the counter, your limbs feeling like jelly. He rests his forehead against yours, both of you struggling to regain your breath. "Holy shit," you manage to say, your voice hoarse. "That was… wow." He chuckles weakly, pressing a tender kiss to your swollen lips. "Yeah, wow pretty much sums it up." He slowly pulls out of you, watching as his cum drips down your thigh. The sight sends a fresh wave of lust through him, despite having just finished. "As much as I'd love to stay here and ravish you all night," he says regretfully, reaching for some paper towels to clean you both up. "We really should check on dinner." You nod in agreement, reluctantly disentangling yourself from him. Together, you gather your clothes and dress quickly. As you walk towards the stove, he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close. "Round two after we eat?" he asks hopefully, nuzzling your neck. You laugh, playfully swatting at him. "Maybe. If you promise to actually pay attention to the cooking this time." He grins, placing a quick kiss on your lips. "Deal."

[michanvalentine]

Astarion’s quotes that make my heart race!

Ok, maybe you’d expect something extremely romantic—but that’s not quite it. Or at least, not just that. There are moments when this vampire spawn truly drives me crazy—and not in a sexy way. Let’s just say that part is the cherry on top! But let’s not waste any more time…

"You deserve something real. I want us to become something real." Can we talk about this? This is the very first time Astarion truly opens up. Willingly. Officially. Even at the risk of being kicked out of the group, even at the risk of being told to fuck off—because yes, everything he did before was purely out of self-preservation. He used Tav/Durge and paid for the favor with his own body. And yet, he takes a risk. He puts everything on the line—even the very mechanisms that have protected him for centuries, allowing him to keep going without stopping, without thinking, without letting himself get emotionally involved. Because if he hadn’t dissociated, it would have hurt too much. But this time? He’s done pretending. This time, he really wants to try. He wants to take a chance—for the one person who managed to crack through his armor, who lowered his defenses. He wants to be real and experience something real, for the first time in over 200 years—with everything that comes with it. For someone who has always worn a mask, this is a massive, deeply important concept. Especially because, as I said, this confession goes against everything he’s ever believed—about love, about sex, about relationships. It goes beyond control. Beyond using emotions and feelings as weapons. Beyond self-preservation, which is what pushed him to act like a piece of shit so many times throughout Act 1. Here, Astarion takes a step away from selfishness and toward altruism—toward the other, beyond himself—and spits out the truth. He shows himself, stripped bare and flawed, and braces for the consequences. He takes responsibility for what he’s done. He makes himself vulnerable. And that’s an even more powerful, meaningful act when you remember just how hard that is for someone like him—someone who’s made fear his primary driving force for so long.

“This is a gift, you know. Thank you. I won’t forget it.” What can I say? It begins in Act One and ends at the conclusion of the Pale Elf’s quest in the “good” ending. The callback is incredibly powerful—revisiting the concept of the gift shows just how much he’s grown, how he’s come to genuinely appreciate what is offered to him. Even when it’s not what he expected, or what he claimed to desire. And in this case, we’re talking about trust. He is grateful for the trust he’s been given. Just like in the bite scene, where those words are first spoken. Trust in him as a person, not a monster. Trust in his qualities—the ones lying beneath the bitter, hardened, sarcastic façade. Trust in his potential. In the depth of his soul, where something much more profound is hidden. Something more delicate and vulnerable, too. And trust—or rather, certainty—that all of this has immense value and is worth nurturing. And for this, for the opportunity he’s given to finally explore that side of himself in his future, he is grateful. He considers it a gift. And that’s something that quite literally melts me.

“I did it. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” I’ve never experienced it in my playthroughs—I always freed the vampire spawn. Except for one time when I damned them, lol. But here, you can clearly see Astarion's growth and sensitivity. Not only that, but it also emerges in a context that doesn’t involve Tav/Durge, the safe harbor who has accompanied him on his journey so far. Instead, it involves the Gur tribe, with whom Astarion has a history that’s nothing short of turbulent: the law enacted against them, his own death, the kidnapping of the children. All violent and terrible events that left a mark on him���marked by hatred, anger, and shame. In this scene, there’s everything: forgiveness, reconciliation, redemption, leaving the past behind, and facing the future with a stronger, more determined spirit. Here, Astarion opens his mind and heart to someone he once despised, hated, and hurt. He acknowledges and embraces their pain, grief, even their resentment, and does so with compassion and newfound maturity. What else can I say but that I’m so proud of this mischievous little bastard?

“Even I deserve something better.” This is a moment I absolutely adore. I never cheated on Astarion with Mizora—just to be clear—I’ve only watched the cutscenes on YouTube. The she-devil just doesn’t do it for me, unfortunately for her. Lol. If I have to throw myself at someone with horns, I’d much rather pick Wyll or Karlach! <3 But back to why this scene makes my heart race… This is where you can see all of Astarion’s growth. All of it. This isn’t about jealousy—he makes that clear right away. We know very well that the spawn isn’t against open relationships; he’s even open to including Halsin in the mix. This is about betraying the trust of your partner—something he’s only just begun to claim for himself. To trust someone, and in turn, to be worthy of their trust. It’s a deep and incredibly important concept. If Tav/Durge attacks him with the idea that he would’ve been the first to jump into such situations and betray others, Astarion quickly replies that maybe, once, yes, he would have. But things change. People change. Another powerful concept. And the most beautiful part of all this is when spawn Astarion chooses to leave Tav/Durge, because he finally has enough self-respect and strength not only to keep going on his own, but to fight for himself. To say “No, thank you.” He’s no longer willing to settle, to bend, to swallow the bitter pill—even if that means parting from the person he loves more than anyone else in the world. Because yes, damn it, he deserves something better than that! And because, in that moment—just as he himself says—Tav represents everything he’s trying to escape from in order to become better: someone who only thinks about themselves, without caring about the consequences or who gets hurt along the way. Simply beautiful. Especially when compared to the tragic words of Ascended Astarion, who—when Tav/Durge suggests they had a bad night and regret it—responds by telling them not to dwell on it and to just focus on the next conquest. He doesn’t face anything. He runs. And deludes himself that next time, it’ll be better.

“You. I want you.” Okay, this is where my heart just can’t take it. Awwww. I mean—finally, after everything we’ve been through in the game, after all those times we’ve asked him “What do you want?” and all the times he wasn’t able to answer… At last, Astarion gives voice to his own desires and replies: “You.” Not power. Not control. The relationship. That deep connection with another person, without any more doubts, masks, roles (master, slave, vampire, human), or ulterior motives. Pure and simple, from one soul to another. It’s a conscious and free choice. From someone who, not that long ago, couldn’t even put a name to what he had with Tav/Durge—“What are we, to you?” “I don’t know. But isn’t it nice not knowing?”—I think he’s now fully realized how warm, comforting, and fulfilling it is to know. To be able to give a name to what binds him to another. And the “I love you” that follows not only warms our hearts—it shows us just how far this small, desperate vampire spawn has come. He’s achieved the unthinkable: reclaiming his shattered identity, freeing himself from the curse of vampirism—not physically, but spiritually—and rediscovering his right to be, to choose, to express himself, and to feel something real. But most of all, he’s found the ability to recognize it and name it, without fearing the consequences anymore.

I think there are more, but I’ll stop here for now. Every single line from Astarion deserves to be analyzed, if you ask me! I have a feeling my next list will be about the Astarion quotes that piss me off. Lol

[callingitquits]

Johan Relationship Headcanons (How You Break Him)

 I was thinking about this post…. You know, the one about how he hurts you (as he does, thoroughly and often). Necessary stuff. Emotionally cleansing. We processed.

But then I started thinking… okay. What about the inverse? What about the hurt you cause him? Not out of cruelty, but out of fear. Or just being human.

So here it is: the quiet ways you break his heart.

Let’s call it balance haha.

When You Flinch, He Sees Her Pull the Trigger Again

It’s not rational.

You’re not holding a gun.

You’re just stepping back.

But for a moment, he’s a boy again, watching his sister’s eyes harden with something like resolve.

And it cuts him, because she had to shoot him to save herself.

And you’re doing the same, aren’t you?

Pulling away to survive him.

You Reaffirm He’s The Problem

Not directly. But he hears it.

You say things like:

“I seem to attract broken people.” Or “Maybe I only know how to love things that are difficult.”

You don’t mean it cruelly. You’re just trying to understand yourself.

But he hears what you won’t say out loud: You’re the burden.

And it burns more than any accusation ever could.

You Don’t Hate Him. And That Hurts Most of All

Because he knows you should.

You should run.

You should slam the door.

You should scream at him for all the ways he’s hurt you.

But instead—you sit beside him, your hands trembling, your voice raw with conflicted care.

And he can’t bear it.

Your forgiveness is unbearable.

Because it means he has no excuse.

You Pull Away When He’s Gentle, Not When He’s Cruel

When he says something cutting, you meet it with fire.

When he needles you, you shove back.

But when he strokes your hair without speaking, or leaves your favorite book open to the page you stopped on—that’s when you recoil.

He doesn’t understand why.

Or maybe he does.

Maybe he just hates that his tenderness frightens you more than his cruelty ever could.

You Think the Worst Parts of Him Are a Phase

You say things like:

“You’re not hopeless.”

Or

“You’ve just been hurt too much.”

You mean it lovingly.

But he hears the subtext: This isn’t really you.

And it is.

It is him.

The way he sees the world.

The things he’s done.

You keep looking for a version of him that doesn’t exist and call it love.

You Keep Your Past From Him

He tells you things—terrible things—like they’re flowers laid at your feet.

Pieces of the labyrinth inside him.

But you keep your stories locked in your throat.

Or worse—you laugh them off.

“It’s not important.”

It makes him feel truly monstrous.

Like he’s handed you his worst sins, and you won’t even give him a scar in return.

You Say ‘You Scare Me’ Like It’s a Compliment

And it is. In your own way.

But he hears it like a prophecy. Something inevitable and true.

He never tells you that you scare him too.

Because what would you do with that?

You Ask If He’s Okay Like He’s Not Real

“Are you… alright?” you’ll ask, your voice hesitant, eyes too careful.

Not because you don’t care—but because you’re unsure if he’s even built like that. Like you’re asking out of obligation. Like it’s a script.

And he realizes:

You don’t see him as someone who can break.

Only as someone who breaks others.

That hurts in a place he didn’t know was soft.

You Talk About the Future Like He’s Not In It

You make offhanded plans.

“When I graduate—maybe I’ll move somewhere quieter.”

“Someday I want a little garden, maybe a cat…”

And you never say we.

Never include him. Not even hypothetically.

He smiles. Nods.

But something inside him goes very still.

Because you don’t even realize you’re writing him out.

And he doesn’t blame you.

He’s certainly never been sure of his own permanence either.

You Laugh With Your Friends in a Way You Never Laugh With Him

He watches it happen—how your shoulders relax, how your voice lifts, how you lean into them.

With him, it’s more careful. More tense. Even when you are happy.

It confirms what he fears:

He makes you less yourself. Not more.

Leaving the Light On When He Sleeps Over

It’s a small thing.

But it guts him.

He’s the one who sleeps with the light on.

But now he wonders if you prefer it too—not because you’re afraid of the dark, but because something in your subconscious still whispers danger. 

Even when you’re lying next to him.

The First Time You Hummed Without Realizing

You hum absentmindedly while organizing your bag.

Johan isn’t even listening—until the cadence shifts.

Soft.

Low.

Repetitive.

Something slams into his chest.

It’s not the melody.

It’s the feeling:

Being lulled to sleep in the dark.

A hand on his forehead.

A voice just out of memory.

He looks at you too long.

You don’t notice.

The Smell of Soap

Dish soap or bleach on your hands after cleaning reminds him of the back rooms of The Three Frogs.

His mother’s hands.

Worn from long shifts.

Cracked skin, a faint scent of citrus and exhaustion.

Once, he gripped your wrist absentmindedly and pressed his nose to your palm.

You flinched.

He let go—slowly.

Murmured an apology.

But his mind didn’t return to you right away.

It lingered somewhere far off.

You Ask Him About Her

He doesn’t talk about the lullabies.

Or the dresses.

He tells you how cold her hands were the last time she touched his face.

How her eyes wouldn’t meet his when she said goodbye.

You think he’s being cruel.

Detached.

But that’s the only version of her he can stand to remember.

Because the loving one still gave him away.

Resemblance

You find the photo by accident, tucked between the pages of one of his books.

Probably forgotten.

Or maybe not.

A girl, maybe eight—if that.

Standing still in front of some concrete building.

Pale. Solemn. Blue eyes.

You study it curiously, then glance at him with a faint smile.

“She does look like you.”

He doesn’t speak.

You have no idea what you’ve just touched.

How easily those words press into something that never closed right.

His face doesn’t shift.

But something in him recoils.

She looks like you.

The words loop—sharp, reflexive.

And with them, the question returns:

If she could have told us apart.. would it still have been me?

Or did I only get saved wearing my sister’s clothes?

He nods, just once. Enough to end it.

And you, still unaware, hand the photo back.

Never realizing what your fingers brushed against.

Not the scar on his head.

The one underneath it.

The Wrong Hand

He doesn’t want you to see it.

The part of him that never grew past that moment.

Not the man beside you now, sharp-eyed and still—but the child.

Small. Silent.

Clinging to a woman’s hand, whispering, “Don’t let go.”

And she did.

So he learned not to ask.

Not to reach.

He taught himself how to disappear first—or worse, how to be remembered in ways no one could ignore.

Because if no one stays, then being unforgettable is the only way to prove he was ever really there.

Not a shadow.

Not a mistake.

Not the wrong child pulled by the wrong hand.

So when you touch him like he’s worth staying for—when your eyes say you see him—something fractures.

He wants to hold on.

Tight. Tighter than he ever dared.

But he doesn’t.

Because if he does, and you still let go…. then what does he become?

[clocainiac]

For the pride event thing, Transfem rusty please?

Maybe about her coming out to the yard/other characters

PRIDE ONESHOTS PT.3

(I love the way i’m doing part 3 on the 13th :3 as you can see i’m a procrastinator and i apologise so much so have this as a sorry 🙏 ALSO rusty starts off with they/them pronouns before they start to get more comfortable with their transition and use she/her! there may be a bit of prusty… also also peep the way ive managed to add electra in again, so sorry but i must for if i don’t they will tie me on the tracks)

(Not only that, but i’m not trans so trying to figure out how to word this took alot of consulting with my trans mates, so if some of this sounds a bit awkward during the read I apologise profusely as obviously I have never been in this position myself, but I hope i’ve tried my best as i’ve only gone off what my mates have told me!)

Poppa was the first.

They were both sat in Poppa’s shed, the comforting heat from their boilers encompassing the room. Still Rusty felt a creeping sense of unease, a twisting terrible feeling in their stomach.

“You alright, Son?” Poppa’s deep voice questioned, almost sounding like a hymn.

It was an innocent question from an outsiders perspective, but to Rusty? It felt like sick jab. The nickname itself prodded at something they tried to keep hidden, a feeling they knew wouldn’t go away. Although they tried to forget about it, you can’t slap a plaster on a gaping wound and expect it to heal. There was always this feeling of being wrong, looking wrong, sounding wrong; everything about Rusty was just wrong.

Soon they realised Poppa was still looking at them for an answer, now he had more of a concerned look on his face.

“I need to tell you something,” Rusty blurted out.

Poppa hummed, “Go on then.”

“I’ve been… thinking about myself. A lot. For a long time really, even before the race.” Rusty took a shaky breath, wetting their lips, “I think I always knew. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

Poppa listened intently, letting Rusty take their time. Although he was set in his traditional ways, he was a very good listener and advisor.

“I’m not going to be the Engine you’ve always seen,” their voice trembled. “I’m going to transition, to live as who I want to be. Poppa, i’m a woman.”

The silence that followed stretched.

But then Poppa bumped their shoulder, “Soon you may not look like the same Engine i’ve always seen, but you will be the same Engine i’ve always known.”

Rusty couldn’t help the tears that started to build. After all, Poppa was like a father to them and to have not only validation but acceptance from him? Rusty couldn’t even describe the feeling.

“I’ve already got a lot to thank the Starlight for and helping you realise who you truly want to be will be amongst them.”

“Oh, Poppa,” Rusty whimpered sniffling.

They hugged for a long time that day.

It was harder with Pearl.

Not because Pearl wasn’t kind; she was the best. But because Rusty loved her.

She’d practiced saying it a hundred times. Out loud. To herself. She had even started referring to herself as She/Her in her head!

But now, sat beside Pearl, who was bathed in the moonlight. All previous bravado had disappeared.

“Pearl, can I tell you something?”

“Sure!” She chirped back, always merry even at the most mundane questions or actions.

“I’m not going to be the Rusty you see for much longer…”

Pearl’s head tilted to the side, “How? Not to sound impolite but once you’re corroded there isn’t really a way to go back.”

Rusty laughed awkwardly, praying for the butterflies to go away. “Let me explain it better, i’m still going to have rust physically but not i’m not going to look like the Rusty you’ve always seen.”

Pearl waited, her eyebrows scrunched in confusion.

“Pearl, i’m a woman and i’m going to start transitioning.”

Just akin to Poppa’s reaction there was silence. This time however, Rusty felt the need to fill it.

“I know i’m not fancy or sleek or modern; but when I look in the mirror, I feel so trapped under all these layers not from the rust but from looking so masculine. Pearl you may think this is out of the blue after all i’m quite old now but I have always felt this way, I just didn’t figure out what it was until recently and being a Steamer has been bad enough let alone wanting to transition too-”

Rusty stopped rambling as Pearl put her hand on her trembling fist.

“Pearl, i’m scared. That no one will believe I feel this way, that they’ll laugh, that i’ll be shunned for this.”

Pearl didn’t answer right away. Her eyes flicked down, pink lips parted, the gears in her mind turning.

Rusty braced for rejection. Even though Pearl was kind, she was naive and this was vulnerable news.

When Pearl finally spoke, her voice cracked. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Rusty blinked, “I… What?”

“You were hurting this whole time and I didn’t know, that… I never want you to feel like that.”

Rusty’s throat tightened, “I didn’t even know why I was hurting so much myself until recently.”

Pearl turned to her and placed her own polished hands against Rusty’s calloused ones. “You’re still you. You’re still the brave Engine who stood up to Greaseball, who sang to the Starlight when no one else believed in…”

Pearl paused, “Her.” Rusty finished the sentence for her softly, just a gentle push in the right direction.

“Her,” Pearl repeated, “I quite like that.”

“Me too.” Rusty sniffled, “I thought you’d leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I love you, Rusty and i’m going to keep loving you.”

“Even her?”

“Especially her.” Pearl said softly before leaning in for a chaste kiss.

When Rusty pulled away she realised they were both crying. It was pretty fitting.

The next person who Rusty told was not who she had in mind.

The race was over. She came second, Electra was first. Rusty huffed sitting on a small grass patch as Electra skated around showboating.

“You sulking, Steam Train?” They teased skating over; surprisingly without their components.

“No, well done.”

Electra’s lips pursed together, “I don’t believe you.”

“What?” Rusty questioned baffled.

“You’re sulking but…it’s not about the races, is it?” They questioned.

Rusty spluttered trying to find an excuse before Electra chuckled triumphantly.

“I’m correct aren’t I? Well now you have to tell me, it’s the rules.”

“What rules?”

“The ‘I know you have a secret’ rules, now tell me!”

Rusty bit her bottom lip, “You ever feel like your whole body is screaming at you that it’s wrong? Like you were built backwards?”

That caught Electra and their brows furrowed, not in judgement but in thought.

“Electra, i’m transitioning. You can tell people, it won’t be a secret for much longer.”

“I understand,” Electra said softly.

Rusty stared.

“I’m fluid,” they said. “Gender is… too static for someone like me. I shift and i’m proud of who I am. But I found it hard to start telling people too.”

“I am proud of who I am, just scared of the reactions.”

“Don’t be. You’re becoming you. That’s one of the bravest things someone can do.”

This time the silence was comforting, no shock, no rambling, just a mutual understanding.

[smilingformoney]

Champagne Problems

Chapter 8. Begin Again

Lionel/Reader

Summary: Change comes faster than you could anticipate; are you and Lionel ready to take the next step?

Word Count: 10.4k

All chapters here!

Read on Ao3 or WattPad or below the cut:

1991

September came around far too fast, and when it did, everything happened so quickly. You and Cole both packed up your essentials into two piles of boxes: one to go to Glasgow, and one to go to Lionel’s place.

Cole was the first to move out. Driving him and all his stuff all the way to Glasgow and back sounded like a nightmare, so you allowed Lionel to use his plane, though you told Cole in no uncertain terms that he was either to get the train or drive himself to London for visits. When he protested that that would take ages and it was so much quicker to fly, you reminded him that he made the choice to go to university 400 miles away, and if he really wanted to fly he could fly commercial.

You managed to resist crying when you said goodbye to him. He looked so happy to be there, and before you’d even left he was already chatting to his new flatmates. He wasn’t allowed to join an all-boys flat, and he was determined to leave Claire behind at school, so he wasn’t going to pretend and join an all-girls flat — so he was in a co-ed flat, three boys and three girls and him. “Three and a half of each,” he’d jokingly said, but as far as anyone would be concerned, it would be four boys and three girls.

After fussing over him one last time, you finally let him be, and you made your way back to the hire car to take you back to the plane, where Lionel was waiting for you. He was sitting on the sofa, a glass of brandy in one hand, watching something on the TV when you entered. He took one look at you, and you immediately started crying.

“Oh, chérie, come here,” Lionel said soothingly, and you practically threw yourself into his arms. He placed his glass down on the nearby table and wrapped you up in a warm embrace. “Shh, sweetheart, it’s alright. He’ll be alright.”

“What if — what if he’s not?” you sobbed. “What if people find out and they’re horrible to him? Or worse? What if he gets hurt and I’m not there?”

“He’s going to get hurt, love, that’s an inevitable fact of life. He needs to get hurt, it’s important for him to grow. You can’t wrap him up in bubble wrap forever, otherwise he’ll end up a spoiled arsehole like me.”

You sniffed. “You didn’t have it easy at uni either. I hear summer after first year particularly sucked.”

Lionel smiled wryly.

“That was self-inflicted. Look, if something terrible happens, the flight’s little more than an hour, we can fly straight up here and you can comfort him while I beat up whoever hurt him. Alright?”

You laughed and straightened up a little. Lionel handed you a handkerchief from his pocket, and you dabbed your eyes dry.

“You, in a physical fight? You’d never. What if you damaged your precious Armani suit?”

Lionel glanced down at his shirt, which now had a wet stain from your tears.

“I think it’s quite plain I care more for my family than I do my clothing. Besides, are you forgetting my great act of heroism in 1971, when I beat up that boy who attacked Sinclair?”

“Oh my god, you did!” you laughed as the memory came back to you. “How could I forget? That was the night I fell in love with you.”

Lionel smiled and looked at you curiously.

“Really? I thought it was Paris.”

“Well, you know, falling in love isn’t something that happens overnight, is it? Not like in the movies. I had a crush on you as soon as we met, of course, but that party was when I knew you were something special. I certainly started falling in love with you that night. I guess Paris was when I knew it for sure, that it was more than just a crush, more than just the excitement of being swept off my feet by a cute rich boy… when I knew I loved you, not just the idea of you.”

Lionel kissed you tenderly on the forehead, rubbing your back, and you smiled at the unusually soft affection.

“I knew it from that first date,” he murmured thoughtfully. “When I spoke and you listened, and when you spoke I hung on to every word. There was a moment in the park, I don’t remember what we were talking about - probably nonsense - but I looked at you and…”

Lionel sat back, thinking carefully. You watched him, curious, waiting to hear what he would say. You slipped your hand into his, and he smiled.

“It wasn’t a eureka moment. It wasn’t like a lightbulb appeared above my head. It was more of a… dawning realisation. A sort of simple serenity. ‘Oh, there you are. I’ve been looking for you and I didn’t even realise it.’”

Lionel squeezed your hand.

“He’ll be alright, [Y/n]. He’s half you and half me, but more importantly he’s 100% Cole, and here he’ll have the opportunity to discover what that means, who he really is. And if anyone does try to hurt him… he can just tell them who his father is, they’ll quickly back off.”

He smiled smugly, and you swatted him with a playful laugh.

“Don’t you go fighting his battles for him, Lionel! Let the cub grow his mane. There’s a reason he didn’t take your name, and it’s not because he doesn’t love you. If he wants to find out who Cole is, he doesn’t want his first trait to be ‘Lionel Shabandar’s son’.”

“I know, love. When he’s ready to tell the world, I’ll gladly stand by his side, but he can do so in his own time.”

Lionel reached over to the table to pick up his glass of brandy.

“It will be strange, though, if he’s still [L/n] after we get married.”

You stared at him. Lionel took a sip of his brandy as if he’d said something meaningless about the weather.

“…After we what?”

Lionel looked at you over the brim of his glass.

“After we get married. You’ll become Shabandar, so it’ll be strange if our son has a different last name, won’t it?”

“Sorry, I must be having memory problems. When did you propose?”

Lionel chuckled. He threw back the rest of his drink, put the glass aside, then wrapped both arms around your torso and lowered you down onto the sofa so he could climb on top of you and begin kissing and nibbling at your neck.

“Other than the time you said no, I haven’t. Not yet. But I will.”

“Oh, and you’re so sure I’ll say yes, are you? You were pretty sure of it last time, too.”

Lionel looked up at you with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re moving in with me tomorrow, [Y/n], so if you’re not in this for the long haul, you’d better tell me now.”

“I am, but… marriage? I mean, it’s only been a year…”

“Two years with a very long intermission,” Lionel reminded you. He kissed you on the nose, knowing it always made you smile, and it did. “[Y/n], I’ve been in love with you for twenty years. If I were ever going to stop loving you, I’d have done it by now. Anyway, as you rightly pointed out, I haven’t asked yet. This isn’t a proposal. Consider it…”

“A warning?”

Lionel laughed.

“Yes, a warning. I’m going to propose, and I’m going to marry you. Not yet… I’m in no rush. I know now I was a little premature when I asked last time. But you should know that I’m in this with every intent of making you Lady Shabandar. But first…”

His eyes flashed wickedly, and you knew that cheeky smile meant trouble was coming.

“…how about I make you cum around my fingers?”

There it was. Trouble.

And the trouble was just getting started, because the next day, you moved in with him. Lionel insisted you hire movers, so all you had to do was, in his words, “stand there and look pretty” while they moved everything. You didn’t have a whole lot of stuff to move in truth; most of it was furniture you hadn’t managed to sell, which the movers were going to take away and sell on for you. But standing there and looking pretty was difficult, because you were just watching while strangers emptied your house.

You followed them in your car to Lionel’s place, parked up in what was Cole’s space and was now yours, and showed them where to put everything. You would unpack it all yourself and decide where everything went later, so you just told them to put all your boxes in one of the spare rooms, and they left shortly after with the old furniture.

Lionel was at work, so you spent most of the day unpacking. Lionel’s wardrobe, while huge, was already full — he owned a lot of clothes for a man who took them off at every possible moment. You were sure you’d never even seen him wear half the clothes in his wardrobe, but he insisted it was all necessary, even though he seemed to own about two dozen identical white shirts. So instead, one of the spare bedrooms became ‘your’ bedroom - though you never intended to use the bed - and you unpacked all of your clothes into there.

Keeping busy helped keep your mind distracted. You didn’t want to think about Cole’s empty bedroom. Of course, you’d dropped him off in his new bedroom just yesterday, and he’d have a huge bedroom here now, but you’d watched him grow up in that bedroom. You’d moved in when Cole was five, after sharing a room at your dad’s place for the last few years, until finally the council decided you were enough of a Londoner to get your own place. You should have known that your child was a boy when one of the first things he did on getting his own bedroom was put up about twenty football-related posters.

As he got older, the football posters were taken down to make space for his own drawings, and that was when you started shopping for picture frames and noticed a gap in the market. Your dad gave you your P45 and a business loan, and you went from assistant café manager to small business owner at the age of 23.

It wasn’t long after that that you started seeing Lionel’s face more and more. An article about the “young tycoon making waves” here, a “now part of Shabandar Media Group” there. He became famous enough that you began seeing him in gossip magazines, some beautiful woman or another on his arm, and every time you saw some doe-eyed little starlet staring up at him like he was the most beautiful cash machine they’d ever seen, you were just reminded of the photograph Sinclair had shown you, some faceless bimbo with her head in his lap. You sometimes wished you’d kept that photo — you could have probably paid off your loan to your dad much faster than you did if you’d been able to sell it to the News of the World.

It was a good thing Cole looked more like you than he did Lionel. You weren’t sure you could handle seeing Lionel’s stupid face on a billboard proclaiming that Proud Radio was now broadcasting to the entire Sussex area, then go home and see the same face sitting across from you at the dinner table.

And now you were here, Cole was 400 miles away, and you’d be seeing Lionel’s stupid face sitting across from you at the dinner table every single night. Maybe Lionel had slipped something into your wine the day you went to his office demanding answers, because this was in no way how you’d expected the next year of your life to go. A part of your mind was still nagging at you, telling you you shouldn’t be depending on him. And when you told Lionel about this nagging voice in your head, he’d simply told you that you weren’t depending on him at all, in fact he was depending on you for his happiness, and if it made the voice feel better, it could believe that you were just using him for his money.

Of course, you both knew that wasn’t true, but it also wasn’t true that you were depending on him — as he frequently reminded you, he was supporting you. And true to his word, he was repaying you: after much debate, you asking for lower figures and he offering higher, you eventually settled on a number that represented eighteen years of unpaid child support. It was too high for your liking and too low for his, which you both agreed meant it was probably right.

You didn’t even want to see the money. You set up a savings account, Lionel paid the sum directly into it, and you left it at that. You told the man at the bank that you didn’t want regular statements showing your interest accruing, you didn’t want to hear from them at all unless someone tried to make a withdrawal, you just wanted the details of the account on a piece of paper that you could hide away in the safe in the wardrobe until you needed it. And if you never needed it, then it would just keep accruing interest, and Cole would have a tidy inheritance when you died.

Your shop had already closed a few weeks ago, the last remaining stock either sold at a discount or returned to the supplier. Maybe by now it was already something else, maybe selling books or clothes or records, or maybe it’d be a rival café, or maybe it’d be turned into an office.

On Monday, 400 miles apart, you and your son would both walk into your first ever university lectures. You’d managed to get a place at King’s College, and although the campus wasn’t quite close enough to Canary Wharf to visit Lionel and Sinclair for lunch as regularly as you used to, living with Lionel meant you were at least able to see him every day, and Sinclair would of course make his presence known as often as he could.

But before that — a party, to celebrate your moving in.

You insisted it had to be small. As large as Lionel’s apartment was, that didn’t mean it had to be filled to capacity. Sinclair was invited, of course, as well as some of Lionel’s colleagues you’d come to be friendly with when you visited him at the office or attended a work party as his plus one. You also invited some of the other shopkeepers from Cornelia Street who you’d made friends with over the years, including David of the delicious sandwiches fame, who Sinclair treated like a celebrity when he showed up.

The party was in full swing, people dotted around in little huddles of conversation with drinks in hand, when David finally managed to escape Sinclair’s ravings about how delicious his sandwiches were and how he should go into catering, and Sinclair bounded up to you as you reached for a beer from the cooler.

“Hey, [Y/n]! This is such a great party. There are so many interesting people here! It makes a nice change to have more than just the same circle of friends that Lionel and I have.”

“Yeah, it’s really weird for me, seeing mates from across the street talking to Lionel’s colleagues,” you said, glancing over to where the owner of the cobblers was somehow finding some common ground with the CFO of Shabandar Media.

“That’s what’s so fun about making friends over class barriers, you meet such a wider variety of people!”

While you opened your beer bottle, Sinclair reached into the cooler and pulled out a beer for himself. You reached over and opened it for him, knowing he always struggled with bottle openers, and he grinned.

“Thanks! I have great news, by the way!” Sinclair exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of his feet as the two of you wandered away from the kitchen and towards the window. “I started therapy, and it’s going so well! Dr Johnson said she thinks I have something called ADHD so she’s referring me to another doctor so she can test me for it.”

“What’s ADHD?”

“It stands for Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder.”

You snorted. “Attention deficit and hyperactive are definitely words I’d use to describe you. Tell her I agree.”

Sinclair laughed. “You can tell her yourself, actually! She said she’d like to talk to people who know me, someone who knew me as a kid and someone who met me as an adult. So I’m gonna ask Lionel for the first one but would you be willing to talk to her about adult me?”

“Of course I would!” you said, and Sinclair beamed. “I’m flattered that you’d ask me.”

“Well, you’re the natural choice, of course, you’re my best friend other than Lionel, and I know you’ll be honest.”

“...I’m your best friend?”

Sinclair nodded, as if it were obvious. “Of course you are! You and Lionel are both my best friends. I can have two, right? One who’s related to me and one who isn’t. But you count as family anyway, even though you’re not married to Lionel yet.”

“Yet? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Clair, I just moved in today.” You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Wait, he mentioned marriage yesterday as well. Is he planning something?”

“No! Honesty, he’s not. He’s told me he wants to marry you one day, though – but you already knew that, right? I mean, he has proposed before.”

“Yeah, and I said no! It’s not that I don’t wanna marry him one day, but… that’s a big commitment. And you know better than anyone that it’s a bad idea to rush into it. If it turns out to be a bad idea and we get divorced – I mean, look how messy yours is, and Lionel has a lot more money than you. And we have a kid. I want us both to be really, really sure before we make that commitment. How’s that going, by the way?”

Sinclair shrugged glumly. “Slowly. She’s still trying to drag her heels through court. I never once thought she was with me for my money, but that’s all she seems to care about now. She’s not trying to win me back, she’s trying to win my money. It’s tempting to pay her off so we can just finalise the divorce and be done with it, but I don’t want to reward her for what she did. But at what point does it become more expensive to pay for lawyers than to just give her what she wants?”

You took Sinclair’s hand in yours and squeezed it affectionately.

“I suppose you have to decide what’s more important to you — to save yourself the time, money and stress, and let her think she’s won… or pursue justice against her and pay the financial and emotional cost. And maybe, even then, she’ll still think she’s won because she knows she’s hurt you and cost you money.”

Sinclair cocked his head thoughtfully. “You know… I hadn’t thought about it like that. You’re very insightful, [Y/n], you know that? Lionel’s right. You have a clever way of looking at things.”

“He says I can see past the bullshit,” you said. You glanced over at Lionel, who was currently sitting on the sofa with a glass of brandy in his hand as he talked to Rachel, his PA. He caught your eye and smiled.

“Yes, exactly!” Sinclair agreed. “I think you’ll do well in finance. There’s a lot of bullshit. People trying to hide how much money they have, the true cost of things… most of my job involves poking around in my client’s lives, trying to really understand them, even if they don’t want me to. Maybe one day we could work together!”

“And maybe that day I’ll finally understand what it is you actually do.”

Sinclair laughed.

“I told you, I’m a stock analyst!”

“And I told you, I don’t know what that means!”

“Well, I guess you’ll just have to pay attention in class and find out. Are you excited to start?”

“Excited and nervous. I’m a bit out of practice with the whole school thing. Cole and I had a nosy around the campus in Glasgow and it’s all so modern now. Loads of computers. I’m probably gonna have to learn how to use one.”

“I’d volunteer, but I’m afraid I don’t know anything about them either. My junior keeps telling me I need to go digital, but it’s so confusing. He says I should use something on the computer called XL? I asked him if he meant I needed an extra-large computer but he just laughed.”

“Well, computers are the future, apparently, so you should get on it. I’m sure it’ll make stock analysing or whatever much easier. Or you could analyse the stocks of computers.”

“Oh, definitely! Computer companies are always a safe bet in any portfolio. In fact, you should probably invest in them too, I could put together a modest portfolio for you…”

As Sinclair rambled on at you about stocks, on the other side of the room, Lionel was trying his best not to answer Rachel’s questions about you.

“Oh, come on, sir, you have to tell me something! All those times I could have reported you to HR for what you get up to during working hours…”

“Rachel, HR answer to me,” Lionel said sharply. “If they have a problem with me kissing my girlfriend during working hours, I’ll simply amend the office rules to specify that I may kiss my girlfriend during working hours.”

“Oh? And are you going to add shagging in your office in there too?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Lionel took a sip of brandy and Rachel snorted disbelievingly.

“Yeah, sure. So when you lock the door and lower the blinds, you’re just playing chess, are you?”

“It’s none of your business what we get up to in there. Your job is to ensure nobody thinks they have a meeting with me when I lock the door and lower the blinds.”

“You do know I can hear you, right?”

Lionel froze. “…What?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s muffled, but I can hear it. I’m not so chronically single I don’t know what shagging sounds like. And you’re not exactly quiet.”

Lionel really hoped his cheeks weren’t burning red right now. That wouldn’t be very becoming of a lion like him.

“Oh, Lord. I thought those walls were supposed to be soundproof!”

“Not soundproof enough, clearly. Don’t worry, nobody else can hear it. It gets inaudible about halfway to the lift.”

“Rachel, you should have said something. I’m an arsehole but not so much as to subject you to that!”

Rachel shrugged. “It shocked me at first but I got used to it. Helps me relax at night when it’s just me and my vibrator.”

Lionel raised his eyebrows, and Rachel slapped a hand across her mouth.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” she whispered. “Can we forget I said that? I’ve probably had a drink too many…”

Lionel just laughed. “No, no, it’s out there now. Who’d have thought Rachel Price gets off to the sound of her boss fucking his girlfriend?”

“I don’t — not during! I just… remember it. Later. Oh, God, I should stop talking…”

Rachel buried her head in her hands and cringed, but Lionel was laughing.

“Who do you think about, me or [Y/n]?”

“I refuse to talk about this anymore.”

“[Y/n] always tries so hard to be quiet. She loves pretending to be shy, even though I know she’s just as hungry for it as I am. I’ll have to tell her next time that you’re listening and putting all her little moans into your wankbank…”

“I’m going to get another drink…”

Rachel stood up quickly, and halfway across the room, she almost bumped into you. You gave her a friendly greeting, and she just avoided eye contact and scurried off.

“Is Rachel okay? She looks like she’s seen a ghost,” you said as you joined Lionel on the sofa. He threw an arm around your shoulder and pulled you in close.

“I just discovered her dirty little secret,” Lionel murmured in a low voice so only you could hear. “You were right all along, she can hear us when we have the blinds down.”

You gasped. “No!”

“Mmm, and apparently, she likes to go home and remember what she heard as she fingers herself. It’s amazing what confessions you’ll get out of someone after a drink or two.”

“Oh, fucking hell. That’s so embarrassing! You know, I always thought she fancied you, but I kept telling myself I was just being paranoid.”

Lionel chucked and nipped at the top of your earlobe.

“Who says it’s me she fancies? Maybe she fancies you. You do make some delectable noises, after all. I’d certainly need a wank if I sat there and listened to your sweet moans as you cum.”

“Oh, yeah, I bet you’d love it if she fancied me,” you said with a roll of your eyes. “All your lesbian porn fantasies coming to life.”

Lionel shrugged. “Well, if it turns out she does want to lick your pussy, I don’t mind so long as I can watch. Have you ever thought about giving it a go? It is delightful, though of course you’ll never get to eat the most delicious cunt of all time, not unless your spine became very bendy.”

You swatted his chest.

“You absolute menace, Lionel. And here I was thinking I’d come over and we’d have a nice talk about our son starting university. Nope, your head’s in the gutter again. Maybe I’ll start calling you Pennywise.”

Lionel shuddered, and you laughed. You’d watched It a few weeks earlier, and that was when you discovered the proud lion had a fear of clowns.

“If you want my cock to instantly deflate, just remind me of that horrid thing,” he muttered before downing the rest of his brandy in the hope of erasing the image in his mind of the terrifying horror film you’d forced him to watch with you.

“You didn’t have to watch it, you know…”

“You said - and I quote - ‘If you watch this entire thing with me, I’ll let you fuck me in the arse.’ So yes, I had to watch it.”

“And… was it worth it?” you teased.

Lionel’s expression darkened into something mischievous. He smirked at you, his eyes alight with danger.

“Oh, it fucking was. In fact, if there’s anything else you’d like me to do in exchange for fucking your arse again, I’ll do it gladly.”

“Oh, that’s a dangerous offer, babe. There’s a lot I could ask you to do.”

“And there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you… especially if it leads to fucking your arse.”

“Hmm, well, I’ll have to consider that… but for now, how about another beer?” you said, holding up your empty bottle.

“Of course.”

He kissed you on the cheek, took your empty bottle from you and stood up from the sofa. You gave his bum a pinch as he stood, and he shot a look at you.

“Watch it, you, or I’ll lift that skirt up and slap your arse for everyone to see.”

“That wasn’t me, it was Pennywise, he’s under the sofa.”

Lionel glanced down, and he almost looked nervous as he turned away to seek out some more alcohol from the fridge.

He was caught halfway when the lift door opened and Harry Deane entered, and he immediately made a beeline to greet Lionel. They exchanged a few words, Lionel managed to shake him off, and Harry looked searchingly in your direction. You gave him a little wave. Harry smiled when he recognised you and crossed the room to greet you, only to be accosted by the edge of the coffee table. He swore and rubbed at his shin as he hopped the few remaining steps to the sofa.

“Hello, [Y/n]. Sorry I’m late. Here, I brought you this.”

He handed you the bottle of wine as he took Lionel’s vacated seat.

“Oh, wow! Thanks, Harry.”

You glanced at the label. You didn’t know much about wine, despite having heard but admittedly not listened to both Lionel and Sinclair talk about the importance of vintages at length, but the label at least looked kind of fancy.

“So, back to school on Monday,” Harry said, slapping his knees jovially. “Looking forward to it?”

“Yeah, I am. I think. I just hope I’m doing the right thing. Not just school, but all of this —” You gestured around you. “I’ve never lived with someone before. A boyfriend, I mean. I’ve only ever lived with family.”

“Oh, really? Not — not even your son’s father?”

“No.”

“I see…”

Harry had been not so subtly trying to get answers out of you for months about who Cole’s father was, ever since you’d casually mentioned him in conversation, but you’d spent Cole’s entire life evading questions about his father; you were something of an expert in it now. Rival papers may have got wind that you existed and you were dating Lionel, but Cole’s existence had managed to evade them so far. They were all far more interested in the fact that you were the first and only ordinary person Lionel had ever dated.

“Will your son be moving in here too?” Harry asked conversationally.

“He’ll be in Glasgow most of the year, but when he comes to visit, he has a room here, yeah. Our last place was a council house, so you can imagine it was pretty small. He’ll even have a double bed here.”

“King-sized, actually,” Lionel corrected you as he approached with a fresh brandy in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. “Deane. Out of my seat.”

“Oh! Sorry, sir.”

Harry stood, but he also bowed his head, which made him look like he was fighting himself to stand up. Lionel confidently resumed his seat by your side and you kissed his cheek gratefully as he handed you your beer. Harry took the seat on your other side, wondering why Lionel didn’t just take this seat himself.

“Harry brought us some wine, Li,” you said, leaning forward slightly to pick up the bottle you’d placed on the coffee table. “Isn’t that nice?”

Lionel took the wine bottle from your hand and looked at it appraisingly.

“Hm. Acceptable, I suppose. We’ll keep this for guests we only sort of like. Deane, go and put this away, would you? The wine rack’s in the kitchen.”

“Oh, er, yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

Harry took the bottle from Lionel’s hands and stood up again to find the wine rack.

“Christ, you’d think I pay him for each time he says ‘sir’,” Lionel muttered. “Every other word, it’s ‘sir’ or ‘your Lordship’. It’s infuriating. Why can’t he just say what he has to say?”

“If he didn’t say it enough, you’d chastise him for that too,” you said, prodding Lionel’s thigh playfully. “I think you just like being mean to him.”

“I don’t like being mean, I just can’t stand fake niceties. That’s one of the many wonderful things about you, [Y/n],” Lionel said as he leant his elbow against the sofa cushion and began playing with your hair. “You’ll never give me false platitudes. I can always count on you to tell me if I’m full of shit.”

“You’re always full of shit.”

Lionel chuckled. He kissed your shoulder, and the hand that was playing with your hair began tracing the neckline of your top.

“See? Precisely what I’m talking about. Nobody else would speak to me like that.”

“That’s because everyone else is afraid of you,” you reminded him.

Lionel looked up at you from where his lips were now making their way towards your neck, his eyes glinting.

“That’s what happens when you have as much power as I do, chérie. Everyone either wants a piece of it, or they’re afraid of it. But you’re not afraid, are you, love?”

You snorted. “What should I be scared of? You have power, Lionel, but not over me.”

“Hmm, I don’t know about that… I have the power to make you cum so hard you see stars,” Lionel murmured in your ear. His fingers were creeping around your neck now, and he gave your throat the tiniest of squeezes. “Can anyone else do that?”

“I don’t need you for that, babe. Your game is good, I’ll give you that, but I don’t need you to make me cum, I can do that myself.”

Lionel stopped his sensual movements suddenly and looked at you sternly.

“Oh, really? You don’t need me to make you cum, do you? Well, then, I won’t bother in future. I’ll just use your hole for my pleasure and you can get yourself off.”

“Yeah, that’ll last,” you scoffed. “You love making me cum. You really saying you’re never gonna lick me out until my thighs clamp around your head and I squirt all over your face? Never gonna fuck me through my orgasm and keep fucking me until I cum again? Never gonna —”

“You’d better stop fucking talking,” Lionel growled, and his grip on your throat tightened threateningly. “One more filthy word out of you and I won’t be able to resist flipping you over and fucking you on this sofa for everyone to see. Give Rachel the full show this time. I bet Deane’d love it, do you think I don’t see the way he looks at you? Like a sad little runt, desperate for your attention. But you don’t want the runt, no matter how much shitty cheap wine he brings you. Do you?”

“No…” you whispered, trying to ignore the pool of arousal forming in your knickers.

“No… you want the lion. You want the Shabandar lion to fuck you hard and fast until you pass out, because no matter what you say, your fingers will never do what my cock does for you. I do have power over you, love, just as you have power over me. You’re the only person in this entire bloody world that has power over me. The only person who can drive me fucking insane. And Christ, I love it. I love the hold you have over me. I love you, darling, so much I’m prepared to share my throne with you. I’d give you fucking everything if you asked for it.”

He grabbed you by the chin and tilted your head back so you were looking up at him.

“But you never do. Never ask for anything… except when you’re begging to cum.” Lionel grinned wickedly. “So don’t even try to claim you don’t need me to make your cum, sweetheart, because it’s the only thing you ever ask me for, and I give it so fucking gladly.”

He kissed you fiercely, his lips wet and hungry and tasting like cigarettes and brandy. You still had a beer bottle in one hand, while the other grabbed Lionel’s thigh, as if grounding yourself. His grip tightened on your throat, just a little, just enough to make you grunt into his mouth.

“Sorry, Shabandar, are we intruding here?” laughed one of Lionel’s friends.

You gasped for breath as Lionel pulled away from you, his eyes dark and blown with lust, and you knew trouble was brewing.

“Not at all, mate,” Lionel replied. He poured the rest of the brandy down his throat and placed the glass down on the table. Then, despite your protests, he took your beer and put that on the table too.

The next thing you knew, you were in the air, Lionel having grabbed you by the hips and thrown you over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

“You lot carry on eating my food and drinking my booze. Don’t mind us.”

“Lionel!” you squealed in protest, but he just slapped your arse as he made his way past all your watching friends and carried you to the stairs.

“The lions are retiring to their den,” Lionel announced to the crowd. “Anyone who tries to disturb us will be fired. Even if you don’t work for me!”

“Lionel, put me down, you absolute menace!” you laughed. “There are about two dozen people in your living room, we can’t just disappear to go and shag!”

“Strange, because that’s exactly what we are doing,” Lionel said casually. “I think you’re forgetting that I’m Lionel Shabandar and I can do whatever the fuck I want. If I want to fuck my girlfriend while all our friends are downstairs, then I will. If they don’t want to listen, they know where the exit is.”

He pushed the door to his bedroom open with his knee and threw you unceremoniously down on the bed.

“Now, I’m going to remind you and everyone down there exactly who you belong to,” Lionel purred as he reached for his belt.

You placed your hands over his, stilling his movements.

“Li… as much as I love it when the lion comes out to play… I really don’t want to have sex while there are other people here. I feel bad enough knowing Rachel heard us in the office. Can we wait until the party’s over? I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.”

Lionel growled in frustration, but he let go of his belt and raised his hands.

“Alright. You know I won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do. But… how, exactly, do you intend to make it up to me tomorrow?”

“I’ll let you fuck me in the arse.”

Lionel groaned, and you could tell by the way he was fidgeting that he was fighting his arousal.

“Fucking hell. How can I turn that offer down, hm? Deal. No sex tonight until everyone else is gone. Speaking of which, maybe it’s time I kick them out…”

“Oh no you don’t!” you laughed, jumping up and grabbing his arm before he could go downstairs and tell everyone to fuck off. “We’re going to be good hosts, and we’re going to talk to the lovely people who came to congratulate me for getting the furthest any woman’s ever gone in taming the Shabandar lion. They’ll leave when they leave, and then we can fuck. If I don’t collapse with exhaustion.”

Lionel gave a mock sigh of exasperation as he put an arm around your waist to walk you back downstairs.

“[Y/n], you forget, Sinclair’s here. He’ll never leave of his own accord. The one and probably only good thing about Natalie was that her constant complaining meant he’d leave parties in good time.”

“You have my permission to kick Sinclair out if he’s the last one here.”

As he walked down the stairs, Lionel could feel his cock still erect in his boxers. He glanced down, and you chuckled at his predicament.

“Go talk to Harry, that’ll deflate your little problem.”

“Only if you come with me. The way he fawns over you amuses me.”

You rolled your eyes and slipped your arm through the crook of his elbow when you reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Fine, but in exchange, you’re making the coffee tomorrow morning.”

“Deal. Pleasure doing business with you, Miss [L/n].”

“And you, Lord Shabandar. Come on — into the jungle we go.”

Two Days Later

The strangest thing about starting university at 38 wasn’t the two decades of technological advancements since you’d last set foot in a classroom, nor was it the freer, less structured day universities allowed than schools. It was the fact that you were surrounded by children.

You knew you were going to be older than your coursemates. You knew they were all going to be the same age as Cole. But the reality of it didn’t really hit you until you walked into the lecture hall for your first class and felt like you were surrounded by children.

The course was mostly boys, all white, and the majority of them looked like… well, they looked like Lionel.

Not literally, of course. There were only a few blondes, and none of them had his combination of Roman nose, small eyes and perfectly shaped Cupid’s bow that made him so irresistibly handsome. It was less the way they looked, more the energy they exuded. They looked like they all thought they were the best person in the room because their parents owned something or other. They all looked rich.

You couldn’t help but wonder if this was what Cole would look like if he’d grown up as Lionel’s son. The entitlement, the snootiness, the my father will hear about this attitude to any perceived injustice. And the accents! Every time the lecturer asked someone a question, you heard voices responding that were posh enough to greet the Queen. You didn’t sound common at all - you were from Winchester, after all, a notoriously posh city - but compared to this lot, you might as well have been from Wolverhampton.

“They were probably just putting it on,” Lionel said to you later that evening as you told him all about it. “Believe me, most people who speak like that are either faking it or have spent so much time faking it that it became real. I don’t sound like that, and do you know why? Because I don’t go out of my way to make sure people know I have money. I let my wealth speak for itself. People who walk around with a metaphorical sign saying ‘I have loads of money’ usually don’t have loads of money. There, how does that feel?”

You pulled slightly against the rope Lionel had just finished tying around your wrists.

“Good. Can you pull me up a bit higher? I like it when there’s a bit of a pull on my shoulders.”

“Alright, but tell me if it’s too much.”

Lionel adjusted the other end of the rope, which was currently fastened to a pole that was running over the bed, holding your arms above your head. He shortened the length of the rope, and you felt a slight stretch on your shoulders.

“That’s good,” you said, and Lionel resecured the rope. He sat back on his ankles and smiled as he admired you, kneeling naked on the bed, your wrists tied above your head, completely under his control.

He placed his hands on your knees and gently spread them apart, and he growled when he saw how wet you were.

“Look at you. Completely at my mercy, just as you should be. I could just leave you here and there’d be nothing you could do about it, just kneel and wait for your lion to let you go.”

“I don’t think that’s what you bought this rack,” you teased. “I don’t think you’d tie me up and spread my legs just to walk away.”

“Mmm, you know me too well, love. I can never walk away from you when you’re naked, let alone naked and tied up.”

Lionel’s eyes were raking over you hungrily, as if he needed to memorise every part of your body. He hadn’t even touched you yet, and you could feel your cunt getting wetter.

“I wonder what those boys thought of you,” Lionel said thoughtfully. He placed a hand on each of your knees and began slowly, tauntingly, moving them up your thighs.

“Probably thought I was someone’s mum,” you replied with amusement, and Lionel chuckled.

“They probably wondered what such a gorgeous thing was doing on a finance course,” he said.

His hands reached your hips, and he continued his sensual exploration of your body by tracing your waist, and you twitched a little as his touch tickled, but you did your best to keep still.

“It would be unfair, after all, for one woman to be both smart and beautiful. But no, you have to be perfect, don’t you? Smart, beautiful, funny, fierce… with a tight cunt and gorgeous tits.”

His hands reached the tits in question and enveloped them in his palms, and he groaned, as if he didn’t grope your breasts every single day.

“I heard some of them talking before class,” you said, and you tried not to let out a squeak as Lionel pinched your nipples. “My father owns this, my uncle owns that, I went to this posh school, I have this many horses at our third country home…”

“Oh, I’m sure they all had their measuring tapes out,” Lionel chuckled. He was kneading your breasts now, and you could see from the way his hips were moving up and down slightly that his cock was getting impatient.

“I heard your name being dropped. Well, MY father’s old school chums with Lionel Shabandar. Like being two degrees away from you makes them richer somehow. They probably wouldn’t believe me if I went in tomorrow and told them that last night Lionel Shabandar’s cock was leaking before he even started fucking me.”

Lionel glanced down and saw that his erect cock was, indeed, starting to leak, as if he needed any more lubrication than what your soaking wet cunt was aching to provide.

“Looks like Lionel Junior wants something,” you teased.

Lionel’s eyes snapped up to yours, his pupils blown with lust.

“Then let’s give him what he wants,” he growled.

Lionel grabbed your thighs and lifted you up. You pulled on the rope above your head to allow yourself to raise your hips, and you let Lionel guide you as he positioned himself below you and lowered you onto his lap. You felt his cockhead breach your entrance, and you slid easily down the rest of his shaft, the wetness you were dripping for him allowing his cock, girthy as it was, to easily stretch your inner walls and penetrate you up to the hilt.

“Fuck, that feels amazing,” Lionel groaned. He wrapped his arms around your torso, holding you steady. “How does it feel, love? Are your arms alright?”

“I wanna touch you,” you whined, and Lionel chuckled.

“All in good time, love. For now, I’m going to fuck you while you’re tied up and helpless and unable to touch me no matter how much you beg. I’m going to cum inside you, and I’m going to watch my cum dripping out of your cunt all over these nice clean bedsheets. Then, I’m going to turn you around and do the exact same thing with your arse. If you’re a good girl and take your lion’s cum as you’re told, I’ll let you suffocate me with those thighs and I’ll eat you out until you tell me to stop. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Lionel grinned hungrily.

“Oh, chérie… you are going to be sore tomorrow.”

He was as good as his word. It took all your effort not to cum while he thrusted up into your cunt, and when he turned you around and fucked up into your arse to fill you up a second time, you were glad your hands were tied above your head, or else you might not have been able to resist rubbing your clit while Lionel took your arse. If you’d been doing that while he roared through his second orgasm, you may well have passed out.

Lionel was full of praise for how good you were being for him, and just as he promised, he laid down on his back and let you lower your hips over his face so he could eat you out. When you looked down and saw him hungrily devouring your cunt from below, you couldn’t hold back the orgasm that washed over you, and even when you finished, Lionel kept a firm grip on your thighs that told you he wasn’t finished with his dessert.

You managed one more orgasm before you had to call it quits. If you hadn’t, Lionel may well have happily carried on eating you out all night, but your arms and legs were aching, you were desperately thirsty, and you thought if you did cum again you would almost definitely pass out.

Lionel muttered words of praise in your ear as he untied your wrists, and you practically collapsed onto the bed, falling face-first into the pillows.

“You’re cute when you’re exhausted from shagging,” Lionel teased as he tossed the rope aside and laid down next to you. You turned your neck to look at him, and he smiled at you.

“Feeling okay?” he asked, gently stroking the side of your face.

You nodded and threw an arm over his torso to lazily embrace him. Lionel planted a kiss on your nose, then turned to reach for the bedside cabinet.

“Oh, fuck, my fags are in the other room,” he sighed.

“We can go back to our room,” you mumbled sleepily. “You might have to carry me, though.”

“You’re not the only one who’s exhausted, sweetheart. I’ll go get them…”

You shook your head stubbornly and managed to push yourself up onto your elbows.

“No, let’s go together. I don’t want to fall asleep here.”

It took you a minute, but you managed to get yourself to your feet, and Lionel placed a hand on the small of your back as you both sleepily made your way down the hallway back to your bedroom.

“We should put a lock on that room,” you said thoughtfully. “If we’re gonna have sex stuff in there, I don’t want Cole finding it.”

Lionel snorted. “That is not a conversation I want to have with him. ‘Oh, that? That’s just where I tie your mother up so I can use her body like a warm sex doll.’”

“Oh my god, don’t,” you laughed, swatting him playfully as you entered the bedroom. You made a beeline for the bed and practically threw yourself under the covers. “We already traumatised Sinclair, I don’t want to traumatise Cole too.”

“There were seven other bedrooms in that house, Sinclair could have moved at any time. Maybe he liked hearing your moans.”

“Oh, eiw, gross.”

Lionel laughed as he climbed into bed next to you and pulled his lighter and box of cigarettes from his bedside cabinet. You pushed yourself up to rest against the headboard next to him and grabbed a cigarette from him before he managed to close the box.

“Oh, I must have fucked you well,” Lionel teased. You put the cigarette between your lips and he lit it for you before lighting his own.

“I’m surprised my arms aren’t stuck like that,” you commented, and you rolled your neck to relieve some of the tension. “That’s gonna be something we only do occasionally.”

“Mmm, as much as I love having you restrained, I also enjoy it when you touch me. Can’t scratch your nails down my back if your hands are tied.”

You giggled, slightly delirious, and pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

“We should get a cat.”

Lionel looked down at you, bemused. “Where did that come from?”

“I always wanted a cat, but the council make you pay higher rent if you have pets. Cole wanted a dog, but we can’t have a dog in a flat, even one this big. Anyway, we don’t need a dog, we’ve got Sinclair. Same thing, but he won’t shit everywhere.”

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t want a dog either. Far too much work. I could deal with a cat, they mostly ignore you until they want food. Any particular kind of cat?”

“Orange.”

“Why orange?” Lionel asked with a laugh.

“They’re weird little guys.”

You took a puff of your cigarette, and Lionel thought you looked just gorgeous like this, your hair a tousled mess, your eyes half-closed with exhaustion, a cigarette between your lips and the duvet only pulled over your waist, leaving your breasts on open display for him, with bite marks and bruises forming. If he had any artistic skill at all, he’d paint you just like this.

“Alright, let’s get an orange cat.”

You looked at him, eyes alight with excitement.

“Really?”

“Yes, but it has to be an indoor cat. And we’ll have to cat-proof the place. And you’re right, we definitely need to lock that room, it’ll think it’s a playground.”

“Can we have a baby?”

Lionel’s heart skipped a beat with alarm before he realised you meant a kitten.

“Christ, [Y/n], don’t scare me like that! …You are still talking about the cat, right?”

“Yes, of course.” You frowned, confused, then realisation dawned as Lionel took a drag from his cigarette to calm the heart attack you’d just given him. “Oh, you thought I meant a baby baby. No, Christ, I just started university, I can’t get pregnant again now.”

“You can’t get pregnant again at all, thank you very much. You are taking your pill?”

“Course I am. Don’t worry, Li, you won’t be cleaning up baby sick any time soon. Unless Sinclair knocks someone up, I suppose. Aww, then we can be Auntie [Y/n] and Uncle Lionel!”

Lionel shuddered. “Do we have to? Can’t we just wait until it can use the toilet properly?”

“You could dress it in a lion onesie.”

Lionel paused in the middle of stubbing out his cigarette. You grinned cheekily.

“You’re considering iiit!” you said in a sing-song voice. “C’mon, babe, admit it, you’d be a great uncle. All the fun of baby but when it starts crying and shitting itself you can just give it back.”

“Incorrect. There is no ‘fun of baby’.”

“Yes there is, they’re so fun when they’re in a good mood! Cole was such a cute baby, he had these little chubby cheeks, and he was bald for months. And they have tiny little hands and feet all balled up, and you get to dress them up in teeny tiny little socks — until they try to eat them, Cole was always shoving his socks in his mouth. He was always shoving everything into his mouth, food especially, and he never stopped in that regard, especially when he hit puberty, he could give Sinclair a run for his money.”

You reached over Lionel to stub your cigarette out in his ashtray. He put his hand on the back of your head and tried to guide you down between his legs.

“Talking about shoving things in your mouth…” he said.

“Stop it!” you laughed, and Lionel let you go. You sat up again and gave him a peck on the lips. He grabbed the back of your head again and pulled you in for a deeper kiss, until you both sank back down into the bed, heads resting on the pillows as he peppered you with kisses.

“Do you really hate babies that much?” you asked.

“I don’t hate them, I just see no redeeming qualities in them,” Lionel replied as he wrapped an arm around you and you snuggled in against his chest. “If Sinclair does knock someone up and needs a babysitter, that’s on you, not me. I’ll look after it once it’s old enough to shake my hand properly.”

“Cole’s the same, he hates babies.”

“Wise lad. Hopefully he won’t be knocking any girls up.”

You giggled.

“What?” Lionel asked with a frown.

“He can’t knock girls up, Li. He doesn’t have the equipment.”

“…Oh, right. Well, good, nothing to worry about, then.” Lionel paused, frowning. “Wait, can he get pregnant?”

“Of course he can. His womb didn’t magically stop working the moment he declared himself a boy, as much as he’d have liked it to.”

“But… hang on…”

You looked up at Lionel with amusement as the cogs whirred inside his brain. He always looked so cute when he was confused, especially when he frowned and he got a little crease between his eyebrows.

“Does he like boys or girls?” Lionel asked at last.

“He likes both, but he seems to like boys more.”

“So… he could get pregnant? If he had a boyfriend — but then I suppose the boyfriend could be like him… or he could have a girlfriend that was born a boy…” Lionel pinched his nose. “Christ, this is confusing. Why can’t everyone just be the way they are when they’re born?”

You frowned.

“No, I don’t mean he should have stayed a girl,” Lionel said quickly. “I mean, if he’s a boy, it would be a lot easier if he was just born a boy.”

“Well, that one’s on you, babe, the sperm brings the Y chromosome. Not my fault if your swimmer brought an X instead,” you said with a playful poke to his arm.

“Ah, but, the egg lets the sperm in!” Lionel said with a counter-poke. “I’m sure I had plenty of strong male swimmers trying to get in, but you let the wrong one in.”

“Oh, sorry, my bad. You’re right, that was definitely a thing I had control over, and yet still didn’t know I was pregnant until two months later.”

“When do you think we conceived him?” Lionel asked curiously. “I’ve been thinking about it, I can’t recall a time the condom seemed to break.”

You shrugged. “No idea. We were shagging a lot. Definitely after you came home for summer, last time before that was Easter, that was too early. Imagine it was the first day back? ‘Hey babe, I’m home for the summer, I brought you some fancy wine to ease my guilt about fucking around and a broken condom so you’ll always be reminded of me after you find out and dump me.’ Good thing it broke with me and not one of the other girls, I suppose.”

Lionel frowned at you.

“What? I’m trying to make light of it to show I’ve at least kind of forgiven you. Stop looking at me like that.”

“You’ve still not asked me about it. I promised to tell you if you asked but… you’ve not asked.”

You bit your lip.

“I’m not sure I wanna know. Except, maybe… what was going through your head?”

“Very little. I was always high when it happened. Sinclair would go to cricket, I’d invite someone over to do a line with me… I always told myself nothing was going to happen this time, but as soon as the coke hit, it took over. I know my decisions were my own, even if they were driven by addiction, but I don’t want you to think I was doing it with a clear mind. When I was sober, I hated myself for it. Hated myself when I was high too, but the addiction was stronger than me.”

“But you were fine when you came home. You were never — you were never high except on New Year’s, and you never seemed to be withdrawing.”

“You weren’t always there. I’d get high when you went home.”

“You kept it from me.”

“…Yes.”

You sighed and rolled onto your back. There was a long silence. The minutes stretched out, and Lionel desperately wanted you to say something, but he knew he had to let you think.

“The boys on my course… they’re the same age you were. The same age as Cole.”

Lionel nodded, waiting to see where you were going.

“And they are, they’re just boys. They’re kids who think they’re grown up. I didn’t really see it at the time, because I was just a kid too, but… you were a kid, Lionel. More than that, you were sheltered and privileged. You said it yourself before, you thought you could have it all. You’d never seen a consequence in your life. Add a cocaine addiction and an unnaturally high libido…” You laughed incredulously. “God, that was a fucking recipe for disaster, wasn’t it?”

“[Y/n]…” Lionel said cautiously, still unsure whether you were angry or not. “I know I’ve said it before… but I really am sorry.”

You turned back towards him, and he flinched when your hand moved suddenly towards his face, but instead of slapping him as he expected, you gently stroked his cheek with much more tenderness than he deserved.

“I know, Li. I know you are. And… I won’t say I’m not still upset about it, of course I’m upset. I’m not sure I’ll ever truly be at peace with what you did. But that doesn’t change what’s always been true.”

“…Which is?”

You smiled softly as you looked at him. Your eyes were wet, but you weren’t quite crying.

“I love you. I loved you then, and I love you now. You loved me then, and you love me now. You were at the mercy of an addiction to one of the worst drugs out there — and you’re responsible for every decision you made. But you’re also responsible for every good decision you’ve made. If there’s one thing you’ve proven over the last year, babe, it’s that you absolutely are the same Lionel I knew back then. You’re still a mess of contradictions. You’re an entitled, privileged arsehole who publicly donates to controversial charities because you know they’re doing good. You’re horrible to Harry but lovely to Rachel. You never wanted kids, but you love our son. You find Sinclair annoying but you’d do anything for him. You are completely, utterly devoted to me… and you cheated on me.”

Lionel looked at you curiously.

“That’s how you see me?”

“Yes.”

“That’s… bloody hell, [Y/n]. That’s the most honest thing anyone’s ever said to me. Everyone either worships the ground I walk on or they spit on it. I’m either a god or the devil, and I’m used to that. I’ve never had someone see me from all sides before.”

“Yes, you have.”

Lionel frowned, but you just smiled and poked his shoulder.

“You numpty. I’ve seen you for what you are for almost twenty years.”

“And that’s what I am? A mess of contradictions?”

“Mmm. Also known as a human being.”

“How dare you.”

You laughed.

“Look, as a mess of contradictions, you can be both a human being and a mighty lion. But there’s one thing you are that will never be contradicted.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

You leaned in and kissed him, then looked at him with an adoring smile.

“The love of my life.”

[damistrolls]

Little Bug

hihihi i randomly decided to write a lil smthn smthn abt kizien from some random fleet soldier's perspective

umm i hope u enjoy ✌️ tho its not proofread oops

(google doc link)

—

The inky blackness of your unconscious mind thrummed dully in the deepest part of your skull. That was the first thing you remembered as you came-to. The pulsating. The pounding. The way your head ached with collision from your scuffle. Scuffle with who? And how did you lose? You’re fleet, aren’t you? 

Your grogginess was unnatural, but familiar, reminiscent of that time you were put under for surgery following a battle. You were sedated, for sure. How else would such a skinny thing best you? 

Skinny. Tall and skinny. With round goggles that reflected ominously in your peripherals while he whispered something that made your skin crawl. Of course. How could you be so stupid? It was Dr. Helzir. 

It wasn’t like you thought you were safe. Despite the frustrated requests of his superiors, Helzir still managed to get away with picking off soldiers if he liked their zombification potential. What a laugh. How can a fleet commander fail so spectacularly at leashing one goddamn fish? 

Blearily, you open your eyes. The overhead surgical lamp burned a bit, so you turned your head to the side with a wince, squinting into a less bright corner of the room. There was a floater in your vision from the light, but you eventually blinked it away, and your gaze settled on some terrible, hulking amalgamation pacing behind a thick glass.

You’ve seen these before. Never this close, though. Brutes, they were called. Helzir made many kinds of zombies, but these were the ones the fleet liked the most. They’re destructive powerhouses, far more than the sum of their literal parts. The rumor is that he strips the densest thew out of multiple trolls and intricately weaves them together, braiding muscle strand against muscle strand until he’s made something stronger than any natural thing. 

You’re not sure it works like that, but regardless, it makes your stomach turn to see the way their muscles ripple unnaturally under the tight, dead skin. Whatever repulsiveness is occurring beneath the surface, you’re just glad you can’t see it. 

“Do you like him, little bug?” 

You visibly startle, and instinctively pull at the reinforced leather straps around your wrists and ankles, the little metal bits jingling as you do. Silence follows, and for a moment, you almost believe you made him up in your mind, like some kind of bogeyman you made up to scare yourself. But your gaze soon settles on a figure seated beside the brute’s containment tank, smiling placidly. 

Your stomach feels rotten again, only worse. 

“He’s to be shipped off soon. I’ll be sorry to see him go. I think I really outdid myself this time.”

Kizien’s voice was even, almost droning, but something about his tone carried a certain ill-fitting airyness. You stare at him, getting a glimpse of his eyes behind his goggles. His tone was innocent, but his eyes betrayed this. He didn’t do this for the money, or even the notoriety. He did this for fun. Like everyone was just a doll in his toybox. 

“Save it,” you spit venomously, “the commander won’t let you have me.”

The biologist brings a hand up, adjusting his goggles as a toothy grin breaks out on his face. 

“Oh, he won’t know until you’re long gone. I prefer to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission.” 

Kizien rises from his seat, trailing a gloved hand over the brute’s enclosure as he passes by it. He approaches you on the vivisection table, and you instinctively lean away. Twiggy as he may be, Helzir unsettles you. You and every ensign that has to tiptoe around his floor, that is. You don’t understand how some people can hold a normal conversation with him, knowing that he’s always thinking about which of your parts he can upcycle. He has no loyalty to anyone. That’s scarier than any zealot, imperial OR rebellious. 

You strain against your bindings again. The violet tuts and pulls a rolling hand table closer. The instruments on display there may be clean, sharp, and well-maintained, but it brings you no comfort. It will be immensely painful regardless. You’ve heard the screams from his lab before. 

“Well, now that you’re good and awake, we should probably get started. I can’t wait to get my fingers under your skin and really feel what I’m working with here…” 

“Wait-” you interrupt, trying not to sound like you’re stalling. Kizien hums and looks over. His hand hovers over one of the surgical tools, fingers twitching excitedly. Think. What can you get him talking about? “... I know I’m not getting out of this. Can’t you tell me the secret?” 

Kizien’s gaze is fixated on you curiously, seeming to turn the request around in his brain a few times. 

“The secret?” 

“About the zombies. About why no one can make them the way you do. I heard about the commander’s old research team. Everyone says it’s special, what you do– that it’s the only reason they let you stay.” 

“That isn’t the only reason.” 

“Well, I’m as good as dead, right? And you’re probably dying to brag to someone about it, right?” 

Kizien’s quiet at first, and it’s hard to know what he’s thinking. But you don’t mind, he can chew on this for as long as he wants, if it delays your non-consensual murder-surgery/surgery-murder. But eventually, he does speak again, a smile ever-present on his face. 

“I’ll let you stall us just a little bit, little bug” he acquiesced. 

Kizien picked up a scalpel to turn it over in his fingers idly. Thinking about what he would have done with that makes you shudder… You have to find a way out, now that you have time. You swallow thickly and give the biologist your attention, hoping he’ll be too distracted by his words to notice you trying to get your ankle out of its restraint. 

“Growing up, I thought magic was just science we haven’t figured out yet,” he began. “That’s what many scientific minds say about it, at least. But in time, I learned that magic really is an entirely different phenomenon than biological or chemical studies, and only a select few are blessed with the ability to utilize it. It isn’t like psionics. You can’t prod at it through the mind or body. Magic is from somewhere else. And then… I discovered that you can still prod at it, even if you can’t use magic yourself. It’s a delicate process, but the previous Sorcerer’s notes were more than enough to get me started.”

“The previous Sorcerer?” 

“Yes.” 

Your brows pinch together. 

“I didn’t know there was a previous one. Titles aren’t usually passed down.” 

“Mm, well, the title was stripped from him when he abandoned the fleet in favor of seeking power and immortality, and the mantle fell to his descendent, our lovely commander Kollin. They figured he ought to be just as powerful as his ancestor, but…”

Kizien's eyes narrow in amusement, and you feel a prickling sensation at the back of your neck, suddenly defensive over your superior. 

“The commander is a powerful sorcerer. What do you know about magic?” 

“More than he does, actually. But we’ll get to that part of the story later. I want to answer your question first, about the ‘secret’. It should come as no surprise now that the secret is magic. I can’t actually wield it, but if I get my hands on raw magical energy, there’s a lot else I can do with it. Most other scientists don’t have the right sort of mind to understand it, though. It’s why your precious commander could never find a team to do it properly.” 

“But that’s not the only reason.”

“No. The other reason is that Velzka Kollin is a fraud, and he needs me.” 

Your mouth feels dry. You try to focus on getting your ankle free, but you begin to wonder… Would the commander even be able to help you, if you got out? 

“What do you mean?” you manage through the cottony dryness of your throat. 

Kizien smiles again, spinning the scalpel around in his fingers. 

“Any magic-user can certainly learn and train and generally improve their skills, but one’s inherent magical capacity is effectively immutable. Some trolls will simply never be able to reach the same heights as others. Not without outside assistance. In the commander’s case… I acquire raw magic for him to take, so that his superiors don’t replace him with someone better. Think of it like… performance-enhancing drugs, but to a more extreme degree.” 

“You’re blackmailing him?” 

“Is it blackmail if I don’t intend to reveal him to anyone? I think it’s more like a bribe. Either he can take it, and enjoy reaping the benefits of his station, or he can send me away, and risk being made obsolete. Really, it’s a choice he’s making here. A selfish choice, when you think about it.” 

You swallow. You were nervous before, but now you’re… scared. The commander is under Kizien’s thumb. There’s no protecting you, even if you get out. The violet takes notice of your demeanor shift, and that big, toothy grin returns to his face. You begin to fight against your restraints again, despite the fact that you know the Ripmaw isn’t safe for you anymore. Anything– ANYTHING to delay the inevitable. 

“I think that’s enough distraction for now,” the biologist hums blithely. 

You yell and squirm and thrash your head, restraints clattering against the surgical table. You almost can’t hear Kizien’s calm voice beneath it all. 

“Don’t worry, little bug,” he all but whispers. “No one will even recognize you by the end of it.” 

[docholligay]

Utena voice: But was that really such a good idea?

Okay, but, what i am about to say sounds like a criticism, but it's not. I have spent plenty of time criticizing Ed and I will again, (Me to Jetty earlier today while I was liveblogging this: Edward Elric is annoying me again) but that's not this.

Even standing at his mother's grave, it is still about Ed. So much of what Ed does is self-centered, and I DON'T mean that in a "ed is a piece of shit" way, for once, I meant that every way he conceives of anything is about and through him. Now, grief is often that way. That makes sense, dead people cannot feel for us or cry for us or love us. That is the tragedy of loss, is the great hole there where you can only create a simulacra of them inside you.

But I mean that this whole trip home has been about what Ed is looking for and wants, and how little he considers people outside himself. He loves his brother, of course, I would never say he didn't, but that doesn't preclude him from being selfish even in his desires to sacrifice himself for him. It's about Ed's guilt.

The death grip on the watch! He's talking to a guy who is like, "take it from me, you will not find waht you are looking for" and he says, "No thanks I got this" Marcoh! Marcoh tells him this is all terrible stuff and to just let it go, and he breaks a HOLE IN THE MAN'S WALL TO STEAL HIS STUFF. Ed's circle of vision is VERY narrow.

I don't have a point here other than I think it's interesting that the show continues to point it out. And it makes the moments where he DOES break through, for me at least, mean even more. (For example, I find it almost touching, when he realizes there must be a reason Roy didn't nail him to the wall in the assessment battle. Very unlike Ed in a good way, especially considering the other party involved is Fucking Roy)

PLEASE DO NOT COMMENT ANYTHING THAT COULD EVEN REMOTELY LEAD TO ME REALIZING SOMETHING OR KNOWING SOMETHING NEW. Do not confirm, deny, draw attention to something I missed EVEN IF I SHOULD HAVE SEEN IT, contextualize in a cultural or historical way, anything. I hate that I have to be so specific but I am trying to experience this show totally clean. IF YOU SPOIL ME I WILL BLOCK YOU.

QUICK LINK TO THE SPOILER-FILLED FUNTIMES DISCORD HERE. THEY WOULD LOVE TO HEAR THE THINGS YOU KNOW AND YELL ABOUT ME

[milk-is-stable]

Everyone needs to know that it's @mikesflaccidlemonade7's fault for enabling me by letting me ramble in his dms about this the other day XD

So! here's the bullet points version:

I headcanon that Maria Clarissio has magical abilities. Similar ones to the Xavier's, that are passed down genetically from mother to daughter. In other words, the women in her family have always had a gift. However, Maria is the only one left in the family with this power, because let's not forget, the Grape Depression is in 1925, so what has just recently happened?

That's right, it's the Spanish Influenza Pandemic!!! :D

So her grandmother (such a malevolent and benevolent woman, who always said that it was Maria's job to use her power to protect their family) is dead, her mother is dead, the child that her mother was carrying when she fell ill is dead, and Geppetto is devastated. Maria ends up using her power to summon the Blue Fairy, and wishes that her papa would be happy again so that they can be a family. Alessandra grants this wish by bringing the puppet of Pinocchio that Geppetto was making in his grief to life, and then a slightly altered version of the og fairytale happens (where not only does Pinocchio have to learn to be a real boy, but Geppetto must learn to move past his grief and be there for his children again).

(the rest is under a cut because this got long and also a little dark)

Five years later, and Maria Clarissio is 16, and the harvest fails, and for the first time in a long time, she feels that fear that she felt at 11 years old, of not knowing how they'll survive the next year.

Geppetto, a much more attentive father now, tells her not to worry, that he will make it right, that he will go to the Don and ask for a loan. Maria (who has noticed the growing glances from the men of the village as she's gotten older, including from the Don) is afraid that the Don will ask for something in return and is trying to mentally prepare herself for that (which is a big Yikes, I know, but in my defense Sam actually brought it up in the play itself), but then he asked for something she wasn't expecting.

So Maria summons the fairy again and suddenly finds herself facing down an impossible choice: refuse the Don his wooden boy and slowly starve with her father and brother, or sacrifice the brother she helped bring into the world and raise and care for so that she and her papa can live.

I like to think that she overheard Geppetto's conversation with Alessandra, where he offered his own life to her, and that part of the reason she chose the way she did is that she was (rightfully) worried that Geppetto would try to sacrifice himself for them, leaving her alone at 16 to try and care for herself and Pinocchio (a canonically frail and sick child) with no support. Her choice really is more about "who do I let die so the rest of us can live, my father or my brother?"

She makes her impossible choice, and tries to offer the boy up to the Don, and then he blatantly spits in the face of everything she's worked for and sacrificed and now her father hates her and it was all for nothing and....oh. Pinocchio is alive again. And now the Don is at their home and he wants to take Pinocchio away from them and Maria has never been so furious in her entire life, but before things escalate any further, her sweet baby brother, who has no idea how cruel the world is, who has no idea how terrified she was, who doesn't know what she did to him, wants the four of them to all live together and be a happy family.

So now Maria is expected to live in a house with the man who terrorized their family, who forced her to make the worst choice she's ever made in her life, who was willing to rip their family apart to satisfy his own grief, who brings dangerous people around at night and expects her to serve them drinks and endure their leers while they talk of terrible deeds.

And all the while, Geppetto is still clearly terrified of the Don. He's still intimidating and mean and Maria feels his eyes on her when she walks through the house, and every time he spends time with Pinocchio Maria can see how tense and afraid her father is, and she shares that fear. What if the Don decides that he's tired of playing house with them and just takes Pinocchio away? What if he stays, but his influence warps the sweet boy who she and her father love into somebody cold and calculating and cruel like him? What if their family is targeted by his enemies, just like his real son was? The stress of it all is wearing on Geppetto's nerves, and Maria just wants her family back, dammit!

And then late one night, after one of his clandestine meetings with his "business associates," he's had a bit too much wine and gets a little too comfortable and her worst fears about his intentions with her are confirmed, and she decides enough is enough. Her past experiences have taught her that there's no one she can rely on to fix this but herself and her power.

So she goes to summon the blue fairy one more time, and this time, she will not be wishing to give life.

It's like Grandmother said, she has to use her power to protect her family, and that's exactly what she's going to do.

Ok....do I have enough fanfic clout (/j) in here now to talk about my idea for a story where Maria Clarissio murders Don Vincenzio for what he did to her family or is everyone still too attached to the don/geppetto ship for that XD

[ohbo-ohno]

Hi!!! This is my first ever ask so sorry if it’s weird lol. Out of all the 141 boys, who’d you think would be most likely to sneak lactation pills into readers food in hopes of reader coming to them for help??? I can’t stop thinking about it and I need to know your thoughts too

no worries at all!!!!! i did not realize lactation pills were a thing though omg this is wild to me

here's my ranking from most to least likely: price, ghost, soap, gaz

i'll be honest, i only put soap below ghost because when i did some googling the Internet said lactation inducing medicine can take several months to work and soap does not have the patience for that lmfao

anyways price is the most likely culprit for this (imo) because that man is the walking definition of a Breeding Kink. he wants you knocked up and pregnant the moment he decides he even wants you. it's his first fucking priority. he'll start slipping you lactation supplements concerningly early in your relationship (because of the aforementioned several months) and masks the way he feels you up in the shower as horniness instead of medical curiosity lmao

also i personally don't see the appeal in drinking breast milk but John Price sure does. that man is drinking you dry, and tbh it's lowkey better if you don't actually have a baby to feed because he gets to keep all your milk for himself

ghost would do this and like 10 other things to keep you as reliant on him as possible. he just wants you to come to him for everything, and he's far from above manufacturing a reason for you to need him. and with breast milk drinking, it's just another way for him to consume you, another part of you he can literally drink down. of course he's into it. that man starts salivating the first time you complain about your tits being sore

(also ghost is totally a dominant freak but tbh there are certain versions of that man that i think have a very deeply buried mommy kink)

soap would do it just because he's a fucking freak. he sees like a singular porno with breast milk drinking and is like "I Need That Now" and starts slipping you the lactation pills. tbh he probably just gets into a routine of doing and forgets about it after a while, by the time you actually start lactating he's like "oh hell yeah" because he just completely forgot

gaz would probably suggest that you take them while you're pregnant, and he just ends up being fucking obsessed with the milk you produce. before the baby's come, it's got to go somewhere and he deems it an insult to just pump and throw it away :/ he'll lay on your chest for as long as you'll let him lmao (and maybe keep slipping the medicine to you post-baby and post-baby-being-weened)

[skys-archive]

It makes me really sad when I see people who are making videos or podcasts or just posting on social media feel horrible when they stop or slow down content creation. Like no, you don't owe us anything at all. Work at your own pace. Focus on yourself when you can. We're here for you once you're ready. It's okay.

[pollen]

i've been diving a lot deeper into adhd symptoms and comorbidities and misdiagnoses and whenever i tell my boyfriend something i learned that sounds like me he responds with something like

[crowlore]

no, dragon age 2 is not the best dragon age game. but it’s also not the worst. and most importantly, it is my favorite.

[mintincubus]

the party in-game btw :^)

[chuchayucca]

Discussions of implied fictional CSA & SA

I recently been wondering if there’s a chance Richard thinks Roy’s aggressive and distant behavior is normal and not a sign of CSA because he acted similarly to Roy when he was younger

Reasonings in the tags

[koalemoslepus]

//Warning I have a tendency to accidentally hide my true vents in the tags by total accident

-----

I just saw an AI bot meant to give you the AI prompts to write AI image generations like at what point do we literally just get to revoke brain if you're not going to do it like literally we don't need you to copy and paste the machines could do that quite easily with a script and frankly I vote we pay them instead of you because shit maybe we could get some deflation in here if the money starts disappearing and it's not like you're fucking doing a damn thing for it also in my like in my warped verision of reality I cling to maybe?? If we let everyone go down this rabbit hole of the tech we have at present being sentient we could somehow crackpot loop our way back around them being regulated more than a worker maybe we'd help curb the cash incentives cause I know they'd get more protections / freedoms than a woman would in my lifetime FUCK anyway