#like hey you're an imposition

[halfdeadwallfly]

according to every other post i see on instagram im apparently a toxic person who doesn't have friends because i am the problem in my relationships and am just not aware of it. can someone confirm.

[luveline]

smart, younger reader who’s like spencer and is awkward but so so lovely and then guard dog botch who’s always there and always ALWAYS so sweet to reader after absolutely biting a guys head of about getting condescending or rude !!

if u would be so kind

thank you for requesting! fem

“Exactly! High five, Dr. Reid.” 

Your hands smack as Spencer gives you a heartfelt high five. Spencer is younger than you, but besides that, Hotch might think you were twins separated at birth (very genetically different twins, but twins nonetheless). If he believed in kindred spirits, that's what you'd be. 

And it's good for him. Hotch knows there are moments where he could've been nicer to Spencer, just that being his boss makes that more difficult than it should, and with you around, you've got all the niceness solved. You're lovely. 

“I knew we'd get there,” you say. 

It's great, but there are better places for your and Spencer's diorama than the office kitchenette. 

“Guys, can we move this to a desk?” he asks. 

He should say, Can we not do this in work hours? But he doesn't. That likely says something about him… he'd rather not explore. Something he already knows. 

“It's a bit delicate for moving,” you hum, eyes on the paper attachment you've created. 

“Move it,” he says, imploring rather than stern. He hides a smile behind the lip of his mug and begins to turn away, stopped momentarily by Anderson just past the threshold. 

Anderson begins asking him about something, Hotch listens, and he pretends he isn't still listening to you and Spencer as you decide what to do with your diorama. You speak in sweet tones, encouraging to a fault, “He doesn't really mind,” you're saying, “he's just the boss. I'll hold this side and you hold that side, and– woah!” 

There's a scuffle, an explosion of paper crunching and ceramic, the sound of water spilled. 

Hotch shifts to the side to watch the aftermath. 

“Are you kidding me?” 

“I–” you say, hand clenched around a scrap of torn paper, coffee staining your shoes, “I– I–” Hotch winces as you struggle for words. “I'm so sorry.” 

“You've gotta be joking.” The man you've seemingly whacked into is an older agent. He's been around much longer than you have, probably almost as long as Hotch, and he has that jaded chagrin about him. Time constitutes knowledge, sure, but not attitude. “Why are you two always messing around in here?” 

“Sorry, Agent Giles,” you say, your hands creeping together toward your stomach defensively, “we were just moving this, and I- I'll–” 

“You're gonna make me another cup of coffee?” he asks contemptuously. 

“That's quite enough,” Hotch interrupts. “Agent L/N had no intention of bumping into you.” He stands to your side. “I'd be more than happy to make a new cup of coffee if it's an imposition for you.” His tone suggests he may not be very happy after all. 

“It's fine.” Giles turns his gaze away. 

Spencer's sprung into action, having fished the bits of your diorama and broken mug from your feet, now on his knees wiping up the puddle of coffee you've displaced. “Spence,” you say, “I'm sorry, I ruined it–” 

Hotch speaks up before Spencer can. “It was an accident.” 

You have this gutted, soft eyed look about you, embarrassed he's sure. You're a sensitive girl. You're probably more upset for Spencer than yourself, and aflame with the heat of the gaze of an entire office. He casts his head back to narrow his eyes at any nosing that's still happening before he touches your shoulder. 

“Sorry, Hotch,” you say, lifting your shoe a centimetre off of the ground. Coffee drips down the canvas of them. It squelches as you put it down. 

“It's okay.” The favouritism he works so hard to hide rears its head, unable to stand the sad quirk of your mouth. “Hey, it's okay. It was an accident. You have spare shoes and socks in your go bag, and it's,” —he lowers his voice to a fond, warm whisper— “not as though you and Spencer have anything to do that you'll actually hand in to me today. Don't let it upset you.” 

You raise your head too quickly at the sound of his teasing. Relief brightens your eyes. “You're not mad?” 

“Not at you.” 

You let that sink in. Hotch's hand drops to your elbow before leaving your sleeve altogether. 

“Reid,” he says. “Don't hurt yourself. I'll call the custodian.” 

“Please don't,” you say, turning your chest to his. So close he can smell the clean notes of your perfume. “We can do it.” 

“Alright. If you're sure,” Hotch says. He resists the urge to touch your face, though the way he looks at you isn't much better. The upset melts your face, replaced with a flustered freneticism that snaps him back into focus. He's your boss. 

He's your boss. 

“Thanks, Hotch,” you smile. 

He turns away before he's tempted into touching you again. 

[estapa-edwards]

PROM - R. LEONARD

paring: Ryan Leonard x reader

word count: 4.2k

requested? no

warnings: use of y/n.

*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·..·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·..·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·..·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·..·:*¨¨*

The sound of my alarm blaring at 6:30 AM dragged me out of a restless sleep. Prom was just around the corner, and the pressure was mounting. All my friends had dates, and I was the odd one out. Desperation was starting to set in, and the idea of going alone was unbearable.

As I got ready for school, I couldn't help but think about Ryan Leonard. Ryan was a big deal at Boston College, playing hockey and living out his dream. We had grown up together, shared countless memories, and yet, I hadn’t seen much of him since he went off to college. Could I ask him to prom? Would he even agree? The thought made my heart race.

"Y/N, you're going to be late!" my mom's voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

"Coming!" I grabbed my bag and headed out, trying to shove my anxiety aside.

School was the usual mix of boring classes and the buzzing excitement of prom. My friends, if I could really call them that, were chattering about their dresses, dates, and after-parties. I felt like an outsider looking in.

"Hey, Y/N, who are you going with to prom?" Sarah, one of the self-proclaimed leaders of our group, asked with a smirk.

I hesitated. "I... I haven't decided yet."

She laughed. "Better hurry up. You don’t want to be the only one without a date."

The bell rang, and I practically ran to my first class, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach. As the day dragged on, I kept thinking about Ryan. Maybe this was crazy, but he was my last hope.

---- --- --- 

Back home, I paced my room, working up the nerve to call Ryan. My mind was racing with a hundred different thoughts, each one more anxious than the last. Finally, I grabbed my phone and dialed his number, my heart pounding with each ring.

"Hello?"

"Ryan? Hey, it's Y/N," I said, my voice trembling slightly.

"Y/N! Wow, it's been a while. How's it going?"

"Good, good. Listen, I need a favor," I blurted out, already feeling the nerves creeping in.

"Sure, what’s up?" he asked, his tone warm and friendly.

I took a deep breath. "Would you... um, would you go to prom with me?" The words tumbled out faster than I intended. I immediately started overexplaining. "I know it's short notice, and you're probably really busy with hockey and school and everything. I just—well, you know how it is, all my friends have dates, and I didn't want to go alone, and I thought maybe since we grew up together and always had fun, it wouldn't be too weird, but if you can't, I totally understand..."

"Y/N," he interrupted gently, a smile evident in his voice. "Calm down. I'd love to go to prom with you."

Relief flooded through me, but I still felt the need to clarify. "Really? I mean, it's next Saturday, and you probably have a lot going on. I wouldn't want to impose or mess up your schedule."

"Next Saturday is perfect," he reassured me. "I'd be honored to go with you. It's no imposition at all."

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "Thank you, Ryan. Seriously, this means a lot to me."

"Anything for you, Y/N," he said softly. "I’m looking forward to it."

His calm, steady response eased my anxiety, and for the first time in days, I felt a genuine smile spread across my face. "Me too. Thanks again, Ryan."

"Anytime," he replied. "See you next Saturday."

After we hung up, I collapsed onto my bed, feeling a mix of excitement and gratitude. Ryan Leonard, my childhood friend, and now my prom date. Maybe this prom wouldn't be so bad after all.

--- --- --- 

The news that I was going to prom with Ryan Leonard spread through the school like wildfire. No one believed me. My so-called friends laughed it off, convinced I was making it up to save face.

"Yeah right, like Ryan Leonard is going to show up here," Sarah scoffed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Stop trying to get attention, Y/N."

I tried to brush it off, but the disbelief and mockery didn't stop there. In the cafeteria, I overheard them talking about me while I was in line for lunch.

"Did you hear Y/N’s story about bringing Ryan Leonard to prom?" Emily giggled. "What a joke."

"I know, right?" Jessica chimed in. "It's so obvious she’s lying. Probably doesn’t want to admit she couldn’t get a date."

During gym class, they continued their taunts. As we were warming up, Sarah walked past me and smirked. "So, Y/N, how's your 'boyfriend' Ryan doing? Is he flying in on his private jet to take you to prom?"

Her friends laughed, and I felt my face flush with embarrassment. I clenched my fists, forcing myself to stay calm.

The worst was in English class. Mrs. Thompson asked us to discuss our plans for the weekend, and when it was my turn, I hesitated. I didn’t want to give them more ammunition, but I couldn't lie.

"I'm going to prom," I said simply.

"With Ryan Leonard," Sarah interjected loudly, rolling her eyes. "Isn't that right, Y/N?"

The class erupted into laughter, and Mrs. Thompson had to call for order. I sank lower into my seat, wishing I could disappear.

Even in the hallways, the whispers followed me. "There goes Y/N, the girl who thinks she's going to prom with a college hockey star," I overheard one girl say to her friend.

"She must be delusional," her friend replied. "No way he’d come back for a high school prom."

I tried to ignore them, focusing instead on getting everything ready for the big night. I bought a dress, arranged for hair and makeup, and counted down the days until Saturday. Despite the constant doubt and ridicule, I held onto the hope that Ryan would come through for me.

As the day approached, the tension only grew. My so-called friends couldn't resist one last dig during lunch on Friday.

"So, Y/N," Sarah said loudly enough for the whole table to hear, "ready for your big date with Mr. Imaginary?"

"Yeah, Y/N," Emily added with a smirk. "I hope he doesn't stand you up. That would be so embarrassing."

I took a deep breath and looked them straight in the eyes. "You'll see," I said quietly but firmly. "He’s coming."

They all laughed again, but I could see a flicker of uncertainty in their eyes. Maybe, just maybe, they were starting to wonder if I was telling the truth.

I spent Friday night in a flurry of preparation, my excitement mingling with nerves. As I lay in bed, I couldn't help but replay the events of the past week in my mind. All the doubts, the mocking, the disbelief—I just hoped that when Ryan showed up, it would be enough to prove them all wrong.

--- --- ---

The night of prom arrived, and I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection. My dress was perfect, a deep blue that complemented my eyes, and my hair was styled in loose curls. I looked... different. More confident, maybe. But inside, I was a bundle of nerves. My heart was pounding, and my stomach felt like it was filled with butterflies. I couldn't shake the anxiety that had been building all week.

"Y/N, are you ready?" my mom called from downstairs.

"Almost!" I called back, taking a deep breath and smoothing down my dress for what felt like the hundredth time. I glanced at my phone, checking the time and wondering if Ryan would actually show up. What if something had come up last minute? What if he forgot?

I shook my head, trying to banish the negative thoughts. Ryan wasn't like that. He said he'd be here, and I had to trust him. I grabbed my clutch and headed downstairs, my heart racing with each step.

As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I heard a car pull up outside. My heart skipped a beat, and I rushed to the window. Ryan was there, leaning against his car, looking as handsome as ever in a classic black tuxedo. Relief and excitement washed over me, and I took a deep breath to steady myself.

"Coming!" I called out to my mom, my voice shaky. I opened the door and stepped outside, my heart pounding in my chest.

Ryan's face lit up when he saw me, and he smiled that charming smile that had always made me feel special. "Wow, Y/N. You look amazing."

"Thanks, Ryan," I replied, feeling my cheeks flush. "You clean up pretty well yourself."

He opened the car door for me, and as I slid into the passenger seat, I couldn't help but start babbling. "I can't believe you're actually here. I mean, I knew you would be, but still, I was so nervous all week. Everyone at school kept saying you wouldn't show up, and I started to doubt myself. But you're here, and it means so much to me. I know you're really busy with hockey and college and everything, so I really appreciate you taking the time to do this. It's just... thank you, Ryan."

He chuckled softly as he got into the driver's seat. "Y/N, it's really no big deal. I’m happy to be here with you. And besides, prom is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I wouldn’t miss it for the world."

His calm, reassuring tone helped soothe my nerves, and I smiled, feeling a little more at ease. As we drove to the venue, my mind was racing with a mix of excitement and anxiety. Would my friends believe me now?

--- --- ---

When we arrived at the venue, the parking lot was already filled with students dressed in their finest. The school had transformed the gymnasium into a glittering wonderland of lights and decorations. Ryan parked the car and came around to open my door, offering his hand to help me out.

As we walked toward the entrance, my heart was pounding again. I could already see some of my classmates milling around outside, and I knew they were watching us. The whispers started almost immediately.

"Is that really Ryan Leonard?"

"I can't believe he actually came."

I held my head high, gripping Ryan's arm for support. As we entered the gym, the room fell silent for a moment, heads turning to stare at us. The music continued to play, but all eyes were on us.

Sarah and her friends were clustered near the punch bowl, and I saw her eyes widen in disbelief when she spotted us. She quickly composed herself and walked over, her expression a mix of skepticism and forced friendliness.

"Well, well, Y/N. Looks like you weren't lying after all," she said, trying to sound casual but failing to hide the surprise in her voice.

"Why would I lie about something like this?" I shot back, my voice steadier than I felt.

She narrowed her eyes, clearly annoyed that her predictions had been wrong. "Whatever. Have fun, I guess."

Ryan squeezed my hand, and we moved to the dance floor. The music was loud, the lights were bright, and for a moment, everything felt perfect. I glanced around, seeing the looks of shock and envy on the faces of my classmates. It was a small victory, but it felt good.

--- --- --- 

As we swayed to the slow, melodic rhythm of the music, the world seemed to fade away, leaving just Ryan and me on the dance floor. The soft glow of the fairy lights above us cast a warm, ethereal glow, and I found myself relaxing into the moment. Ryan's hand was steady on my waist, his other hand gently holding mine.

I looked up at him, feeling a mixture of gratitude and nostalgia. "Thank you for coming tonight, Ryan," I said softly. "You have no idea how much this means to me."

He smiled down at me, his eyes warm and sincere. "I'm happy to be here, Y/N. It's been a long time since we’ve had a chance to catch up."

I nodded, feeling a lump form in my throat. "I missed you. Things just aren’t the same without you around."

"I missed you too," he admitted, his gaze never leaving mine. "Life's been so busy with college and hockey, but I always think about the times we spent together growing up."

I bit my lip, trying to find the right words. "It feels like everything changed so quickly. One minute we were kids, and the next, you were off chasing your dreams. I guess I felt a little left behind."

Ryan's expression softened, and he pulled me a little closer. "I'm sorry if it ever felt that way. You were never left behind, Y/N. You've always been important to me."

His words sent a warm feeling through my chest, and I found myself smiling despite the tears that threatened to spill. "It’s just been tough, you know? With everyone at school and feeling like I don’t quite fit in. Having you here tonight... it makes everything better."

He squeezed my hand gently. "You deserve to feel special, Y/N. Don’t let anyone make you think otherwise. Tonight is about having fun and celebrating you. I'm just glad I get to be here with you."

We danced in silence for a few moments, the music surrounding us like a comforting embrace. I felt safe and cherished in Ryan’s arms, a stark contrast to the way I usually felt at school. It was as if all the doubts and insecurities melted away, replaced by a sense of belonging.

"Do you ever miss it?" I asked, breaking the silence. "Being home, I mean."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, I do. Boston College is amazing, and I love playing hockey, but there's something about being home that you can't replace. The familiarity, the memories... and people like you."

I blushed at his words, feeling a warmth spread through me. "I’m really proud of you, you know. Seeing you live your dream is inspiring."

"Thanks, Y/N," he said, his smile genuine. "And you? What about your dreams? What do you want to do after graduation?"

I hesitated, the question feeling both exciting and daunting. "I’m not entirely sure yet. I have some ideas, but it’s hard to know for certain. I just want to find something that makes me happy."

"You will," he said confidently. "Whatever you choose, you’ll be amazing at it. I know you will."

The song began to wind down, and I realized that for the first time in a long while, I felt hopeful about the future. As the last notes played, Ryan leaned down, his forehead resting gently against mine.

"Thank you for this dance," he whispered, his breath warm against my skin.

"Thank you for making it unforgettable," I whispered back, feeling a sense of connection that words couldn't fully capture.

--- --- --- 

As the night went on, I started to relax, enjoying Ryan's company and the magic of the evening. We danced, laughed, and talked, just like old times. But, of course, it didn’t last. My so-called friends couldn’t resist making snide comments and trying to undermine me.

"Look at Y/N, acting like she's all that just because she has a famous date," one of them whispered loudly enough for me to hear.

"Yeah, it's probably just a pity date," another added.

Ryan stopped dancing and turned to them, his eyes blazing with anger. "You know what? Y/N is amazing, and she's way better than any of you who think it's okay to tear someone down just to feel good about yourselves."

The room went silent again, and I felt my cheeks burn with a mix of embarrassment and gratitude. No one had ever stood up for me like that.

"Let's get out of here," Ryan said softly, taking my hand.

We left the ballroom and walked outside into the cool night air. The stars were bright, and the tension of the evening seemed to melt away.

"Thank you, Ryan. For everything," I said, my voice filled with emotion.

He looked at me, his expression serious. "You deserve better than how they treated you, Y/N. Don't ever let anyone make you feel less than you are."

--- --- ---

The rest of the night was a blur of laughter and conversation. We drove around the city, talking about everything and nothing, just like old times. It felt like we were the only two people in the world.

After leaving the prom, we got into Ryan's car and drove away from the venue, the city lights twinkling like stars around us. The air was filled with a comfortable silence, punctuated only by our sporadic bursts of laughter and the hum of the car engine. Ryan turned on the radio, and we sang along to old songs that brought back a flood of childhood memories.

"Remember when we used to ride our bikes to the old park and play until it got dark?" Ryan asked, glancing over at me with a nostalgic smile.

I laughed, the memory warming my heart. "Yeah, and how we’d always get in trouble for coming home late. Your mom would call my mom, and they’d both be waiting for us at your house with that look."

He chuckled, nodding. "Good times. Simpler times."

We drove past our old elementary school, the playground now empty and quiet. "It's strange how everything looks the same, but feels so different," I mused. "We’ve grown up so much, but these places hold the same memories."

Ryan pulled over near the school, turning off the engine. "Let's take a walk," he suggested.

We got out of the car and strolled down the familiar paths, the cool night air refreshing against my skin. The playground was eerily quiet, a stark contrast to the bustling activity it used to have when we were kids. We walked over to the swings and sat down, gently swaying back and forth.

"Do you ever wish you could go back?" I asked, looking up at the stars.

"Sometimes," Ryan admitted. "But then I think about all the things we’ve experienced and learned. Growing up is hard, but it shapes us into who we are. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything."

I nodded, understanding what he meant. "I just miss the simplicity of it all. No drama, no expectations. Just us, having fun."

He reached over and took my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "We can still have that, you know. It might be different, but the connection is still there. Tonight proves that."

We sat there for a while, lost in our own thoughts, the silence comfortable and familiar. Eventually, we got back into the car and continued our journey through the city. We drove past our favorite ice cream shop, and Ryan impulsively turned into the parking lot.

"Want to get some ice cream?" he asked with a grin.

"Absolutely," I replied, my excitement genuine.

The shop was nearly empty, and we ordered our old favorites—mint chocolate chip for him, strawberry for me. We sat in one of the booths, savoring the sweet, cold treat and reminiscing about the countless times we’d done the same thing as kids.

"Do you remember that summer we tried to make our own ice cream?" Ryan asked between bites. "We made such a mess in your kitchen."

I laughed, almost choking on my ice cream. "My mom was so mad! We got ice cream everywhere except in the bowls."

"It tasted awful, too," he added with a grin. "But it was fun. One of those memories you never forget."

We stayed there until the shop closed, then got back in the car and drove aimlessly, enjoying each other’s company. We talked about our hopes and dreams, our fears and uncertainties. It felt good to open up, to share parts of ourselves that had been hidden away for too long.

Eventually, we found ourselves at the edge of town, near the lake where we used to go fishing with our families. Ryan parked the car, and we got out, walking down to the water's edge. The moon reflected off the surface, creating a serene and almost magical atmosphere.

"I used to come here to think," I said quietly, staring out at the water. "Whenever things got tough, this was my escape."

Ryan nodded, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "I get that. Everyone needs a place like this. A place to find peace."

We sat down on the grass, side by side, the silence speaking volumes. After a while, Ryan turned to me, his expression serious. "Y/N, I’m really sorry about what happened at prom. I didn't mean to cause any trouble."

I shook my head, placing a hand on his arm. "Ryan, you didn’t ruin anything. You made it better. I’m glad you stood up for me. It showed me who my real friends are."

He smiled, relief evident in his eyes. "I’m glad to hear that. I was worried I might have made things worse."

"No," I said firmly. "You made it perfect. Tonight has been everything I could have hoped for and more. Thank you."

We stayed there for a while longer, the peacefulness of the lake surrounding us. Eventually, we knew it was time to head home. Ryan drove me back to my house, the conversation still flowing easily between us.

Ryan walked me to my door, and we stood there, neither of us wanting the night to end.

"I had a great time tonight, Y/N," he said softly.

"Me too. Thank you for coming with me. It really meant a lot."

He smiled, that same smile that had always made me feel special. "Anytime. Let’s not wait so long to see each other again, okay?"

"Okay," I agreed, my heart swelling with a mix of emotions.

He leaned in and kissed my cheek, sending a shiver down my spine. "Goodnight, Y/N."

"Goodnight, Ryan."

I turned to unlock the door, but before I could step inside, I felt his hand gently grab my arm. I turned back, surprised, and saw an intensity in his eyes that took my breath away. Without another word, he leaned in and kissed me, his lips soft and warm against mine. The world seemed to stop in that moment, and all I could feel was the electricity between us, the connection that had always been there but now felt stronger than ever.

When we finally pulled apart, both of us were breathless. I stared up at him, my heart racing. "Ryan," I whispered, my voice barely audible, "would you... would you stay the night? Not like that, I mean. Just stay. I don't want this night to end."

He looked at me, his eyes softening with understanding. "I'd like that," he replied, his voice tender. "I'd like that a lot."

I opened the door wider, letting him in. The house was quiet, my parents long since asleep. We tiptoed upstairs, careful not to make too much noise. Once in my room, I grabbed a spare blanket and pillow, offering them to Ryan for the bed.

"You can take the bed," I said, gesturing toward it. "I'll sleep on the floor."

But Ryan shook his head, a determined look in his eyes. "No, Y/N. You take the bed. I'll be fine on the floor."

I hesitated, feeling a mix of gratitude and guilt. "Are you sure?"

He smiled, his expression gentle. "Positive. I'll be more comfortable down here."

Reluctantly, I accepted his offer, settling onto the bed and pulling the covers up around me. Ryan arranged the blanket and pillow on the floor, making himself as comfortable as possible.

"Thank you, Ryan," I said softly, feeling a warmth spread through me at his selflessness.

He looked up at me, his eyes soft and sincere. "Anytime, Y/N. I'm just glad to be here with you."

I smiled, feeling a sense of contentment wash over me. It felt strange, having Ryan here in my room, but also strangely comforting. We had shared so many memories in this space, and having him here now felt like coming full circle.

"Hey, Ryan?" I said quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah?"

"Would you... would you like to share the bed? Like we used to when we were kids?"

He looked surprised, but a hint of a smile played at the corners of his lips. "Are you sure?"

I nodded, feeling a sudden rush of courage. "Yeah. I mean, if you're comfortable with it."

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded, his smile widening. "I'd like that, Y/N. I’d like that a lot."

We rearranged the blankets and pillows, making room for both of us on the bed. As we settled in, side by side, I felt a sense of closeness that I hadn't felt in a long time. It felt right, having Ryan here beside me, sharing this intimate space.

"Goodnight, Y/N," he said softly, his voice laced with warmth.

"Goodnight, Ryan," I replied, feeling a sense of peace settle over me as I drifted off to sleep, wrapped in his comforting presence. It was a night I would never forget, a night that marked the beginning of something new and beautiful between us.

sorry I haven't been posting. I took a break and it was well needed! but im back should be putting out requests this week.

[mikewheeleranti]

you're losing me

sebastian sallow x reader

sypnosis: you're left to do nothing but watch as the boy you love goes on with the new fifth year looking for his sisters cure. angst, implied slytherin reader.

wc: 1k

a/n: you're losing me by beloved ts BROKE me and then i realized its so sebastian coded.

you know there's no possible cure for anne, you realized that months ago when becoming aware of her quickly spreading disease. there was, at least, no cure that could be attained in an achievable way. you've prayed to anything that a cure would come in time for your old friend, but now you fear it won't. it was a fact that this was hard on sebastian. he grieved, he mourned, and almost every night he would cry into your shoulder while you had nothing to comfort him with anymore. until he didn't.

recently, sebastian had become cold and then extremely excitable. he was always in some kind of rush, almost like he was on an adrenaline high. he distanced himself from you, which was understandable. he was grieving. he was aching, and didn't have time for a relationship. so why was he always so close with the new fifth year?

you finally had a chance to talk to him, sharing hushed whispers nearby the undercroft. you were telling him you wanted a time to talk to him about something that's been paining you, trying to see why he looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there with you, like he was waiting for something. or someone. the undercroft was you, sebastian, and ominis' precious secret since first year, which is why you gaped when sebastian's new friend came up to you both and started talking about it.

"sebastian! come quick, i found something in the undercroft!" completely disregarding your presence, they push past you to drag sebastian away.

"you told them about the under-"

"sorry, no time to talk! i'll see you later, probably." and he was gone. running down the hallway with them, the air quickly filling with loss as your heart drops. your pain was an imposition to him, he has more important things to deal with. you think of what you used to roll your eyes at when an older relative would tell you. 'you don't know what you've got until it's gone.'

you and your new friends, sebastian, anne, and ominis, were laughing down a hallway. it took a while to get ominis to talk, but you could tell these would be your friends for the rest of time. once you all got to the common room, you decided to sit on the side of the room with a window outlooking the black lake.

"do you guys think mermaids actually swim past these windows?" you hear anne ask the question after hearing 6th years talk about them.

"i wonder if mermaids are scary like i've heard in stories."

"sebastian, how would a mermaid be scary?"

"hey! you never know what they could look like, i heard fairies are actually terrifyi-"

"ahem." you and ominis had been hearing the siblings argue for 10 minutes now about mythical creatures, not that it truly annoyed you. you were glad to be hearing more of sebastian, noticing whenever he did speak, your heart fluttered. you're sure anne is well aware of this by now, not missing the way you stumbled through your words around him. she teased you about this crush constantly, and you were not safe from it that night in your dorm.

"so... my brother?"

"oh, shove off anne!"

you would forever miss the playful conversations you had with anne when you both were young. you knew anne wouldn't be able to be cured, and if one came it would be too late. what you didn't realize was that you have nobody anymore. sebastian was always gone and ominis had this on top of everything else going on with his family. you never felt the need to make other friends, because they would be yours forever. forever felt so much shorter than it did when you were 11.

you finally see sebastian days later in the common room, and you dont miss the fact he's talking to his fifth year friend with a smirk.

"sebastian! i haven't seen you in weeks, where have you been?"

"oh, sorry. we've been busy." the fifth year answers the question that was meant for him, and you once again feel it. your heart can't flutter when you look at him anymore. if you get butterflies around him, it's out of nerves.

"oh. well, can i please talk to you seb, alone?" when he finally obliges and walks over to what used to be your spot, he looks bored. he never looks bored around them, always having that glimmer in his eye that was once reserved for you.

"what did you need to talk about?" he sounds exhausted, though he was just in a great mood around them. you really shouldn't resent them in the way that you do, but all you've ever done for the sallow family is be there. putting your own feelings aside immediately for anne and sebastian. solomon thought of you as his own child, always calling you his bravest soldier. you didn't feel so brave anymore standing here in front of him.

"where have you been running off to lately? i never see you anymore and it worries me."

"i'm fine, i've just been busy with... studying." you saw him look into his lap and start fidgeting, a tell-tale sign he was lying.

"see, sebastian! what is this? you're lying to me about something and telling some random person you just met everything. it's like you're replacing me for them."

"don't call them that." he was stern with his tone, looking straight at you. never with that boyish look he had in his eyes months ago anymore, but with a cold, reserved one.

"excuse me?" you're a bit shocked that when you confided to him about how you were feeling you were met with him defending the fifth year. you really knew nothing about him anymore, and didn't particularly know if you wanted to. you were about to say something else when you saw him walking away.

"seb, wait." he kept walking.

"please." only then did he turn around to look at you, waiting for you to finish.

"please, talk to me. all i've done is be there for you, i just want you to see me. it's all i've ever wanted, please. do something, risk something, for once. seb, you're losing me."

"i'm sorry, they're waiting for me." and for the last time your heart dropped to your stomach for him. for the last time you realized he had lost you, and you had lost him. your heart wouldn't start for him anymore, he didn't choose you.

[norwegiankafka]

Since requests are open, some Seong Taehoon angst please any scenario is okay.

hi anon! filled my first request hehe, hope you liked it.

You're losing me [Seong Taehoon, angst]

Synopsis: Taehoon lied about not getting into fights again, to you, and he comes back, being almost dead, and called you to come over.

I recommend you to listen to this song while reading!

I bring the first aid kit to the living room.

The house is silent. There's no one except Taehoon and me. It's late, and I should have been home since an hour ago. But here, I am, bandaging his wounds because he called me to come over.

I peeled off one by one, torn clothes' fabric that he used to close the wounds temporarily. Dried blood and wet blood mixed, making the fabrics wet along with sweat. I wiped each one of the wounds with antiseptic, careful not to hurt.

"Ack! Do it slowly!"

"This gonna hurt, y'know. Be still." I said, not even staring at him.

After I carefully cleaned all the wounds, I wrap almost half of his upper body with gauzes in several layers. Little scratches with bandages, all done. I picked all of the things I used before, tidying up all the mess, and stood up. But Taehoon grabbed my hand, tried to stop me.

"Hey. Can we talk for a minute?"

"What?"

"Look. I'm sorry, I lied."

"You're not even sorry, Taehoon. Why? Why do you kept lying? Have you ever trust me?"

"I just don' want ya worried, y'know."

"You don't want me worried, but you always come home for being almost dead. So many occasions yet you learnt none. I don't expect a sorry from a person that never feels sorry for their partner." I clenched my fists, yanking my hand back from his strong grips.

Taehoon covers his face with his hands, slowly carding and grabbing his own hair, seemingly frustated. "If I do things the way you wanted me to be, will you stay? We can start over. Don't leave!" Taehoon's voice raised a little by the end of his words, reaching a pitch I never heard before. Maybe he's about to cry, but whatever.

My mind races by almost every memory that I had with him. A year sure feels short, especially with him. Recently, prior and during their so-called mission of catching Lee Jinho, he got really distant. And it's not that I know something was up, he was just saying that he trains a lot to perfecting his moves. Silly me, believing all of the lies.

All the chats left unreplied, late dates, missing calls, etc. And one night, when we were about to go on dates, he called me and asked me to postpone the date because he felt kind of funny and not in the mood for going on a date. Funny for me, I can hear the faint sounds of the taekwondo car he and his friends usually use to go for missions, and Hobin's voice who was talking to someone else in the car. I said yes, and hang up the call. Best believe, Taehoon didn't even think I would knew it was all lies.

I'm trying my best to hold my tears. My voice started to crack, and suddenly breathing is so hard. The air is thick with loss and indecision. All the pain that I felt was all just an imposition. It's a burden. He didn't felt sorry for it, he felt exasperated for it.

"If we had to start over to feel okay, I guess maybe we weren't meant to be. This is final, Taehoon. I learnt my lesson, you don't. Hope you find someone that.. understands you, better than me. Sorry."

I can feel his gaze on my back. Walking out the door, I inhale the cold air the night serves for me. This might feel rough for days ahead, but I'll be okay. I'll be alright.

I close the metal fence behind me, and stared at the crescent moon. So pretty, yet alone. I hope the moon knew, they got a company tonight.

[protectingtulpas]

Hey there! Apologies if the start of this ask sounds familiar. We're not comfortable with using Tumblr yet, and might have accidentally sent an incomplete ask.

Anyways, you seem pretty cool! Asking for some advice...

So, back in September, I found out about tulpamancy and decided to try my hand at this stuff. And it worked, so now I have an amazing bestie who i'll be calling Star (they/them) for privacy, and we're working on getting them to the front.

And so here comes my main conundrum. After a while of me and Star just hanging around, I notice another presence in the head. I tried ignoring it for a bit, but eventually I tried calling out to them and they replied. After a little bit of talking, we figured out that they were called Hero (they/them), and that i'd accidentally made them by thinking about having another "brain friend", as we like to call ourselves.

Any advice for avoiding this kind of thing happening? As much as I love Hero and Star, it would get very full very quickly if this kind of accidental creation thingy keeps happening. And to clarify, i'm not mad at this "incident". We've all worked it out pretty quickly, and nobody is to blame. Sorry for the wall of text ask haha, but this is something we're curious about!

Hey! You came to the right place, cuz this is something we sort of experienced ourselves! It was super weird at first, and it took a while to convince my host that the newbie was actually there. So basically, this is a combination of two things- for one, roughly a third of tulpas (that're aware they're tulpas, ahdhsf I'll find the statistic link later) are unintentional, which means you go through the process of tulpa creation without actually realizing you're doing it. (This is kinda common in writers!) So it's definitely not an unheard of thing! The second part is that once you've made your first tulpa, you've already gone through a lot of the initial mental training it takes to make the jump to being polyconscious. It's a *lot* easier to make a second tulpa than the first. You spent so long thinking about them and wanting them around that they ended up here!

RE: getting a lot of people eventually, we don't exactly have a lotta control over that cuz we're also disordered, but we definitely have some tips if you're not comfortable expanding your system that shhoouuulldd work better if you don't have big dissociation and memory issues.

One, try to focus on what you have and avoid daydreaming about having new headmates. Try not to let yourself have consistent "characters" you imagine in situations, or what it might be like to have x fictive, or whatever- there's a saying that goes something like, "people are gonna think about a red truck if you tell em not to think about a red truck, but if you tell em to think about a purple bear instead of a red truck they're gonna have more success" or something like that. Focus on doing other things with the headmates you have instead.

Two, and this helps more with fictives for us, but if you feel a certain identity or set of emotions or perspectives or whatever is starting to get a bit intense and might gain autonomy, try associating those feelings or identity with yourself or another (consenting) headmate in the system as much as possible. Like oh that's so relatable or this character is so me, etc etc. Connect em with an identity that already exists if u can. Like for example, my host's trying to avoid a fictive coming from their past life lately by confronting and associating themselves with it as much as possible. That way the separation is eliminated before it can really take hold.

Three, if you feel the need to still ""do tulpamancy"" that isn't just living regular life with ur tulpas, try expanding your range of skills! Imposition is an awesome skill with practice, as well as things like headspace immersion, holding onto front as a non-host for a long time, and more. There're tons more heights you can reach!

Good luck, anon!

[three--rings]

A portrait of being 40-something queer adults with no kids, cut off from a good part of your family, aka observations from a recent thing in my life.

So Mr. Rings got a new job and it's all good things EXCEPT that it requires six weeks of training in a city almost 100 miles away, and they don't pay for lodging. (Which yeah is very Weird, but basically the location he was hired for is on the very outer edge of a Metro Area and so he was expected to still commute.)

And when it was brought up we thought he would have to travel less far and also he had a place with a friend nearby he could stay.

And then the location ended up being farther away, so nearly a two hour drive from our house, without traffic. And the place he had lined up to stay suddenly wasn't available because they had a family member get injured.

So two days before the training started, we needed a place for him to stay.

We ran through our options and on paper the best options were my aunt and my pseudo-adopted brother. My aunt's house was fairly close to the location, it's a sizeable nice house, they have a spare room. Ideal, right? (My pseudo-brother is just a small apartment, so less ideal.)

But I brought up this idea to my mom and she was like ehhhhh, I don't know. And I'm like why not? She's like well....I just don' t think it'd be good.

So anyway, I did reach out to my aunt and the response I got was...tepid. Like yeah okay he can stay but are you really sure that's what you want and blah blah downsides. Like clearly reluctant.

MEANWHILE and I'm getting to the point here...some friends of ours that moved away from us and we haven't seen in a few years were like hey, we have plenty of room, you're so welcome. And they lived way far away from his training location. Like you're gonna have to pay for toll roads every day and it'll be a solid hour commute.

But he decided to stay with our friends because it would be so much less awkward, less of an imposition. We know their offer of help is genuine, unlike our family. Which is just WEIRD, right?

Why is it so much MORE comfortable to ask friends for help than family?

And spoiler, I took a six week break writing this and it's now the end of his training. And he can only gush about how awesome it was to stay with our friends and how great they were about everything. We bought them a very expensive bottle of liquor as a thank you gift. So yeah, it was very much the right choice.

Over and over in my adult life, my friends have been there for us when family hasn't. And I don't have any big traumatic thing in my family (his is different we are no contact with them). We're just not that close, except for with my mom who is a quarter of the globe away.

So value your friends. Support them when they need it. Keep in touch because you really never know who's gonna come through for you.

[multiplicity-positivity]

may I ask what fusion looks like? we have headmates who want to fuse with others, but are scared ths will mean that they will cease to exist. they're also scared that fusing will make inner world interaction and imposition useless, like iw "physical" touch and intimacy. so I wanted to ask your experiences with it! absolutely no pressure to reply if you're uncomfortable of course, thank you for this blog 💛

Hey, we have had two successful fusions in our system as far as we know. We are happy to talk about our experience with this.

This post got really long, so we’re putting it under a cut. We’re not sure how to write a TLDR for this post in particular since it’s so complex, sorry.

First of all, in any system, fusion does not kill headmates or cause them to cease to exist. The parts who have fused in our system are still very much here. Also, fusion might look very different for other systems - we can only talk about what fusion has been like for us, but fusion for us might not look the same as fusion for someone else.

It’s kind of like mint chocolate chip ice cream. You can have mint ice cream on its own, and you can have chocolate chips on their own, but combined, they become something new. The ice cream and the chocolate chips don’t vanish or disappear, they’re still there. They just work together to become one cohesive thing.

We have had one unintentional fusion. I fused with an alter after that part’s role was no longer needed in our system. He’s still here. He is me, and I am him. After learning more and more about our system and each other, we blended together and haven’t separated since. It was so subtle and quick that it took a while for us to notice that a fusion had taken place. There was a time when we had two parts that looked similar and shared the same name. Now there’s just one, as we have permanently joined forces.

We’ve also had a purposeful fusion that took some planning and collaboration. My parts, Margo and Cecil, came together because they wanted to fuse. Our system is really prone to blending and cofronting. Often when we cofront, we’ll temporarily blend to become one for a while before splitting apart again. So for Margo and Cecil to fuse, it looked sort of like this:

Step one: Lots of communication between the two. Discussing what fusion might look like for them, what they hoped to gain out of fusion, how a fusion might affect our system and themselves, etc.

Step two: Sticking together. Always. They got our gatekeeper to help ensure that when one of them fronted, both of them did. Even inside the headspace they went everywhere together. This took some getting used to, as Margo was our work part which meant she sometimes had to front with Cecil outside of work, which was tough for her at first.

Step three: Settling on a new name, new pronouns, and thinking about themselves as a collective self. They asked us to start referring to them collectively as one part, even before they fused. They picked the name Coriander (nn Corrie) and decided they could be bigender with he/she pronouns.

Step four: Waiting it out. Once they settled on their collective identity, we all just kind of waited to see what would happen. Of course, they were in touch with our therapist a bunch during this time, and he really helped them to come together. At some point, they were able to remain blended even outside of the fronting space. And now, it’s like they’ve been blended nonstop for a few weeks now. They might still split apart later, but we’re of the opinion that they’ve successfully fused.

So for Corrie, it took lots of communication, a mutual understanding, sticking together constantly, forming a collective identity, and patience in order for that fusion to happen, along with lots of support from folks both inside and outside the system.

Now, it is true that they don’t interact with each other in the headspace/inner world in the same way that they used to. Inside, they look, act, and function as one. However, they might still be interacting in their own way in their own consciousness? From what we understand, people (even singlets) are multifaceted and can feel conflicted or have internal conversations. Also, we think inner worlds are imagined visualizations. So if they wanted, theoretically they could imagine themselves as separate again without necessarily splitting apart if that’s something they wanted. Like I could imagine myself as Parker and P2 and imagine interactions between them if I wanted. Personally, I don’t, really. But maybe this could happen? Honestly we don’t know what our headspace is going to look like as more and more of us fuse in the future. Sorry about this.

We’d like to include a graphic on fusion by @/clever-and-unique-name that’s helped us in the past.

This ^ is how we understand fusion, and how it’s felt for us so far. No one is gone, we’re just together. From what we understand it’s been an amazing and liberating experience for Corrie. And we truly hope we’ll be able to have more fusions in our system in the future. Many of us are actually hoping for final fusion as a recovery goal.

So there you have it. Many parts in our system have been scared of fusion in the past, but witnessing it happen with Corrie has been really beneficial for us. It gives us hope that one day we can all work, function, and collaborate together as one. Even after we’ve fused, I believe we’ll still be multifaceted with different parts. We’ll just have an easier time understanding each other and existing in the world without dissociative barriers breaking up our consciousness.

We hope this helps. Sorry it was so long, and our apologies if it doesn’t make much sense. This post was typed by me, Parker, but it was co-written by quite a few of us over the course of a couple weeks. Our system has really complex feelings about fusion and lots of parts wanted to share their thoughts.

💫 Parker, �� Corrie, 🐢 Kip, 🦇 Alucard, and ��� Toby

[pomrania]

Draw Everything June (henceforth DEJ) is coming up, so here's what you need to know about it.

For the month of June, AdorkaStock will be releasing a new pose reference photo each weekday morning; there's a whole event, it's fun and you should look into it if you draw, or you're thinking about drawing, or heck if you write and you're interested in some non-traditional prompts.

Here's how I do DEJ. When I get online for days when there's a new pose, I make a quick doodle of that, then I post "hey here's what the DEJ pose is for today, does anyone have a queer D&D (or other gaming system) character that would fit this pose?" Then I work on neatening up that sketch from reference, getting increasingly obnoxious (because I'm increasing desperate) about asking for a character. Once someone gives me their character to draw in that pose, I ask them about what their character looks like, and work on drawing THAT character in the given pose. I need to know what Pride flag/s apply to the character, because I colour it in using that colour scheme; so, a lesbian character would be rendered in shades of pink and orange, for example. I need to get a piece done before the next pose comes out, and generally that means I need to get it started and finished on the same day, but if a pose releases on Friday then I can work on it over the weekend.

I can't do this without you. Literally, I can't, my brain won't let me; also I don't have any characters of my own to draw. And there's a REALLY long rant I have inside me about this, but it boils down to "just trust me when I say that a) I can only do this a certain way, b) I want to do this, and c) it's not an imposition if I specifically ask for you to make requests".

I like it when multiple different people go "hey my character would work well for this pose", because then I have the option of choice; and if I don't pick your character for THAT pose, then it's going on a list so that character WILL get draw, even if it ends up being in July.

Below the cut I'm putting some more clarification about what characters I'll draw; this hasn't changed from previous years, but if you find yourself thinking "oh they wouldn't draw MY character", please check this to make sure.

Will draw:

a character I drew for a previous year's DEJ

an NPC from your game (if you're the GM)

your queer D&D character

your queer character from a non-D&D TTRPG

your queer character from a weird indie one-shot you'd played once

multiple characters from the same person

your friend's queer TTRPG character, if you can sufficiently describe the character

a character with or without visual reference, and whether you clearly know what they look like or where you just have vague vibes of their appearance or anything in between

a character you're currently playing

a character you're no longer playing

a character you've already made up, but haven't yet gotten the chance to play

a character who has or hasn't had artwork done of them

a character who doesn't have a specific queer identity (the rainbow flag is very useful)

Won't draw:

a character I've already drawn in DEJ 2024, unless that character experienced a massive redesign

a character from an actual-play stream or podcast, because that counts as fanart and not "drawing your character"; UNLESS you're the person who plays that character

a character who isn't queer

your BG3 character, or your character from any other video game, because that's not a TTRPG no matter what its system is based on

a character who exclusively wears all black that covers most of their body (but I can work with you to come up with another outfit for them)

"oh just use my character for whatever pose you need"

your non-game RP character

[iwritesickfic]

can i request theo and seamus where theo gets seamus sick and then feels super guilty about it

thanks for the prompt! i really like how this turned out!

When he hears Seamus on the other end of the line, Theo's heart sinks.

"Are you ok?" He asks, cutting off Seamus in the middle of a sentence.

"Yeah, of course," he says, but it only confirms what Theo heard the first time.

"You're sick," he says, and Seamus sighs. "I got you sick."

It doesn't happen often, but Theo always feels terrible when he gets Seamus sick. Seamus always insists he's fine, it's not so bad, he doesn't care - because he's the perfect boyfriend - but it doesn't really help. Mostly because Theo knows it's not true.

"It's not your fault," Seamus says, punctuating his sentence with a sniffle.

"It 100% is. It is directly and demonstrably my fault." He had an awful sinus infection the last two weeks, and he's been leaving a trail of contagion wherever he goes. Including Seamus's apartment. And bed. He's actually been living with him for the last week. Before he got his antibiotics, he was totally wiped out - too sick to even sit up straight - and Seamus was coming over every night to be with him. Eventually he invited Theo to just stay with him until he felt better.

Of course, Theo fought. Not too hard, but as hard as he could with a 103 fever. They've been together more than a year, but he still feels like any illness is a huge imposition. And of course, he didn't want Seamus to catch it. The first night he even slept in the guest room, but Seamus ended up in bed with him anyway, so he just moved into the master.

At first, it was the cold from hell. Fever, aches, exhaustion, and so much sinus pressure it felt like his head was going to explode. His nose was leaking constantly, and no amount of blowing, wiping or sneezing would make it stop. His eyes hurt, his head hurt, and eventually so did his ears and throat.

Then it kept getting worse. And worse. Until his fever was hovering at 104 and his head hurt so badly he couldn't open his eyes.

The concierge medicine service he pays way too much for put in a prescription for him without him having to even go in. He's sick often enough that they know when he needs antibiotics. The medicine cleared up most of it, but he's still a little congested and achy. Today was the first day he felt well enough to go into the studio, and he was heading home, calling Seamus to ask about his day. But now, he taps the driver on the shoulder and tells him to head to Brooklyn instead.

"Demonstrably?" Seamus's congested voice asks over the phone, and Theo rolls his eyes.

"Shut up." His chest is aching with guilt. "Christ, I'm so sorry."

"It's fine, love." The classic line.

"Of course it's not, you're crunching for the album." Seamus has been busy recording for the last month for his debut, and this is the worst possible time for him to get sick. Right as he's about to start working 12 hour days. His studio is at least in his house, but it's not easy. And Theo has made it ten times worse. "I'm coming over."

"Really, I'm ok. It's not a big deal."

"Well it's already happening. I'm on my way."

"Teddy." Theo can practically picture the look on his face. His head tilted to one side, eyebrows slightly raised.

"Shay," he says back.

"Ok," Seamus finally says with a sigh. "I'll see you soon."

Theo's guilt only multiplies when Seamus opens the door. His eyes are red rimmed and hazy, his sinuses visibly swollen. He has a little flush on his cheeks and nose too, and he's shivering in his thick sweater. He still smiles when he sees Theo though, and brings him in for a hug.

He's warm to the touch, but not insanely hot. Seamus doesn't really run fevers like he does, it's not necessarily an indication of how bad he feels. He's the one to kiss Seamus on the cheek first, which makes him smile again, eyes closed. Normally Theo doesn't initiate that kind of thing, but all bets are off when Seamus doesn't feel well. Especially if it's his fault.

"Hey," he says softly, and Seamus rests his forehead on Theo's shoulder, humming softly in the back of his throat. "I thought you said you were fine," he teases, running one hand through Seamus's curls. Seamus sniffles wetly.

"I lied," he mumbles, and Theo laughs.

"C'mon, let's get inside."

Theo closes the door behind him and toes off his shoes, hanging his coat on the rack as Seamus stands in the hall, leaning heavily against the doorframe. He pulls a crumpled tissue from the pocket of his shorts and rubs at his nose. His nostrils are already red, and damp even after he shoves the tissue back into his pocket.

His sweater is hanging off him, intricate cable knit and mustard yellow. Theo tugs at the hem.

"Thrift?" Seamus shakes his head, rubbing his nose again, this time with his wrist.

"My mum made it," he says, his voice still thick with congestion. Theo slides his hands underneath, resting his hands on Seamus's hips. His bare skin is hot to the touch.

"How was work?" Theo asks, and Seamus clears his throat, which leads to a few dry coughs.

"I took a day off. Not everyone works until they're too sick to stand up," he says, smirking.

"Fair. But I get a lot done," he teases back. Their bodies are getting closer and closer together.

"You'd get more done if you weren't bedridden for a week," Seamus says, looping his arms around Theo's neck. They're so close now. Theo can smell his lemon ginger cough drops. He presses a kiss to Seamus's cheek. Seamus laughs softly. "I thought I finally got you out of my house," he says, nudging his nose against Theo's.

"If you think I'm leaving you here by yourself with the cold I gave you, you're a fucking idiot," he whispers back, and leans in for a proper kiss. Their lips only brush before Seamus pulls back. It's only by an inch or so, but it's enough of a rejection for Theo to get it. "It's all the same germs."

"Well I can't breathe through my nose," Seamus says, sniffling again as it starts to drip. It could probably use the tissue he's got in his pocket, but he seems unwilling to let go of Theo.

"I'll make it quick," Theo says, before leaning back in. The kiss is short, but still deep enough to sate the desire that's burning in his stomach. He quickly goes back in for another, but it's broken off when Seamus retreats just in time for a sneeze. It's loud and wet and harsh, aimed into his shoulder, his whole head snapping forward with the force of it.

His eyelids flutter, and he has to pull away to fish the tissue out of his pocket. He gets it up to his mouth just in time for two more violent sneezes, and when he's finished he looks dazed, wiping his face with the already destroyed tissue.

"Jesus, babe. Bless you." He runs his hand over Seamus's chest, digging a travel packet of tissues from his own pocket and handing them to him. He takes them gratefully, trying to clean the mess from his face.

"Thanks," he finally says, voice even more stuffed than before. He goes to shove the tissue back in his pocket, but Theo grabs it from him.

"What are we in world war two? Why are we rationing these?"

"It's still good," Seamus says, and Theo rolls his eyes.

"Go sit down, weirdo. I'm making you tea." He's halfway down the hall to the kitchen when he turns back. "And I'm buying more damn tissues."

[akpaleyreblogs]

As a person who engages with gender primarily as a set of social roles that get constructed in cultures for reasons, I am very interested in RPing in fantasy settings that imagine restrictive gendered social roles but like. Not the way my culture does it. Different ways. Ways that also make it costly to disobey norms, but the norms are different.

The problem is that I run D&D for an all nonbinary group of people and don't want to impose a fun tax. And I play D&D with a group of people who is much less interested in this idea than I am as far as I can tell. And saying "hey I want to explore gender the way I relate to gender in a game, and the way I relate to gender is inherently about people telling you what they want you to be for reasons that might have made sense in aggregate or for the people in power but are restrictive and uncomfortable for the individuals they don't successfully mould into fitting them" is like. That's a really big ask! It's a huge imposition for players who aren't all in on the gender as culture that we explore and fit with or friction against. It's a big ask for a game master to develop an interesting discriminatory cultural schema and set of expectations and apply it to you in interesting ways.

It's just. One of the most interesting base things to worldbuild about for me. It's fascinating as a structural set of mechanisms and thinking about it when constructing societies and characters is interesting and I wish it weren't so... awkward to try to do something with it when you're the only person interested in engaging with that? How does your society construct gender, what are its reproductive norms, how does it decide who to claim is aberrant, how does it treat them, and what does that say about its values? How you generate people is one of the most core questions a society needs to answer. Demography matters. The pressures that exist depending on the reproductive needs of a pre-industrial society? They matter! How does your culture meet them? How does it enforce them? How does that turn into social roles that go far beyond what they originally needed to do?

I have made an active choice in developing Kaijja's homeland that most people have kids. Having kids makes you more credible. the imagery of pregnancy is culturally powerful. The deep history of that culture comes out of (my admittedly limited knowledge of) common interactions between adoption of agricultural resource hoarding behavior and gender relations, and there's all sorts of other stuff built on top. One of the few pieces of worldbuilding I did for their land empire neighbors was a stricter and dramatically more patriarchal than the setting in general set of gender norms. It's unlikely to come up in the campaign, but writing a bit of her ex-husband's relationship with culture as a... let's call it second generation immigrant, though it's more complicated than that, is in part about navigation of finding the things he wanted and didn't want about different communication and gender and family construction norms between the two cultures. I have had explicit conversations with my DM about what transgender people mean culturally in these cultures.

Roleplaying any of the expectations that come out of that is excruciatingly awkward. Because I realized the moment that one of the other PCs was nonbinary that their player did not sign up for my nonsense, and making a thing of the gender of her character without her having consented ahead of time was not a kind thing to do or a good idea. I got a little ways into that, decided it was uncomfortable and a horrible idea, and stopped. Sometimes we make character choices based on our own boundaries, and should.

Which is just to say that like. Even when given maximal control over things and only really doing stuff in my own domain, this is not something I really get to explore without really broad buy-in because no one not buying in will do gender norms to me, and I don't want to do them to anyone who's not bought in as either a PC or a GM.

But I am very interested in exploring what different gender norms and societal reproductive needs do to the people living under and in them. And I am interested in doing it through roleplay because running RPGs is my main writing medium and because feeling what it is like to be part of and subject to systems is interesting. But oh boy do I not have any idea how to have a useful conversation about that or find a group of people who are similarly interested in the kind of weird sociological approach to that that I'm interested in. I think in general I assume people are less interested in engaging with oppressive social systems in RPGs than I am. It's probably true. I don't KNOW it's true, but probably. I've read the literature about the fun tax. Most people I know are pretty queer. So I assume. I mean like, I should probably ask, I know my sibling is queer but also interested in gender as culture as a setting element. It happens. But it's a tremendously awkward ask to make if the answer is no.

So instead I'm writing a page long ramble and posting it on the internet where maybe someone or maybe no one will read it. Maybe I'm just talking. Maybe the people who exist on here will tell me if they have feelings one way or another without me having to directly ask. Maybe this is an expression of anxiety. Who am I kidding, this is definitely an expression of anxiety. But maybe that's all it is.

[cosm1cbrownie]

Okay, this is gonna sound inconsequential... but this actually reveals how large swaths of, what I dub, "Cap-not-Steve fans" Do Not Understand Steve Rogers

I don't like September 28th (or w/e the day was) as Steve's birthday either (January 3rd winter baby born of hardship is so much more symbolic) but anyone begging for Steve's real b-day to be America ca-caw 🦅 🇺🇸 does not get him tee bee aich¡

And really it speaks to just how much Marvel has (to this day) flanderized Steve into a generic cardboard cutout Mr. Murrica Sweet Home Alabama Man that his "fans” can get mad at any time Steve finally gets humanized like a real person and not a 🇺🇸🦅 propaganda bland white bread blank slate

the name "Captain America" was in-universe just a propaganda dancing stage show persona that Steve was put into, he hated it and wanted to actually fight for real. Every "Cap" thing should be treated as a foreign imposition that Steve has to muscle past in order to be a Real Hero.

A core (but often forgotten) part of Steve's character is him being treated as a joke even after the serum at first, and this is in part of his foil-ness with Bucky, who was in the military first and given the more dangerous and bloodier missions while Cap is pushed out to look good for the military propaganda camera crew that followed them around. A huge part of the Spectre of Captain America is that the identity was superimposed onto Steve and he was forced to play a part so he can strive to be a Real Hero too, and repeatedly a lot of those Real Hero moments are of Steve being in defiance to the flag that the Cap persona was made to serve. Steve's most human moments is when we remember that he was a person before he was told to be "Cap". So, ofc July 4th ain't his birthday lmaooo.

a lot of yall onhere&twt seem more about making him a "whimsical" unironic Sat morning cartoon/caricature of unrionic 🇺🇸🦅 propaganda, but that's literally when Steve's character is most disservice and least memorable. Him being a regular person sucked into the machinations of military and propaganda to then defy & forge his own identity through it is when the character is human and compelling

I'm not sure if you're the same person from last time, but I want to say smthn rq: his birthday is July 4th because it's fun and whimsy to do so, it was just fucking silly dude it's not that deep!!

The one of reason they chose Steve was bcz his birthday landed in July 4th, not he main reason but its a key fun little tid bit that doesn't need to be changed because it's LITERALLY his birthday. (And the fact that like,, his mom told him that the fireworks were "for him?" AWH. LIKE DONT REMOVE THAT THATS KEY TIME WITH HIS MOTHER-- It doesn't contribute much other than to say "hey your birthday is in independence day you might be viable for this cap thing alongside being a generally great dude lmao" changing it to September 28th doesn't add much other then removing fun little stuff like his july 4th birthday because marvel wants dumbass MCU syndication and makes everything boring and no-fun because of how the marvel movies are set up like a weird mishmash of All the worst parts of ults and Hickmanvengers alongside removing all the fun bits.

Also Chris evens is a Zionist I don't trust that fucker as cap anyway don't bring that shit over here 😭

Plus, on the part where you said that he "hated" being cap you are WRONG. dead ass wrong. MCU!Steve hated being cap, because it was a trait copied from ults.

Normal Steve (616 Before civil war, AA, MAA, emh, ma, you get the idea, even Hickmanvengers and ults Steve) all enjoyed being cap because they were able to be a moving force for young people and as we all know if you've read the comics steve loves doig stuff as cap and teaching kids and making people say and helping people and shit! He love it! He likes helping people and he has a strict moral code he abides by!! helping people isn't a job he just wants to do it because he can and he will and it's the same reason that the avengers aren't coworkers because they desire to do these things (helping people, seeing kids, saving the city,) because they chose to be that force that could guide people out of bad situations and HELP people with the power they have. MCu!Steve acts the way he does because the people writing him don't get his character and it seems to be neither do you.

The thing is is that Cap suffers from the fact that most people can't tell the different between the mask and the man behind it and that was a clear internal thing he struggled with as he comes to terms with living in the ultra modern 21st century 😭(and even then I have alot of gripes with the fact that people still think that Steve doesn't know how to operate technology: shut the fuck up he's like in his mid 20s he can figure it out easily he not a old cretin he has good reflexes and memory it shouldn't be that hard, also: watch The Episode "Super adaptoid" from the cartoon avengers assemble , or go watch the entire show while your at it, genuinely. he's the best characterized Steve we've had in such a long time)

As much as he is the personifying thing of a flying flag and some adaptations go to that stuff as being the core of his character it is only a small part of what is a symbol for peace and I think you don't realize that because on multiple occasions he disavows his captain America identity(Sentinel of Liberty, Y'know when he handed his Cap identity to Sam???) to help people without the ties and I think that's something alot of people forgot that despite the fact that due to the entire of who Steve is it wasnt the suit that built who he was and what he represents it was his character and choices.

That man is not a blank slate. He represents more than the war he faught in and the country he faught for and saying he's just that is a misservice to his character and who he representss outside and inside of the suit, any suit.

End of Ted talk uhhh (explodes) watch avengers assemble and pick up a cap comic from like.. pre-90s idk if you want I'll give you a reading list?? Read Man out of Time first though, yeah?

[luveline]

losers | remus lupin

“Please.”

“Please?” he says back, mirroring your soft tone. “You think you need to say please?” His pinky bumps under the waistband of your trousers. There isn’t much give. He traces the lining to your zipper, fiddling with the small piece of metal as your eyes darken. “I should be the one saying it.” His voice keeps dropping, an utterance in the shell of your ear, his words for you and you alone. “I’m at your mercy, dove. Don’t say please with me. Okay?” 

you find remus’ number on an abandoned motorbike. things snowball from there. [10k words]

fem!reader, fluff, first date, smut mdni, implied inexperienced!reader, almost rockstar!remus, mentioned that remus takes painkillers, muggle!au, early 2000’s au

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ There’s a motorbike outside of the cafe.

It’s huge. Too heavy for you to move. Technically, you hadn’t found it at all, it was left there in the dead of night a few days ago and hasn’t budged since. It’s illegally parked, a fact that your manager won't stop muttering about while she’s elbow deep in latte foam and coffee cakes. 

“I’m getting the bastard thing towed,” she grumbles that morning. “Let the police deal with it.”

That seems rather harsh to you. It isn’t necessarily in the way, and it looks well loved. Perhaps whoever left it can’t remember where they left it, having stumbled home on inebriated footing after one too many at the pub across the street. You think about how much it must cost to get your stuff back after it’s been towed, and though you aren’t sure of the specifics, you know it can’t be cheap. So, when your manager falls into conversation with a regular and your break begins, you creep outside to do some investigating. 

It’s a hulking thing made of more black than silver. There are stickers across the left side of the body, weathered and peeling, though one is newer than the others and immediately draws your eye. 

A phone number. 

If lost, please call. 

You take your phone out of your pocket, a flip phone with one dangling charm in the shape of a star. You click each faded button slowly. You're scared to talk to someone you don’t know, but relieved to maybe save the day. 

It goes for ages. 

“Hello?”

“Hey,” you say, dropping your voice into its sweetest tones, though nerves make you too soft, and you worry you’re hard to hear. “Hey, um, sorry to bother you. I work at The Mill, it’s a– a cafe in the city centre… Are you missing a bike, by any chance? A motorbike?”

“Oh, thank you. Yeah, it’s my friend’s. He can be… forgetful.” The voice that speaks is both smooth and gritty, impossibly, like whoever it is that’s talking smoked half a pack of cigarettes before he answered the phone. He clears his throat. “I hope it hasn’t been an imposition for you.”

“Actually, uh, my manager wants to have it towed. Like, now. I can try to fend her off but honestly she’s like, that physics law, um, unstoppable force? Uh,” —you’re stuttering, making it worse, because his voice is surprisingly handsome and you’re an idiot through and through— “yeah, so could you come and get it?”

“Yes! Yeah, absolutely, we’re on our way. Thank you.”

“Sure. Of course.”

You hear something not meant for you, the tail end of, “Sirius, get up. You better call Marl and—”

Phone back in your pocket, you take a quick glance around the street before reaching out to run your finger over the cracked leather of the motorbike seat. You’ve never ridden one before. You’ve never wanted to. The level of fearlessness one needs for it isn’t one you possess. 

You’re the opposite of fearless. 

The sun hides behind a wave of clouds. Your skin chills near immediately, your prim slacks and apron a worthless defence against the cold. It’s an average day here, grey and quiet. Occasionally a couple will pass you, hand in hand as they traverse the worn pavement. You smile at an elderly man and his dog as they shuffle across the street and into the cafe. Your smile fades as you tune into the fierce tones of your manager, demanding to know where you’ve gone. If your absence is what distracts her from calling the police, so be it. 

You’re considering getting your phone back out to play Snake when a passing car slows beside you. You straighten up and out, feeling your spine click in more places than it should as the passenger door opens and an insanely attractive man throws himself out of it. 

“My angel!” he cries, heading straight for you. 

You take a panicked step backward. The man dives for his motorbike. You flinch, mystified by his enthusiasm and his opposite appearance. Short sleeves reveal arms full of dark tattoos, with one side marred by a brutally long scar from his elbow to the back of a ring-laden hand. You tear your eyes from him as a second door closes across the street, and feel all the air rush from your chest as a second man approaches. 

He’s very pretty. It might be redundant to say it to yourself, presented as you are with an undeniable truth, but you think it anyway. Sandy brown hair, pale skin, and in enough layers to make up for his friends lack thereof, the second man ignores any dramatics and meets you head on. 

“Hi,” he says, holding out his hand, “you’re the one who called?”

Closer now, you can see the scars on his face. They stretch over the ridge of his nose and into his eyebrow. A smaller one tugs as he talks against his top lip. 

You take his hand and shake it limply. “Yeah, that was me.”

If he’s concerned with your nervousness he doesn’t show it. His smile doesn’t move. “He wants to say thank you. He will, once he gets over himself.”

“Thank you!” the dark-haired man calls. “She’s my everything. I’ve been sick with worry.”

“Have you?” the man in front of you asks, his voice steady, almost intimidating in its impassiveness. 

“Yes, Moons, I have been… not that you’d know.”

“Some of us have real problems,” Moons snips, though he quickly looks at you like he’s embarrassed. “Sorry. He brings out the worst in me.”

“You must be good friends.” 

You don’t know why you say it. He only smiles. 

“We must be.”

The first man stands up from checking over his motorbike and beams at you. You suspect it’s an expression that works in his favour more often than not. “What can I give you, doll?” 

“No, nothing. Please. I’ll just be glad to hear the end of it.”

"Are you sure?" 

"Yeah, really." 

Your manager calls your name, clear as day despite the thick pane of glass and brick walls separating you. 

"That's you?" Moons asks. 

"That's me. Sorry." 

"No, don't be. Thanks so much for calling." 

You nod hurriedly, throwing them both a 'nice to meet you, I'm sorry for leaving so fast' kind of smile and head back inside. 

You take a sneaky look back when you're behind the counter again. They’ve turned their backs to you, Moons' friend ruffling his hair roughly. After a minute or two, Moons gets back in his car, and the motorbike pulls away like it was never there to begin with. 

What sort of name is Moons? you ask yourself. It's a question that stays with you for a few days. You find yourself hoping you'll see him again, or that his friend's motorbike will turn up outside of the cafe for a few long days and give you an excuse to call him. His number stays unsaved in your recent calls menu for a while. Eventually, you forget about him altogether; the motorbike, the call, the gentle wave of his hair. 

You're hard-pressed to forget his voice, though. There'd been something familiar about it. 

"Nice highscore." 

You jump hard and wince as the metallic taste of blood hits your taste buds. To make it worse, you slam your phone up into the counter it was hiding under in shock. It makes a fatal crunching sound. 

You shove it into your pocket and look up. Standing there, in all his handsome weariness, is Moons, sans friend. He's wearing nice clothes, clean and clearly ironed. You're immediately aware of your ratty uniform and your unkempt hair. 

"Shit," you say, which is so fucking embarrassing, honestly, you could fall through the floor and stay there, "Sorry. What can I get you?" 

His eyebrows inch up his forehead. "What's the easiest thing to make?" 

That's not a question you get often. "Uh, regular black coffee, or tea, or, the uh– the hot chocolate's not that hard. But you should order whatever you like, of course." 

Moons smiles at you. You're starting to understand the nickname (assuming it is a nickname). He has this odd but enticing presence about him, like that awestruck feeling of looking up at night and seeing all the teeny tiny stars and the moonlight that comes down with them, bright and somewhat daunting. 

"Sure you don't mind?" 

"I'm paid not to mind." 

"Can I get the biggest cup of tea you can make? Milk and two sugars, please." 

"Absolutely." You sidestep to the register and click a bunch of the wrong buttons. You're unprofessionally flustered. "Uh, three sixty five?" 

He passes you a five pound note. Your tip cup is for the more generous type, and he has no trouble dropping his palmful of change into it. He barely looks. You're expecting him to take a seat but he stays standing, one arm pressed to the counter, the other held up. He scratches behind his ear absentmindedly, as though he has nowhere else to be. 

"Are you in a hurry?" you ask, confused. 

He stays quiet for enough time to shit you up. You're tipping milk over your hand and hoping he hasn't seen it when he says, "No rush. I'm here to see you." 

You look over your shoulder at him. You can't help it. "To see me." 

"Yeah." 

You spin back to his tea. The counter is covered in spills and sugar, cup tops and wooden stirrers. You take them all in with wide eyes. Nobody ever comes to see you. Not your friends, not family (unless they want something). Especially not boys you met once for two minutes. 

"Is there something wrong?" you ask. 

You clip the lid onto his big tea and wrap it in napkins so it doesn't burn his hands. 

"Nothing's wrong," he says kindly. "I wanted to apologise. Your boss was upset with you. It was Sirius' fault. We owe you for it." 

"You really don't have to say sorry. She wasn’t that mad. No harm, no foul." 

You put his cup of tea down in front of him and try to smile like girls do in the movies. Soft doe eyes, not too bright, not too awkward. You give up after a second and feel it twist into something regrettable. 

His long silence makes you squirm.

"A thank you, then.”

He offers you an envelope. You take it. 

The paper is crisp and thick. Your fingers are clumsy, and it takes you too many seconds to fold the envelope's lip and pull out the card stock inside. 

You look up in shock. "I can't–" 

He's not there. You look to the door, catching what might've been his hand as he walks out of view. 

He's left you two concert tickets. You don't go to concerts. You might have, when you were younger, and had friends to follow. As it stands he's given you two seated tickets for a show in the Pointer Arena not far from where you work, for a band you've never heard of. The price on each is a solid £20, which is way too much repayment for ringing a number from a sticker. Worse, you're not sure you have somebody who can use the second one. 

You hope he'll come back for clarification alone, and a little to see him, but he doesn't, and soon the date on the ticket matches the date on your calendar and you're standing outside of the venue with no clue how to hold yourself. 

You stand in line for a while. It's a very long line made up of mostly younger women. You listen for the calling of a reseller and spot a group of young girls trying to haggle with them, reluctantly leaving your place in line. 

"Hi," you say quietly to the one furthest from the epicentre. "I'm sorry if this is weird. I have an extra ticket tonight, and I was wondering if you'd like it? I know it's seated, but maybe you could use it to get in and then, uh, not sit? Or just sit." You could writhe around on the ground in shame. You hold out the spare ticket. "If you want it." 

"Are you kidding?" 

"No, seriously." 

She takes the ticket and you walk away before she can try and give it back to you. Whether she uses it or not, it's no longer your problem to deal with. The lady who'd been standing behind you lets you back in line, for which you're extremely grateful, and you shiver your way to the front with nerves churning your stomach. 

You've imagined being turned away twenty times by the time they usher you through the doors. The air is buzzing with excitement, enough of it to ramp up your nerves, and you smile weakly at the people who pass you on the way up to the seating area you've been designated. The Pointer Arena is a smaller venue with much more standing than seating capacity available. The seats are at the sides and back of the second floor, looking down at the pit with a safety barrier in front. 

You slide into your seat and peer down at the crowd as it fills up one ant of a person at a time. You can't distinguish one person from another after a while. It’s a moving sea of dark clothes. 

It takes a long time for the opening act to come on. You're not having much fun. You'd tried to use the computer in the cafe to research the bands playing tonight but the dial up hadn't been working and your manager hates when you take long breaks, so you aren't sure you'll even enjoy yourself. You're not sure why you came here — is it sad, to come here alone? It looks sad, you think, pathetic, but it doesn't feel sad. You're not very good at talking, anyways. It's so difficult. Or maybe you just make it that way. 

This is why you regret coming. Any time spent by yourself is time to think. You hate thinking, but it's all you seem to be able to do. Think and think and think. Your mind runs in the same circles. Things you've done, things you wish you did, things you want to do so badly it makes you feel sick. You can't stand it. 

The crowd begins to rise in volume. Cheers echo against the atrium ceiling, and you push yourself to the edge of your seat to see what's making them all so excited. 

The opening band. They're too far away to see clearly. First on stage is a man with brown skin and a head of black curls, a guitar swinging from his neck, the body barely held as he waves to the masses. Next comes a paler man with hair tied up in a bun who sits down behind the drum kit and doesn't move much after that. A girl practically sprints to centre stage, scooping up a waiting guitar (or bass?) and strumming down the body appreciatively. She has purple hair, bright and choppy, particularly abrasive against the alabaster white of her skin. 

And last on stage… last on stage is Moons. 

You move forward suddenly, smacking your face against the plexiglass barrier and biting your cheek for the second time in a week. Used to your mistreatment, the poorly healed skin wastes no time splitting, and the metallic taste of blood makes you cringe. 

That's Moons. There are two huge screens either side of the stage that magnify him. First his hand on the microphone, a scar coiling up from his wrist to his thumb purple against his skin. Then his face. You wouldn't forget what he looks like so soon, not when you've half obsessed over him for days with could-be's because he'd wanted to see you and you have a bad habit of inventing future's with people you don't know, but even if you did it wouldn't matter. You've never met anyone else with three scars as he has across his face, taking centre stage. 

You hadn't realised the tickets were to see his band. It makes sense, now, why your seat is in such a quiet area, and why the people sitting close by aren't firecracker happy at the sight of them. They must've received their tickets in the same way, gifts or thank yous for small favours. 

Your mouth dries as they begin to play. It's not what you're expecting. Of course, you haven't really had time to expect anything, and yet you're shocked when they start to play a slow song. He doesn't really look like a rockstar, but a heartthrob? You can see it easily. The long lengths of his lashes, and the dark honey of his eyes. His smile, so small but somehow piercing. 

His voice is careful. He doesn't sing anything impressive —there's no belting or high notes— but you still find yourself wringing your hands together, entranced by his confidence. He dances around the melodies and fills up every space he can find between the beat of the drums and the searing guitar riffs that follow. 

They only play five songs. By the time they've finished you're feeling sick to your stomach, and you can't get your heart to calm down. You hadn't known a word of the lyrics, but you'd felt them. 

They're good. 

Like, too good to be openers for long. 

The crowd echoes your sentiment. They clap and scream and wolf whistle. The noise vibrates in the depth of your stomach. The cheering doubles when the headlining band’s techies emerge. The lights go down. Equipment begins to roll out. 

You scrounge through your purse for a lip balm and think about heading downstairs to the concession stands for an overpriced bottle of water to wash away the unfortunate tang of blood. It aches to pay, but if you don't soon you might get nauseous, and that would be a real disaster, throwing up here of all places. 

You hear his voice before you see him. He's laughing, talking to somebody about the set. 

"It was great!" compliments a feminine voice. "I don't know what you were so worried about, Remus, you're really great. And if you weren't, Marl would've saved the day anyways with her gorgeous showmanship." 

"Thanks, baby," says a second voice. Marl. 

"Thanks, Mary," Moons says. 

What had Mary called him? Remus? Odd, not quite as strange as Moons. 

You try not to tense as footsteps approach. 

"Can I sit?" he asks. 

You look up too fast. He's a little damp, the hair closest to his face curled with it, but he smells good as he sits down. He must've washed up. 

"I– I've been calling you Moons in my head," you admit, not sure what to say. 

He's intimidating. You don't imagine he knows it. He sits in the chair without any fanfare, setting his forearm on the rest between your two seats and turning his face to you completely, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, almost like he doesn't want to smile but can't help himself. His eyes are the slightest bit lidded, emphasising the brilliance (and unfairness) of his lashes, so thick and dark you wonder if he's wearing makeup. 

"You can call me whatever you want to, but my name's Remus. I should've told you that before. I was… distracted." 

He isn't being coy, you realise. He easily could be if he wanted to, but he was genuinely lost for words for a second.

"I didn't really tell you mine," you say, hoping to ease his gentle confusion. 

He says your name like it's easy. Like he enjoys the sound of it. "Y/N. Do you like music?" 

Is that a trick question? His eyes trace up to your eyebrows as they pinch together, but he doesn't amend his question. Not a trick, then. 

"I like music,” you say.

"I realise it's brave to ask someone to come and see you on stage. And that I look like a tosser sometimes with the stage lights and makeup." 

"No," you say quickly, "you don't. You looked just fine. You looked good. I bet it's hard getting on stage like that, and in front of this many people. And singing. You have a really nice voice." 

His eyes soften. "Thank you. Do you wanna go get a drink with me? There's a bar. It's quiet." 

Your elbow brushes against his long sleeve. "Yeah." You're not breathless enough to embarrass yourself, but it's a close call. 

Remus leads you up and out of the seats. The venue is large in that it has just as many hallways and back rooms as it has places to watch the show. Remus’ warm hand catches your elbow, a friendly touch that guides you around the barrier and through a dimly lit hallway that takes you to the bar. 

The bar overlooks the stage, but the sound of the band and the crowd is dampened severely, making for a sorely needed respite. VIP's mill around the room on plush leather sofas and cushy bar stools sipping from sweating glass bottles. Remus' hand moves up to your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze as a familiar face waves you over. 

"Hey, it's you!" 

You smile at Remus' motorbike friend. You're a hundred percent sure his name is Sirius, but you won't say it aloud in case you're wrong. Beside him sits the other man you'd seen on stage with them, the guitarist with brown skin and a head full of thick hair. You look between the three of them in secret shock, wondering if handsome attracts handsome or if it's just dumb luck that they ended up together. 

"James, this is the babe that found Stacia," Sirius says.

James wrinkles his nose. "Hi," he says, in a voice that sounds deeply apologetic, years of it like the rings of a tree. "How are you?"

"I'm good. Um, and you?" 

"I'm good! Thanks, I'm good, it's nice of you to come see us. Did you like the show?" 

"Yeah, I did. I had no idea you guys were musicians." 

He splits his attention between you and his jacket. He pulls a glasses case out of his pocket, clicks it open, and straightens out a pair of wire frames. 

"Couldn't tell from our baby boy's general demeanour?" he asks. "Hey, that's better, I can see you now." 

"Sirius is the youngest," Remus says. 

"And the handsomest." 

"No, Marl's clearly the handsome one," James says lightly. 

Sirius takes the rebuttal in good jest and brandishes his drink toward you like a toast. "Want a beer?" 

"I'm getting her one," Remus says, "come on, give me a minute here." 

Everybody laughs. You laugh too, turning your face into your shoulder to smother the sound. 

"Well, come and sit with us, make yourself comfortable," James says, moving his jacket off of the chair in front of you.

Remus makes a small, apprehensive sound. "Drinks first." He looks to you for confirmation. "Yeah. We'll be back." 

You follow him to the bar. Your shoes, a pair of dirty converse you wish you'd swapped for heels or something sophisticated, squeal against the hardwood floor. How were you supposed to know you'd see him again tonight? In what world does stuff like this happen to scruffy waitresses? You're starting to think he might be somebody. 

Not that it matters if he is or isn't. 

But if he is… This is embarrassing, right? Not knowing who he is. 

There must be a couple thousand people here tonight. Then again, his band were the opening act, so it doesn't necessarily mean they're all famous or anything. 

"Hey," Remus says softly, stopping your thoughts cold. "Are you okay?" 

"I'm fine. Sorry. I've never been in here before, anywhere that's like it,” you say. 

"Venues are all different but the bars don't change," he says. "What do you like?" 

"I'm not a big drinker." 

"That's okay. I just wanted an excuse to be alone with you." He doesn't even give you time to recover. "Truth is, I wanted to ask you out. But between shows I couldn't find time, and next week I'm in San Marino." 

What you mean to say is, you wanted to ask me out? But instead, you choke, "You're going to Italy?" 

Remus pushes a seat out for you, helping you up with a solid hand, and, while your fingers are still warm from his touch, he says, "San Marino isn't Italy. I didn't know that 'til a few months ago. But pretty much." 

"What's in San Marino?" 

"A wedding." He climbs into the seat next to you, smiling.

The tan colour of his long-sleeves contrasts his pale hands. Your eyes flash to his ring finger. Not his wedding. 

Remus isn’t easy to talk to. It's not wholly his fault. He doesn't force conversation, leaving you awkwardly searching for something to say. You're not the best conversationalist either. He clearly doesn't mind it. 

You're in the midst of a clumsy retelling of a shitty customer service moment when he tips his head to the left just a touch. 

"Maybe we can go on an actual date when I'm home,” he says.

He says it like he's talking about the weather. You'd be worried he was messing with you, but then he smiles again, flicking his index finger against your wrist mildly. "You don't have to answer me now. Finish telling your story."

"It was pretty much finished. And– and I'd like to. Go on a real date. I've never been out of the country, so you'll have to forgive me if I want to know everything about San Marino." 

He looks at your lips. Says, "Good," and doesn't give any indication that he's noticed how nervous you are. That is, until he covers your trembling hand with his and presses it flat to the bar. 

"You're really pretty," he murmurs. He takes a moment, and he smiles. "Come with me? If I don't give Sirius some attention soon he'll start showing off."

— 

James is starting to wonder if he should invite you to San Marino. He's not that stupid; it would be a huge pain if you were standing in the middle of all his wedding photos and you and Remus don't work out. But, while he's certainly and majorly jumping the gun, he has a suspicion he’ll be seeing you again. 

James has never seen Remus like this before. 

His friend is usually quiet, quipping every now and then perhaps at Sirius' insufferable antagonism but otherwise brooding. He hasn't seen him smile this much, ever. 

James is under no illusions — he knows Remus loves him very much. He knows Remus is happy, and not always healthy but managing. He knows Remus is pleased with their lives and ecstatic to have their music take off. But he also knows Remus won't let himself have a good thing, not really. Maybe that's why he's asked you out now, when in a week they'll be in San Marino, and a week after that they'll be in Cardiff to officially start the new tour. 

He knows Remus, sweetheart, kind hearted, miraculous Remus, tends to let people down. He's a stickler for asking people out and cancelling the day before. It's how it always goes. James will ask how the date went and Remus will shake his head and say, "it didn’t work out." 

He knows Remus doesn't mean to hurt anybody. He just… can't get close. 

But he's trying, with you. A glass of cordial in one hand, the other behind your chair, Remus tells you one of his more embarrassing stories about how he'd taken a bad fall and ended up in A&E with half of an eyebrow. He doesn't mention the painkillers that made him woozy. 

You've relaxed considerably since sitting down. James would be happy to report that you're having a good time. You have your own drink in hand, and your eyes are bright, with a receding space between your face and Remus' as the story goes on. It's like watching two magnets fight to hold themselves apart.

Matter of time, James thinks to himself smugly. 

—

Honesty is important. You admit to yourself that you and Remus aren't exactly a perfect match. Both quiet, both not quite social butterflies, your conversations had occasionally been stilted and slow, but you've only met twice. Things don't have to be perfect, and more than that — there's a spark there. A twinge of a possibility. He'd liked what little he knew about you enough to ask to see you again, and you'd like what little you knew about him in turn to say yes. 

It doesn't have to be perfect, you insist to yourself, a bundle of nerves. Nothing does. 

He looks pretty perfect. Base of his palm pressed to the brick wall of the cafe, hand angled down as his fingers grasp the neck of a bouquet whose flowers have been shedding petals onto the damp pavement below. He holds his other hand against his chest, clicking buttons on his phone. 

You approach from the left and watch him play a game of Snake. 

"You play Snake?" you ask.

"Doesn't everybody?" he asks back, his smile softening what might otherwise feel like a chastisement. He doesn't look up from his phone.

"Woah, how long have you been out here?" you ask, eyeing his weirdly long snake.

Remus guides the snake into a wall on purpose. It dies, his high score flashes across the screen, and he aims an apologetic look your way. "Sorry, that was rude." He doesn't try to hide that he's looking over your face. "Thanks for coming." 

He leans in and kisses your cheek. Delighted warmth curls in your stomach, worse when he passes you the bouquet of flowers. They've mostly survived his poor treatment, and there's a lot of them. He's left the price tag on and you're not sure if he's noticed. You pretend not to see it. 

"Thank you…” You look away from the flowers, all whites and reds and baby’s breath, to ogle him as subtly as you can manage. “Wow, you've caught the sun. Was it lovely in San Marino?" 

"I'll tell you all about it over dinner,” he says. “I thought we'd walk, it's not far." He holds out his hand. You wipe your palm against your side before you take it, worried you'll have clammy hands. He must guess, because he says, "Don't be nervous." 

"I am," you say hopelessly. "I've never been on a date before." 

"This is your first date?" 

You feel a hot flush coming on. "I– yeah. That's embarrassing, I shouldn't have told you that." 

"No, it's a good thing. Now I know it has to be extra special." 

"It doesn't," you say. 

"I was hoping it would be." He pulls you down the pavement and further into the city centre toward the main high street. "San Marino. It was beautiful, and I took a couple of photos but I didn't have room on my phone. Well, I could've deleted Snake–" 

"Why would you?" you joke, grinning. 

He laughs, and squeezes your hand slightly. "Exactly. I have priorities. It's a long flight, and looking over the photos can only take up so much time. No, but it really was… it was beautiful. I'd never given much thought to a destination wedding. They make sense, right? It's the best day of your life, why would you have it here?" 

He tilts his chin toward the grey sky. You look up with him, feeling the cold wind kiss the sides of your face and pull through your hair. 

"Come on, Remus, it's not that bad. If it's sun you're after, you could just wait for British summer time. You know, the whole three days of it." 

He laughs — you've made him laugh twice already. This is going okay. Laughing while looking at one another, a bouquet in one hand and his hand in the other, you feel that curl of delight begin to bloom. It fills your insides up, has you smiling until your eyelashes brush in the corners. 

"It was James' wedding. Do you remember which one that was?" 

He asks so kindly. You don't doubt for a second that he wouldn't care if you forgot. It's refreshing, even if it's something you'd expect. 

"I remember. I didn't realise he was getting married." 

"Don't ever say that in front of him, he'll put himself on the cross." He swings your hand as you turn a corner. The Italian restaurant you'd agreed on winks from a distance. 

"He's devoted," you guess. 

"He's insane. He was worse when we were younger. His girlfriend– his wife," he amends, "Lily, she's really something else. Warm and funny, but she's been keeping him on his toes for years. She has family in San Marino, hence the wedding." 

You listen to him talk eagerly. His voice is as handsome as his face, and the more he says the less stilted he becomes. There had been a strained quality to it before (strained, or restrained? something he wasn't saying) that's all but disappeared. 

"It was like a movie. White linen, sand, crying." 

"Did you cry?" you ask, expecting a puffed up chest. 

"So much. Too much, maybe. I was half of the best man." 

"Half?" 

"We had to share, me and Sirius. They've always been…" Remus slows his steps. "Am I being boring? I'm talking too much about me." 

"We have time. I want to hear it. I'd like to hear it," you say. 

James and Sirius are brothers. Remus sees your surprised look and doesn't condemn you for it. Sirius is unofficially adopted. The Potter's fostered him from ages thirteen until he aged out, and though they tried to adopt him, Sirius was reluctant. Remus doesn't get into the reasons beyond that, and you don't ask. You suspect he's only telling you about it to drive home how much the Potter's love Sirius. How much James does. 

Remus had been Sirius' friend from their very first year of comprehensive school. Sirius moved in with the Potter's, and, adoring as they were, they let him have friends over whenever he liked. James, Sirius, and Remus spent the next decade together like that, hiding in Sirius' room. Best friends, entirely inseparable, and all fiercely protective of each other. 

"They've always been like brothers." 

"But not…" 

He understands what you're worried to say. "I think it would've been weird… I had a candle burning for James. For a long time." 

Your jaw drops a little. "And you just had to watch him have the most romantic wedding ever," you whisper sympathetically. You're joking: it's clear the candle isn't burning now. 

"Told you I cried," he says. "No, but you've seen him. He's a supermodel. It's awful." 

"Remus, I think you might be underestimating how handsome you are," you say. You bite your lip and look at his chin rather than his eyes. 

He's generous. He gives your wrist a tug and chuckles warmly. "I'm glad you think so. Tonight might have been awkward, otherwise." 

You duck together inside of the restaurant, hands falling apart as Remus gives his last name for the reservation. Lupin. Your face has a mind of its own. 

"Charming, isn't it?" 

"It is," you say emphatically, denying his sarcasm. "I've never heard anything like that. Lupine, like a fox?" 

"Wolf."

A server shows you to your table and hands you two leather covered menus. Leather, not plastic, a sign that tonight is going to be classy. You've dressed for the occasion in a smart blouse and slacks, too terrified of wearing a dress. Remus seems to have done the same as you, reaching for smart but dodging the mark in a button down and a casual jacket. When he takes off his coat, he looks perfect. He fits right in. 

"Could we get a glass?" he asks the server. "For the flowers? If it's not too much trouble." 

"No trouble at all." 

You run your hand across the silken tablecloth and the space between you both feels somehow smaller than when you'd been holding hands. Outside, you could let your gaze drift to the pavement, the fenced in trees, the couples that passed you by. Here, you're forced to watch one another. 

It's not so bad. It's agonising. 

"This is weird," you say. You flinch when you hear yourself. "Sorry, not that you're weird! I'm weird. I've never ever done this." 

"No, I know," he says, almost murmuring, "it's okay." 

"I just blurted out what I was thinking–" 

"I know." He sits back in his chair. His head tilts down, his eyelashes kissing the skin above his brows as he fixes you with a look. It has the intended effect, tension easing from your rigid spine and tight shoulders. "This is weird. But it's still early. It could get weirder." 

You like that he says it as if it's a good thing. 

You order the same thing he does, and you don't turn down his offer to get a bottle of wine, though it feels too grown up. You keep forgetting you're an adult, and that your life isn't on hold. Things can happen to you at any time. 

"I want to address the elephant in the room," he says. 

Not promising. "Okay." 

"Are we having dessert?" Remus leans forward on both forearms. Hair falls in his eyes. He's dressed nicely and he's handsome but there's something homespun about him, something golden. You can't help looking at him and thinking impossibly forward thoughts, cheesy waffle from the films. He's familiar. "Nobody ever wants to get dessert with me. It's actually a real issue for me." 

"I'll get dessert with you." A smoother you with more confidence, who wore the dress and asked him to go to the Thai restaurant instead, would've said something more suave. We're having whatever you want, handsome.

Remus flips the menu to the very last page and reads the desserts aloud. For himself, it seems, half-muttered and apprehensive. "Chocolate cake from places like this will either be the nicest thing we've ever eaten or burnt in the microwave. And it's childish that I want chocolate cake. I should be spoon feeding you creme brulee. Or whipped cream and strawberries." 

He tips his head back and rubs his eyes. It's a charade of feigned self loathing that makes you laugh. 

"I'm a child," he laments, thumb and index finger pressed into his eyes. He checks to see if you're watching before doubling down. 

"I like cake," you say, and you'd lie if you thought it was what he wanted to hear. Handsome, kind, and funny. Not to mention talented. He needs smart for the sweep. 

Remus falls out of his dramatics. You mourn the loss, beggy a good look on him, but forget all about it when he slides his chair around the table to share the menu with you, your heads inclined as you read it together again. He smells woody. You hope he likes the jasmine of your perfume. 

"It all sounds really nice," you confide, afraid to disturb the comfortable hush. "I haven't had gelato since I was a kid. Oh, did they have real gelato in San Marino?"

“They had a lot of stuff in San Marino… I want to hear about you.”

“What do you want to hear?”

The questions start and don’t stop. Where did you grow up? That’s the easy part. What did you study in school? Were you in sports? The art club? And what do you do now, when you aren’t working in the cafe? The more he asks, the easier it is to answer. He doesn’t slow when the waiter brings a glass for your bouquet, simply stands and places them inside with exceedingly gentle hands, smiling at you from between the stems. You eat slowly when the food arrives — you're busy talking. 

It feels fucking amazing. To have someone want to know anything about you. And unless he’s an actor of the highest regard, he’s obviously enjoying your conversations, though they wilt and wane and wind around one another. You lose track of time and thread as the night goes on, distracted by the near unnoticeable asymmetry of his smile, and the way he laughs when you laugh, like an echo. 

You get cake like he wanted. Triple fudge cake with buttercream thick but melting from the heat. It looks straight from the pages of a magazine, glossy and dusted with sugar powder, but he doesn’t seem to like it. He takes a couple of bites and leaves it alone. You don’t want to look greedy, so you do the same. 

The date is suddenly over. 

“Could I walk you home?” he asks, when you’ve both put your coats back on, and the damp roots of your flowers are leaving an imprint on your chest. 

You nod rather than answer. 

Things are good, not perfect. That’s what you keep thinking. There’s something he isn’t saying. Or, horrifyingly, something he doesn’t like about you. Still, the sky is velvet black and the air is crisp. Stars like needlepoints dot the air. Street lights work to hide them, casting a warm yellow glow over the pavements and your meandering shoes. 

A brisk wind whips past you. You shiver and press your lips together hard, hands quick to rigidity. Remus looks at you sideways, and breaks the quiet. “Are you cold?”

“A little.” No point in lying when he can see you trembling. 

“Do you want my coat?”

“No, no, it’s alright–“ You cut off as he steps in front of you, his hand vying for yours. 

He tucks the flowers under his arm and sandwiches your fingers between his. He has short fingernails, and another scar down one pinky finger. How’d you get that one? you want to ask. How’d you get any of them?

His breath clouds the air. “I should’ve thought about the cold.”

“This is better,” you say. Than a warm taxi home. His thumbs brushing down the backs of your hands. 

You walk to your flat building and hesitate at the foyer door. The potential for a kiss goodnight has flayed your thoughts. The image of his hands climbing your arms, holding you still, plays like a flickering film. You have no idea if he’s going to do it. 

“How will you get home?” you ask quietly. 

“I parked by the cafe, it isn’t far.”

“Oh…” The lights from your building paint him the faintest shade of pink. Your breath fogs out in front of you, as does his, and the warmth of walking will soon fade. “I–“

“Here,” he says, handing you the flowers again. 

“Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

“Fits the recipient.”

It takes a second for you to get it. Oh, you think. You can hardly feel the cold now. Your heart hurts, and you’re begging him to want to take a step toward you. The silence goes for too long. 

“I– I’d love to see you again,” you say. Love comes out funny. Maybe because you can feel his rejection coming. 

“I won’t be here next week. Not for a long time. We’re touring properly, now.” He scratches the side of his face.

“Right. Right, of course you are. Um, good luck with that. And thank you for tonight, for dinner.” You wave your flowers weakly. 

He looks at you. He takes a half step toward you. You can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. 

“You really are pretty,” he says finally. “Goodnight.”

He smiles quick and turns quicker. You watch him walk a few steps but ultimately can’t face it, pushing into the foyer of your building with a hardset frown. Your hands shake, minute abstractions of the sharp rejection panging in your chest. Your ears roar and then go quiet. What did I do wrong? you think, shocked and upset and trying to rationalise. He doesn’t have to kiss you. He asked you out on a maybe, and now whatever question he had is answered. 

The door creaks open. You spin on your heel, too wrapped up to think about hiding your expression. Remus stands in the doorway of the porch, his arm pressed to the glass panel, the other held out to you. 

"Come here," he says quietly. It isn't a question, but he's asking. 

You step into his reach, letting him pull you by the waist against his chest. He leans down until his nose glances against ýours, and he starts to say something. You push your chin up in your eagerness and he doesn't try again. He kisses you, once, contrite, and he pulls back and his hand clasps your arm tight as he ducks in for another. His lips are fast to lose the cold of the weather, but his tongue is a hot shock at the seam of your own. 

You go weak in his arms. The flowers between you crunch and smother themselves. You can’t think about it. Your hands are numb. He takes over every one of your senses until you’re more kiss than thought, reciprocating his slow, deep searching. You run out of breath. 

He eases you backward, cupping the side of your head in his big palm. 

“I want to see you again,” he says hoarsely. “But I– I don’t know when I’ll be back.” His hand adjusts against your cheek, like he’s worried you’re slipping out of his hold. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I can wait,” you say. 

“I couldn’t ask you to.”

You rub your buzzing lips together, each heaven of your chest marked by the crinkling sound of cellophane. 

“Do you want to come upstairs?” you ask.

He strokes the edge of your mouth with his thumb. “Are you sure?”

You kiss him. You don’t know if this will work, any of it, the broad stroke or this one night, but you want him. 

—

Remus doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows how to fuck somebody, that isn’t the problem. He doesn’t know what he’s doing with you. The same thing that made him walk away had pulled him right back in, had him skipping steps on the staircase up to your flat, drinking in the back of your head and roll of your shoulders as you’d made apologies for the mess inside.

He doesn’t feel like himself when he’s with you. He thinks of it like this — what he is, his pain, his wants, that’s all set in stone. Any change is an erosion, and little by little over the years he’s managed to whittle himself down into the smallest, cleanest version of himself. Then suddenly the band’s making money, people are listening to his voice on the radio in countries all over the world, and he can’t hide anymore. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to, after all. What else inspires a performer into the spotlight? The music, he thinks desperately, knowing it’s half a lie. 

Isn’t it why he’d asked you to the show? Come and watch me sing. See me at my most impressive. My most curated. 

And now he’s following you into your bedroom after one date, about to strip it all away. 

“You didn’t have too much wine, did you?” he asks. You hadn’t really finished your first glass, but it won’t hurt to make sure. 

You peel your jacket off and drop it over the back of a wide armchair. “I don’t think so. Did you?”

“No.” His head has never been this clear. 

He thinks about what you said. This is your first date, and he’s not clueless enough to assume that never going on a date means never having sex, but he wants to be careful with you anyway. He wants this to last beyond a dinner date. 

Which means he has to get out of his head. 

Beyond all of his own mess, he really does think you're pretty. More than pretty. You’re beautiful, and your voice… 

He wants to see what other sounds you make. 

Remus gets his hands on you. Soft touches, his hands coasting from your elbows to your warming hands. He squeezes your fingers, leaning in for a quick kiss. He rests his nose against the skin beneath your eye. “Tell me if it’s too much?” he asks, a murmur of hot air. 

“Yeah.”

“I’ll go slowly.”

“Okay.” Your voice is barely audible. 

He pulls away to make sure you’re alright, and is surprised to see a glassy sheen in your eyes. He holds your face in both hands and works your lips open against his, guiding you backwards into the plush of your poorly made bed. He’s all sweet touches and eager kisses, cautious not to hurt you, or let too much of his weight press against your soft torso. His kisses follow to the corner of your mouth, the tip of his nose tender against your cheek. “You’re so quiet,” he says. He isn’t complaining, but he wants to hear your voice. 

“I’m a bit preoccupied.”

He laughs into your skin, kissing down to your jaw. “You’re right,” he says, revelling in the goosebumps that rise under his hands. 

Your shaking inhales cleave a pit in his stomach. He mouths at the side of your neck, half-kisses, tiny warning nips before he thumbs open the first button of your shirt. He meanders, dropping a path crescent moon kisses into your front until the fabric of your bra gets in the way. The soft hill of your breast staggers to a halt beneath him. He can tell that you’re holding deliberately still. 

Kisses. You need more kisses, an absolution from any lingering nervousness. Your hands thread into his hair gently, your fingers raking wavy strands behind his ears as you give in. You melt into your sheets, your legs parting from the pressure of his hips. 

Your hands fall from his hair to needle between your two bodies and undo the rest of your buttons. The fabric falls aside, your chest and tummy his to catalogue. He drops his hand against your stomach, smoothing a line down to your slacks. His lips ache against yours as he asks, “Can I?”

“Please.”

“Please?” he says back, mirroring your soft tone. “You think you need to say please?” His pinky bumps under the waistband of your trousers. There isn’t much give. He traces the lining to your zipper, fiddling with the small piece of metal as your eyes darken. “I should be the one saying it.” His voice keeps dropping, an utterance in the shell of your ear, his words for you and you alone. “I’m at your mercy, dove. Don’t say please with me. Okay?” 

He smiles at your daunted expression. “Can I take these off?” he asks you, his fingertip running under the edge of your underwear. “Please?” he teases.

Your skin is a furnace, hot hot hot everywhere he touches as you nod your permission and Remus undresses you, one piece of clothing at a time. Your trousers, your shirt. Your bra, your underwear. His fingers slip in his ardency as he tears out of his own button down. 

Your thumb traces a scar. 

He looks up from your chest, startled, but you aren’t giving him anything he doesn’t want. There’s no pity in your gaze, no curiosity, no sadness. Just lust, your trembling hands pulling his slacks down the lengths of his thighs. 

He pulls the condom from his wallet in his pocket and lets it fall to the floor. 

Remus hooks his hands under your arms and urges you back against the headboard, a pillow behind your head, your thighs tipping open as his hand runs down between them. He grabs at them greedily, handfuls of fat that have his mouth dry as a bone. 

“Has anyone ever done this to you before?” he asks. He needs to know.

You squeeze your eyes closed and shake your head. 

Fuck. “Hey, look at me,” he says, waiting for your eyes to meet before continuing. “I just want to make you feel good. If I don’t, you let me know.”

He waits for you to answer aloud. “I will,” you say, your hand behind his back and urging him forward. “Please.”

“What did I say?” he jokes gently, letting his weight bear down on you again. 

He closes his eyes, his lips in what feels like a new home at the juncture of your neck. His hands skirt dangerously close to your heat. 

He’s gentle. He rubs a sweeping line against your cunt with the front of his fingers, heart hammering fast as a mouse’s when he finds the little button of your clit. You shiver and shudder and squirm as he toys with you, your fingers steadfast against the plane of his back while he opens you up. His lips part in tandem, not nearly as kind as his hands. His teeth scratch against your throat. 

Your soft moans move through him as he hickeys over your pulse, chasing each capering thud of blood. He winds you up. You’re snug around his fingers, fluttering, and he knows he’s probed something sweet when your breath catches and you whine. 

“Was that alright?” he asks. 

You nod, heavy headed, and lick your lips as he tears open the condom and eases it onto his cock, one measured roll at a time. 

“Can you– I want you to–” You turn your face from him, the line of your jaw kissed by the lamplight outside, and the rest hidden. 

He drags you down to lay flat on your back and holds himself over you, nudging his nose against yours until you lift your head. Face to face, he gives himself time to adore the shape and colour of your eyes, the side of his hand brushing along your cheek. “Do you think you’re ready?” he asks sincerely. The slickness between your legs is obvious, but he doesn’t want to blindside you. “It will feel…”

You nod, saving him the explanation. It will feel weird. Good, but foreign. “Will you kiss me again?” you ask feebly.

He can’t stop himself. He kisses your lips sore, his hand behind the crook of your knee pushing your leg up toward your stomach as he slides into the space he’s made there. He breaks the kiss to listen to your breathing as he pushes forward.

Remus hadn’t been lying — he wants it to feel good. He takes it slow, his thrusting almost languid as you get to grips with the feeling. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard, struggling to smother the moan that escapes him as he feels you clench around him. You gasp, your arms tightening around his waist, destroying any semblance of space between your sweat-damp bodies as you hold him tight. He murmurs praises in your ear, his forearms tucked beneath your shoulder blades, hands gripping your shoulders a touch too hard. He can’t remember the last time he was this close to somebody, can’t remember ever feeling so maddeningly lost, like he’s one good push from hurtling over the edge. 

He kisses your cheek, calling you all the things he’d been too scared to say before. “Lovely girl,” he pants, “how’s that feel?” And, when you answer, “Yeah, you’re taking it so well, dove. Think you can take a little more?”

All that nervousness and desperation shrinks down to dust, and the smiling girl he’d been with at dinner comes to the forefront. There’s no mistaking it. You giggle something awful and turn your face into his, kissing him between sounds, dizzying him with the tender scratch of your nails down his back as he starts to move. 

“There she is,” he says lightly, almost smirking. “Feel good?”

“Feels– oh,” —you shiver violently, filled all the way up— “feels good.” 

Remus let’s his forehead fall to your chin, his eyes closed in pleasure, his cock to the hilt. Every move he makes evokes a near sinful sound from you, mewling, silvery whimpers and pleased little laughs when he angles his hips right. He’s a mess, desperate to cum from the second you touched him and running on stolen time as he presses you deep into your mattress. One of your hands flies backward into the pillows and scrunches up into a ball, the look on your face too tempting to ignore. 

The first time you fuck someone — it’s never timed right. Remus knows he hasn’t quite figured you out, but he knows enough to get you where he wants you. He slides his hand between your bodies and your soft cunt to draw circles into your clit, entranced by your twitching lashes as the pleasure builds. You chase him with your hips, and he grabs your hand at the last second to stop you from covering your mouth, holding it above your head as you come apart. 

He cooes at you. The sound you make — the breathless little cry that leaves you, your hips jutting up to meet him. He’s at your mercy, just like he said. 

Remus fucks into the extra tightness, drawing your climax out for as long as he can. You’re smiling as you shove his arm away, a playful chastisement that wanes when you see the look on his face. “Are you close?” you ask, brushing a curled strand of hair from his eyes. 

Close? Remus is fucked. 

“You can go faster,” you say, “rougher, whatever you want.”

“Shit,” he hisses, leaning back. 

His rutting hips slap the backs of your thighs. He squeezes your waist, his eyes fixed on your cunt as it pulls him in. One last wavering, “Oh, fuck,” from you is all it takes for Remus to lose it. White hot pleasure tightens his whole body, his abdomen aflame. You scramble to gather him back into your arms. You kiss him, swallowing his resulting string of moans. 

He has to catch his breath afterward. You comb the hair back from his face, your eyes droopy with pleasure.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice stringy.

“Of course not.” You’re quickly losing your confidence. Remus hates it, but he understands. This vulnerability can only stretch so far. 

“Let me clean you up,” he says.

“You look like you’re gonna fall over if you stand.”

He strokes your face with the back of his ring finger, his nail ghosting along the highest point of your cheek. “Funny,” he says dryly. 

He gets confused in your bathroom, and you won’t let him towel you off, but when he lies down beside you with his boxers back in place you don’t push him away. You drop your face into his chest and curl up. 

He drags the quilt over your naked back. 

Was that okay? he wants to ask. “Sore?” he worries instead. 

“Don’t think so.”

He chews his cheek. “You’re alright?”

You stir, looking up at him through your lashes. He thinks you’re the kind of pretty people might not always see. You’re clearly beautiful, but there’s something else to it. The way you move, maybe. The way your eyes smile before your lips can catch up. 

“I’m fine. I’m good… Can I…”

He hums. “What?”

“Could I kiss you again?” 

You speak so quietly, he hears the vibration in your throat more than the sound of your voice. It’s endearingly timid. He feels his attraction for you flare violently. 

He wants to ask you to come with him to Cardiff. He knows he can’t. It’s yards too soon, but for a second he entertains the thought. 

“Wait for me to come home,” he says. He’s still asking for more than he should. “I want to see you again. You can kiss me as much as you want, if you say you’ll wait.”

You nod immediately. Not a flicker of reluctance to be seen. 

You lift your chin and kiss him. He tries to make it the kind of kiss worth waiting for.  

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed! if you did, please consider reblogging cos it helps more than you might think <3

[cazort]

In case anyone struggles to understand why this is problematic, 99% of the time, when someone brings up that you crossed a boundary or did something that hurt or imposed on you, we do not want to upset you. We do not want you to feel bad.

We just want you to know, so that you can stop doing the thing.

When you freak out, it is imposing a consequence we don't want. Even ignoring the effect on us of the freakout, we also don't want you to feel bad.

So like...it kinda feels like a punishment. Like if you react negatively whenever people bring up concerns, it's socially conditioning people not to bring up concerns with you. And yes, even if you direct 100% of your negativity on yourself, it's still having this effect. You're making other people do extra work to reassure you.

Also these kinds of reactions can discourage people from asserting boundaries.

I think we need to normalize a culture where asserting boundaries is seen as a good thing, not an insult or imposition or affront, but rather, as a way of supporting someone. Like it's not "Hey, you crossed this boundary, you are a terrible person and I want you to suffer." Rather it is: "Hey, you crossed this boundary, I want to support you in not crossing it again. Is it clear why this was an issue? Okay, yeah? Okay great, don't feel bad!"

Now I get a lot of people have trauma from abuse, or just from growing up in a toxic or authoritarian culture. For example, if you grow up with people having that sort of "you are a terrible person" reaction to you doing anything they dislike, it can be hard to break out of that reaction. But like...most people aren't like this. Please reassure yourself, maybe take some time to talk it through with friends, write in a journal about it, even go to therapy, whatever you need to work this stuff out. Most people don't think you're a terrible person because you made a small mistake, most of us just want to let you know you imposed on us or crossed a boundary so you won't do it again. And also we are open to you bringing up the same sort of thing for you.

So yeah, I know this stuff may be slightly more tricky or complex but it is really important.

If you have a big, emotional, self hating meltdown every time someone tells you that you hurt them or crossed a boundary of theirs, then that means you're not a safe person to say no to - and that's something you need to work on. Even if you're genuinely just really upset that you hurt someone, if every attempt at communicating a boundary to you results in the person you hurt having to repeatedly reassure you that you're not actually a bad person, then you need to work on controlling yourself and taking constructive criticism.

[the-firebird69]

There's another thing too you people are messing with him more we're going to mess with you and it's you Trump idiots and boy you an imposition and you're going to have to pay for it

-you have several other announcements to make there are a lot of films started because of your actions also tomorrow is Monday and it begins a cycle there are several major events going on

-and very huge event with us is Hera going behind the Sun with her planet venus. And yeah we will have to relocate her this coming year and it is because of the iron ore but they are going to fight and mine over literacy already have access to first it will take time then a ton of time but we will defend our empress either way and she appreciates it and she knows it she's got nothing else but very good treatment

-and there are several things additional or crying that people should be aware of there's no longer any room for this idiocy is that these two are doing and they think there is and they're going to get walked along with their people and you can see it in this movie and ben Arnold was really surprised he said these idiots are not responding like anybody does. And Mac said they're not really human they're nut cases he made and there he was forced to hey we use it pretty early just to manage to screw it up that's very true. So we are angry with these idiots here too but there are things going on shortly that will change what's happening

-these warlocks and mainly trumpsters have engaged Tony f and Tommy f is attacking them and he is falling for a lot on things and needs to be controlled but Tommy f is actually fighting them. And the Trump so you're leaving their butt standard to them and they're not making a scratch on the ship and we noticed it they're terrible at it they're fighting elsewhere over several ships because it won't what's below and they're not very good at breaching. They're trying and getting in trouble and they are trying to use that to gain access and it is helping a little and they do get information they need.

-his other things in the news that it's important these ships are going to be moved out of here they're beginning to be pushed out globally they're down from 105 to about 98 people find out they're pushing them out and they're starting to do it everywhere and large forces are we getting together against these ships and they said we can't go after them and where we can in front of the empire and it's too much and we're getting sick and a lot of people getting sick and need those ships out so they're moving to do it now missing 10 more ships will be out tomorrow and it will proceed that way daily finally some movement and areas that they leave feeling much better they're getting a health back the foliage comes back and they're able to fix things and the clones leave

Thor Freya

Olympus

[chatdae]

I am a cis woman, and I would be considered un-thoughtful by these metrics. I recently had an argument with a family member where they were angry at me for not doing certain chores, because they thought it was obvious that I should. That situation was resolved when I said, "hey, I struggle with this because of my autism & ADHD. Can we agree to a clear set of norms that we both have the power to adhere to?"

Aside from neurodivergence, there is also the matter that cultural norms vary way more than we might think: I've had friends who consider it rude to not get someone a birthday gift, even when a gift wasn't explicitly requested; I've had other friends consider it rude to expect gifts on one's birthday, because they think that's an imposition on how others use their money & time. This is a different context than an intimate partnership, yes; but I think it's true that, just as people's ideas of what a good friend acts like may vary, so will their ideas of what a good partner acts like.

Assuming that you know the means by which someone expresses love and respect is a recipe for conflict. Whether it's disability, cultural difference, etc, there is bound to be some discrepancy between the two of you. In my relationships, I've found success by being honest about this and being willing to propose new standards. When everyone reflects on how they are doing within these standards, and genuinely values the other person's/people's happiness as much as their own, it's more than possible to develop patterns of behavior that make people feel respected and loved. This may, for some, involve cutting out indirect communication.

OP is right that uses of "I'm not a mind reader" have manifested and still do manifest in sexist ways. Many men and women have been raised to perform patterns that undervalue a woman's feelings. However, the indirect communication from women that OP describes is a form of communication that developed in a sexist context, where the woman had to find a way to express her needs in a "palatable" way. Why ask her to stick to this communication method when it perpetuates the belief that she would be rude to express her desires directly?

It is true that men are conditioned to put less effort than women into social interactions and intimate relationships, and it is possible for a man to put effort into learning the language of indirect communication. But, at least in my experience, a standard of direct and explicit communication is a more accessible (neurodivergency, etc) and reliable (easy to avoid conflicts when the two people agree to a framework of communication) standard to try and learn, rather than a standard of picking up on subtle cues and indirect requests.

(Really, speaking from experience: if you keep trying to learn indirect communication but it keeps blowing up in everyone's face, maybe it's time to respect your feelings & limitations and recognize how previous norms may have been crafted to undervalue your experience -- be that an autistic experience, an ADHD experience, etc etc.)

So far, everything I've said is in defence of the idea that direct communication may be necessary in some relationships, with indirect communication just not being feasible. But this may not be the case in every relationship: maybe a standard of stating things explicitly and overtly all the time would put unequal demand on the people involved. Maybe it would lead to both people suffering needlessly. The established norms of communication that we have on-hand almost always have origins in environments of unequal power, and I believe this means there's no one-size-fits-all. In my experience, it's been more ethical and effective to figure things out case by case.

In general, this might take the form of people sitting down, verbalizing sentiments clearly, figuring out how to express love in ways the other person understands... maybe this method won't work for everyone. But, personally, I've found that you're more likely to get positive results if you reflect on what the cause of conflicts in your relationships are and discuss them, instead of assuming you can both recognize and understand the other person's form of communication.

I've seen a lot of "You have to communicate directly/don't expect other people to read your mind" posts going around tumblr lately and while I really do appreciate them because it's a skill a LOT of people need to work on, I do want to remind everyone to please meet people halfway sometimes.

I recently read a story on Reddit about a guy's pregnant wife texting him "I'm craving donuts but we don't have any in the house 😔" and he DIDN'T stop to pick up donuts on the way home from work. Everyone was taking his side because "she needs to communicate" and "he's not a mind reader" and "How was he supposed to know she wanted him to get donuts???" People, ffs, why on earth would she text him that while he was at work if not because she wanted him to get donuts? I was flabbergasted everyone was taking his side. "How was he supposed to know??" What? Like yeah it's true she didn't say "I want you to get me donuts" with those exact words in that exact order but the reason why people get upset if they hint they want you to do something and you don't do it is because they feel like you don't care about them and aren't actively thinking about their feelings. Especially in a marriage or LTR they are in a situation where the assumption is you care about filling the other person's needs.

Someone who loves and cares about someone will get the donuts "without being asked" just because their partner expresses a want or need. That's what someone is fishing for when they say "Aaaah I'm craving donuts 🥺🥺🥺" It's less about the donuts and more about feeling cared for. Sometimes straight up asking "Can you get me donuts?" defeats the purpose.

Also, women are typically socialized to communicate this way because they're punished socially for being too direct. I've heard that people of color, especially black people, often do this too because they're likely to be branded as "aggressive" if they're too direct with white people. So it might be a good idea to be a bit intersectional if we're trying to encourage people to be more direct.

Take the stereotypical example of a wife gets a new haircut and then gets upset that the husband doesn't notice. She's not literally mad at him for not saying the exact words "I like your new haircut." She's upset because she feels like he doesn't look at her and appreciate the efforts she's putting in anymore.

Obviously this will vary widely depending on the nature of your relationship with someone, but especially when it comes to intimate partnerships, there are certain things your significant other should not have to tell you directly. It's probably safe to assume your wife or husband wants a birthday present even if they don't ask for it. It's probably safe to assume your bf or gf would appreciate a valentine's day present or a compliment without them having to literally ask for it, unless they explicitly say otherwise.

This is difficult for a lot of neurodivergent people to learn manually if it's not instinctual and they didn't learn it growing up (lord knows I didn't) and yes, it's true that most people (especially NT people) should learn to communicate more directly. But also, your relationships would probably benefit from learning to read indirect cues and just pick up the donuts on the way home because you heard your wife is craving them. Sometimes what someone wants is for you to think about what they're feeling and what they want and do it without them asking directly. It's up to you whether or not you do that, but sometimes that is asking. I think this is what people generally mean when they say their partner is "thoughtful."