#like it’s fine i can take a gap year it literally doesn’t matter

[teabookgremlin]

vet school applications have opened and i immediately started freaking out after making my account for them bc the fear of not getting in set in

[muniimyg]

𐙚₊˚⊹ bbydaddy!yoongi (3) ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹

series m.list // taglist

//

it’s been almost three weeks since you last saw him. 

so, when you walk into the clinic, flushed cheeks and tucked-in hair and all—yoongi’s first thought catches him off guard. 

oh, i missed you. 

your absence crept into him slowly over the past few weeks. it filled in all the small gaps of his days with a quiet ache he had never noticed until now. it’s weird to say the least. 

when you spot him, a small and hesitant smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. yoongi smiles back, fuller than you expected. it’s still a casual smile but his eyes tell all. 

"hey," you say, voice soft as you approach him.

your fingers nervously fidgeting with the strap of your bag. he notices and reaches over to take your bag. 

you let him. 

"hey."

he tries to sound professional, though he knows he’s already failing. his voice is laced with excitement and nervousness. "let’s head to an exam room, yeah?"

then, he gestures down the hallway, and you follow.

as you two walk, you clear your throat. 

“where is everyone?”

“nam joon and jin have an online doctor's conference so they’re in jin’s office. hobi has a patient, jimin’s his nurse, and taehyung’s on his lunch break.” yoongi answers you like he reviewed for this. 

“and jungkook?”

yoongi blinks at you before placing his hand on your lower back and guiding you through the 3rd door to the left. 

is it bad he wants to be dismissive? is it bad that he’s a little annoyed you’re asking about jungkook while literally in the midst of finding out if you’re pregnant with his child?

doesn’t matter.

yoongi is mature. he answers you patiently—only really annoying himself.

“he’s my rn. told him my patient requested a private exam so he’s on a break too.” 

the room’s quiet when you two step inside. just the soft hum of the vent and the door shutting fills the silence. yoongi helps you sit on the exam bed. you don’t say anything, letting the crinkling paper under you shift as you settle in. yoongi gathers his supplies, his eyes darting toward you between movements.

“so... how’ve you been?” he asks, rolling up his sleeves. 

it feels like such a weak question. like it’s too small for all the things yoongi actually wants to say (because it is).

“fine. a little... tired, i guess?” you forces a tiny laugh. “and you? how’s work been? the space is really well done. i think the last time i saw it was during the final renovation process.”

“it’s nice, isn’t it?” yoongi states pridefully. 

“aren’t you into interior design? i’m gonna guess you controlled the overall aesthetic.” 

yoongi chuckles at you lightly. “we decorated a gingerbread house together once 2 years ago and you can never let that little discovery go, huh?” 

you stick your tongue out at him and swing your feet. “you’re pretty obvious with things you like.”

yoongi stares at you, eyebrows lifting in quiet surprise. 

you’re pretty obvious with things you like. 

your words hang in the air, sinking into him with a weight he hadn’t expected—he hadn’t prepared for.  he tries to play it off, mouth twitching into a half-smile, but he can feel his face warming.

there’s a small silence, and he can feel his heart picking up speed. his brain racing through all the ways he’s been maybe—not-so-subtle.

the way he leans a little closer when you talk.

how he remembers every little thing you mention— stupid things like how you prefer your coffee bitter. 

it hits him all at once.

he’s not fooling anyone. 

but for some reason; he hopes to fool you. even if it’s just a little while longer. as complicated as it sounds, he isn’t sure how much more risk he can put your friendship at. 

his throat tightens, and he clears it.

“...guess i am,” he murmurs, unable to hide the quiet honesty in his voice.

you stay quiet.

a little unsure if your friendship always had these silent gaps in between or if it’s because of the tension between you two right now. you attempt once more. 

“so… work?”

“work? oh… it’s the same, mostly.” he shrugs, tying a tourniquet around your arm. his fingers brush your skin for just a second longer than necessary. “though it’s nice to have an interesting case now and then,” he teases, his lips quirking up just slightly. 

“oh, so i’m interesting now?” you tease, trying for lightness. although, your voice shakes a little.

you hope he doesn’t notice. 

he does. 

“well... always have been, if i’m honest,” yoongi snickers. “blood test first and then we’ll do a urine sample. i can have the blood test result by tomorrow.”

“okay,” you say as you shut your eyes.

yoongi then slips a needle into your vein with practiced ease. once you feel the pinch, you flutter your eyes open. 

they meet yoongi’s and for a fleeting moment—he feels his chest tighten. 

as the vial fills with blood, yoongi realizes this is the closest you two have been in weeks. 

there’s something unspoken about it but very understood when he reaches for your free hand and squeezes it. you gulp and offer him a small smile. 

when it’s over, yoongi gently places a bandage on your arm. his fingers brush your skin again, lingering just a (another) second too long before he steps back.

"all done," he says softly, but he knows they’re only just beginning. “ready to pee in a cup?”

“more than ever.” 

with that, he laughs and takes your hand. yoongi helps you down and reaches for the sample cup. his arms wrap around your waist ever so gently as he guides you out of the exam room and into the washroom. 

yoongi waits for you outside the washroom door.

yoongi watches you pace, the linoleum tiles squeaking under your sneakers. 

"it only takes a few minutes," he says, tapping the test strip on the countertop, trying to sound as calm as he can. you’re nodding, but your hands are twisting the hem of your shirt. 

the clock ticks away the longest three minutes of your lives.

yoongi's eyes dart between the test and the silent tension builds up between you and him. when he glances at you, you’re staring at the counter. 

like you’re bracing yourself. 

like you already know. 

then, the lines appear. 

yoongi’s throat tightens, fingers hovering over the little strip with too much gravity for its size. his throat feels dry and suddenly he’s all out of words. he’s speechless as the results speak for themselves. 

but then, he can feel your eyes on him—waiting, hopeful, and terrified all at once.

“___,” yoongi breathes. “it’s positive.”

a moment passes.

"oh my god,” you choke. “hyemi is gonna lose her shit."

yoongi drives you home. 

he takes the rest of the day off actually. he excuses himself and lets jungkook know something came up. no one catches you two leaving the clinic together. 

now, here you two are. 

sitting in his car, parked outside your family home. the weight of the news hangs in the air. it’s not heavy—but it’s not exactly light. it’s… different. it’s more good than bad—actually, it’s not bad at all.

both of you sit there, still processing the reality of it all. 

“i want whatever you want,” yoongi finally says, breaking the stillness. his gaze is focused on you, sincere and adoring. 

you nod, accepting his words. 

“this is what i want,” you say simply. though your voice trembles with a mix of excitement and disbelief—you mean it. “look, i know my baby fever is batshit crazy and the whole time we fucked i was literally such a freak, but this—this is so precious, you know? new life. are you fucking—oops, sorry baby—” you pat your stomach.

“yoongi, this is ours.”

you shift something in yoongi. 

his heart flutters at the word. 

ours. 

it plunges his heart and engraves itself; ours. 

there is no other way to act or feel. 

the thought of being a dad feels surreal. it’s like something out of a dream. he’s always wanted to have a family.

okay, fine.

is the status of their relationship ideal? no. but the reality of a baby, their baby, makes his heart race.

and so what if he isn’t prepared? so what if this wasn’t what he expected? so what if a first date would’ve been a better idea? the questions flood his mind, but they quickly fade as he looks at the way you look at him. 

hopeful. 

excited. 

scared shitless. 

joyous. 

the joy on your face igniting something deep within him. 

he wants this too. 

even if it feels overwhelming. even if it isn’t ideal. even if it means navigating through a literal lifetime with you from here on out.

yoongi’s gaze softens.

“we’re doing this... together. this is ours.”

“together,” you echo, a wide grin spreading across your face. your eyes tear up from all the emotions and the rushing feeling of relief. with soft tone, you murmur; “ours.”

you two look at each other, unable to read one another. all you know is that this isn’t as scary as you thought it’d be. yoongi’s eyes are kind and the way he reaches to squeeze your upper thigh makes you feel safe.

“you know what? i’ll be the first to say it,” yoongi laughs. “congratulations, mama.” 

your eyes widen and you burst into laughter. 

your laugh fills his car, bright and full of life. you can’t help but to lean in and wrap your arms around him. you hold him tight. he holds you tighter. 

when you pull away, you two lock eyes. 

the air feels thick with anticipation. yoongi’s heart races as his eyes shift from yours to your lips then back to you. you’re looking at him with an expression mixed of excitement and vulnerability. he can’t help but admire the way the light catches in your gaze.

time seems to slow as you two hold each other’s stare. both of you are caught in the moment.

for a heartbeat, it’s just you and yoongi.

two people on the brink of something new and beautiful. yoongi leans in a fraction, drawn by an invisible thread, while you tilts your head slightly. your lips part and the urge to close the distance grows stronger. 

but you blink. 

and yoongi hesitates. 

the tension cuts. 

you pull away first and sit back. yoongi clears his throat and does a double take. then, he thinks; fuck it. 

he leans over and unbuckles your seatbelt. 

“should i walk you to your door—”

“no, no,” you insist. “yes, i’m pregnant with your child… but we don’t have to act like—”

“act like what?” yoongi huffs. “am i not allowed to care for you?”

you shrug. 

"___, you're literally carrying my child—"

“you know what? i’ll be in touch regarding child support,” you tease, a mischievous glint in her eyes. with that, you open the car door and step out. 

yoongi rolls his eyes. 

“you’re ridiculous,” he replies, shaking his head but unable to suppress the smile spreading across his face. then, he unbuckles his seatbelt and jogs around the car. he shuts the car door for you. 

you give him a look. 

he mimics it. 

then, you scrunch your nose and accept what’s happening.

yoongi walks beside you, fingertips lingering and all. he tells you that he’ll let you know what the blood work says tomorrow. he tells you to let him know if you need anything and not to worry about anything health related as, in his words; “no discussion needed. i got it.”

all you do is nod and try your best to stop your heart from fluttering so much.

[amethystarachnid]

Hey rose! I'm really excited for the Marvel holiday special!! Can I please request Steve Rogers x short!Reader (is this self indulgent? Maybe!😭 People literally have to bend down to hug me idk, tall genes of my family skipped me) for the second prompt- miseltoe mishap? Thank you!<3 🩷

P.s. I LOVE all of your fics 🤌✨

UNDER THE MISTLETOE

⤷ STEVE G. ROGERS

ᯓ★ Pairing: Steve G. Rogers x short!fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Holiday special

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 6.2k

ᯓ★ Summary: Steve's new year resolution was simple: confess his feeling for you, but as a new year approaches he still hasn't said a word. So, after a mysterious Christmas gift you receive, you decide to take matter into your own hands.

ᯓ★ TW(s): so much fluff it needs a tw and some teasing and flirty comments from y/n

ᯓ★ I'm sorry but as you all may have noticed the requested aren't being written in the chronological order they were requested because I got confused between the asks and the comments in the post and can't figure out who has requested before who, so I'm just writing it following the prompt list. I'm sorry but don't worry, your request will be written!

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The Avengers Tower is a beacon of Christmas cheer this time of year, buzzing with the energy of festive preparations. Garlands hang from the railings, twinkling lights are draped across every conceivable surface, and the smell of hot cocoa wafts from the kitchen. It’s a cozy chaos, and you’re in the thick of it, perched on a step stool as you wrestle with a particularly stubborn string of fairy lights.

Your arms ache from holding them above your head for so long, but you’re determined to get them just right. The lights have to be even—no awkward gaps or clumps. It’s a matter of principle, and besides, you know Tony will be annoying about it if you don’t.

“Need a hand?” a familiar voice asks from behind you.

You glance down and find Steve Rogers standing there, all broad shoulders and gentle eyes. He’s holding a box of ornaments, his cheeks tinged pink—not from the cold (you’re indoors, after all), but something else. The sight of him is enough to make your own cheeks heat up, though you do your best to ignore it. Steve has that effect on people.

“I’ve got it,” you reply, gritting your teeth as you stretch a little further. The stool wobbles, and his hands dart out instinctively, steadying you with a feather-light touch. You freeze, your heart doing an Olympic-level somersault.

“You sure?” he asks, his voice low and careful. “That stool doesn’t look very—uh—stable.”

“It’s fine,” you insist, though your confidence in the stool’s structural integrity is rapidly dwindling. You glance down again and catch the crease of worry on his brow. The man is the living embodiment of chivalry; there’s no way he’ll let you keep going without making it his mission to help.

With a sigh, you step down. The lights can wait. “Fine,” you concede. “Knock yourself out, Captain Christmas.”

Steve chuckles, setting the box of ornaments down on a nearby table. He steps up onto the stool, and you’re struck again by just how tall he is. He’s got at least a foot and a half on you, which is something you’re reminded of constantly—like when you have to crane your neck just to look him in the eye. Or when he easily reaches shelves that are practically a mile out of your range.

He’s annoyingly perfect. Not just in the tall, strong, and ridiculously handsome way, but in the kind, thoughtful, and genuine way too. He’s the kind of man who offers his umbrella to strangers in the rain, who remembers how you take your coffee, who actually listens when you talk. And if that weren’t enough, he’s also awkward—adorably so, especially around you.

You suspect it’s because you’re small and he worries about crushing you with a handshake. Or maybe it’s because he thinks you’re fragile, which would be ironic, considering how many missions you’ve both survived. Either way, his awkwardness only fuels your ridiculous, head-over-heels crush.

As Steve strings the lights, you busy yourself unpacking ornaments from the box he brought. Most of them are classics—shiny globes, candy canes, and snowflakes—but there are a few oddities mixed in. A Hulk-shaped bauble makes you snort, and you hold it up for Steve to see.

“Look familiar?” you tease.

He glances down from his perch and grins. “Bet Bruce loves that one.”

“He’s probably going to hide it on the back of the tree,” you reply, setting it aside. Your fingers brush against a different ornament—this one shaped like a little star. It’s simple, but pretty, and you hold it up to admire it. “This one’s cute.”

Steve’s hands falter for a split second as he adjusts the lights. You don’t notice, too focused on the star, but he notices. Oh, he notices. Because you just called something “cute” in that soft, slightly breathless way that makes his chest tighten. He swallows hard and refocuses on the task at hand.

“Y-yeah, it’s nice,” he manages, hoping his voice doesn’t crack.

Why is this so hard?

Steve has faced down alien armies, assassins, and world-ending threats without breaking a sweat, but the thought of confessing his feelings to you is enough to make him panic. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. At the start of the year, he’d made a resolution—a promise to himself—that he would finally tell you how he felt. But every time he’s tried, the words get stuck in his throat.

And now, with Christmas just days away, the deadline he arbitrarily set for himself is looming. The idea of starting another year without telling you makes his stomach twist, but so does the idea of screwing it up. What if you don’t feel the same way? What if he ruins everything?

“Steve?” your voice snaps him out of his spiral.

“Hm?” He blinks down at you, realizing he’s been staring blankly at the half-lit string of lights in his hands.

“You okay?” you ask, your brow furrowed. “You zoned out for a second there.”

“Oh, uh—yeah, I’m fine,” he says quickly, though his ears are burning. “Just thinking.”

“About?” you prompt, tilting your head.

You shouldn’t do that. It’s unfair, how cute you look when you’re curious. It makes it harder for him to keep his cool.

“Nothing important,” he lies, offering a sheepish smile. “How’s the ornament situation?”

You hold up the Hulk bauble again with a smirk. “I think this one’s going front and center.”

Steve laughs, shaking his head. “Bruce is gonna love that.”

You giggle, and the sound is like music to his ears. It’s one of the things he loves most about you—your laugh. It’s warm and infectious, and he’d do just about anything to hear it.

Before he can spiral further into his thoughts, you step closer to hand him the star ornament. “Here,” you say. “This one should go up top.”

Steve takes it, his fingers brushing against yours for the briefest moment. It’s nothing, really—just an innocent touch—but it sends a jolt of electricity through him. He wonders if you feel it too, or if he’s imagining things.

“Good choice,” he says, his voice a little quieter now. He focuses on securing the star to the top of the tree, grateful for the distraction. When he’s done, he steps back to admire his work, and you join him, standing so close that your shoulder almost brushes his arm.

“Not bad, Captain,” you say, your tone light but genuine. “I think we’ve got ourselves a pretty solid tree.”

He glances down at you, his heart doing that stupid fluttery thing it always does when you’re near. You’re smiling—bright and proud—and for a moment, he forgets how to breathe.

“Yeah,” he says softly, more to himself than to you. “It’s perfect.”

You glance up at him, your smile faltering just slightly. There’s something in his expression—something raw and unguarded—that makes your pulse quicken. For a second, you think maybe, just maybe, he feels the same way you do.

But the moment passes, and Steve clears his throat, stepping away under the guise of tidying up.

“So, uh,” he says awkwardly, bending down to gather the empty ornament boxes. “What’s next on the agenda?”

You blink, trying to shake off the lingering warmth of his gaze. “I think we’re supposed to decorate the common room. Nat said something about needing backup with the garlands.”

“Right,” Steve says, straightening up with the boxes in hand. “Lead the way.”

As you head toward the common room together, you can’t help stealing glances at him. He’s trying so hard to act normal, but you know him well enough to sense when something’s off. There’s a tension in his shoulders, a hesitation in his words.

You wonder what’s on his mind. And you wonder if it has anything to do with the way he looks at you—like you’re the most important thing in the world.

Christmas morning in the Avengers Tower is a mix of chaos and cheer. The common room is alive with laughter and good-natured teasing, wrapping paper scattered across the floor like confetti. The massive Christmas tree glows softly in the corner, its branches weighed down with ornaments and twinkling lights.

Everyone has gathered here to exchange gifts, and the room feels warmer than usual—maybe because of the crackling fireplace, or maybe because of the bonds you all share. You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, a pile of unwrapped presents beside you, and your cheeks ache from smiling so much.

Natasha is chuckling as Clint holds up a sweater that has “World’s Okayest Archer” stitched across the front in bold letters. “This is slander,” Clint grumbles, but he’s grinning. “I’m amazing.”

“Sure you are,” Natasha teases, her smirk sharp and playful.

Thor, meanwhile, is marveling at a “World’s Greatest Dad” mug that someone (probably Tony) had sneakily customized to include a picture of Thor holding Stormbreaker like a proud parent. “This,” Thor declares, raising the mug, “is a mighty gift.”

“Very mighty,” Tony quips from his spot on the couch, a Santa hat perched crookedly on his head. “You’re welcome.”

Steve sits near the tree, mostly quiet but smiling at the antics around him. He’s already unwrapped his gifts—a vintage Captain America action figure from Tony (complete with the original shield), a sturdy leather-bound journal from Natasha, and an assortment of hand-knit sweaters from Thor’s mother. He’s grateful for all of them, but his focus isn’t on the gifts anymore. It’s on you.

You’re radiant this morning, your laughter lighting up the room more than the Christmas tree ever could. Steve doesn’t know if it’s the cozy glow of the fireplace or the joy of the season, but something about you seems especially beautiful today. Not that you aren’t beautiful every day—but today, you’re breathtaking.

And it’s making him nervous.

Because tucked beneath the tree is one last gift. A gift for you. A gift from him.

“Looks like that’s the last of it,” Clint says, stretching his arms above his head. “Nice haul this year, guys.”

“Not quite,” Tony interrupts, pointing toward the tree. “There’s still one left under there.”

Everyone turns their attention to the tree, and you lean forward curiously. Sure enough, there’s a single box nestled beneath the branches. It’s wrapped neatly in silver paper, tied with a red ribbon, and it has your name on it.

Your brow furrows as you reach for it. “I don’t remember putting this here.”

“Must’ve been one of us,” Natasha says, though she looks just as intrigued as everyone else. “Check the tag.”

You glance at the label, but it doesn’t give you any clues. It simply says To Y/N—no indication of who it’s from.

“Secret Santa, maybe?” Bruce suggests.

“Someone’s being mysterious,” Tony says, leaning back with a smirk. “Come on, open it. Let’s see what you got.”

You hesitate for a moment, your fingers brushing over the ribbon. Whoever left this for you went out of their way to remain anonymous, and that makes you feel oddly shy. Still, curiosity wins out, and you carefully untie the ribbon, peeling back the wrapping paper.

Inside the box is a smaller velvet box. You blink, your breath catching as you open it.

Nestled inside is a delicate silver necklace, the pendant shaped like a tiny star. It’s simple but stunning, the kind of piece that feels timeless. You stare at it for a moment, your chest tightening.

But that’s not all.

Beneath the necklace, folded carefully, is a sheet of paper. You unfold it slowly, revealing a drawing—a sketch of you, caught mid-laugh. The details are astonishing, from the crinkle of your eyes to the way your hair falls. It’s you, but somehow more: the joy on your face, the warmth in your expression—it’s like the artist captured not just your likeness, but your spirit.

The room falls quiet as you stare at the drawing, your hands trembling slightly.

“Wow,” Natasha murmurs, leaning in for a better look. “That’s... beautiful.”

“It’s incredible,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. You trace the edge of the drawing with your fingertip, your heart racing. “Who...?”

“Not it,” Tony says, raising his hands.

“Wasn’t me,” Clint adds.

Everyone else shakes their heads, except for Steve, who sits frozen, his heart pounding so loudly he’s surprised no one else can hear it.

It was a gamble, leaving the gift anonymously. He couldn’t bring himself to sign his name, not when he was terrified of how you might react. But now, watching the way your eyes glisten as you hold the necklace and the drawing, he’s second-guessing everything.

Should he say something? Should he let you wonder? Should he...?

You glance up, scanning the room. Your gaze lingers on Steve for a moment, and he feels like a deer caught in headlights. He quickly looks away, pretending to adjust the hem of his sweater.

“Well, whoever it’s from,” you say softly, clutching the necklace in your hand, “thank you. It’s... it’s perfect.”

Steve lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Perfect. You think it’s perfect. Relief washes over him, followed by a flicker of pride. He spent weeks working on the drawing, pouring every ounce of his feelings into every pencil stroke. Seeing you appreciate it—cherish it—is more than he could’ve hoped for.

But then you put the necklace on, and his chest tightens all over again. The star catches the light, and it suits you so perfectly that he has to look away before he does something stupid—like stare too long or blurt out the truth in front of everyone.

“Whoever did this really knows you,” Natasha says, eyeing the necklace. “It’s thoughtful.”

“And talented,” Bruce adds, gesturing to the drawing. “That’s some serious skill.”

Steve shifts uncomfortably, trying to hide his reddening face. He’s not used to compliments, especially not ones directed at his art.

“Guess I’ve got a secret admirer,” you joke lightly, though there’s a hint of hope in your voice.

“Or someone with terrible taste,” Tony quips, earning a pillow to the face from Natasha.

The room dissolves into laughter again, and the attention shifts away from you and your mysterious gift. But you’re still holding the drawing, your fingers brushing over the lines and shading. It’s so personal, so intimate, that it makes your heart ache in the best way.

And Steve? Steve sits quietly, watching you from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t know how long he can keep this secret, but for now, he’s content to see you happy. Even if you never find out it was him, this moment is enough.

Or at least, that’s what he tells himself.

The days between Christmas and New Year’s feel suspended in time—a cozy limbo filled with leftover cookies, twinkling lights, and lazy mornings. At the Avengers Tower, the pace has slowed to something resembling normalcy, with everyone enjoying a much-needed break.

You, however, have been anything but relaxed. Not since Christmas morning, when you opened that mysterious gift.

The necklace still rests around your neck, the tiny star pendant catching the light whenever you move. The drawing that accompanied it is safely tucked away in your room, though you’ve stared at it countless times since then. You can’t stop thinking about it—or, more specifically, about who gave it to you.

For days, you’ve replayed the moment in your mind, analyzing every detail. The craftsmanship of the drawing, the thoughtfulness of the gift—it could only be from someone who knows you well. Someone who cares about you deeply. Someone who, despite their care, wanted to stay anonymous.

And you have a pretty good idea of who that someone is.

Steve.

It’s the only explanation that makes sense. He’s been acting... different around you ever since Christmas. Quieter. More awkward. You’ve caught him stealing glances when he thinks you’re not looking, and when you smile at him, he stammers like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

The thought that Steve might like you—that he might really like you—makes your heart race. You’ve had a crush on him for what feels like forever, but you never imagined he might feel the same way. Now that you’ve started piecing things together, it feels almost too good to be true.

And yet, there’s still no confirmation. No grand confession. No slip of the tongue. Nothing to cement your theory. Which is why you decide to take matters into your own hands.

It’s late afternoon when you start your search for Steve. You’ve checked the gym, the kitchen, and even the lounge, but he’s nowhere to be found. Finally, you decide to check his room—a bold move, but you’re running out of options.

When you knock and get no response, you hesitantly push the door open.

“Steve?” you call softly, peeking inside.

The room is empty, neat and orderly as always. The bed is made, the desk is tidy, and his shield leans against the wall like it belongs in a museum. You step inside, glancing around for any sign of where he might be.

Your gaze lands on the leather journal sitting on his desk. The one Natasha gifted him for Christmas. It’s open, a pencil resting on top of its pages.

You know you shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. But curiosity gets the better of you, and you find yourself drawn to the desk.

“It’s just a peek,” you mutter to yourself, your fingers brushing over the leather cover.

The page it’s open to stops you dead in your tracks. It’s a drawing—of you.

Not just any drawing, either. It’s almost identical to the one you received on Christmas morning, the same detail, the same expression, the same care in every line. Your breath catches as you realize what this means.

Steve drew this. Steve gave you the necklace. Steve has been hiding his feelings for you all this time.

A smile tugs at your lips, and a thrill runs through you. He likes you. He really likes you. And yet, he hasn’t said a word. Typical Steve—too noble, too careful, too worried about messing things up.

You close the journal carefully, placing the pencil back where you found it. You won’t confront him about this—not yet. No, you have a much better idea.

If Steve won’t confess, then you’ll make it impossible for him not to. And if that means teasing him a little, well... all’s fair in love and war.

You find Steve in the lounge a little while later, sitting on the couch with a book in hand. He looks up when you enter, and his face brightens instantly, though he tries to hide it.

“Hey,” you say, leaning casually against the doorway.

“Hey,” he replies, setting the book aside. “Looking for something?”

“Actually, I was looking for you,” you say, crossing the room to sit beside him. You’re closer than usual, your knee brushing against his. He stiffens slightly, his eyes darting to yours.

“Oh?” he says, his voice a little higher than usual. “What for?”

You shrug, tilting your head as you study him. He looks nervous—adorably so—and it only fuels your confidence.

“Just wanted to see how you’re doing,” you say, your tone light and sweet. “You’ve been kind of quiet lately.”

“Have I?” he asks, clearing his throat.

“Mm-hmm.” You reach out to adjust the collar of his sweater, your fingers grazing his neck. He freezes, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard.

“You sure everything’s okay?” you ask, your voice dipping slightly.

“I—I’m fine,” he stammers, his cheeks turning pink. “Really.”

You lean back, feigning innocence. “Good. I’d hate to think something was bothering you.”

He nods, clearly unsure of how to respond.

You spend the rest of the evening finding subtle ways to fluster him. Leaning closer than necessary when you talk. Touching his arm when you laugh. Complimenting him on everything from his sweater to his hair. By the time you part ways, Steve looks like he’s been through an emotional whirlwind.

The next day, you up the ante.

Steve is in the kitchen making breakfast when you join him, your hair slightly tousled and your sweater slipping off one shoulder. He nearly drops the pan he’s holding when he sees you.

“Morning,” you say, your voice soft and syrupy.

“G-good morning,” he replies, turning back to the stove.

You step closer, peeking over his shoulder. “Whatcha making?”

“Just eggs,” he says, his grip tightening on the spatula.

“Smells good,” you say, resting a hand on his back. You feel the muscles beneath his shirt tense, and it takes all your willpower not to laugh.

“Want some?” he asks, his voice strained.

“Sure,” you say, flashing him a smile. “Thanks, Steve. You’re the best.”

His ears turn red, and you bite your lip to keep from grinning.

By the third day, Steve is visibly unraveling.

You’ve spent the last forty-eight hours being as sweet, flirty, and touchy as you can manage without outright declaring your feelings. Every time you brush against him, compliment him, or catch him staring, he looks like he’s about to combust.

You find him in the training room that afternoon, throwing punches at a heavy bag like it owes him money. He doesn’t notice you at first, and you take a moment to admire him—his broad shoulders, his focused expression, the way his sweat-soaked shirt clings to his chest.

“Working hard?” you call out, stepping into the room.

Steve pauses, glancing over his shoulder. “Oh, hey. Didn’t see you there.”

“Clearly,” you say, walking toward him. “What’d that poor bag do to deserve this?”

“Just... letting off some steam,” he says, wiping his forehead with his arm.

“Need a sparring partner?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

His eyes widen slightly. “You want to spar? With me?”

“Why not?” you say, stepping closer. “Unless you’re scared I’ll kick your ass.”

A laugh escapes him, and you feel a spark of satisfaction. “I’d like to see you try.”

You grin, stepping onto the mat. “Suit up, Rogers.”

After a playful (and very one-sided) sparring session, Steve is more flustered than ever. You’re lying on the mat, catching your breath, and you turn to look at him.

“You’re holding back,” you tease.

“Didn’t want to hurt you,” he replies, still trying to recover from your relentless teasing.

“You’re sweet, Steve,” you say, your voice soft. “Really sweet.”

He looks at you, and for a moment, the tension between you is palpable. You’re half-tempted to just kiss him and get it over with, but you want him to make the first move.

“I should... hit the showers,” he says abruptly, standing and heading for the door.

As he disappears, you smile to yourself. He’s close to breaking. Very close.

And when he does, you’ll be ready.

It’s New Year’s Eve at the Avengers Tower, and the entire building is buzzing with excitement. Tony, true to form, has outdone himself, transforming the common areas into a glittering wonderland of gold, silver, and twinkling lights. The air hums with music, laughter, and the promise of a fresh start as the year draws to a close.

You’re in your room, standing in front of the mirror with a slight frown as you adjust your dress. The sparkly red fabric hugs your figure perfectly, but the zipper in the back refuses to cooperate. Despite twisting, stretching, and trying every awkward angle imaginable, you can’t quite reach it.

With a sigh, you grab your phone and type out a quick message:

Hey Steve, can you come to my room for a sec? Need a hand.

You press send before you can overthink it, a mischievous smile tugging at your lips. You already know he won’t say no—he never does when it’s you.

Steve arrives less than two minutes later, knocking lightly on your door.

“Y/N? Everything okay?” His voice, deep and warm, filters through the door.

“Come in!” you call out, keeping your tone casual. You hear the door creak open, followed by the soft sound of his boots against the floor.

“Y/N, I—” Steve starts, but the words die on his lips when he sees you.

You turn to face him, clutching the front of your dress to keep it from slipping down. His eyes widen, and his breath catches in his throat as he takes you in. The dress is a vibrant, glittering red that hugs your curves like a second skin, the hem brushing mid-thigh even with the extra height your heels give you. Your hair is styled elegantly, soft waves cascading over your shoulders, and your makeup highlights your features just enough to leave him completely speechless.

“Wow,” he finally manages, his voice barely above a whisper. His cheeks flush a deep pink, and he looks away, as if giving you privacy in a moment that clearly isn’t private.

You bite back a smile, pretending not to notice his reaction. “Thanks for coming. I need a little help.”

Steve clears his throat, his hands fidgeting at his sides. “Help with...?”

“The zipper,” you say, turning around to show him the back of your dress. You hold the fabric up with your hands, revealing the delicate, stubborn zipper that sits halfway down your back. “I can’t reach it.”

“Oh.” Steve’s voice cracks slightly, and he clears his throat again. “Right. Sure. I can do that.”

You hear him take a hesitant step closer, and your pulse quickens. There’s something thrilling about having him this close, about knowing he’s flustered because of you. He smells like clean soap and cedarwood, and the sheer size of him behind you is enough to make your breath hitch.

His large, calloused hands brush against your back as he takes hold of the zipper, and you have to resist the urge to shiver at the contact. He hesitates for a moment, clearly nervous, before carefully tugging the zipper upward. His fingers graze your skin as he works, and the sensation sends a rush of warmth through you.

“Is... is this okay?” he asks softly, his voice rough around the edges.

“Perfect,” you murmur, glancing at him over your shoulder. His face is closer than you expected, and the intensity in his blue eyes makes your heart skip a beat.

The zipper finally reaches the top, and Steve’s hands linger for a moment longer than necessary before he steps back, his gaze darting anywhere but at you.

“There,” he says, his voice tight. “All set.”

You turn to face him, giving a little spin. “What do you think?”

Steve stares at you, his mouth opening and closing like he’s searching for the right words. “You... You look amazing,” he says at last, his voice full of awe.

His honesty makes you blush, and you grin. “Thank you. You’re not looking too bad yourself, you know.”

Steve glances down at his outfit—a crisp navy suit that fits him perfectly—and rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, thanks,” he says, a shy smile tugging at his lips.

“You’re welcome, Captain,” you tease, stepping closer. “Shall we head to the party?”

“Y-yeah, sure,” he stammers, stepping aside to let you pass. His hand hovers near the small of your back as you leave the room, but he doesn’t quite touch you.

The elevator ride to the party is quiet, but not uncomfortably so. You steal glances at Steve as he stands beside you, his shoulders stiff and his jaw clenched like he’s holding something back.

“You okay?” you ask, nudging him lightly with your elbow.

“Yeah,” he says quickly, though the slight crack in his voice betrays him. He clears his throat, flashing you a tight-lipped smile. “I’m fine.”

“Steve.” You raise an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “You’re acting weird.”

“I’m not acting weird,” he protests, but the redness in his ears says otherwise.

You decide to let him off the hook—for now. The elevator doors slide open, revealing the main event: Tony’s New Year’s Eve extravaganza.

The party is already in full swing by the time you and Steve arrive. The common room has been transformed into a glamorous ballroom, complete with a dance floor, a live band, and a fully stocked bar. Guests in glittering dresses and sharp suits mingle beneath cascading strings of fairy lights, and the energy in the room is electric.

“Y/N!” Natasha calls out, making her way toward you with a drink in hand. She gives you a once-over and lets out a low whistle. “You clean up nicely.”

“Thanks, Nat,” you say, twirling for effect. “You look amazing too.”

Natasha smirks. “Oh, I know.”

Steve hangs back slightly, his hands stuffed into his pockets as he watches you with a soft smile. He doesn’t seem to notice the way Natasha’s eyes flick to him, her smirk widening.

“Well, don’t you two make a picture-perfect couple,” she says casually, raising an eyebrow.

“We’re not a couple,” Steve blurts out, his face turning an impressive shade of red.

Natasha raises her glass in mock surrender. “Whatever you say, Rogers.”

She winks at you before disappearing into the crowd, leaving you and Steve standing awkwardly by the entrance.

“She’s relentless,” Steve mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

“She’s not wrong, though,” you say, your tone light and teasing.

Steve looks at you sharply, his eyes wide. “What?”

You laugh, giving his arm a reassuring pat. “Relax, Steve. I’m just messing with you.”

His shoulders relax slightly, but the pink in his cheeks doesn’t fade.

The night unfolds with laughter, dancing, and plenty of drinks. You make a point to stay close to Steve, brushing against him whenever you can, leaning into him when you laugh, and catching his gaze across the room. Each time, his reaction is the same—wide-eyed, flustered, and utterly endearing.

At one point, you drag him to the dance floor, your hand firmly clasped in his. He protests at first, claiming he’s not much of a dancer, but you refuse to take no for an answer.

“You’ll be fine,” you assure him, pulling him close as the band starts a slow, jazzy number. “Just follow my lead.”

Steve hesitates, but when you rest your hands on his shoulders, he relents. His large hands settle on your waist, and the two of you sway to the music, moving in perfect sync despite his earlier protests.

“You’re better at this than you let on,” you say, tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

Steve chuckles nervously. “You’re easy to dance with.”

The compliment makes your heart flutter, and you tighten your grip on his shoulders. For a moment, it feels like the rest of the party fades away, leaving just the two of you in your own little world.

You’re about to say something—something bold, something that’s been on the tip of your tongue for days—when the song ends, and the moment is interrupted by a burst of applause.

Steve steps back, his hands dropping to his sides. “That was... nice,” he says, his voice soft.

“Yeah,” you agree, your chest tightening. “It was.”

You’re not sure how much longer you can keep up this game of subtlety and teasing. The clock is ticking, and the New Year is just around the corner. If Steve doesn’t make a move soon, you might just have to do it for him.

The party is in full swing as midnight approaches, the energy in the room building with each passing minute. The band has picked up its tempo, and laughter and clinking glasses echo through the air. You and Steve have stayed close all night, and now the two of you make your way toward the bar for a drink before the countdown begins.

“What’ll it be?” Steve asks, glancing at the menu. He’s been doing everything he can to appear calm, but the slight tremor in his voice and the way he keeps running a hand through his hair are clear giveaways.

“Champagne,” you say with a smile, leaning casually against the bar. “It’s tradition, isn’t it?”

“Good choice,” he says, signaling to the bartender. Moments later, two glasses of champagne appear in front of you, the golden liquid fizzing enticingly. You pick yours up and raise it in a mock toast.

“To the end of a very interesting year,” you say. “And the start of a better one.”

Steve clinks his glass against yours, his blue eyes warm. “I’ll drink to that.”

You take a sip, savoring the bubbly sweetness. The two of you fall into easy conversation, and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the room doesn’t exist. That is, until your eyes drift upward—and you notice the sprig of mistletoe hanging above you.

Your heart skips a beat, and a mischievous smile curls at the edges of your lips.

“Steve,” you say, your voice tinged with amusement.

“Yeah?” he asks, oblivious, before taking another sip of his champagne.

You tilt your head upward, your gaze fixed on the mistletoe. His eyes follow yours, and when he realizes what you’re looking at, he freezes.

“Oh,” he says, his voice barely audible. The tips of his ears turn bright red, and he looks away quickly, as if avoiding eye contact will somehow make the situation disappear.

“Did you know Tony hung mistletoe all over the tower?” you ask innocently, though the twinkle in your eyes betrays your intent.

Steve scratches the back of his neck, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. “Uh, yeah. I might’ve noticed. He’s… thorough.”

You take a step closer, your heels clicking softly against the floor. Even with them on, you still have to crane your neck to look up at him. He’s towering above you, his broad shoulders blocking out everything else, and the nervous way he’s fidgeting is almost too cute to bear.

“So,” you say, your tone teasing. “What are we supposed to do when we’re under mistletoe?”

Steve swallows hard, his eyes darting between you and the small sprig above. “I—uh—well, I think… traditionally… people…”

You raise an eyebrow, waiting patiently as he struggles to form a coherent sentence.

“They kiss,” he finally blurts out, his voice cracking slightly.

You can’t help but laugh softly. “They do,” you agree. “It’s tradition, after all.”

His blush deepens, and he looks like he’s about two seconds away from bolting. You can see the internal battle playing out in his mind, the way he’s torn between his feelings and his nerves. The countdown begins in the background, voices ringing out in unison:

“Ten!”

“Steve,” you say, stepping even closer. “You know what I think?”

He blinks, staring down at you like a deer caught in headlights. “W-what?”

“Nine!”

“I think you’re overthinking this.”

“Eight!”

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. You’re not sure whether to be exasperated or endeared by how utterly flustered he is.

“Seven!”

“Six!”

“Steve,” you say firmly, reaching up to place a hand on his chest. You can feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm, and it sends a thrill through you.

“Five!”

“If you don’t kiss me right now,” you whisper, your voice low and teasing, “I’m going to have to take matters into my own hands.”

“Four!”

“Three!”

Still, he hesitates, his lips parting as if to speak but no words escaping. You sigh dramatically, rising onto your tiptoes and tugging him down by his tie.

“Two!”

Before he can protest—or, more likely, overthink himself into oblivion—you press your lips to his.

The kiss is soft and sweet at first, your lips fitting perfectly against his. His initial surprise quickly melts away, and his hands come to rest lightly on your waist, steadying you as you lean into him. Even with your heels, he has to bend down significantly to meet you, and the height difference is so absurdly Steve-and-you that it makes you smile against his lips.

When you deepen the kiss slightly, sliding your hands up to his shoulders, he lets out a quiet, surprised sound that sends a rush of warmth through you. He tastes faintly of champagne, and the sheer rightness of the moment makes your head spin.

The countdown fades into a deafening roar of cheers and applause as the clock strikes midnight, but you barely notice. For this moment, it’s just you and Steve, wrapped up in a world of your own making.

When you finally pull away, you’re both breathless. Steve looks down at you, his expression a mixture of wonder, disbelief, and pure adoration.

“I…” he starts, his voice shaky. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

You laugh softly, your hands still resting on his broad shoulders. “You don’t say.”

“I mean, I—uh—I’ve liked you for a while now,” he stammers, his words tumbling out in a rush. “A long while, actually. Since before last Christmas. And I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how, and then the gift—I mean, the necklace—I thought maybe it would say it for me, but then you didn’t say anything, and I—”

“Steve,” you interrupt gently, placing a finger over his lips to stop his rambling. He freezes, his eyes wide and uncertain.

You smile, rising onto your tiptoes once more to kiss him again. This time, it’s slower, sweeter, a silent reassurance that you feel the same way. When you pull back, you whisper against his lips:

“Happy New Year, Steve.”

He stares at you, his blue eyes shining with so much emotion it makes your chest ache. “Happy New Year, Y/N.”

And as the room around you erupts into celebration, you know this is going to be the start of something truly amazing.

I'm sorry (not really) but I can't imagine Steve as nothing else than a softie, like, I don't know where you all see the big dominant man...I see a puppy

[brotherwtf]

Okay so I read thought your Clegan Age Gap AU and I am ENTRANCED like I am soooo down for it and let me make sure I get this straight but after they first kiss and admit their feelings for each other they start living together but they still don’t do anything sexual for a whole year because John thinks Gale is too young and doesn’t want to take advantage of him?

I’m just imagining the absolute TORTURE this had to have been for John especially with Gale constantly teasing him and trying to get him to give in, throwing himself all over John, rutting up against him while they kiss, undressing in front of him, climbing into bed with him on top of him and straddling him, literally BEGGING John to fuck him. That man was so strong I don’t know how he did it 😩

oh man, thank you anon!! honestly i recently did a reread of all of my age gap stuff because they have such a vice grip on me, those fucking boys I swear to fucking god I will never know peace

some small timeline stuff just to clear up some things: Gale meets John in like January or February before he turns 20, just after he turned 19, and they don't start dating until maybe October or November, close enough to when Gale turns twenty but still too long to go without being depraved

in this au I'm making Gale a virgin, he hasn't experienced anything other than kissing and so when John finds this out he's a little spooked, doesn't want to take advantage of Gale before they're sure their relationship is going to stick. He's afraid Gale wouldn't want to do it with someone so much older than him, doesn't even know why Gale wants to be with him in the first place, so he wants to make it extra special for him. He's also a little spooked by the "teen" in Gale's age, he can make a perfectly fine excuse for dating him and kissing him but he's not entirely comfortable having sex with someone so young

Gale of course doesn't give a flying fuck about John's age. He's a consenting adult who finds John insanely attractive and wants to have sex with him, he's desperately trying to get John to touch him and be a little rougher with him, but John won't budge, promises he'll do it on Gale's birthday and make it extra special for him, which only makes Gale pout even more

that doesn't stop John from being turned on by Gale though, oh no, Gale is purposefully being a dickhead and trying to get John to overcome his silly little deadline by wearing slutty tops and tight jeans, picks the perfect clothing to drive John absolutely insane, and John just grits his teeth and clenches his fist because he has morals, he will not fall to the whim of Gale, no matter how hard he tries

they settle for insane make out sessions, one's where they're basically dry humping each other into the couch and where they're basically swapping spit, mouths open and groans deep and heavy, Gale sat in John's lap with John's arm around his waist, and maybe Gale can handle this, just until his twentieth birthday at least

and you know John's gonna make their first time the absolute sweetest thing on planet earth, but I shant discuss it here, full fic coming around during christmastime :))

[avocado-writing]

Kinktober 4

4. Overstimulation, Oviposition/Egglaying, Human Urinal

notes: this was inspired by this incredible fic from @naromoreau, thank you so much for putting naga!crowley into my mind! also this is super monster-fucky. i do not apologise.

afab!reader

biologically this is not at all how snakes work but uhhhhhhh Crowley is a demon so I’m allowed creative license 🤷‍♂️

Crowley’s been irritable. 

Snapping, brooding, being generally difficult to be around. You can tell Aziraphale doesn’t love it either, but he’s at least had the commodity of knowing Crowley for longer. In fifty years of happy romance between the three of you this is the first time that your demon has ever gotten on your nerves, and you won’t stand for it. 

“Look,” you say through gritted teeth after he’s barked at you for some unrealised slight, “you’re in a mood. But it isn’t my fault, and it isn’t Aziraphale’s, so stop taking it out on us.”

Aziraphale freezes and looks between the two of you. Crowley raises himself up to his full height… and then deflates.

“Sorry,” he mutters, running a hand over his face. “You’re right, it isn’t your fault. I’m just…”

He trails off, and you can tell he’s trying to work out if he should admit something. You close the gap and take his hand.

“Crowley, love. If there's something the matter you need to tell me. Tell us. We can help!”

Is he blushing? It’s hard to tell, as he turns his face away.

“Look, I’m just a bit… worked up.”

“Oh! …Oh. Well, there’s no reason we can’t assist with that?”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” Crowley sighs. You look over to Aziraphale. He clearly has more of an idea of what’s going on, but knows it’s Crowley’s truth to tell. “It’s demon breeding season.”

Your cheeks get hot all of a sudden.

“Oh, I see. I didn’t even realise they had one of those.”

“Well, of course. Otherwise where would new demons come from?” he asks, baffled at your confusion. You suppose you don’t have an answer for that.

“So what do you need to do?”

“Well, usually I’d just slither downstairs and find someone receptive and we’d –”

“No!” you say, suddenly, with such force it makes both of your partners jump. In the future you’ll experiment more with other bodies, engage in orgies so you can watch Aziraphale and Crowley be fucked (and become smug in the way it’s never quite as good as when you do it) but for now the idea of your demon being in bed with anyone but the people in this room shreds your heart. “I mean, look. You don’t need to do that. I’ll help.”

“We’ll help,” Aziraphale says softly. You know this must be quite a gap for him to bridge, having known Crowley when he’s been going through these heats before, but now knowing him as a lover. Crowley looks between the two of you, strangely touched.

“Are you certain? I don’t look… I’m a bit more demonic when I need to mate.”

The idea sends a chill down your spine to straight between your legs.

“That’s fine,” you say, a little too quickly. Despite it all, Crowley grins.

“Alright. Get to the bedroom. I’ll be right with you.”

🐍

You strip down, quickly, excitedly. Secretly you’ve wondered about what Crowley looks like when he’s a proper demon for a while. Hellfire caressing your skin? Horns to grab onto? Your mind is going a mile a minute.

You turn to Aziraphale. He’s removed his cravat and overcoat, and is currently turning up his sleeves to the elbow. You look at him, confused.

“Are you not going to…?” you gesture to your bare body. Aziraphale smiles.

“I think this might be something you want to experience by yourself first, love.”

You open your mouth to ask him what that means, but you’re distracted by the sound of a door creaking.

Crowley slithers in.

No, literally.

Whatever you were expecting, it wasn’t this. The top half of him is the Crowley you know. Bronzed skin, copper hair down his back, yellow eyes with blown-wide snake pupils. 

But that isn’t the only part of him that’s serpentine.

From his hips onwards, he is entirely tail. Black scales rippling as he moves towards you, osteoderms moving with his breath. He looks both entirely like and unlike himself, a strange creation of familiar and not. 

He is beautiful.

“Oh,” is all you can manage from where the rest of your body has frozen. You know it was the wrong move, because Crowley looks deflated.

“You don’t like it,” he says with a sigh, and you immediately feel terrible. What he means is ‘you don’t like me.’ You can hear the sadness tinging his voice. So you step forward, hand out, careful.

“No, love, it’s not that at all. Just give me a moment to… adjust.”

You move forward, unsure how to touch him. Aziraphale’s voice whispers from behind you:

“Go on, nightingale. He won’t hurt you.” And then, after a beat, when the angel realises what you’re really worried about, “you won’t hurt him.”

You run your palm along the soft heat of his scales and Crowley sighs, both in relief and in excitement. You take your time, exploring the pattern of him, the curve of his tail. You don’t realise but soon he’s begun to curl around you, wrapping you up gorgeously tight in his coils. Soon your legs are totally engulfed by him. 

“Isss thisss alright, nightingale?” he asks, voice low. You try to move and find that you can’t, really, but at the same time you’re fine with it - you know the one holding you is someone you trust with your life.

“Very,” you laugh. You feel someone embrace you from behind and realise Aziraphale has crossed over to you, his chest against your back, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You give yourself over to the strange new feeling of being held like this.

“So now what?” you ask, looking at Crowley’s tail, trying to work out how he mates. It doesn’t take you long to find it: a slit towards where his groin would be, beginning to leak slick down his scales. You run your fingers over it and Crowley gasps, shuddering. “Do you need me to touch you here?”

Crowley shakes his head, breathless with delighted chuckles.

“No. Well, I want you to, but that doesssn’t have to be part of it.”

You decide that you want to as well. You press into him there, his cloaca, and giggle when he leans forward to rest his forehead on your free shoulder.

“Fuck…” he groans. 

“If you’re offering,” you say, cheekily. Both your partners huff a laugh, and as you explore deeper into him, you feel something beginning to emerge. You remove your hand to make way, expecting some sort of appendage… and to be fair, it is, but not one you’ve ever seen before.

“What’s that?” you ask, breathless and both bewildered and gleeful.

“That’sss… what I use to lay my eggs.”

A beat passes.

“Hmm.”

“Sssstill game?”

“Crowley, am I going to get pregnant from this?” you ask with very real concern. A hand comes up to caress your face, a thumb swipes across the plush of your lips.

“No, love. I’d need to fertilissse them too, and I won’t do that. I jusssst need sssomewhere to, erm. Push them.”

Well, you’ve come this far. Over the last fifty years the three of you have introduced many things into the bedroom: lace, leather, toys. But as your demonic lover says he wants to lay eggs inside you while your angelic one helps you brace for it, it’s nice to know that there’s still some surprises you can give each other.

You nod, and lay back. Crowley’s eyes go wide.

“You’re sssure?”

“Yes, love. Of course.”

What leaves his cloaca is a tube, for want of a better term. It’s just over a foot long and dripping with slickness. It seems to give him pleasure as it releases, you know what he looks like when he’s about to orgasm, and when it twists its way towards you all you can do is relax into his tail, into Aziraphale’s arms.

The angel threads his fingers through yours and holds you tightly. 

“You’ll be fine, darling.”

“You don’t seem very surprised about any of this,” you say, breathlessly. A thought occurs to you. “Hang on, have you done this before?”

Aziraphale goes bright pink.

“Erm…”

“Once,” Crowley hisses, grinning - have his teeth gotten sharper? No, he’s just grown fangs - “yearsssss ago. Before either of ussss met you.”

“I was a friend helping another friend,” Aziraphale says quickly, a line he’s clearly been using to justify his lust for years. You can’t help but laugh at your utterly daft and obtuse lovers, and that’s good – it loosens you up and allows Crowley to slip inside your cunt.

You’re already quite wet from the new, explorative play that’s come so far, but the tube is slick and searching. It surges up inside you, far inside you, further than either of their cocks have ever hit, but it doesn’t hurt. Something about what it’s secreting is relaxing your inner muscles and allowing it access into your core. You gasp as you feel Crowley root himself there, and the demon moans.

“Fuck. You’re…”

You’re too overstimulated to reply, so just nod. Yes. He is, too. Across the width of your shoulders you see Aziraphale kiss Crowley, soft and long.

“You are so lovely like this, Crowley.”

“Gorgeous,” you manage, honestly, and Crowley looks like the praise might make him burst. Settling back into the moment he locks his eyes on yours, serious, sincere.

“”I’m going to ssstart now. It might feel a bit sssstrange, but I promisssse it will be good.”

“It is,” Aziraphale agrees, shyly. You smile, and nod. You trust them.

Crowley closes his eyes and you see him squeeze. Something travels through his tube, passing through him and up inside you. The strange spherical nature of the object has you gasping, firstly in surprise and then in pleasure. The press of it is strange and illicit and when it pops inside of you, you try to roil; you can’t though. Crowley has you too tightly.

“That’sss the firsssst one.”

“Oh my god,” you moan.

“Are you alright?”

“Keep going,” you command, your voice no-nonsense. And Crowley does. Another egg passes from inside him to inside you, pressing through your cervix with no issue to deposit safely. After four of them you’re beginning to feel a bit full. By seven, you can feel the eggs jostling around inside of you, an unusual and filthy intimate slide. Your silky insides are making them the perfect home.

“How… how many are there?” you breathe. Crowley’s face is drenched with sweat, his eyes rolling back in his head. From his cloaca a fresh stream of cum drips onto the tops of your thighs.

“Usually ten or twelve.”

“Twelve?!” you gasp, not sure how you’ll fit those, but willing to try. On cue, another egg presses your vulva apart and nestles in deep. 

You’re showing them now, stomach starting to stretch. It doesn’t hurt though. It feels wonderful. You’ve never been so full before, your body warm and deliciously thrumming. You look over your shoulder to where Aziraphale is holding you, in some strange approximation of a husband helping a wife give birth. His eyes are firmly fixed on your abdomen, lips slightly apart, cheeks bright red.

“Aziraphale?”

“Sorry, darling. You just look…” he trails off, instead choosing to rest his hand on your stomach. You moan as he bumps the eggs inside you, and for a moment you’re swept up in it, and think it wouldn’t be so bad to have Crowley make them viable, maybe you’d quite like carrying his clutch, so long as the two of them looked after you like this.

The last two eggs come at once, one right after the other, filling you to the brim. You can feel them taking up the tunnel to your core, hardly fitting in properly. You whine and try to find a way to feel comfortable, but you’re so full, so needy, and they’re pushing against that sweet spot inside you, and –

You come unexpectedly, an orgasm wracking your body wildly. It takes over your every sense with a crashing wave, your cunt tightening and spasming as Crowley finally withdraws. You’ve never been so stuffed in your life and it’s wonderful.

“How long… How long do they stay?” you manage when your heart is finally at a normal pace again.

“A couple of hoursss, until they realissse they’re not going to grow. Then they’ll disssssolve.”

“Dissolve?!”

“It won’t hurt, my love,” Aziraphale assures you, hand still protectively on your bump. “In fact it’s somewhat of an aphrodisiac.”

You moan and collapse into them. You’re not sure how you’re going to survive this.

@bootlmoth @elleofdragons  @angelic-anarchy27 @yeethaw13 @candlewitch-cryptic @kwyn-q @rat-that-writes @buryustogether @letthenightingalessingagain @ltlthetrifecta @angiestopit @purplefrog1sblog @wereallbrokenangels @angelspathway @clarina04 @belilwen @chaospossum @eightsdoctor @oo-delallymrcrow @silcosmoke @climbingivy97 @live-logs-and-proper @project-sad @just-a-beatlemaniac69 @imagination-phantom @anonymously35 @corgis04 @peytonpenguin37 @catlynharper @unabashedgentlemenpirate @wolfe-houler @darktealrat @mxxny-lupin @willbedecided @detectiveapparatiagreen @shadowluna25 @kaylinelizabeth4004 @xquinn-bartonx @blue-bell22 @foolishprincipalitee @fandomawesomeness @eweweweewewe @latersgaters-steven @llamaproblem @night-affiliate @randompost18 @hunterispunk @jessica-laufeysdottir @uxcaran @bunnymallowo @jae-michael

[jamneuromain]

Water Bottle, Straw, and Lip Gloss

Andy Barber x You (Reader)

College AU, Teacher-Student Relationship, Professor Andy Barber, Student Reader, Fluff, mostly fluff, a lil humor maybe, talk about sex, Age Gap (implied), Dom/Sub relationship, pet names

Summary: Andy thought of ways of enforcing his rule of "drinking water" to you... would you be glad to accept it?

A/N: Happens right after the full story of Wishful Thinking. A drabble that is very much inspired by @rogerswifesblog/@rogerswifesblog-updates <3 when we talked about this post (which also goes a little to the Wishful Thinking Chapter 5).

I completed this on 4th Jul., but I'm waiting till now bc this is my birthday and I wish I would have an Andy (not my Prof obvi but) a daddy bf next year <3

Dancing in the Daydream (M. List)

Andy is very thorough on the aspect of drinking water. He demands that you have at least a Liter of water every day and is determined that he watches you drink most of the time.

The sixth glass of water at the end of the day, not counting the 500 ml bottle he handed you in the afternoon, is making you frown.

“Andy-” You try to whine yourself out of it.

“Nuh-uh.” He nudges the glass closer, “Drink. Before bed.”

Stupid dom-sub relationship. You fume. Showing every bit of reluctance as you gulp down the bland, tasteless, not even bubbly water.

“That’s my good girl.” He takes the empty glass and kisses you on top of your head.

“That tastes like… nothing.” You complain, wrapping your arms around your knees, “Can’t I have some taste in water? At least?”

Andy muses. He knows you are not a big fan of drinking. But he isn’t going to let your skin and lips get all dry and still insist that you are fine. One Liter of water doesn’t even meet the standards of an average adult.

“Tastes aren’t supposed to be in the water.” He pecks your damp lips, “Water is healthy for you.”

You purse your lips. You never quite liked the feeling of water remaining on your skin, or your lips, for that matter. Wiping your lips with the back of your hand, you mutter, “I think a sprinkler truck just ran over my tongue.”

“What’s that?” Andy pretends he didn’t hear you, “Oh, you want trucker daddy for roleplay tonight?”

“Oh screw you -” You lie down in an instant, pull the cover above your head, and play dead.

“Careful not to suffocate yourself, sweetheart.” He laughs, heading to the kitchen to clean the glass and soon back to bed with you.

As he is heading to the kitchen, he was reminded of the empty coffee cup on the counter. The cup you took home right after today’s lecture, for which he scolds you slightly not to replace water with coffee.

But the straw and the cup do ring a bell for him.

If he can’t make the water more tasteful – as it is water after all – he could do something else to make the drinking process more entertaining.

“A cup and a straw? Andy … ” You laugh so hard that your eyes blur with tears.

Andy has a smug smile on his face because of what he has done. In the decent box and decent wrapping paper, there is an orange translucent water bottle. Tiny white clouds are painted on the side of the bottle. It looks perfectly normal from the outside, with a piece of cardboard stuffed inside to keep it dry. Only when you pop the lid up, do you see that there’s a soft plastic straw connecting the top of the bottle to, which you guess, the bottom of the bottle.

There’s another straw, a blue firm-plastic one, with twirls in the middle and a pair of wings that makes the top of the crooked straw look like a flamingo.

A blue flamingo.

“Now you have it, you know, you can use it to drink water.” Andy shrugs like he’s one of the high school boys who pretend that they are super chill about everything that ever exists in the world. Except that he’s smiling. His blue eyes glinting with a touch of warmth and a ton of amusement. “Thought it would be more interesting with the, ahem, this cup.”

“I will.” You kiss his plump lips that hide behind his beautiful beard, smiling too, “very considerate, Professor Barber. Thank you for this birthday present. I like it a lot.”

A few weeks later...

Andy is in the bedroom, organizing the suits he needs to send to dry-clean when he hears your sweet voice calling him: “Andy dear, would you mind coming to the study for a bit?”

You sound a little sketchy, because you never use the term “Andy dear”, or “would you mind” with him. That sounds way too polite for both of you.

Still, he steps into the study. He can’t read your expressions, however, because your whole face was blocked by the huge computer screen in his study.

“Anything you need?” He puts his hands in his pockets, completely unaware of what you need him with.

“Oh yeah.” You lean your body over the large mahogany desk, turning the screen to him. Now he can see your face. Your lips purse into a tight line that is nothing close to the sweet voice you just used.

Oh crap.

What has he done?

“Care for an explanation? Andy dear?” The sweet voice now sounds like the sugary slick that flesh-eating plants produce to lure insects into the palm of their hands, or leaves, or whatever. He knows he’s in deep trouble, especially with the small vein pumping on the corner of your forehead.

Andy visibly gulps. His eyes turn to the large screen, on which you “considerately” point the mouse to what you were just referring to.

You nail nearly taps on the screen, the few words that seem perfectly normal in purple. His search history, “ANDY???”

Bottles for kids that don’t like to drink

Water bottle for kids

Reusable see-through straw for kids

Reusable straw for kids

Straw for kids

“What the fuck is this, ANDY???” You look at the screen when you pull out the website of what the search of “reusable see-through straw for kids” would lead to.

A fucking blue flamingo plastic straw.

Okay. He’s in deep shit.

“Listen, sweetheart-” “Don’t you sweetheart me!” “It’s just a joke! No wait, that doesn’t sound right too…” “Kids??? Andy??? KIDS BOTTLE??? FOR KIDS?????” You can barely contain your voice, and not the happy kind of voice.

“If you could just give me a second so I can talk myself out of this-”

You seriously look like a growling lion and Andy wishes he could slap himself when he blurts out what he thinks. He has pissed you off real bad.

“Yeah right. Kids, Andy? That what I am to you?” You slap your palm on the table, only that you used too much force and it hurts too much, so you quickly hide you palm beneath the surface.

“You’re my baby…?”*

You look at him with a poker face. Clenching and unclenching your jaw.

Highly unpleased.

Andy puts up his hand as if surrendering, taking a small step back, “You said it yourself that the straw with little wings was fun. I mean, it’s not that… unforgivable… right?” A few dry chuckles follow.

You take a long deep breath, rubbing your reddened palm with your other hand below the table surface, huffing, “You know what? I’m so mad I don’t want to talk right now.” You glare at him with your death stare, “And I’m going to order Bobba with extra syrup and cream tops this afternoon.”

Looking as if you’ll kill him should he argues otherwise.

Sugar will always help ease your tensed mind.

As you slurp bobba tea with extra bobba in the living room, Andy uses some lame excuse to come to the joint between kitchen and the living room, somewhat relieved to see that the kid straw is still in place right where it belongs, in the utensil racks near the fridge.

“What?!” Your eyes are throwing daggers at him, sensing his lips murmuring some words.

“So… the fun straw… stays?” He asks with uncertainty, scratching his chin – the typical move when he’s disturbed or awkward. Obviously the latter one in this case.

“Get out of my sight before I change my mind.” You pull a long face, answering reluctantly.

“The fun bottle too?”

“ANDY!”

You didn’t reject his puppy eyes along with the cuddles after dinner, playing some random reality show on the TV. None of you are truly interested in what’s playing on the screen. This is just you spending some time together, without having to pay attention to the background noise.

Andy fake coughs to capture your attention, as you curl up and lay your head on his chest, getting almost sleepy because of the carbs you’ve had for dinner tonight.

“I know you are upset. But could you please tell me why?” His thumb circles your shoulder, giving it a small squeeze.

This is his peace offering. You are not going to let that chance slip away. Also, you are not that angry, just a little angry.

You use what you use best, giving an example to explain your anger to him, absent-mindedly watching the boring drama on the screen, “What would you think if I tell you the milk in our fridge is made out of infant milk powder?”

“Okay. Ouch. Fair.” Andy agrees, suddenly realization, or more like a terrible idea strikes him, “Wait, no, it’s not, right?”

Dumb Andy. “God, you go to the grocery shopping with me all the time! How could you – I drink that too, just in case you forget.” You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Of course, they are not made out of powdered milk. Plus, you could at least tell me when you were handing me the gift, instead of finding it out myself.”

Which is truly the reason why you are mad.

You are always the type to rather live with knowledge and painful truth than knowing nothing and live a happy life. Andy is, no doubt, aware of this side of you, since the last big event happened in your life is largely caused from his intentional withheld information and dishonesty.

You promised each other to be honest. Not that every detail of your daily life should be disclosed to the other one, but important decisions and feelings should be shared, especially when you are in a relationship that contains elements of D/S.

Clearly, your dear boyfriend needs a reminder every once in a while.

Andy kisses the top of your head, muttering his apology, “I’m sorry baby. I swear I won’t keep anymore secrets even if the truth will piss you off.”

“Thank you, Andy. I’d appreciate that.” You nod, telling him that you accept his apology.

“In that case I should also probably tell you that I accidentally broke your vial of lip gloss two weeks ago and I bought you a new one.” Andy winces, the weight on your shoulder also moves away for a little.

“You WHAT???” You quickly scoot away, seeing that his facial expression a mixture of awkwardness and nervousness, adjusting your voice accordingly, “You. What?”

“Sorry.” He shrugs his shoulders together, crossing his arms in front of his chest, looking like he’s afraid of you biting his head off.

“Fucking hell I know that vial lasted way too long! I thought it was because I haven’t put on lip gloss for a while and there was still a lot in the bottle!” You grumble, “I’m ordering bobba tomorrow too. The death of my last vial of lip gloss is too much of a devastating news for me.”

“Whatever you want.” Andy agrees in the blink of an eye, leaning his body to you, saying the sincerest words ever, “I’m so sorry babe-”

“Oh you will be-” You prance in his direction, attacking the ticklish spot on the side of his waist.

“Whatever you want but that!” Andy announces and leaps away. As you put on your slippers and start a chasing war in the kitchen and living room, Andy dashes in the speed that beats you by a few seconds, always able to slip out of your grasp as you think you could get him.

“ANDREW STEPHEN BARBER you get back here!” You yell when he’s on the other side of the table, jumps and slides over the counter as you run around the large marble surface.

“I won’t unless you stop trying to tickle me!” He yells back, grabbing the couch pillow to block your attacks.

A few minutes later, you both are too tired to move a muscle, both lying on the couch, out of breath.

Andy throws aside the pillow on his stomach, his chest heaving up and down, “Okay that was not the kind of exercise I was expecting when cooking dinner.”

You are also too sore and overworked to grab his waist, even he’s only lying three feet away from you, “Oh shush. You’re not having that kind of exercise in forever.”

“Forever seems like a long time, how about an hour?”

“Not a chance.”

“An hour and a half? 50% chance?”

“Will you please get your head out of your pants?

“Sure. Sure.” You know what his “sure sure” means. And this is absolutely his “I say it but I don’t mean it” voice. But you are going to let it go.

Like the way you don’t mean it either when you agree with him on whether Jazz apples or Pink Lady apples have more nutrition.

They are just apples! But he likes Jazz so you’ll buy Jazz. No big deal.

“Jesus. Do we have a yearbook or something? I’m gonna vote Professor Andy Barber as the most unfuckable Professor of the Year.” You groan. All the running and sprinting burn out all your mood of doing anything exciting. In any sense.

“And in your pants later?”

You bury your face in his shoulders and sigh, slightly annoyed, “Fucking Christ. NO! God I’m gonna turn your horny switch off. Do you leave your horny switch on all day? No wonder you’re always trying to lure me to bed.”

“Right here.” Pointing at his lips.

You crane your neck to place a small kiss on the corner of his lips.

“Hmm. I don’t think the switch feels it. Maybe a few more kisses would do the trick.” He peeks at your expression, boldly asking for more with a lop-sided smile.

You reply with another kiss, “I think your switch is broken and needs to be sent back to the original manufacturer.”

Andy tuts, shaking his head, “Too bad. Once sold, can’t be returned.”

“Can I at least get a refund?”

“Refund? How about a re-lationship?”

You chuckle, but only because he’s tickling you when he’s saying the pun, “The pun is terrible.”

“Yeah well, it makes you laugh, so it counts.”

The alarm on his phone goes alive. He checks his phone with a glimpse and kisses your lips again before getting up, heading for the kitchen, returning shortly with your mug.

And that blue flamingo straw with tiny wings.

He jokes unabashedly, mimicking those muppet shows on TV, “One fun cup of water with one fun straw-”

“I’m not a kid anymore, Andy.” Even so, you take the mug and gulp down as fast as you can, before shoving the mug back to his hands.

“Of course.” He smiles, taking the mug and the straw to the sink to wash.

“Thank you.” You thank him, honestly, for not bringing up the fun bottle and fun straw topic anymore.

Andy returns, wiping his hand on a piece of kitchen cloth, can’t even hide the smug grin, which oftentimes means he’s brewing some sinister plan for you, “Since you’re claiming you’re not a kid anymore-” “I am not a kid.” “Right, right.” Andy nods, the annoying “I say it and don’t mean it” voice makes an appearance again, “That means you’re a grown up. And I’ll treat you like a grown up. And as a grown up,” Andy places his hand on the back of your neck, fiddling with the thin silver string on your neck, “you won’t be needing forehead kisses before bed, right?” His blue eyes glinting with mischief and wickedness, sparkling like the brightest sapphire.

Bravo him. Really. Thinking of “not treating you like a kid” and connecting it with “bedtime kisses”.

Jerk. He knows you can’t resist forehead kisses.

“Don’t you fucking dare take that away from me-” You growl. If your eyes can shoot daggers, he would be dead a thousand times by now.

He looks so thoughtful, his index finger and thumb glide over his beard, “Huh. So you are a kid...”

“Take your win for now, Andy.” You put out a grumpy face, “Don’t push your luck.”

Andy caresses your jaw with his damp palm, dropping to his knees to look at you from eye level. His thumb grazing over your wet lips. Sounding so soft. So loving. “All my luck is right here with me. How can I ever push you away?”

Bonus:

Two days after the "kids straw" incident, you receive an Amazon package on your doorstep.

A small box. Palm size.

You don't remember buying anything recently, but it has your name on it.

Probably some subscription you forgot to cancel.

You think it's some small object that you bought, subscribed for delivery in every few months, as you dissemble the cardboard on the outside.

Plus, if you did buy something, Amazon often takes a few days, if not a week for the merchandise to deliver.

You'll check your account later.

You stop the motion to tear the cardboard apart, checking the piece of sticker on the front of the box.

Interesting. It says the package is for Y/N Barber.

You never put your first name on with Andy's last name on. But Andy often does. When he's trying to distinguish the things he bought with those he bought for you, whether it's Amazon delivery or booking a table at a restaurant.

"Y/N Barber". Sounds kind of cute.

So it's a surprise...? You look down at the cardboard in your hand, having almost teared the whole box down.

Won't hurt if you take a look inside.

You peel off the brown packaging paper and -

"YOU BOUGHT ME A SIPPY CUP, ANDY?"

"OH FUCK. I'm sorry I forgot all about it, sweetheart."

"A SIPPY CUP???"

[sylverstorms]

Daniela x Maiden ---- Hunted Ch.8 (NSFW)

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.6 Ch.7

They say if you can master yourself, you can master everything. 

You have years of hunting and self-taught combat to aid you in that department. Sharp senses, rapid reactions, great hand-eye coordination to work alongside your sturdy body. All of these traits have preserved your wellbeing on multiple occasions and are undeniably your greatest strengths. 

So it is ironic that, in a mere moment, they can also become your greatest weakness. 

One minute you are lounging in your bed, reading an old Romanian folklore book that piqued your interest from the main library. You are absorbed in the light stories and drawings there, of wish-granting fairies and trees with wills of their own, so much that your eyes begin to droop. 

And then a strong gust of wind comes from outside. Whatever miniscule gap exists in the locking mechanism of your window allows the air to move the flimsy curtain covering it ever-so-slightly. At the same time, the very corner of your eye registers movement. A shadow; a bat, a monster, a trick of the light –it doesn’t matter. 

It sets you off like a fire alarm. 

Suddenly, you are leaping high into the air, eyes wide, frantic, you are bursting out of your room and you cannot breathe. That’s all it takes. Literally all it takes for you to fall apart; one stray little stimulus caught by your hunter senses and misinterpreted by your mind.

You’d smack straight into the opposite side of the corridor, if it wasn’t for the warm body you crash into, instead. The person unfortunate enough to be tackled into the wall manages to conceal the collision with a soft grunt. Their knees do not hit the ground when yours do. You’d apologize, if only you could find your voice. If your brain wasn’t closing in on you with thoughts of impending doom. If the roof wasn’t coming down to crush you– 

“Hey, hey. Seren, take it easy.” A familiar, smoky voice calls your name. Firm digits press at your shoulder. 

That… breaks you out of your panic mode a little. At least your body stops shaking. Surely, it’s a start. You suck deep breaths into your lungs, until you can finally look up to confirm who it is. Fine dark hair. Hazel eyes. Attractive jawline. Alexia crouches beside you so you don’t have to crane your neck up to meet her gaze. 

“Are you alright? What happened?” she asks and her calmness is infectious. 

“I–I almost fell asleep and then… I thought something outside my window moved.” God, you hate how breathless you sound. “I fucking –lost it.” 

She doesn’t say anything at first, merely lets you count inhales and exhales while her eyes scan your room. “Can’t be a Samce; they don’t normally fly this low or approach the warmer parts of the castle.” she muses, more to herself than you. “Probably just a bat.”

You nod when your heartbeat stops pounding raw pain across your chest. “Yeah. This a thing that… happens.” Not often, but it does. Not that you could ever get used to this kind of impact.

“Sorry to hear that.” Alexia's lips press together. You take her offered hand to stand on your feet again. “Do you want to join me for a while?” 

“Ah… wouldn’t want to keep you up.” you hesitate. 

“Don’t worry about that. I think I’ll wait for Cassandra to return from her hunt, anyway.” she shrugs. 

The two of you take slow, unhurried steps towards the human staff’s common room. You make sure to keep your voices down, not to disturb any of the other women sleeping as you pass by the locked doors of their chambers. Nobody wants to deal with complaining and death-glares come morning. 

At your destination, Alexia pours you both some whiskey, hands you your glass and takes a seat beside you on the couch. Unlike most people, she doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence with smalltalk. You appreciate the time she gives you to completely cool down. 

“It’s not like you, to freak out like that.” comes the comment, eventually. 

“It is, though.” It's a bitter reply, complete by taking a healthy gulp of alcohol that leaves a much-needed burn down your throat. “I’m not fearless like you.”

“I’m… what, now?” A thin eyebrow raises. “I think you’ve got the wrong person there.”

“No.” You shake your head. “The other maids talk of what you did. You were the first ever to escape. As well as the spark that improved living conditions here for the staff.” What guts that takes is beyond your comprehension. 

“I improved living conditions for myself.” Alexia corrects. “Rhiannon advocated for the rest, not me. I’m not that selfless or that good.” So she says, but you are inclined to disagree. 

“Well, anyway. You’re dating Cassandra.” There. Point made. If that doesn’t scream ‘fearless’, nothing does.  

The edge of Alexia’s mouth quirks up. “Not for lack of fear.” 

That answer, you were not expecting. It makes you shift your body towards her, the question evident in your expression. “...Really?”

“Of course. Do you know how long it took for my blood not to turn to ice, at that feral look she got in her eyes when hungry?” You never could have imagined she felt the same as you. Cassandra and she always look so comfortable together. “Before I ever spoke to her, she was the Dimitrescu I feared the most.”

“And how did you overcome that?” you animatedly ask. 

“Everything you want is on the other side of fear.” The words come out perfectly even. “Once I realized that, I could set it aside more and more. At first, it was for benefit. Then, it was for love. Until it disappeared entirely.” 

Well, that is… enlightening. 

“Everyone has phobias and traumas, Seren, whether they are aware of them or not. Trust me, the Dimitrescus are no different than us in that regard.” Indeed, you’re starting to see that. “And maybe that’s the root of the problem. Healthy relationships are hard to build between wounded people.”

Wounded...

“Whatever is haunting you, you should talk about it. In time.” And with that, she finishes her drink. “Rhiannon is best suited to these kinds of things but… you also know where to find me.”

You smile. Raise your glass to that. 

–

–

The daughters return in the ungodly hours of the morning. You hear the exact moment the heavy gates groan open from the top of the staircase, the hushed giggles that follow. Three dark, buzzing blurs make a beeline for the lit fireplace, where their figures solidify. 

Cassandra is the first to push back her hood, head turning towards her girlfriend in the same swift motion. The dim firelight brings out the inhuman gold in her eyes that much more, gleaming like a cat’s. Rich blood coats the lower half of her lips and neck, glistens like a morbid jewel on her too-pale skin. Her smile is that of a wolf’s. 

Your blood pressure rises from it, but Alexia regards her coolly, almost fondly. She’s prepared for the predator flashing in front of her face, as opposed to you, pushing backwards in pure, unrestrained reflex. But the wolf seems more and more domesticated the longer she stays there, locked in a staring competition with a human. 

What surprises you is the fact she’s not looking down on a lesser, weaker species than herself. She sees her equal. 

“Don’t you dare–” Alexia begins, but Cassandra has already pressed a bloody glove to her chin and made a point of dragging it down her neck. 

“Now you need a bath, too.” A wink. “Don’t worry if it doesn’t come right off. I’ll just have to lick hard–”

“Too much information.” Bela knocks her shoulder into her sister’s on her way up the final step in a way that's no accident. 

The low, answering growl would send most people running for the hills. Instead, the blonde ignores it, brings her hand up in a bored little wave as she passes you by. And then… the third shadow joins you, the smears on her lower face as red as her hair.  

“Hey. I thought you’d be sleeping at this hour.” Daniela says, the quiet softness of her voice dizzyingly out of place against her bloodied image. “Miss me that much?” Subtly heterochrome eyes crinkle underneath her hood.

“Let’s go with that.” You reply. 

“Well, since you’re up…” she drags the word out. “Mind drawing me a bath?” Puppy eyes. You get puppy eyes from the baby wolf of the family. 

And of course… you’re not immune to them. 

Which is why, five minutes down the line, you find yourself standing in the bathroom connected to her bedchambers, pointedly staring at the door as Daniela undresses –surely, she could do it faster?– and slips into the water behind you. You keep your mind on the decor, your back to her despite how it unnerves you, until the water has drained twice and she assures you you can look. 

Slowly, you peek with one eye over your shoulder. True to her word, the steaming bathtub is now filled with salts and bubbles, the metallic scent and hue of blood gone. Daniela is laying back amidst the foam like a princess waiting to be painted, long crimson hair sticking to the marble surface that is almost as pale as her skin. 

If you didn’t know what kind of monster she is, seeing her all relaxed here and looking up at you underneath those long lashes of hers, you’d think her a siren. Maybe she is one after all, because you approach, as if under a spell, the moment she motions you closer with a slight tilt of her chin. 

No wonder she smells so good, if this is what she bathes in every day. You wave the stray thought as soon as it forms in your head. You also make a point to keep your eyes above her collar.  

“I thought you don’t like having others around when you bathe.” you speak up, needing to steer your mind in a less intimate direction. This is the first thing you come up with, one of the first key pieces of information the older maids gave you about her. 

“Normally… no.” she admits as if also saying ‘you, I don’t mind’. “But then again I usually keep my head submerged.”

“Oh. I do that, too. The calming effect only works with cold water, though.” You’d know. You have sought out its icy embrace to numb your racing heart, your pain, your fears. Everything.

“Does it.” There’s doubt in her voice. A distant look in her eyes that makes her appear… older, for a moment. The kind that hints she’s tried this for the same reasons you have. Perhaps in a different life. 

You grimace. “The isolation part works, at least.” This is a road down loaded subjects you’re taking and it is too early –too draining– for that. You decide to steer your path in a lighter angle; “Anyway. Here I thought it was a modesty thing.” 

Daniela’s gaze shifts to yours, turning more mischievous by the millisecond and it feels oddly good that she’s back to being the little shit you know. “Modesty is not a thing~” She pushes herself forward as she says it, chest puffed out, bubbles pulled along rosy, pebbled nipples–

Until your hand shoots out and presses her back down by the shoulder. “I can see that, I believe you!” The water is scorching, but you don’t care. Your face burns more. 

Daniela giggles. 

–

–

You wait in her room while she dresses and dries her hair. Busy yourself by looking around, taking in details you missed the first time you were here. Like the blood-red rose preserved in crystalline resin she has at the corner of her desk, the scented candle on the opposite, an array of lipsticks and glosses and other girly things laid out before the vanity that bears her family crest. 

The click and soft hiss of the bathroom door make you pivot. It’s a good thing you did not take the rose into your hands to examine like you wanted, because you surely would have dropped it. 

When you brought her that black, folded nightgown, you never pictured it would hug her frame so sensually. Or that its design would purposely draw attention to her chest, or that she wouldn’t be bothered to tie it properly around her waist. 

The worst part is, none of it seems intentional, this time. Daniela is just lazily running a hand through her long hair, more focused on the pillows stacked at the head of her bed than you. She’s not even trying to be seductive and your stomach has been reduced to bits. 

Bad, bad, need to get out of here–

“Seren.” There goes your escape. “Come lay with me for a while?” Sitting up against the pillows with the covers at her middle, she pats the ample space next to her. “The bed is cold.” She’s not lying; her back is rigid, hands pressed to her biceps.

“You know, it’s really late and I do need to sleep…” you try.

“Kniiiiiight…” 

“Okay, okay, but only ten minutes!” As if the finger you hold up sets some kind of boundary in stone. 

Her bed didn’t seem so intimidatingly large last time. You pull back the covers on your corner as if they’ll bite you, then kick off your shoes and settle –with all the unbreathing fluidity of a log– half-reclining on your side, your temple resting against your fist. Daniela removes her two monster teddies from getting squished between you, sets them on her bedside table with a pat on each of their heads. 

And then… you feel her icy hands creep up your elbows. A slow sigh escapes her lips; her eyes flutter shut, head rolling closer to your shoulder.

You’re a heater for eight more minutes, that’s all you’re here for, you remind yourself over and over. But time begins to blur the closer she slides her body. Quarter… then half on top of you. 

It’s –almost– fine for as long as she’s cold. It keeps you on your toes, doesn’t allow you to sink into the royal comfort of her bed or into her. Yet… she doesn’t stay cold for long. 

Then her fingers roam up your deltoid, curl at your shoulder and her lips turn to find yours. Soft, too soft and plush, more parts lingering than kissing. Your mistake is getting greedy with what you’re given. 

You of all people know not to play with fire, but you do not stop your hand from caressing the bare skin of her stomach where her gown has pulled open. Not even when you feel the hitch in her breathing. Instead, you let your tongue take the invitation of her open mouth to tangle with hers. You miss the first alarm bell when she shifts her weight fully on the leg between hers, presses into you a bit harder, effectively pinning you down.

You don’t miss the second, when her mouth trails from the corner of yours to latch onto your pulse and too-sharp teeth graze your skin. Once. Only once. Once is enough to startle you out of your heady dream and into the danger of reality. You push at her, but she doesn’t register the force. 

“Daniela!” 

The sound of her name makes her snap back, lift herself off of you on her hands and knees. At least she does it immediately, which doesn’t necessarily set you at ease, but…

But you see how her chest is heaving and her arms are straining on either side of your head. She’s reigning her instincts back as promised, expression torn between guilty and painfully turned on. Scared that you’ll push her and run off. Scared you’ll be scared to come close again. 

And you should be. 

“I–I’m sorry.” she huffs. “I wasn’t going to bite. Just– a little mark?” she explains. “It’s the first time I feel so–” Whatever she was about to say, she doesn’t. Then she whispers, softly, “Please don’t leave me like this.”

The thing is... you don’t want to leave her like this, either.

Your own feelings shock you, yet you want to finish what you started, despite how the idea of that ‘little mark’ causes your chest to tighten. 

“Can you be good?” you whisper. 

Her eyes darken further in response. She nods. 

When you press at her shoulder and roll you both around, she puts up no resistance. And there is a startling appeal to be the one to pin her down like this, for her to allow it. To further reinforce your control, her hand carefully takes yours and guides it to her throat. 

She is being good. And she must be rewarded for it. Which is why your fingers slowly trail down her smooth skin, from her chest to her navel, then hooking into the waistband of her lacy underwear. It sticks so mesmerizingly to her legs as you slowly pull it down… 

A whimper escapes her lips the moment you touch her there. You swallow the next with your own when you press a bit further into velvet heat, establishing a rhythm between push, pull and the roll of your thumb. Daniela’s hands fly to the pillow beneath her head, gripping hard.

It’s less than two minutes later you feel how tense she is, her gasps and moans no longer muted. “Seren, Seren, I’m–”

You know she is. Her body breaks into a quaking shiver, her back arches and neck cranes. She’s beautiful and if all that is torn for you to witness this sight is a mere pillow, there won’t be enough reasons to stop you from seeking it out again in the future. 

You slowly guide her down her high, until the predatory golden glow in her eyes gives way to much gentler yellowish blue. She smiles like you’ve just discovered a new star and named it after her. Then she releases the death grip she has on whatever is left of her pillow and trails her hand down your middle. Asking for permission. For direction, too. 

After everything you’ve done, it takes only seconds for you to come apart on her fingers.

And then you get unbearably embarrassed, refusing to lift your head off her ruined pillow. She doesn’t seem bothered either way, sleepily playing with the spiky ends of your hair. Rolling, tugging. 

Way to turn a mess into an already bigger mess, you think. It’s kind of like your superpower, at this point. As if this whole situation –your whole situation– wasn’t bad enough before feelings made it to the mix. 

You are her first… and you’re about to become her first heartbreak.

Your mind begins to stress and race, until you hear her voice by your ear; “Oh, no. No, no.”

“Um…?” you lift your head cautiously. It will be easier if she regrets this. You brace yourself for it. Your heart. You can take pain and it is for the best, for everyone involved.

But Daniela is not looking at you. She’s looking at her stuffed monstrosities. 

“Babiesssss.” she tells them, then carefully slides a hand out of the covers to turn them around, so they’re facing the door. “I’m so sorry, I scarred you for life. Ugh, I’m terrible…”

You squint. Stare. 

“Seren.” She pats your nape. “You have to remind me to shield their eyes and ears next time.”

Wait.

Next time…?

[weaselbeaselpants]

"-the baseline of harm to children isn’t people like Lily Orchard. It doesn’t start at the most extreme cases and it doesn’t stay there. The safety of children is not about fandom and it’s not about you- "

Unironically preach. That's cool. Otherwise, hon- you are actively saying that the creators are predatory for making the Running with Scissors plot and you are insisting that I am a direct harm to minors for saying "valid, but also no".

If I assumed this was all fandom bizz and not something that's honestly offensive and you think truly harmful than fine- that one's on me. But I'm sorry I can't agree with your exact assessment regardless of all the feelings I have about the show.

-" Also, with twilight, the depiction is of an all but impossible age gap: Bella’s 16-18, and Edward’s 107. How many teenage girls did you know or hear about that had 107 year old boyfriends? "- um, the line is "how long have you been 17?" There's literally a robot chicken joke about how Edward has the brain of an old geezer while Bella's still a physical and mental teenager- everyone knows about this problem. It's been a problem for as long as people have known about twilight. ALSO- I was not just referring to Bella and Edward disturbing mental agegap. Did you forget about Renesme and groomer Jaccob?? If you want to issue a genuine criticism of a piece of media on moral grounds you can't just dismiss other people's criticism because you don't personally see or feel that way.

I am being defensive because you came onto my post about a ship I don't particularly like anyway and insisted to me and your own following that I am downplaying/don't care about childabuse because I don't agree exactly-completely with your assessment. You are basically telling me that you ought to agree exactly with your take away or ELSE I'M JUST AS BAD and no, no I don't. That's not fair and that's not a genuine means of holding discourse or this discussion.

-Star is 14-16, and Marco is 26-35. How many teenage girls did you know or hear about who had boyfriends in their 20s and 30s? I was related to one. I knew several. I heard of hundreds, thousands. I’m 27, my body could look like a 15 year old’s again, and I would still be 27. I have experienced 27 years of human time and life experiences, I have the power of having lived nearly 3 decades. A child does not have that. They cannot. That’s not how children work. A child can THINK they have that, the most experience they’ve ever had being a human is only as long as they’ve been alive-

That's absolutely awful.

The problem is you are literally imparting real world physics and ideas onto these cartoon characters and fictional situations - a situation which, again, I'm sorry but I don't see the show or the writers literally confirming that Marco is actually 25 or even trying to lust over him or ship Star with him as a 25 y old. In the show he returns to his own word and in his own word he's still 15. I wish the show didn't make that joke for so many reasons but I think it's it's own kind of amoral on your side to accuse the creators and myself of ever actively wanting harm on real life children or even endangering real children by simply going "eh, hate that episode", "no, Marco's still physically and even mentally probably a kid even though the show made it weird". You are being so...deadly finite about this matter. You are accusing me of something unnecessary. I'm 27 myself, hon, and I experienced all sorts of bad behavior and know muchmuch WORSE especially from my days in the brony fandom. I know people who have suffered much worse than myself and it's horrendous. Don't you dare talk to me about 'downplaying harm caused to minors' when I'm working up a think piece about how adult proshitters are calling minors "puriteens" just for existing here, and how those same proshitters don't want to face the fact that the reason tumblr banned nudity was because some users were posting cp. They were. That does not mean everyone was doing it, but it was bad and it's time we stop hiding away from that fact.

Since this isn't a matter of fandom pro or anti bs than I just got to say I am very, genuinely sorry for that.

I am not saying your intentions are wrong or any of your criticism is invalid - good lord, they're valid - I am saying you are being needlessly accusatory and harmful on your own front and there's no need for it. This conversation is spiraling out of control publicly and done waiting for one or the other to reply.

Reply to me on messenger on your own time or don't reply at all.

As someone who doesn't care for Star and Marco or Starco at all, it speaks volumes to me that the fanbase and critics still treat the shipping problem like that was the main problem with Star vs the Forces of Evil.

It wasn't. SVTFOE's biggest problem will always be that it's finale was WAAAAAAAY to rushed, not which horny teenaged characters decided they were dating now in their status quo. You can tell it was rushed because even the romantic subplot seen in the end was butchered.

[hhighkey]

For the jjk characters you write for, can you please do jealousy HCs for them? 😄

AN// ah yes!!! i included my faves as i felt it would be easier but lemme know if you want anyone specific :)

JJK Headcanons

THEY GET JEALOUS

With Nanami, Gojo, Inumaki, Fushiguro, Noritoshi

Nanami Kento

his jealousy definitely stems from wanting to keep you safe

and that he doesn’t want people making you uncomfortable

nanami is the perfect man and you’d never imagine yourself with anyone else

he’s not insecure

just worries

jealousy is a natural emotion he knows, everyone succumbs to it no matter how irrational a situation

so he won’t act anything out or throw a fit like some would

he’s a mature adult

now let’s say you’re younger than him tho pls im obsessed with age gaps and this man

you have some guy friends from college who you’re pretty close with (or sorcerers from your year back when you were at tokyo high, you choose)

he’s not going to tell you that you can’t have guy friends but he’s uncomfortable, there’s so many opinions out there on platonic relationships with an opposite sex while in a committed relationship

he does trust you

but guys at your age… he knows how they are all too well

it���ll take him longer than expected to have the conversation with you

he’s always calm when communicating something serious

you appreciate it omg

and you didn’t realize he possibly would have viewed it in that way so you decided to only see them in group settings

besides nanami comes first

he’s very well mannered and thought out. this is a man you’re dating not some boy who’s going to lose his cool

but he’s relieved

“you don’t show it but it’s cute you were jealous kento,”

“yeah? just wait until something happens in front of me then we’ll see,”

true

Gojo Satoru

gojo doesn’t get jealous really

i think he finds it amusing over anything else- watching a guy flirt with you

he’s definitely a cocky shit so he knows this man doesn’t come anywhere near him

like gojo doubts he can top strongest sorcerer so he’s just laughing watching this interaction because you’re not into it

however it’s when he lays a hand on you does he step in, slowly losing it

something about someone else having the audacity to place a hang on you sets him off

his jealousy is more of an urge to protect what’s his you

and as amusing as it was to watch the man attempt to pick you up, he knows your boundaries have been crossed big time

feels bad he didn’t do anything sooner but won’t say it

gojo comes up, placing a hand to the low of your back, devious grin as he stares from the top of his sun glasses

“having fun babe? who’s this?”

that man is shaking let’s be real and scurries away immediately

totally can sense the intense energy coming off gojo even if he doesn’t realize why he’s so scared of the platinum haired man

you can see right through gojo by the twitch of his upper lip that he’s upset

“jealousy is funny on you satoru,”

“wasn’t jealous!”

“yeah okay,”

Inumaki Toge

oh inumaki is definitely the jealous type

he’s a clingy boyfriend to begin with

like to always have a hand on you, see you in his sights

doesn’t even like when his fellow students steal a spot next to you away from him

will literally throw mini tantrums and yell in his onigiri language

he’s cute it’s fine

so like it’s not unexpected when he loses his cool and is a pouty mess over some guys hitting on you

what was supposed to be a fun outing to run some errands turned into hitting up every shop in your sights

it’s been a perfect day, holding his hand as you two stroll about

inumaki is gonna wait in this long line to get the drinks you want whilst you continue on to grab sweets

divide and conquer right

which inumaki is still able to see you out the corner of his eye so he’s content

until

two guys get in line behind you and instantly spark up a conversation, which you’re polite so you won’t just blow them off

but you shift a little farther away and try to seem disinterested

“you’re really pretty, you here alone?”

“no,”

“we can keep you company,”

“i’m good,”

they just keep on talking and talking making suggestive comments

you’re praying for inumaki to save you because you’re unsure if he even knows what’s going on

oh he does

he’s burning green

fists clenched at his side but he’s going to get y’all these drinks first since you were so excited for one

so drinks in each hand, he walks over to you and the two guys who can’t take a hint

“go away,”

“toge!”

Fushiguro Megumi

silently broods

absolute anger coursing through him

you are his and no one else can have you he’s very territorial

not a lot makes him feel normal, relaxed, sane- but you do

so he can’t have any risks to your relationship

he was picking you up from class today, having just got back from a few day mission last night

he couldn’t wait to scoop you up in his arms

it’s when he finally sees you does his mood drop

he’s waiting outside the car, ijichi in the passenger seat probably feeling megumi’s cursed energy turn angry mans is def shaking he goes through so much

you’re walking out with two other guys who are standing too close for his taste

he doesn’t like the way you’re smiling and nodding at what they’re saying

why do you look so into the conversation?

he doesn’t waste much more time to march over there

he’ll place a hand on the low of back

instantly introduces himself as your boyfriend to your horror very rudely

he’s a tall scary dude and the guys you’re with immediately feel terror creeping up them

you say you’ll see them soon as megumi drags you away to the car

“gumi be nice! they’re my partners for an important project,”

“guess i have to go to all these meetings now,”

“oh my god,”

Kamo Noritoshi

haha mans got an ego

huge chip on his shoulder about how he’s so great and heir to the kamo clan

like it’s beyond him that someone would even look in your direction while he’s there

he gets jealous easier than he knows he should

logically he knows he has nothing to worry about so he’s calm in that manner

but internally he sees everyone as a threat as you belong to him

how you put up with him nobody knows

but he’s infatuated with you and is going to treat you perfectly

so noritoshi is so excited to take you out for a nice dinner, since neither of you have been free in a few weeks

y’all are all dressed up looking cute

both of you are just beaming at the other from across the table, one of your hands delicately placed in his as you chat

you don’t notice it but noritoshi does

the waiter

the way he looks at you, eyes lingering too long

he can’t blame them you’re gorgeous

but when he gets your order or checks up on you two, he only talks to you

noritoshi is perceptive he can tell when someone is flirting with his partner

and he doesn’t take kindly to it

by the end of the date he’s absolutely fuming, fist clenched

but on the outside he looks cool and collected… he just wanted to enjoy this time with you!

he pulls you out of there soon as possible and you just laugh as y’all exit the restaurant

“wow toshi proud you didn’t like shoot the guy with an arrow,”

“i wish i did,”

you heard a few weeks later that the waiter got fired

[fabraies-archive]

BREAK THE ICE

notes n warnings ❅ *: figure skater! oikawa toorū x fem! figure skater! reader, mentions of diets and bad eating habits, this took a long time i’m sorry I literally wrote this while I was having a ton of exams, I hope the pacing is fine I feel like it’s a little too fast :( wc 5.3k

part one of snowflakes are kisses from heaven series

“WINNING IS FIRST PLACE, EVERYTHING ELSE IS LOSING”

The sentence keeps replaying in your head like a mantra, and you feel like you’re being suffocated. You were supposed to be able to master this routine. It’s nothing you haven’t encountered before, and the media portrayed you as a young, headstrong skater who succeeded in everything she undertook. So why couldn’t you do it? You’re the best. You’ve got titles and medals other skaters could only dream of having. At the very least, you used to be the best, because it just so seems that your best doesn’t cut it anymore. Soon enough, your previous achievements will be worth nothing, and your trophies will catch dust. So when your partner’s comments came flying at you, you feel as if they’re the straw that broke the camel. “Seriously? A toe loop made you fall?” Oikawa turns his head towards your choreographer, and snickers, “Looks like the program’s going to need a few changes after all.”

You had both been skating together for 7 years. Somehow, in 7 years, Oikawa hadn’t managed to be any less insufferable than he was when your coach introduced you both to each other.

7 YEARS AGO

The front door creeks open, and you turn around at the speed of light. ‘Mrs Coach’, as you used to call her, is holding a boy’s wrist, dragging him further into the training center. The boy himself didn’t look like he was too keen on entering the place, seemingly upset. He couldn’t be more than 14. That’s already pretty old to me, you cringe, I’m only twelve.

He looks down at you, eyebrow raised. “I’m supposed to skate with her? How old even is this kid ?” You feel your cheeks redden. Kid? Did he just actually call you that? Was your coach really about to let this slide? Surely not.

“She’s twelve, that’s only a two year age gap, there’s worse out there. And for the record, this is just a test to see if you guys work well together. You can keep your hopes up for a little while.” You can hear a hint of amusement in her voice, turning her back on you to walk towards the rink. “Let’s get going! I have a feeling you two’ll be a great match.”

Next to you, Oikawa grumbles.

-

Whatever your coach saw in you two, you didn’t. You kept bickering for the entire time, and you couldn’t manage anything more difficult than a few jumps in unison and a bad lift. Truth be told, the latter still makes you blush when thinking about it. As his despisable as his personality is, you couldn’t deny his looks. So when he lifted you in the air, you felt like you were about to explode. Your little twelve-year-old-heart could only take so much.

“You guys are truly great together, I was right. You’ll see, with more training, you two will make it to the Olympics!”

Your eyes sparkle at your coach’s outburst. The Olympics... You’d do anything to get there. And a grumpy teenage boy in the middle of a teenagehood crisis was certainly not about to stop you.

“Yeah, well, the Olympics aren’t worth it if I’m not competing in men’s singles. So feel free to do your best or whatever, but this isn’t what I signed up for.” The brow haired boy says crudely. Your coach’s smile visibly faints and you direct your eyes at him, ready to blow a fuse. “It’s not what I signed up for either. My dream was in the Ladie’s singles, but that’s not possible. The thing is, when I was handed another opportunity, I took it. Because to you, I’m only twelve and ‘still a kid’, but in the meantime, I don’t take things for granted, and work hard, no matter the conditions. Maybe you should try that some time. It shouldn’t be too hard, since you’re supposedly two years older than me.” You feel your partner’s eyes narrowing at you in embarrassment, but before he gets to get anything more than a small ‘smartass’, your coach intervenes.

“(Y/n), it’s fine. You both have done enough for today. I’m sure this all comes from pent up frustration, the bad blood will disolve quickly enough.”

Oh, if only she knew.

-

Ticked off, you hit the ice with your fist, and get back on your feet. You grit your teeth, and mumble a “Mind your business”, to which he answers with a scoff. You turn your head to face your coach with a disgruntled expression, in a desperate attempt to get Oikawa to keep his mouth shut, but she only shrugs and you brace yourself for the worst. If you could mostly handle Tooru’s remarks (keyword: mostly), the coach’s were different. She closes her eyes, and you can hear her voice echoing throughout the rink, “Look, you guys are young. Not too long ago, you both were competing for junior competitions. But this,” she points towards the countless medals and trophies you two had won over the years in the glass shelf, “Is over. You are about to head to Beijing to compete against athletes who are just as good, if not much better, than you. You cannot keep this up. The bantering off the ice is slowly transposing itself onto your chemistry while performing. Keep it up and the judges will notice this, and you’ll come back home without any medal at all. The basis of pair figure skating is the chemistry. If you lose it, you lose everything else. ” Her scolding ends, and you clench your fists. You hate that she has to say this. You hate that even your coach is willing to admit that you both aren’t doing enough to stand a chance. You hate that you know she’s right. You hate that you know Oikawa is right. At the very least, had you fallen while attempting a 4A, you would still be viewed as respectable by the public, and by the judges. But you hadn’t, and instead, the people around you would start despising you.

This isn’t fair, you think, I’ve worked harder than anyone else to be here! Your cheeks redden, and you can feel your eyes getting watery. “Stop crying, we gotta get back to the routine.” You notice that Oikawa’s tone has lost some of it’s initial glee, and you’re reassured to know you’re not the only one that has been affected by your coach’s harsh words. Oikawa skates back to the middle of the rink, waiting for you to finish sniffling like a child who has had her lollipop taken away from her.

The noise of a locker being harshly closed fills the empty changing rooms and makes you flinch. The rest of the training session did not go as smoothly as planned, even after your coach’s complaints. A sigh escapes your lips. While he could still blame everyone else for all the mishaps on the ice, you couldn’t. You only had yourself. Never had you been this discouraged, and ready to give up. Worst of all, you cannot seem to quell your inner turmoil, because everything you do seems to give it right, and feeds it, until you can’t control it anymore. You want to disappear. Sure, you’ve never gotten along with your partner, but you’d never go as far as ruin his dreams along with yours, even after what he said a few years back. A tired voice pulls you from your intrusive thoughts. “Get up, loser. I need to close the changing rooms tonight, and I want to go home,” as if the first sentence wasn’t already enough, he adds, “And I’d be damned if you were the one to keep me here longer than I have to.” Nevermind. Maybe you would be fine tearing his dreams apart after all. “Coming.” You mumble. You don’t have the energy to banter anymore today.

As you two leave the rink, an unexpected question leaves Oikawa’s mouth. “What’s up with you today ?” You don’t miss the slight edge to his voice, but answer regardless. “I don’t know-” “You don’t know?” He angrily interrupts you, “Your little problems might cause us to not even get close to the podium at the Olympics but you don’t know?” His anger is legitimate. You can’t just not know when the stakes are this high. It’s ridiculous. You know you’re in the wrong, but you get defensive either way. “I’m sorry, since when were you even rometely interested in going to Olympics ? Last time I checked, you were doing minimal effort because ‘your dream was in the men’s singles’. I’ve been working my ass off since we met. So don’t you start bitching. I worked so fucking hard, and despite it all, you were always behind me, waiting to fuck it all up. You couldn’t even count on your fingers how many problems I have to deal with- “

“Yeah, okay. Just get this fixed before the Olympics.” With that, he just walks away, and you can’t help the sobs that are bubbling up your throat. You want to scream. You’re gripping the straps of your bag so hard you might leave a permanent imprint on your fingers. And in this very moment, you’re considering letting your anger take you over. But, you know better. It’s for the coach, you try to calm yourself down, for the Olympics.

You hope that tonight will help you rest. Despite all your problems flying around your head, you still had a flight to Beijing to catch tomorrow.

-

You were wrong. If anything, this night brought you even more problems than you already had. You hadn’t been able to close a single eye for the entire time, for if you did, your mind would go wandering to back to your doubts and you would start feeling anxious again. Nothing seemed to calm you down. Not even the silence of the plane, or the cheap laughing backtrack of the movie you were currently watching. “Would you like anything to eat ?” The hostess comes up to you. You consider getting the nice salad for a moment. Knowing eating won’t help can’t stop me from trying, you think, and in a heartbeat, you find yourself ordering one of the salads that had caught your eye on the flimsy menu. Unfortunately for you, your coach passes by at the same time as your meal’s arrival, and while she doesn’t say anything explicitly, the look she shoots you says everything you might need to know. It’s on you. You’re supposed to be on a strict diet, and indulge a strict amount of calories each day, nothing more, nothing less. Just enough to propulse yourself into the air, and just enough to keep gliding on the ice at a good speed. Just as you reflect on your bad eating habits, the coach comes back, just as you feared.

“I know you’re stressed.” She starts, it’s a dead giveaway of the theme of the conversation you’re about to have, which makes you audibly sigh, “But you’re a skater. You signed up for it. The least you could do is have the strength to go through it, both physically and mentally. You’re no different than all the people that you are competing against. You’ve got the same skills, the same elements to work with.” Your chest tightens, and you look away. Your coach resumes nevertheless, “But you two have something special, something that only a very limited number of skaters still possess at your level.” She points to you, “this something, is passion. And, yes, Oikawa does have it. Even if he yearns for a spot in he men’s singles, he still has passion for what he’s doing right now, even if you don’t see it. Your competitors could only dream of having that. You want to skate, they have to. There’s a big difference. The only thing is, to showcase your passion to the best of your ability, you have to make amends with Oikawa,” You open your mouth in protest, before your coach speaks up again, “this isn’t an option. It’s necessary. If you want to win the Olympics, that is. You can start right now by the way, I believe he’s in the cabin right next to yours.” With that, she walks away, leaving you speechless. After yesterday’s fiasco, the last thing you want to do is talk to him. But this isn’t about doing what you want, but about what you have to do, you think, and open your cabin door, alright. Good luck to me.

You move, and knock on Oikawa’s cabin’s door. “Yeah ?” A horse voice answers to the dry knocking, and it’s deepness makes your whole body tingle. “I- um. It’s me.” The door slides open, and if his voice has gotten such a reaction out of you, his slightly messy hair and jogging attire almost has you blushing, just the way it did 7 years ago, on your very first lift.

“So ?” Your partner urges you to speak up, and only then do you realize you’ve been standing in front of him, completely silent. You end up babbling a mess of words, and take a deep breath as to start anew. “I know we started off on the wrong foot. To be very honest, it’s kind of your fault, but I forgive you. Yesterday was especially bad, even though I’m pretty sure I was right, and you were wrong. However, I come in peace. For this reason, I have decided to be the mature person I am, and graciously overlook your past mistakes. Are we good now? ” The handsome male eyes your hand you stuck out for him to shake, and you two find yourselves wrapped in a parochial silence. “That’s not how apologizing works” You bite your tongue in order not to give into his taunting, and respond, “About that, I thought things through a little before coming here, and I believe I have nothing to apologize for. Thus, I decided to give you a chance to apologize instead. You’re welcome, by the way. ”

He gapes at you, and quickly regains his composure., “That’s funny, because I happen to think you actually do have stuff to apologize for.”

“And what would that be exactly ?”

“Being bitchy.”

You scoff, and cross your arms, “Me? I was only being bitchy because you were being an asshole.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused.” Oikawa rolls his eyes, and is about to continue, when a man from the cabin next door groans. “Will you kids just keep it down? Some of us are too tired for your little lovers’ quarrel.”

At the mention of you and Oikawa being lovers, you both physically tense up, until the bickering starts again. “Look, I just wish you’d apologize!” You whisper-scream. “Apologize for what?” He insists, and you can’t believe your ears. “Are you serious ? Maybe apologizing for what you said when we first met? For not putting any effort in the skating just because it isn’t what you intended to do?” This time, it’s his turn to not believe his ears. “You want me to apologise for something that happened 7 seven years ago?” “That, and the no-effort thing.” “Oh so you really are serious.”

Be the bigger person. You take a deep breath, trying to focus on what to do in order to get Oikawa and you to make peace. Obviously, your partner is not able to see further than his own nose in this situation. So, it is up to you to make him understand that the stakes are too high for the both of you to simply go back and forth like children at around 35 thousand feet up in the air.

“Look. You’ve said it before, we can’t risk not being on the podium at the Olympics. What I’m trying to do, is restore our relationship, have good chemistry during the games, and win. After that, you can do whatever you want. I frankly don’t care if this isn’t your dream, it’s mine. I need to win. Just this once.” You plead.

This is humiliating. You’ve hit an all-time low. But it needed to be done. And by the look on his face, you can already tell this top 1 of your most embarrassing moments have not been in vain.

“Okay. Fine. I don’t promise anything but, ” he enters a fit of coughing, and tries his best to maintain his composure, “I’m sorry. What I said yesterday was kind of in the heat of the moment, I guess. But, sure. Winning. Totally.”

You open your mouth to thank him, but he pushes you out, and closes the door. Once again, you’re left frothing at the mouth. Maybe it was a sign not to thank him after all.

-

Oikawa has always hated the sound of skates rattling against the ice. But for some reason, he’s still standing on the rink, performing. He doesn’t know why. It’s the same with his relationship with you. You both hate each other, but you still skate together. It’s not out of a lack of opportunities; he was very coveted, and so were you. He couldn’t possibly count on his fingers the number of times you could’ve parted ways, and yet, here you both are, about to compete in the Olympic games. You’ve only got few days left to train and perfect the programm, but Oikawa still finds himself staring up at the windows of the rink. It was night, but he couldn’t spot any stars or the moon. Still, the sky was faintly light. He’d have to head to bed soon. “Done daydreaming ?” A voice calls out. It’s you. You were always pretty, but the faint glow around you due to the night sky makes you even prettier. Such a shame your beautiful face had to be paired up with such a horrid personality, he thinks.

“I’m talking to you.” You speak up, again.

“I can hear you.” Oikawa narrows his eyes at you.

“So you’re just ignoring me.”

“Correct.”

“Awesome. I thought we were getting somewhere.” You shoot him a look. Oikawa scoffs. He’s glad the dark manages to cover the expression he’s sporting, because you’d never let go of it. Oikawa flustered? What a scoop! “Getting where? We’re not a couple, much less friends.” If the night sky manages to cover him, it doesn’t do it for you. He wishes it did, because the saddened smile you’re wearing makes his stomach twist. He wants to take back the words he said. Over his lifetime, he’d take back practically half what he’s said if he could.

If only his pride could let him.

-

Thundersnows are, according to scientists, a rare occurrence. However they seemed common enough for you to have to live through one. It’s funny, in a twisted way. On one hand, you love snow, but on the other, you are absolutely terrified of thunders. Your first thought is to go see your coach. Around 5 years ago, while you were in a training camp, there had been one of the loudest storms you had ever had the horror of living. You had ran towards your coach’s room, begging her to stay with you. The thought still makes you smile, as a reminder of your friendship with her. You open your fist to reveal a white pearl, hanging from black thread, a token from your friendship. She had gifted it to both you and Oikawa after your very first gold medal.

A heavy knock on the door interrupts your soft moment, and soon enough, it creaks open, revealing a brown-haired figure skater, clad in loose fitting jeans, and a shirt.

“To what do I owe the pleasure? Thought we ‘weren’t even friends’? What happened to that?” You don’t even bother looking up at him.

“Don’t flatter yourself. Coach said you were scared of thunders. She can’t help you out right now, she’s stuck in traffic with Ukai, so she sent me instead.” He runs his hand through his hair, and sits down on your bed. “Ukai, huh ?” You hum, “Always knew there was something going on between them.” You make yourself comfortable, and lie down on your bed. Feeling generous, you invite Oikawa to do the same. “Since when are civil ?” He quirks an eyebrow, and you shrug, “Ever since I was too tired not to be.” He doesn’t question your odd change of behaviour any further, and a leans back on the bed headboard.

“Do you think Ukai and coach have already fucked?” He asks, suddenly turning towards you. “Don’t be crude.” You respond.

“Is that a yes ?” His last question gets a chuckle out of you, and you realise that you completely forgot about the storm ever since he got here. “Maybe.” “Maybe !?” He props himself up on his shoulders, “Are you kidding ? They totally have! Have you seen the way they look at each other ? Man. Disgusting.“

“I find them cute. It’s love.”

“You’re disgusting too”

“Says the guy who wore skates two sizes too small during a comp. Who the hell does that ?”

“Who the hell falls on a toe loop ?” Oikawa retorts.

You snort, “That was low.”

“Your world standing is low.”

“My world standing is also your world standing.” You look back at him, and you find him staring at you. “I’m gonna hit you with the pillow.” You don’t get to say what you were planning to say anyway, because a pillow is hurled at your face.

You take it off, and wholeheartedly laugh. “You’re not half as bad as I made you out to be.” Oikawa observes. “Well, you would’ve known earlier if you hadn’t been such an asshole since day one”.

“Oh, so now it’s my fault?” He retorts, “if my memory serves me right, you were being quite the asshole as well.”

“Excuse me?” Your mouth falls open.

“Sometimes I even wonder how you spoke like that. Weren’t you like, twelve?”

“I’m just well-spoken.” You prop your chin up. It was true. Your parents had always pressured you. Etiquette lessons, piano lessons, countless extracurricular activities. No wonder you managed to seem like a smartass to Oikawa.

“Sure.”

Silence makes its way in the room, none of you daring to disturb it, until a question makes an appearance at the back of your mind. So close.

“Why do you not do any effort in our routines?”

“Me?” Oikawa stares back at you with a dazed look, “Given everything we’ve won, you’d think the opposite, no?”

“I’ve asked you about this before, but you’d just ignore me. I want you to be honest with me. I mean effort as in, something more than what’s expected of you, stimulated by the happiness that skating brings you. You don’t do that. And I’m just tired of doing everything in my power in order to balance your lack of passion out.”

“Then don’t.” His simple answer makes you scoff.

“And lose all my chances at the games? No way. This is my dream. I’ve never wished for anything more than this.”

“Then why didn’t you switch partners?”

He’s right. Why didn’t you ? You don’t look at him in the eye, you wouldn’t dare to. Because you know the answer, but never in a million years would you ever willingly face it. Not in the kind of environment you’re in right now, you can’t take it or risk it. Besides, you’ve feigned feeling nothing but resentment towards him in the past few years. What kind of delusional would you be if you even thought of him possibly liking you back ?

“I.. I don’t know. Why haven’t you ?” Counter a question by a question. Great thinking. If only his question wasn’t as frustrating as his answer.

“Because I don’t know what I’d do without you. You said it yourself, your determination is essential to our performances. It makes up for whatever I don’t have. We balance each other out. And admit it, our little ‘lovers quarrels’ mean too much for you to ever let them go, don’t they ?”

The proximity and the subtle flirting make your chest feel warm, even though you know it shouldn’t. You can’t let these type of doubts eat you from the inside, but you can’t help it. You just know realize that you desperately need to keep yourself in check to have a chance to step on the podium.

“You’re too tired. Did you consume anything before coming here ?” You wave him off, in a brief attempt to cover your embarrassment.

“Love.” He grins.

-

The peace between you and Oikawa seemed to have only been an interwar period, because it only took a few hours for the animosity to come back.

A conversation you weren’t even supposed to hear. That’s all it took for your heart that was beating like crazy a few moments prior to shatter, once again, just the way it did over the years with Oikawa.

“Are you sure you want to leave the team, Oikawa ?” A feminine voice speaks up. The coach, you think.

“Yeah. I can’t do it anymore, this is just a lack of professionalism at this point.” Another one speaks. It’s a man this time. Oikawa, you realize.

“You do realize you could just talk this out, right? Consider it, at least, tons of athletes have dealt with this, you know.”

“It’s.. it’s not for me I’m doing this. Sorry.”

You don’t even bother listening to the rest of the conversation. You hadn’t even taken your own warning into account, and here you were, in the cafeteria, carelessly moving your food around, without plans to actually eat any of it.

The doors from the training centre close behind you and Oikawa, and he speaks up, “So? What’s gotten your panties in a twist ?”

“Nothing is wrong! Why do you care anyway? This has nothing to do with you!” You immediately blow up, and swear you could gouge his eyes out. One second you two find yourselves flirting, the next he wants to leave the team, and for the grand finale, Oikawa suddenly cares about your mental state. You tend to find it rather funny, since his antics make up around half of the reasons for your deteriorating mental state. On the other hand, you’ve had just about enough of him stringing you along and acting as if nothing’s wrong.

“First, you have got to calm down, holy shit. Second, I care because you’re my partner, and because we’re about to compete! Tomorrow!” He seethes.

You can’t help but laugh at his lousy excuse, “I call bullshit. You’re a horrible liar. You don’t care about the Olympics, much less about me. Stop fucking around, tell me the truth.”

“You know what? Fine! I give up! I don’t care about you, and I certainly dont care about the games. Good luck winning this alone. Knew I shouldn’t have listened to the coach.” He mutters, and almost walks away, until you grab him by the elbow. He makes a move to get rid of you, but you stand your ground.

“That’s why you asked me how I was doing? Because of the coach?” You look up at him. Anger is evident in your face.

“I thought you didn’t care? Make up your goddamn mind, (y/n)! Also, that’s not what I was even talking about. Stop assuming all the time!”

For the first time since this argument started, you’re at a loss of words. You couldn’t tell him you did care, you couldn’t tell him how betrayed you felt, you couldn’t tell how you felt at all.

“So what were you talking about then? Felt bad cause you’re leaving and wasn’t planning on telling me shit?”

“Where did you hear that from ?” You can see his face get hard, and you instantly regret what you said earlier. You’ve never seen him in such a serious state. “Nowhere. Forget it.” You try to wave him off and get on your way, but he doesn’t let you. You’ve definitely struck a nerve.

“No, I won’t forget it. Where did you hear that from? No one was supposed to know about this, especially not you. So, again, where the hell did you get that from?”

“I.. I just heard you and the coach speak about it when I passed your room in the hallway on the way to the cafeteria.” However, his outburst doesn’t stop you from getting defensive as well.

“So, are you happy? Stringing me along making me think we were finally doing well, and then just leave? Got want you wanted all along, right? How much of an asshole exactly are you? And don’t you dare tell me I’m the asshole, because that’s not true and you know it. You told me we were going to stick together, and then you just go, and you- you just..” you can’t help the sobs. You feel so incredibly stupid for letting your emotions take you over, and letting Oikawa know how much he hurt you. How much power he holds over you. Now there’s definitely no chance for him to genuinely try tomorrow, or even win. He’ll be too busy despising and avoiding you.

“Look at me. Come on, look at me.” The brown haired boy looks down at you, craddling your face with his hands.

“Cut the bullshit,” you sob, “I’m not falling for it anymore.” You tear his hands off your face.

“I’m not bullshitting you. I swear, god, I am not leaving the team, I did not mean to string you along, and I don’t hate you. At least not anymore.”

“So you did hate me!”

“So did you!”

“No I didn’t! You are such a moron, I can’t believe you. I like you. When I was twelve, when we first met, you remember the bad lift we did? Do you remember the way I looked at you back then? You thought treating me like shit was gonna be all it took for the feelings to magically disappear?”

“I can’t believe you’re calling me a moron when you’re truly not any better.” He says, and carefully cradles your face again. “Because I liked you, too.”

“You suck.”

He grins, and leans in. This time, you don’t fight him. You invite him in, and when he finally locks lips with yours, the fireworks are blowing up in your stomach. You throw your arms around his neck in an attempt to draw him close than you both already are, and his hands make their merry way to your waist. You could stay like this forever. Your brain goes haywire, and when Oikawa slightly pulls away, you can’t help but feel disappointed that it’s already over.

“Don’t worry, they’ll be many more to come,” Oikawa chuckles, in response to your obvious insatisfaction.

“I’m still mad at you for being an asshole for so long just because you were too pussy to tell me you liked me.” You point at his chest.

“Sorry, couldn’t resist the possibility of an ennemies to lovers with you.”

-

“Second place, (Country name), Oikawa Toorū and (y/n) (l/n)!”

Second place. It’s not what you wanted. You should feel sad and disappointed, but you’re not.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t win first place.” Oikawa murmurs. You let your foreheads touch, and whisper in reply, “I don’t mind. There’s always next time. Besides, even if I didn’t get first place, I got something else that I like way better.” Before your lips get to touch, however, a camera flash goes off, blinding the both of you, and you hear a few teenage girls in the bleachers whine.

“He’s taken now?” One of the girls indiscreetly whispers, and another one responds, with the same obvious disappointed tone, “I guess..”

You can’t find it in yourself to care. Looks like winning isn’t just about first place after all, because even if you haven’t won, you still feel more victorious than you ever have before.

©234423zip ALL RIGHTS RESERVED do not copy modify or translate my work/theme

[knowlesian]

i was chatting about this over messages and hadn't seen anyone else post about it, so i figured what the hell: why my fourth favorite joke might be izzy’s pissy little ‘i do this, i do that, you're so erratic’ rant, and the subversion/setup/foreshadowing it provides. 

(third: montezuma’s revenge joke via izzy the metaphor colonizer. e5 setup, e9 punchline. now that’s some next level comedy writing.)

anyway! let’s take it line by line. 

For years, I’ve followed your every whim. I’ve managed your increasingly erratic moods, I’ve massaged this crew when they were worried about your judgment.

Mmm. Sounds stressful, Izzy.

so! it would be very easy to just take izzy at his word and create scenarios to suit, where izzy is a reliable narrator and actually doing all these things.

(and just as a structure nerd note while i’m at it, since i think that term gets used colloquially so often that much like filler, it needs clarifying sometimes: unreliable narrator doesn't mean never right or always lying. it just means unreliable, and their ultimate narrative purpose is to force an audience to think critically and examine the text as a whole to try to find what is empirical reality and what is not, instead of sorting them into liar or honest and leaving it there, thanks for coming to my tedtalk & etc) 

izzy himself is urging an audience to fill in those gaps, to create pre-canon scenarios that support izzy and silence ed. to make us imagine an ed who is out of control and in need of a constant exasperated minder; to implicitly and thematically render him a violent, angry child and not a full man in his own right. an ed who cannot face the world or make his own choices, unless izzy is there to guide him and set boundaries so he does not ruin his own life.

and izzy feels so, so burdened by this. he tells us so! 

hmmm. a burdened white man... which would make ed a white man’s burden.

now, where have i heard that before? it’s on the tip of my racist system of genocidal white people of all classes rolling up into places where people are living and dying and making good choices and bad choices alike all on their own just fine thanks and saying, party’s over kids. daddy’s home now, and you better listen up because father knows best tongue.

that’s izzy’s purpose in the narrative, at least when it comes to the specific angle of implicit bias and the stressful and constant unavoidable racial power dynamics that come into all our social interactions whether we like it or not. because if we are honest and genuinely want to dismantle white supremacy, we need to name the beast so we can fight it. that means admitting even when class is figured into the matter, white men of a certain age who act like izzy acts and say the things he says are unconsciously processed as being logical and in control no matter what, and people who are not white get the exact opposite treatment.

it’s the rule of who would the cops believe. (or, in this case, his majesty’s royal navy.)

izzy holds social power ed does not, alongside institutionalized power. this show is playing out very modern racial dynamics with izzy, so he’s blind to this power— we as an audience can’t be, or we’re... izzy.

and to be very blunt, because i feel i need to be: if you think being izzy is a good thing, then oh boy. time to think about why a white man who makes the black crew members do hard labor and none of the white ones is someone you are cool making excuses for.

i do not believe izzy cannot change his ways; i do believe he very, very much needs to change them.

which brings me to the undercover joke.

so, the first line is doing a lot, right out the gate: izzy says he's followed ed’s every whim.

first layer: izzy, hon, this is ed’s ship. he���s captain. his whims are what you literally signed up to follow. if you don’t want to follow them... go find a different captain, or be your own captain! these are very, very easy things to do, especially as the things canon backs izzy up on is that he’s a competent sailor and a fantastic fighter, when he's fighting people who actually play by traditional rules and not stede and his hijinks-heavy style of fighting.

(and just to say it: izzy losing to stede does not make him a bad fighter. it makes him an inflexible one, who is not good at improv’ing solutions outside blunt force ‘uhhhh we could kill things about it????’ type answers, and one who didn't see that cherrywood mast coming when he popped stede’s getting stabbed cherry. skilled people fuck up sometimes even before you get to not being able to predict new factors in situations you think you have thoroughly prepared for; it’s not impossible to lose, even when you are very very good at something and you prepared as well as anybody could. even serena williams has off days, and izzy hands you are no serena.)

second layer: uhhhh, do you follow his whims iz? because we see you push back, all the time forever, several times to the point of just saying fuck you, i won't let you make this choice and i am gonna make it for you. 

third layer, crunchiest of all? actually, ed ends up where he's at by the end of the finale because he decides to follow izzy’s whims, and just give that sad little man the blackbeard he asked for: a cartoon legend who cuts off toes for a laugh.

then we get to the next claim: he's managed ed’s ‘increasingly erratic moods’. 

now, don't get me wrong— we see ed respond to bad situations with sometimes outsized despondency, he gets real mad at racists and yells at nature/snakes, and when specifically triggered by very literally his worst memory that was also the moment that convinced him he's a bad person he cries in a bathtub and decides he’d rather not repeat that action, especially not when this time he’d be directly killing a man he's starting to love.

so i’m not like, ah yes. edward teach: famously always on an even keel and doing just fine.

but what's actually erratic about those things? erratic means unpredictable, not dramatic. he’s responding to bad situations in ways that indicate he's nearing the end of his desire to keep juggling all the plates he’s got in the air and that weariness combined with a certain amount of arrogance is making him stop double-checking for mistakes, but we see nothing that says he’s losing the ability.

only izzy tells us that. izzy, who is constantly being managed by ed throughout the run of the series. izzy, who seems to exhibit somewhat erratic behavior and mood swings of his own; izzy, who calls down the royal navy upon them all because he's butthurt and jealous and all his cds are in the car, regardless of what he tells himself about protecting ed from ruin.

izzy is shocked ed would sign the act of grace, but if he actually knew ed that would be a somewhat predictable action; anybody can see that ed really fuckin’ likes stede. he tried to stop izzy from the duel, and then when stede won he stuck to his guns and kicked izzy off the ship. ‘i wonder if he’ll just give up on this guy if i track down his crafty frat boy ex and get him to do a reverse parent trap’ is sort of a stupid plan, unless you’re assuming ed is genuinely just longing to go back to the old days and need to be shocked back into reality.

you know what i’d argue is actually fairly erratic, because erratic actually means unpredictable? that fucking plan of his.

how on earth would anyone be like, ah yes. jack was sent by izzy to break them up and lure ed off the ship so the royal navy can come crashing down on all their heads. nobody could have immediately predicted that, right after the sandwich bonked izzy on the noggin.

because izzy expresses horror that ed would lick the king’s boots: the unspoken there is there would be no boots to lick if izzy had not gone and fetched said jackboots and licked them to a shiny gleam first himself.

so when izzy is like, ewwww ed. you'd work with the KING??? we as an audience need to remember: izzy is a textual hypocrite. izzy still has the taste of bootleather on his tongue, and he’s got the gall to get all snotty at ed about the act of grace— a choice ed makes under duress with a literal gun to stede’s head, where izzy made a choice of his own free will out of misplaced emotions and a condescending colonizer mindset that tells him he has the fucking right to look at ed and see a burden to be shouldered and a man who is half-insane, not a fucking genius at the top of his game who keeps telling izzy to please just knock it off and stop being so fuckin rigid.

which brings us to the third part, and the text’s subtle confirmation that everything izzy says he does for ed in that speech, ed actually does for izzy.

he’s massaging the crew when they doubt ed’s judgement, izzy says.

we know that’s not true. fang and ivan don’t respect him for a myriad of reasons, and anytime ed is gone and they can express it they do.

then, once they think ed is gone for good— it's curtains for ol’ izzy. fang and ivan would rather sail under the leadership of one oluwande boodhari, Genuinely Good Captain Material than spend one single more second dealing with izzy’s version of the same.

what saves izzy from meeting the devil at the bottom of the deep blue sea?

ed’s arrival, and ed’s desire to have a familiar face bring him tea. because he'd rather it be stede, but he doesn’t want to be alone; and izzy is still there while stede is gone, potentially forever as far as ed knows.

so, the text tells us: if there was any massaging of the crew going on, it was ed’s legend and the idea of what ed would do if he woke up and somebody had shoved his purse dog overboard keeping izzy afloat.

we know that, because they showed us. 

so what the text shows us is ed, keeping him around even though nobody else has faith in him, managing izzy and knowing his mind well enough to do so successfully. we see ed ask izzy for tea once; to make up scenarios where izzy did that for so long he’s just tired of taking care of ed at long last is to ignore what we see, and just listen to what izzy tells us.

because what does ed say? that sounds stressful, izzy. sounds; not is. 

i just wanna TALK to these writers, you know? jesus fuck.

he’s mocking izzy, because ed knows what the fuck is going on. he knows everything izzy claims to do and wants to take credit for, ed is actually doing and deserves the credit for. this is what it is, to exist in the world and look like ed: there is always, always a white person ready to take credit for your labor while they devalue you and say it's for your own good.

heartbreaking part loud: most of the time, they fucking believe it is. racism is also an unconscious reflex action, floating along in the cultural bloodstream, popping up in ways people don't often see in themselves, or care to investigate at all when someone points it out to them.

to wit: we know ed asked izzy to bring him lucius. he did not want izzy for comfort; we do not see izzy witness him cry, not once. pointedly: ed cries alone, once lucius is gone.

to ignore that and to assume izzy has been watching that happen, over and over and over because ed is erratic and lacks control and surely could not hide things from izzy, World’s Least Emotionally Intelligent Man, is to ignore ed’s version of events— and the version of events we see play out in front of our eyes— because we heard izzy’s point of view before we got the truth of the matter.

to take izzy at his word at first is understandable; he literally spoke first, and the action then showed his version of history to be untrue afterwards, episode by episode. these are careful writers and subtle ones to boot, so it’s easy to forget this is not a show where the curtains are just blue, leave the matter there and then filter all future action through what izzy told us to see. 

and beyond that, we are all trained to see men like izzy as reliable sources and arbiters of empirical reality and history via the dominant culture set by those who most benefit from these assumptions. sadly, most media has at best a surface desire to break that narrative pattern. i very much know that in most shows, izzy would be reliable and ed would be erratic, and it would be a pattern repeated on accident without malicious will or conscious intent ever entering the chat— that’s what makes defeating it so hard to do. people genuinely do not mean to do these things, so they tell themselves they could not be doing it at all.

antonio espera (aka, poke) gives a whole speech about this in generation kill, another piece of media that considers these issues and (due to the subject matter and the real men it portrays) has the approach of presenting us a rainbow of izzys to understand, see them as fellow complicated humans worth empathy who have a specific history that made them what they are, then hold them to narrative account for the horrible things they do, anyway.

white man’s gotta rule the world, says the conventional wisdom via a us marine who combines dark humor and honesty when discussing his lack of ability to be a powerful white man and his job enforcing a broken fucked up power system for them. it’s just a job; and that’s just destiny.

on ofmd, they’re far more interested in building a world where none of that is the case at all.

[losthomunculus]

Online Safety Relevant to the Current State of the Internet

On twitter I made a tweet about how online safety lessons in school can be very out of touch but that the advice of people who are familiar with the current internet shouldn't be disregarded. So here's my informal collection of online safety tips

Sources: unrestricted internet access since elementary school (not recommended), being a formerly involuntarily home bound person for several years that amassed way too much online experience

This could possibly hold upsetting reminders to people who had bad experiences online including mentions of grooming and emotional manipulation so please proceed with caution!

Information Sharing

Make an online pseudonym for public profiles and websites.

Don’t feel like you have to list everything about you for the world to see.

Sometimes it’s not a question of “can this information be used to locate and identify me irl?”, but simply “do I want this information publicly available and linked to my online persona?”

Unlike offline, being online leaves a constant trail of who you were accessible at all times. People are constantly growing and changing. Try to limit the information you share so you can ditch that trail and start over if need be.

Sharing information with people you make friends with and trust is a judgement call on your part, but always be on the safe side and be protective of your information.

Start as cautious as possible with online safety. Any risks or judgement calls can come later when you are 1. aware of the risks, 2. ready to address them if they occur, and 3. have gathered plenty of information instead of doing something blindly and hoping for the best.

Do not share your triggers publicly, they can very easily be used against you. Instead use websites with a large amount of filtering options to curate your online experience. If you are going to share them, only do it privately with people you trust.

Importance of Boundaries

It doesn’t matter how mature you are, don’t enter age limited spaces you don’t qualify for. It’s disrespectful to the boundaries of the people who made that space. Boundaries like this exist for the comfort of both sides involved.

Just because you can “handle it” doesn’t mean it’s good for you. Desensitization is not something to brag about.

Venting or making r18 posts as a minor on a public account is VERY dangerous. Intense emotional vulnerability is something manipulators will look for as a way to get to you. The same with sexual jokes to develop your comfort talking about those topics casually and eventually escalating the situation. If you are going to talk about such things please keep that in private conversations with people you trust in your age group.

Note the difference between public and private online space. Tweeting something on a public account is not the same as having a conversation in the cafeteria with your friends.

If an adult tries talking to you about r18, run the other way. Doesn’t matter how cool you are, it says something weird about THEM if they’re willing to talk to a minor about that stuff.

If someone( like 3+ years, honestly depends on how old you are) older than you wouldn't be comfortable saying what they're saying to you in front of other people (like a teacher or guardian), that's suspicious as hell. Run in the other direction.

The younger you are, the more age gaps matter. There's a bigger difference in development between a 13 year old and a 17 year old than there is between a 20 year old and a 24 year old. It helps to try to contextualize it with real people instead of numbers. Instead of thinking "oh just 4 years? that's not that weird" consider "oh. that would be like a freshman (13/14) dating a senior (17/18). yikes."

Be just as wary of people your own age talking about things that make you uncomfortable. Just like irl, sometimes you’ll meet people your age that are hurtful.

Friends complain to each other and talk about their issues, that alone is fine. But when people are doing it without permission, draw a line. When people are making it feel like you’re responsible for maintaining their mental health, you need to draw a line. When it starts to effect your mental health, PLEASE DRAW A LINE! I know it feels like your responsibility sometimes, but it’s not. You cannot be there for others if you’re not taking care of yourself first and foremost.

Don’t be afraid to block people. Even for petty reasons. It’s good to block people. Don’t force yourself to see stuff you don’t want to see.

Being Constantly Online

The 24 hour news cycle is not a good thing to follow 24/7. Taking social responsibility is a good thing, but your brain is NOT built to worry about every issue in the world at once. One strategy I use for staying sane is I try to only check the news once a day, and if something needs more attention to set aside an amount of time I’m going to focus on it before I need to take time to step back.

Touch grass. Not literally, unless you can in which case I highly suggest it, sometimes it’s just good to lay in a field. What I mean is you need to dedicate a good portion of your time to being offline (sleep does not count). What your offline time looks like is going to differ depending on your level of ability, but even if you are house bound it’s important to build some hobbies that don’t rely on the internet. Talking to people offline is also a good goal if possible, even just to your housemates.

Social etiquette greatly differs online and offline and sometimes the reminder that were all just Some People gets lost behind the numbers and the fabricated personas. Keep in mind the difference in how information is shared without forgetting that the fact we are all people remains the same.

Be generous with your etiquette. You will avoid a lot of stress if you conduct yourself with the same politeness you would have in an offline interaction. Master the art of "minding your own business" for your own sake.

Arguments and Competition

As soon as you can, you need to internalize the fact that leaving an argument is not losing.

It is inevitable you will be exposed to many people who disagree with you. Some people only want to argue to rile you up. Sometimes that’s not their intention, but it’s what they’re doing. You do not have to remain in conversation with people, especially if they’re not interested in actually coming to an understanding. Even if they are interested, sometimes they just suck!! Leave!! You can leave!!

On that note, sometimes you are going to get valid criticism and it’s going to hurt. That is part of learning. If someone says you messed up and did something hurtful, take a second to step back from your defensiveness and consider: intent ≠ effect. Apologize, repair what you can, and move forward with the ability to do better in the future. You’re going to mess up every once in awhile, it’s inevitable.

To summarize the past two points: don't waste your time on unnecessary hostility but don't close yourself into an echo chamber either. Debates should be about learning.

Sometimes people are not going to like you. This happens offline too but people tend to be a lot more blunt online. Sometimes people dislike you for no reason or for really petty reasons. That’s not your problem, move on.

Don’t actively seek out people you don’t like or who don’t like you to argue with. Whether or not your side is the “right side” doesn’t matter, it’s going to cause you so much unnecessary stress. Feel free to keep posting your opinions on your own profile but don’t seek out unnecessary conflict.

This is a different type of competition than previously mentioned, but be aware of the danger of comparing yourself to other people. Especially if you’re a creative or student, DO NOT GET SWEPT UP IN THE GRIND CULTURE. It’s more subtle in some places than others, but anytime you see the notion that you should be working yourself to the bone be VERY critical. Also be critical of any online cultures (such as gaming and art communities) that brag about unhealthy habits or act like it’s ~part of the culture~ (ex: all nighters, not taking breaks, getting hurt. Any activity that neglects health to work toward a goal).

Not just grind culture, any community of subculture that shares anti recovery sentiments is a huge red flag. Even if they're joking, it's not worth the risk of internalizing those statements.

Everyone’s social media presence is to some degree doctored because it’s a purposefully selected collection of what they allow you to see. It’s fine to like the persona you see being displayed, but never forget that it is not reflective of the entire person. Everyone online is JUST SOME PERSON. Do not forget that and start holding yourself to a standard you can’t even see every side of.

By posting online you are opening yourself to criticism. Whether or not it’s justified can vary, but either way it’s going to happen. Mute stuff, go private, disable comments, etc if you need to.

Misc Tidbits

these are technically just general info that is also good for offline but I have seen things that make me think people online need the extra reminder.

Learn what cults are, how they recruit, and what they do to their members. I'm not kidding. This is particularly relevant at the moment because of current societal unrest and widespread loneliness. No one is immune to cult propaganda, and not every cult is based on pre established religion or family. Many exist ONLINE and are able to manipulate people without ever meeting face to face. (learn more: Loneliness as a Pandemic: The Dangers of Online Cult

Familiarize yourself with the concept of pseudoscience. Please familiarize yourself with the concept of pseudoscience and then learn how to identify pseudoscience. (learn more: Karl Popper, Science, & Pseudoscience: Crash Course Philosophy #8)

Q. How do I know if a source is reliable?

Final Thoughts

It's important people of ALL ages learn these lessons, because the internet is constantly changing and we are all vulnerable when in the presence of other people.

Be cautious and stay safe

[finallythebest]

Books That Will Ruin Your Life

(trigger warnings under the cut)

A Little Life, by Hanya Yanagihara

This book, which is about 800 pages long, is one of the best pieces of literature I have ever read. It follows four friends after they move to New York City and pursue their goals, but most of the story focuses on one of the men: Jude St. Francis, who has a mysterious past that has wrecked him emotionally and physically. But despite the darkness of the subject matter (and it gets DARK) the acts of love and kindness and friendship from the people in Jude's life will bring you to tears. It’s a gorgeous study of trauma, human relationships, and the marriage of joy and pain that inevitably comes with living. I read it two months ago and have thought about it every day since. It’s one of those books you want everyone to read and no one to read. (DEFINITELY check out the trigger warnings for this one.)

The Traitor Baru Cormorant, by Seth Dickinson

This book is a sprawling political fantasy, packed with detail and diversity and some of the best, most complex worldbuilding I've ever seen. Baru grows up under the shadow of imperialism and eventually joins a rebellion to break free of the empire that has begun to take over the world. She's also a lesbian, which is forbidden in the new empire, but against herself is drawn to the enigmatic Duchess Tain Hu. There are devastating twists, loves, and heartbreaks that will break your heart along with Baru's. To say anything else would be a spoiler, but if you like complex, morally ambiguous fantasy, check this one out.

As Meat Loves Salt, by Maria McCan

This book follows a man named Jacob as he slowly falls in love with a fellow soldier during the seventeenth century English Revolution. After the war, they attempt to establish a utopian farming commune and keep their relationship together. This book is a really interesting foray into 17th century England, but it is ultimately a dark, passionate tale of obsession and vindication that will leave you as sick with the actions of the protagonist as he is with himself.

The People in the Trees, by Hanya Yanagihara

This book is written as a memoir of a disgraced scientist, who discovers a hidden tribe in a small Pacific island that he believes holds the key to a longer (and even immortal) life. You almost forget that the events of the book are fiction and not a real memoir--everything described seems meticulously researched and vividly real. As always, Yanagihara’s writing is gorgeous, absorbing, and well-paced. It's a haunting tale of how science, hubris, and greed can lead to someone's personal downfall, as well as colonialism and cultural genocide.

The Goldfinch, by Donna Tartt

You might have already heard of this one, but I had to put it on the list anyway! After a traumatic accident kills Theo Decker's mother, his life is thrown into turbulence and eventual crime, all stemming from a stolen painting. The story is tense, beautifully written, and will make you root for yet another morally gray narrator. For fans of dark thrillers, art history, homoerotic friendship, and/or coming-of-age stories, this one is for you.

Daytripper, by Fàbio Moon and Gabriel Bà

Although Daytripper is a graphic novel, it deserves a spot on this list. It follows Bràs, a Brazilian writer, and his journey through specific turning points in his life, each represented as a "death." The art is gorgeous and the story flows impeccably, capturing the beautiful mundanities and joys of life. This book will leave you touched, inspired, and deeply affected.

The Vintner's Luck, by Elizabeth Knox

After a vintner saves his life, an angel named Xas visits him every year for a single night. As the vintner grows, so does their relationship, just like a fine vintage. It's difficult to say too much about the plot without spoiling the story, but I can say that this book explores the nuances of human relationships and the love we feel for each other, as well as the hate and fear that can pervade those relationships.

Beloved, by Toni Morrison

Toni Morrison is one of the greatest American novelists and Beloved is my favorite of her works. The book follows Sethe, an ex-slave, and her daughter Denver as they reckon with a ghost from Sethe's past that begins to haunt them more literally than metaphorically. The story is both captivating and difficult to read, but Morrison's writing is gorgeous and the characters come to life on the page. It superbly explores the depth of trauma and motherhood, as well as depicting the horrors of slavery in a way that doesn't feel cartoonish or exploitative.

Everything I Never Told You, by Celeste Ng

Celeste Ng’s work has gotten a lot of hype recently, and for good reason. This book follows a family after the middle child, Lydia, drowns. We see the buildup to Lydia’s death and its brutal aftermath, as relationships are challenged within the family. It’s a brilliant look at familial dysfunction, generational curses, and interracial marriage in 1970s America, and a deeply haunting portrayal of how these issues can tear apart a family.

Trigger warnings:

A Little Life: graphic self harm, suicide/suicidal thoughts, graphic child sexual assault, rape, domestic violence, child physical and emotional abuse, disordered eating, forced prostitution of a minor, discrimination against disabled characters, PTSD, drug abuse/addiction, child death, mental instability, emotional manipulation, gaslighting.

The Traitor Baru Cormorant: homophobia, eugenics, violence.

As Meat Loves Salt: rape, domestic violence, physical violence.

The People in the Trees: child sexual assault, child physical and emotional abuse, suicide, cultural genocide, animal abuse.

The Goldfinch: substance abuse, underage drinking and drug abuse, suicidal behaviors/attempts, age gap relationship, child neglect and abuse, violence, racial slurs, casual racism.

Daytripper: suicide, graphic self-harm, graphic violence.

Beloved: racism, slavery, child death, graphic violence.

Everything I Never Told You: child death, racism, xenophobia.

[kumoriyami-xiuzhen]

Hakuoki Bakumatsu Kafusho Chizuru Mini Drama

*sigh* just when I think most of the stress inducing things for the month have past so i can can finally get back to normal-ish... someone I’m living with has tested positive. while im fine right now and don’t need to worry that much about getting too close as there is actually enough room to isolate, i’m giving up on trying to translate more than one piece of Hakuoki content a week this month. should hopefully be fine with getting my advance posts done again for september. sorrrrrrry! i genuinely tried! -.-

Anyway, this Chizuru’s モノローグ 「在るべき処」 drama from the 幕末花風抄 set of dramas.... also I hate Kodo (well when it’s not him from the musicals hahaha) in every route though he only redeems himself slightly in Hijikata’s route.

enjoy?

Hakuoki Bakumatsu Kafusho Chizuru Mini Drama “Where one should be”

(not entirely sure about how to word the title. there’s no subject so it’s kinda more literally “the place that should be resided in” i guess?)

Translation by KumoriYami

Chizuru: Chizuru: I'm back, father. Huh? Wind chimes? A gift? Thank you! They're so cute~ the goldfish pattern looks cool. Eh? They're round cheeks are like mine? No, mine aren't round. Really......... Ah.... Father...............  that was a dream.... 

Early that morning, I woke from a nostalgic dream. Since I wanted to decorate the kitchen at headquarters, I bought a (set of) wind chimes yesterday, so that was probably what reminded me of when I lived/the time I lived with my father in Edo....... Father, where are you now..... 

Looking upwards to the distant sky, the rain that had been falling since last night had lightened up. A thin ray of sunshine peeked through the gaps between the clouds. It seems the rain has stopped/is stopping.  

Yes, there's no such thing as a night that won't get brighter [I think this is more 'no night won't end with the sun's light], and there's no such thing as rain that doesn't stop. It doesn't matter, there will inevitably be a day where I meet my father again. Okay, I've going to start making breakfast. 

That's how my day at headquarters began. For now, it should be okay to hang them here. Summers in Kyoto are very hot, and the kitchen is even hotter when a fire is lit. At least the sound of the wind chimes will make people feel a bit cooler. Thinking this way, I hung the wind chimes by the window. Alright, then....  

It's been a year and half since I started living with the Shinsengumi due to unbelievable fate. Little by little, my life here has become more and more natural. However, it's not enough to be grateful/thankful for the kindness (shown)/ everyone's kindness, I want to do something to help. Seeing their resolute determination and how their eyes look ahead to exist/survive [reword later?], this way of thinking has become even stronger... 

The food's ready [actually says cooked but w/e]. Hot! Hei... that doesn't matter, it looks delicious~ the miso soup is almost ready. Now it's ready. Next, right, apparently Okita-san said that he'll be going to play [with/some] some children by the riverbank today. A few days ago, I accidently learned about Okita-san's condition. Although Okita-san still smiled and responded in the same way as usual, his smile rather looked even more pained. But at least I might be able rouse his appetite a bit and lift his spirits. With that in mind, I started making rice balls. If the taste of miso is a bit stronger, Okita-san might have more appetite... Oh, but Okita-san says he's in the the sweet faction [I think?]. hey... it seems like [he? or] the children were fighting over the konpeito [I assume it's konpeito. a candy gets mentioned here and I haven't checked the audio].

Okita-san, I've put some here. Please use [take] some/them.

Afterwards, while returning to [my?] room once the utensils from breakfast were washed, I saw the figure of Saito-san in the dojo practising his swings in the air. Against the back of the Saito-san who diligently practised and was never absent, itt seemed like there was a cool wind blowing [i think?]. It was hard to stay focused in this heat. I think he has great mental strength. But even Saito-san should feel hot... No, he probably doesn't it... Speaking of which, during both winter and summer, Saito-san wears a pure white sash [not sure if this is the sash or scarf. check audio later]. On the other hand, Harada-san, Nagakura-san and Heisuke-kun seem to be afraid of the heat and wear thing clothes even in the winter. Eh... haha... ah... no, it'd be bad to disturb those training [??? not sure the word used here is 稽古]---pardon me.

After the food is cleaned up and put away, [I] begin to clean up the house [tl is house or room] and courtyard. I unexpectedly like this time. When I wipe the dirty floor and tatami mats clean, my mood feels brighter and I feel cleaner too. Before I realized it, the smell of miso soup prepared by the people making lunch wafted in. It smells delicious, and seems to be moving? Huh? What's wrong, Heisuke-kun, it doesn't matter if you have another bowl. The words I unconsciously muttered were heard by Harada-san. In the evening, he would take Heisuke-kun out, so he said and went out.

Have a good trip! Recently, it seems that I'm not the only one concerned about how Heisuke-kun has smiling less. Because Heisuke-kun's liveliness and cheerfulness makes everyone happy, and I hope that they're always able to smile without restraint together. Maybe it's bit wishful, but I couldn't help thinking that way. But if you talk happily with Harada-san, you will definitely feel better. However if you're too happy and if you drink too much and are late to come back, Hijikata-san will be angry with you again.

When I took note of it [should be more along the lines of 'When I noticed it',  but I couldn't get the rest of the sentence to work], the two of them hadn't returned late together, but instead returned separately. After asking if they fought since I was so worried, Heisuke-kun said 'no', and responded with a very happy smile. The drunken Harada-san also nodded and said that it didn't matter. That's great.

I was relieved to see Saito-san making tea in the kitchen with a complicate expression on his face as I returned to my room. Ah, Saito-san, let me make the tea... Before even greetings could even be exchanged, Saito-san went out into the hallway. The direction he was walking towards was Hijikata-san's room. On the other side of the shoji door was Hijiikata-san, who was racing against the clock to complete his paperwork. His strained and broad shoulders, like the Shinsengumi’s Makoto flag, were majestic and strict. Deep into the night, you're still working hard [check audio]. Although it was impossible [for me] to be heard, I unconsciously whispered that.

Looking up to the night sky, a beautiful moon floated in the sky. Days at headquarters passed by quickly, however every day passed by just as quickly. Nothing seemed to be changing, but there were things that were changing. Although there are often times when I don't know what to do and get confused, and while I am still worried about my father's circumstances, I want to look ahead, and walk forward. I thought this to myself in the glow of the soft moonlight [more literally "soft moonlight falling" but that looks weird and I can't think of a different way to phrase that]. I'll work hard tomorrow too!

-end-

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

ended up translating this because i was freaking out for a good 15 minutes about where this was since I thought I lost it and the other dramas I had saved with it... as this drama was saved through a series of images in the wrong folder. 

[melrosing]

Hello! Do you find it weird that Brienne is only 6 years older than Jaime's son? Sorry, I'm just really shaken by some posts acting as if people who ship JB are creeps and would like your wisdom rn

I can understand being turned off by the age-gap - honestly, I’m not a fan of age-gaps either, because yeah, even between two adults, they can sometimes come with a dangerous/uncomfortable power dynamic.

that’s not true of JB though. Jaime does not hold his age and experience over Brienne, or use it to his advantage in any way. he is not attracted to Brienne’s youth and inexperience, either. and in fact, Brienne is more often the one with the upper hand in their power dynamic: she’s stronger than him, she’s holding him prisoner, she’s his lifeline when he’s sick, she’s protecting him. and she sure doesn’t look like a child, so it’s not like it’s her youthful looks that Jaime’s attracted to.

and whilst Brienne does start the story somewhat naïve, Jaime has made no effort to keep her that way, and what’s more, her story is about losing that naïveté (whilst maintaining her personal values). their relationship isn’t going to begin before Brienne has become that bit more worldly through her own personal journey (that’s what AFFC is). and by the time they get together (whether that’s in TWOW or ADOS), they will be on roughly an even footing in terms of experience

(not including sexual/romantic exp of course, but you’ve got to start somewhere lol, and if Brienne and Jaime trust each other and know each other - which they do - that’s a safe place to begin. also lbr Jaime himself has only ever had one partner - and he doesn’t even remember that relationship starting - so the disparity is not colossal here.)

and whilst I think GRRM is doing a bit of a parallel where Brienne is roughly at the stage of life Jaime was when he was first disillusioned, I don’t think their relationship would be hugely different if Brienne were, say, 25, and Jaime 30, give or take a few.

but ultimately, look: Brienne’s 20, Jaime’s 34. it’s a big gap (at this age certainly), but they are both consenting adults, in their world and ours, and what’s more: they’re not real. if I knew a real 20 y/o getting with a real 34 y/o, I’d be concerned because no matter how that relationship might appear, you can’t be sure of exactly what the dynamic is behind the scenes. with Brienne and Jaime however, their dynamic is all there on the page to be taken apart and studied for any troubling elements. and I just don’t find it so.

and if there’s anyone who’s still not comfortable with JB - that’s literally fine, to each their own. but I think it’s distasteful and honestly pretty damn insensitive to go around trying to imply there’s something sinister in shipping JB of all fucking things.

[spencersawkward]

i’m so happy ur on tumblr now!! i love between the lines so much, could you write a blurb or one shot about mgg and a younger co-star, but like very spicy if possible 🙃, idk i just love that scenario🥵.

i was literally about to write "omg i love this concept too!" and then i was like “well no fucking shit, sophi.” lol. YES i can 10/10 write you a one-shot with a similar scenario! also thank you for your kind words that was the first fic i ever wrote so it’s very near and dear to my heart!

summary: reader goes to a holiday party with her co-stars and best friend, Matthew... but all the fun happens in the dressing room.

content warnings: this one is quite dirty but i’m also proud of it lol. unprotected penetrative sex, oral (female receiving), degradation, use of the term “little girl,” creampie, age gap. dirty talk?

pairing: Fem!Reader/Matthew

word count: 4.7k

masterlist

"no."

"what do you mean, 'no’?” Matthew laughs, looking between me and the mirror.

"I look like the Ghost of Christmas Past." I lift up the soft white tulle of the dress, watching it float back down to settle over my skin. he's got his eyebrows raised and there's a smirk on his lips like he's holding back a laugh. I resist the urge to reach around and hit him.

"would you rather wear that?" he points to the punch-stained gown that's now laying pathetically over the back of the vanity chair. I genuinely ponder the idea for a moment.

"honestly, the crime scene vibes might work well with the theme of our show."

"seriously, it's not bad, Y/N!" he insists, drawing my attention back to the mirror.

"you're just saying that because you're the one who spilled on me and you don't want people making fun of how clumsy you are." I cross my arms over my chest. he gives me a dubious expression in our reflection on the wall.

"do I seem like I care about that?" he challenges.

"I--" the truth is that no, Matthew is not the type. Matthew is the kind of person to flounder in front of anyone and proceed to crack a joke about himself. he's humble. but I kind of like when we talk like this, our back and forth.

after a year of working together on the same show, he and I have grown incredibly close. I'm friends with all my co-stars, but he and I just have the natural friendship chemistry that makes me want to spend all my time with him. when we're not on set, we're hanging out on his couch or ordering dinner or driving out of town to check out wacky sites around California. we just have fun. pure, clean, honest fun.

of course, in my dreams it isn't pure or honest. frankly, there's a lot of sordid scandal to what goes on in my head when he accidentally touches my arm or brushes his fingers over mine. the amount of times I have gone to cast parties trying to work up the nerve to kiss him are embarrassing. he's older and more experienced and, obviously, he has no interest in me.

but that doesn't matter.

the only reason I'm standing in a dressing room alone with him is because he knew someone on the crew who could hook me up with a replacement for the night. he left while I slipped out of the old one and came back in only after knocking and checking, like, twice to make sure I was decent. he's so respectful that it's almost like he's afraid of making me think the wrong thing-- which makes me feel absolutely stupid for my almost schoolgirl crush.

"come on, you look great. let's go enjoy the party."

"was this a dress one of the victims was wearing?" I ask with a laugh.

"probably. not like we carry a lot of gowns on set." he grabs my hand, makes my heart leap into my throat. he only does it to urge me along, but it still feels intimate as I follow him out of the room, tossing one more evaluative glance at myself in the mirror. I seem terrified.

we continue to do our rounds at the party, Matthew filling my glass of eggnog even though I hate it. I wince and take a sip while we talk to some of our co-stars.

"what's wrong with you?" Shemar chuckles at my expression.

"lost a bet."

"with whom?" he glances between Matthew and me, knowing damn well already from the mischievous grin on the former's face.

"I told you not to take it." Matthew says over the rim of his glass.

"if you mention it one more time, I'm gonna throw up eggnog all over your outfit." I threaten him, but we're both smiling. Shemar frowns.

"what was the bet?"

"you know David-- the guy I was telling you about?" I reply quickly, determined to give my side of the story. Shemar nods; I told him last week when David oh-so-chivalrously danced up on me at a club and asked me out. usually in those situations, guys just want a one-night stand, so I was impressed and agreed. "anyway, Matthew said if it turned out that he was a weirdo, he would get to pick my drinks for the next week whenever we go out."

"your drinks? that's specific."

"she's so picky!" Matthew teases me.

"leave me alone, you dick!" I elbow him and he dodges just in time.

"tell him why he was a weirdo." he grins. the glare I give could kill. but Shemar is waiting expectantly for me to share the information, so I sigh and set my jaw before telling the truth.

"he collects antique dental tools."

"what?" Shemar laughs disbelievingly. I throw my hands up.

"I don't fucking know. we went back to his apartment and he showed me his whole collection."

"you're attracted to weird people, Y/N." Matthew says. I raise my eyebrows and almost say something that dooms me. I hold my tongue, however, and turn back to Shemar with a reserved smile.

"anyway, how are you?"

...

the cast holiday party is actually pretty fun. I tend to leave these functions early in favor of my couch and some ice cream, but something about the bright colors and the smell of wintergreen in the air makes me want to linger in the studio.

I stuff myself with sugar cookies and Matthew mercifully lets me switch from eggnog to Sprite. normally, I'd drink at such an occasion, but I'm a messy drunk and this is one of my first real jobs as an actress. I don't want to even come close to jeopardizing that by breaking some expensive equipment or something.

my throat gets a little sore from all the talking I do-- Paget and I spend about half an hour horribly belting out Christmas carols at the baby grand piano they brought in. they originally had someone hired to play it, but the guy disappeared about an hour ago.

by the time it hits around ten pm, my limbs are tired. I thought people would be leaving (a lot of them have families), but the party is still very much raging when I start to wind down. maybe it's because I'm sober.

"hey." Matthew sidles up next to me as I sit at the piano bench with a slice of lime in my mouth. I like to suck the juice out of them; sour things are my favorite.

"hi." I pluck the fruit out and drop it back into my soda. he sits next to me, his cologne filling my senses with the kind of sensual warmth that it shouldn't be making me feel. he always smells so good.

"ladylike." he gestures to the movement.

"is that why you call me 'princess?'" I smirk, half-joking.

"once-- I called you that once!" he defends. it's not a lie. he used the nickname when he was mocking me for my somewhat selective food preferences. it was sarcastic, but I wish it wasn't. something about the way he said it in the moment made me blush.

"is there a reason you've come to grate my nerves?" I raise an eyebrow and he turns away from me as he bites back a smile. I pout. "what?"

"you're talking like a Jane Austen novel."

"what's wrong with Jane Austen?" I defend, skin heating up. his proximity is doing things to me that it shouldn't.

"nothing," he glances at me before moving his gaze to the ivory keys. "do you play?"

"elementary level, sure." I giggle. he runs his fingers over them, never pressing down hard enough to release a sound. I'm entranced by the delicate nature of his actions, the veins and the curve of his fingertips, the sheer width of his hand. I think about it too much for it to be healthy.

"show me." it's a direct order, one that doesn't feel directive but still ends with me placing both hands on the piano and wracking my brain for something to play. I decide on a piece that Paget and I were doing earlier, "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas."

I've never been quite good at piano, and the nearness of his body is like an anvil on my fingers, but I play anyway. and it feels good. his eyes are on me, drawn to my tracings over the instrument as they press and lift and glide.

"sing." I tell him.

"no!" he protests. I don't stop playing, only now getting into the thick of the tune.

"oh, come on. just the chorus..." I plead, turning my head to beg. "please?"

I bat my lashes playfully, fully intending it as a joke, but Matthew softens a bit. for a fraction of a second, I think he looks at my mouth. he turns his head back to the piano and lets out a quiet "here we are as in olden days... happy golden days of yore..."

"there you go!" I egg him on, and he starts to get more into it. his voice is absolutely off-key; he's no singer, and somehow that makes him even more endearing to me.

Matthew has always been this flawless, intimidating figure in my mind. even when we first met, I was certain that he was hiding something because everything else about him is so... perfect. he's funny, sweet, genuinely kind, handsomer than hell. it didn't make sense. but knowing that he can't carry a tune makes me feel a bit better. it humanizes his beauty.

while he sings, I can't help looking at him. his side profile is even more enchanting; the curve of his features meeting a smooth elegance in his jaw and cheek, especially when his mouth is open. he catches me smiling at him and returns it with his own gleeful face, now totally fine with singing like a fool in front of everyone. nobody is even really looking at us-- they're several drinks in and lost in their own universe of drunken laughter.

there's something kind of magical about that, I think. we're sober. when the song draws to a close, I lift my fingers off the keys and into my lap.

"you're quite the Pavarotti." I joke.

"the who?" he furrows his brow with a smile.

"he's a famous opera singer."

"oh," he laughs, "thanks, Mozart."

I twist my face up as I hide my smile. this is also part of the reason I could never tell Matthew how I feel; we just fit together too well. he almost always gets my references and I understand his, even though there's an age gap between us. he's an old soul with a youthful heart.

"how's your night going?" I ask him softly, changing the subject. he sets his hands on his lap, absent-mindedly toying with his fingers. it's not a nervous tendency at all. he does it whenever we're on set.

"as of right now? pretty damn good." he replies with a smile. I get warm again at the implication. he doesn't mean it like that, but god, do I wish he did.

"very smooth." I compliment appreciatively.

"how about you?"

"it was kind of boring, but then this rando sat next to me and started singing Christmas songs and it got a little better." I say flatly, grabbing my glass off the top of the piano and running my fingertip over the rim. he drops his head in a giggle.

"you're something else."

"insult?" I clarify.

"definitely a compliment."

"I like compliments."

"well, I wasn't lying before. you look really beautiful in that dress."

"the murder dress?" I glance down at it to hide the absolute wideness of my eyes at his words. he's completely flustering me and I'm starting to find it hard to breathe. he said I look beautiful. not "pretty," not "great"-- beautiful.

"yes, the murder dress." he gets a little pink in his cheeks, and that makes me want to explode on the spot.

"well, say goodbye to it because I'm gonna go change back into my plebeian clothes," I stand from the piano bench. "it's past my bedtime."

Matthew looks up at me with an unreadable expression and I feel my heart flutter in my chest. I hate leaving him. "do you wanna come with me? like-- walk with me?"

"sure." he nods, stands, and follows behind. I can feel his presence like a delightful reminder of the emotions surging in my stomach. we wind through the crowd of party-goers until we end up back in the dressing room, away from the party. it's quiet.

Matthew walks in with me, carrying our drinks in his hand, and he's about to stroll back out so I can change when I touch his arm. the door shuts automatically behind him.

"wait," I swallow quickly. "can you unzip me?"

"oh." Matthew looks at me, then at the glasses in his arms, then at the vanity. he sets them down and comes back quickly, his frame behind me while his fingertips locate the little piece at the top of my gown. my breath hitches in my throat when he brushes over my spine by accident, one nail dragging accidentally against my skin as the fabric slowly gives way. I don't know if he hears it-- it's nearly imperceptible-- but he definitely hesitates once he reaches the place where my back starts to curve into my ass. he pauses, doesn't breathe until he reaches the end of the zipper.

"there you go." he mutters. his voice is a little more hoarse than usual, and he clears his throat as he steps away. I know he's going to back out. he's going to back out of the room and wait for me to slip into nothing and I know, somehow, that he's going to be thinking about how I look in here with my clothes off. he's going to wish he stayed.

and I'm going to wish he'd done more than stayed.

before I can lose my nerve and allow the moment to be swallowed up by practicality, I shrug the straps of the dress down my shoulders and let gravity take over. it drops to the floor, leaving me in only my bra and panties. I can sense him behind me; he's silent for a moment.

"Matthew." I say, the name sitting on my tongue like a sugar cube. perfectly formed, slowly dissolving.

"y-yeah?" he stutters for the first time since I've met him.

"are you looking at my ass right now?" I ask, still turned around. the way he's frozen in place tells me that I'm right.

"yeah." he admits.

"you can touch it, if you want." I murmur softly. part of me doesn't think this is real, the way each sentence leaves my throat like it's been pre-planned. truly, I don't understand how my brain is moving so quickly.

"are you... sure?" he's hesitant, but even I can taste the longing.

"yes."

his hand smooths over my butt, softly at first like he's still not believing his own eyes, before moving back to grab it. he squeezes the flesh, and a low exhale from him tells me that he's excited.

"do you want more?" my voice barely carries. my head is almost foggy from how good it is to have his grip on my body, even in such a simple way. I can feel myself getting wet.

"how much more?" his lips brush over my shoulder and I get goosebumps. my mouth opens and closes for a moment, searching for the right words.

"however much you want."

it's flint and steel, the way he sparks. the air literally leaves my lungs when Matthew grabs my hips and spins me around to face him. my lips part as I peer up at him, at the lust that now darkens those hazel eyes and the way he holds mine. his touch is certain. he pulls our bodies together, tilts my chin up to kiss me.

it's passionate, strong, the kind of kiss that causes me to lean back a bit just to receive the full force of his desire. but I return the affection easily, moaning into his mouth. I've never been held the way that Matthew holds me. like I'm made of sugar glass, like he wants desperately to feel the soft give of my skin and make a home of me.

the heat between our bodies is almost overwhelming, and I sigh when he subtly pushes our hips together. his erection is against my stomach.

"fuck." I mutter when I pull away for air. Matthew doesn't stop his perfect movements, though, tugging my earlobe between his teeth and starting to leave love bites up my skin and over my shoulder. he chuckles against my throat. I shiver.

"you alright, little girl?" he asks.

"just--" I let out a moan at the sensation of his fingers exploring my bare waist. he reaches behind me to unclasp my bra. "just surprised."

"about?" he slides the straps down my shoulders and looks me in the eye. the lack of physical contact makes me whine.

"that you want me."

"how is that surprising?" he smiles, using one index finger to guide me to look at him.

"you don't seem like it."

Matthew raises his eyebrows as if I'm a crazy person. truly dumbstruck. "what?"

"you-- well, I don't know." I frown, but Matthew takes my hand and moves it over his torso until my palm is resting over the considerable bulge in his pants.

"is this enough proof?"

I struggle for words, sputtering. "yeah-- yeah, it is."

he bucks into my hand a little and I bite my lip, eyes moving up to meet his. something passes between us that I don't fully understand, but feel in my bones. I have never, in my life, wanted someone to fuck me as much as I want Matthew to fuck me right now. my jaw clenches.

"I need you." I tell him like this is the most relevant piece of information that will ever pass between us. he smirks.

"yeah?"

"mhmm."

"then lean against the wall and let me give you what you deserve." he orders. for a second, I try to think through what he means. then I look behind me at the open space and back up, him following me closely. his hands move up to cup my breasts, kneading and tweaking my nipples as he kisses my lips. the coolness against my back causes me to gasp, and he swallows the sound with his tongue before moving down my body.

he's torturously slow, taking one of my nipples into his mouth while he shrugs off his suit jacket. he switches to my other peak, one hand splayed over my stomach, and then proceeds southward with his lips. his kisses are delicate, open-mouthed, as they find their way to the waistband of my panties.

he hooks his fingers in them and looks up at me.

"can I eat you out, baby?" he asks. I bite my lip.

"please." like a beg.

"oh, you're polite tonight." he smirks, tugging the garment down my legs and discarding it somewhere in the room. I don't respond, and he doesn't seem to need me to, because he pushes one leg up for better access to my pussy. "let's see if it lasts."

my back curves off of the wall involuntarily when he holds the flat of his tongue against my clit suddenly, trying to roll my hips against his face. my fingers tangle in his hair, one leg resting over his shoulder.

he starts to flick at my clit. I lose grasp of my own language.

"Matthew, that feels so good, I--"

he attaches himself to my bundle of nerves, seemingly turned on by the sounds I'm making for him. he groans as he laps at the wetness between my legs, dipping into my folds and sucking the soul out of me. I whine and use his curls as leverage to gain more friction. he peers up at me.

"needy little girl." he mumbles against my pussy. I shove him back into me.

"make me cum, then." I beg. I can practically feel the devilish smirk on his face as he devours me like he'll never get enough. every twist and lick of his tongue is sending me to new places. I'm panting, chest heaving, while I grab my own tits and buck into his mouth.

he moans. my orgasm hits me like a wave, causing me to nearly thrash with pleasure as I cry out.

"Matthew, keep going, fuck yes!" I feel tears prick the back of my eyes, the culmination almost too much to bear as we hold contact. he stares into my fucking soul as he eats me out, and I want to stay like this forever. it's hard to support myself with my legs going weak, but I love it. the sensations are otherworldly. it's only when I'm about to collapse that I push his face away from me.

"I love your pussy." he tells me, licking his lips as he sets my legs down. I grin and let my head fall back against the wall.

"thanks."

"come here, princess." he takes hold of my hips and guides me over to the mirror, turning me so that he's standing behind my frame. the pet name causes me to smile.

"what?" I reference our reflection. he stares at me, reaching around to squeeze my tits.

"I wanna fuck you in the mirror." such a vulgar thing, said so beautifully. he kisses my cheek. "if that's okay with you."

"I don't care what position we do as long as you're fucking me." I breathe honestly. he chuckles and draws me towards him so his clothed boner is against my ass. I reach behind and work the button on his pants. he undoes the ones on his shirt. we're silent, him watching my naked body move like he's trying to memorize every detail.

when he's finally stripped, he lets me stroke his cock for a couple moments before pushing my upper back forward so I'm holding onto the sides of the mirror. I see him biting his lip as he lines himself up at my entrance.

"you ready?" he checks. I nod and he smiles at me once. pushing in, the smile melts into a jaw-dropped haze, eyes rolling into the back of his head. "Y/N..."

"it's so big." I try to breathe. he's so deep, I grip the mirror until my knuckles turn white. he's going to snap my body in two with the angle of his cock, filling me easily.

"tight little thing." he grunts as he holds himself inside. I can only watch in shock as I try to adjust to the sheer feeling of him. Matthew runs his hands over my sides, my ass, touching whatever he can. "how's that?"

I start to wiggle my hips and he groans at the feeling of my walls desperately swallowing him up. "Matthew, I need it."

"need what?" he thrusts into me and I have to fight a scream.

"need you."

"fuck... yes." he hisses out, sliding into me. "you're so wet I don't even need to try."

I bite my lip to withhold my sounds and he stares me in the eyes in the mirror as he starts to fuck me harder, building a pace with his hips. he growls a little if he hits certain angles, getting ruthless.

"so many times when I wanted to be inside you, princess..." he trails off. I start to play with my clit with one hand, using the other to stabilize myself with the mirror. the idea turns me on.

"when?"

"whenever you have attitude," he pants. "tonight, in that innocent fucking dress. making me wanna pound you like a little slut."

I make a high-pitched sound at the shudder of pleasure that jolts through my stomach at his words, wanting more. I've never heard him talk this way before.

"Matthew, shit--" I rub myself in circles, caught between watching his face and watching the way his hips slam into mine.

"you're begging to be fucked, you know that?"

"am I?" I smile sweetly in the mirror. we're in our own world, locked in a fantasy that I never want to leave. I can feel him in every corner of my body, sinking beneath my skin. he digs his nails into my ass.

"mhmm." he hums. I can feel the familiar weight in my stomach that indicates how close I'm getting. a knot that screams to be undone by his perfect length. I would do anything for more of this. I can taste everything good in the world on my tongue.

"I'm so close." I whine.

"I can tell," he studies my face in the mirror. "so pretty when you're breaking."

"oh--" I feel my thighs tense and my body pulses, the euphoria almost overwhelming. we move steadily, rhythmically, and he pushes my climax to new levels. "faster." I cry.

Matthew is quick to respond, gripping me closer while he plows into me like he's never going to have my body again. the sound of it is filthy, perfect, a mess. he groans at the sensation of my cunt pulsating around his cock.

"cum for me, princess." he moans, losing himself in the embrace of my core. the foggy stare in his eyes is like drowning in the ocean. I sink below, not caring at all about the consequences of him inside me. fuck working together; I need him. "where should I cum?"

"in me." I groan.

"beg." he commands easily, watching my face contort in pleasure. I could pretend to fight it, to give a little attitude, but I don't want to. I love begging for him.

"fill me up, Matthew. please." each word punctuated by the breathlessness of my voice. he gets even more ferocious with me, beating up my pussy until I'm sure he's going to leave me sore.

"right there, right there," he gasps, hitting the same spot that makes me go cross-eyed. "such a good little slut."

his cum shoots into me, deep and warm and erotically twisted, and I nearly collapse. it feels weird, but so good at the same time. full. he groans out my name and withdraws, quick to grab my shoulders and hold me up as I almost fall. I hadn't realized that most of my body weight was supported purely by his thrusts.

"whoa." he lets out a tired laugh, gentle in his touch. I'm heaving air into my lungs.

"sorry." I apologize, my body unstable.

"are you okay?" he seems genuinely concerned and I nod.

"yeah, I'm fine. just a little overwhelmed."

"here," he scoops me into his arms and brings me over to the old love seat in the dressing room, laying his jacket down before putting me on top of it. "can I get you something?"

"Sprite." I gesture to the glass on the vanity, and he smiles as he goes to get it. I gulp down whatever remains of it. "thanks."

"of course." he keeps glancing at my face and the red marks on my hips where he was clutching me like a lifeline. "I'm sorry."

"what?" I set the cup down. "don't ever be sorry for fucking me like that."

"no, I meant--" he laughs, but then he sees my playful expression and realizes that I'm genuinely alright. I think my legs were asleep.

"you're a saint." I tell him. he frowns and shakes his head bashfully. I'm already getting up and collecting my clothes. "or maybe what we just did prevents you from reaching sainthood. I don't know."

he places his hand on my lower back, kisses my forehead tenderly.

"seriously. you're okay?"

"I'm perfectly fine," I assure him. "but I would be better with a milkshake."

Matthew breaks into a slow grin, staring at me like I've done something miraculous.

"how are you so perfect?"