#my friends are too normal for me sometimes

[xx-obliviousfantasy-xx]

Why you assuming people are eating food with their hands touching unclean shit? That's not like...a a requirement for going to the theather.

Me personally, I wash my hands in the bathrom before eating anything, and use hand sanitizer frequently, as well as using disinfectant wipes on the buttons if I think I will touch them while eating???? (Also I don't eat with my hands touching food in theaters usual. Just the wrapper)

I also dont go into crowded theaters cuz I hate people sitting next to people that aren't my family or friends and being in crowds in general, after I had a really bad experience in a theater as a kid. Despite usually ending up in non-crowded theaters and I STILL wear a mask every time I go into one. (a k95 mask if I'm not out of stock. n95 is a bit more expensive and less accessible to me, but also just harder to wear with my glasses sometimes. Need to find a good one eventually because I'll have to wear it for other things.)

_______________________________________

Also, this is just another reason we should bring back and support drive ins.

They're fun community building and supporting events that literally just require staying in your car. You don't have to be around anyone else in close proximity to enjoy watching a film, and the screen is EVEN BIGGER. The only downside is like...no surround sound hi definition audio, or seat movements or whatever the fuck they provide in the extra special theaters and not standard theaters.

Which, I also avoid unless it's something I REALLY wanna see and experience because... standard is just fine and way less expensive

_______________________________________

ALSO,

@i-cant-promise-that2

I recommend trying taking headphones or earplugs with a really nice hat to go over your ears.

I haven't gone to the theaters without my noise cancelling headphones like...since I first got noise cancelling headphones because I KNOW the noise is gonna get too much for me at some point. ESPECIALLY during fucking action &, superhero films.

it honestly doesn't really affect my experience at all. And when I want to hear fully I just take my headphones off or change the setting on them. Even when I briefly didn't have noise cancelling headphones, I still took my other ones and wore them over my thick beanie and/or hoodie (which, I normally put my headphones over my beanie anyways and then my hood over my head) and it was still significantly better than raw dogging that shit.

Watching movies should be a lot like going to a concert; Protect your ears.

Ofc, if you tried this and it's still too loud, TOTALLY fair and I'm sorry for wasting your time 😔

plus, honestly plugs don't help for when you can FEEL the audio which can be extremely overwhelming at times.

idk if this is a boomer take but I think ppl should make more of an effort to go see movies in theaters bc I couldn’t bear it if the movie theater industry went down and the only way to watch movies was through streaming I’m not strong enough

[filmbyjy]

can i req bf niki and fem reader and they go on a vacation to jp + meet niki's parents?? btw luv ur works <3

a/n: to whoever that requested this. i am so sorry this took a whole year to even get around to writing this😭 also my photoshopping skills on this banner🤌🏻 but anyways, this isn’t entirely a holiday with ni-ki as i am basing it off what happened when ni-ki went back to his hometown to perform. this is just assuming what happened, obviously fictional so it isn’t real. just imagine people!

BACK HOME

pairing: nishimura riki x fem!reader

genre: fluff; idol!ni-ki + relationship au

warnings: nope

word count: 2.4K words

it’s been years since ni-ki got to come back home to japan. years without his parents, his family. he had to grow up quick at 14. flying in a plane to an unknown territory. just to train for a 8 months and join a survival show. ni-ki was terrified, confused and quite honestly homesick. yet, after actually winning a spot and debuting. nothing could prepare himself to confess to you.

you had met ni-ki at a small secluded ice cream shop. it was a normal ice cream parlour, there were a few people that came and go. nothing could fully prepare you to come face to face with a masked man.

“hi, what flavour would you like? oh and would you like a single scoop or double?” you say the usual line. ni-ki looks up at you to order, in his head, his jaw drops cartoonishly. you were beautiful. he clears his throat, he probably had been standing there for quite a bit.

“can i get two single scoops? one mint choco and the other being cookies and cream.” he says.

“okay. one second.” you had scooped up the ice cream and placed it into the respective cups. “any toppings?”

“oh umm, maybe some…” his eyes scanned the toppings. which he couldn’t really focus on since your gaze was flustering him a lot. “sprinkles?” he says with a slight confusion in his voice.

you giggled a little, “sprinkles it is. on both ice cream?”

“yeah.” you had topped the ice cream with sprinkles and went to type in the order into the register.

“total will be $3.”

“oh? for two?”

“yeah. our prices are the lowest of the lowest here.” you say.

“woah. i should come back here all the time.” he says. he catches himself and he felt his face heat up. “sorry.”

“don’t be. it would be great if you could come back here everyday. maybe even bring your friends?”

“I think I could do that.” ni-ki smiles behind the mask.

and so he did. he came over to see you everyday and even bought ice cream every single time. was he getting sick and tired of ice cream? yes, but he would be able to see you everyday.

"so how was practice? is it fun?" you asked him curiously. he shook his head.

"just tiring. sometimes it's fun but since comeback is around the corner. practice has just been something I wished never came."

you had frowned at his words, "that doesn’t sound too fun. being an idol doesn’t seem as fun as i thought it would be.” ni-ki chuckles.

“it’s fun at times but you definitely need to have a lot of discipline to really become one. discipline and patience.” you hummed at his words.

“well, i don’t think i could become an idol. the girls? urgh too pretty. kinda jealous of them but i’m mainly just in awe by them.”

“you’re pretty too.” ni-ki says. you felt flustered.

“oh, thank you. i’m not all that pretty. you’ve probably come across a prettier girl than me.”

ni-ki does that unthinkable and he softly reaches your hands. “you’re pretty. really pretty. prettier than any of the girls i’ve seen.” your heart races at his words. in some way, you knew this was a confession since you knew that ni-ki was being obvious about having a crush on you. he didn’t bother hiding it because he didn’t find a reason to. besides, nobody besides you knew it was him. this was his little secret.

“is this your way of confessing to me?” you teased him. he laughs.

“and if it is, will you say yes?”

you smiled, “of course.” he squeezes your hand lightly.

“then from today onwards, you’re my girl.” he declares. you laughed.

“yours.”

a year passes by quickly. ni-ki had a concert in okayama. his hometown. there was a small period of break after their concert so ni-ki decided to invite to travel with them. he helps you place your luggage into the compartment above. you smiled. jake nudges ni-ki’s waist to tease him.

“ayyy, who knew our maknae can be so gentleman like.” jake smirks.

“at least i have a girlfriend.” ni-ki argues back. he pulls you closer to him and pecked the side of your head proudly. it was almost funny when jake's smile fell quickly and he looked like a sad puppy.

with that, ni-ki pulls you to your assigned seat (which was next to him). he kisses your knuckles and makes sure you were alright throughout the entire flight. since you’ve never really flown on a plane before, you were terrified but ni-ki assures you constantly. the both of you shared an earpiece and watched movies throughout the flight. when he looks around, all the boys were asleep so he takes his chance to peck your forehead. you stared right at him and he leans to peck your lips. before you could utter a word, ni-ki pulls you into a sweet kiss. one that showcased how much he loved you and you can’t help but feel your heart race quickly.

there was a short bright flash and so you and ni-ki pulled away. ni-ki turns back to see jungwon and sunghoon with their phones out taking a picture of you and ni-ki kissing.

“whoops.” jungwon says. “you two were too cute. we had to take a picture.”

“send me the picture later on.” ni-ki says. jungwon salutes and settles back at his seat continuing to watch the show he had accidentally dozed off on.

[1 hour passes by]

finally, everyone arrived at okayama. everyone goes to grab their bags from the compartment above once the plane lands and parks. you had to unfortunately be separated from the boys for a bit as your they were going get pictures taken by the paparazzis. one of their managers followed you and brought you towards another gate. there was a small group of people holding up a sign in japanese. it had ni-ki’s face plastered on it. you recognised ni-ki’s siblings and so you assumed that was his mom and dad next to them. they were waiting excitedly for ni-ki or were they waiting for you.

the manager approaches them and explains to them in japanese before turning to look at you. “this is ni-ki’s family, they will be accommodating you for the whole time we are here as you know it can be risky if you stayed with the boys.”

you nod. “thank you, manager jin. you don’t have to worry about me conversing with them. i learnt japanese for quite a while now so i think i can do well with chatting with them.”

“alright, i’ll leave you guys. i have to get back to the boys.” the manager leaves quickly. you turned to the ni-ki’s family and bowed.

“umm, hi. i am (name), ni-ki’s girlfriend.” you told them in japanese. ni-ki’s younger sister runs up to you and hugs you.

“you’re so pretty! ni ni really picked a good girl!” you blushed at his younger sister’s words. his older sister comes up to you and pats your back.

“let’s bring you back to our home so you can rest. taking a flight can be draining.” she says. ni-ki’s mom smiles.

“oh yes, dear. we should get back. you need to rest and also eat! let me make some food for you when get back home.”

once you had arrived at the nishimura household, ni-ki decides to facetime you. his face pops up on your screen.

“hi pretty.” ni-ki smiles.

you giddily smiled at him. “hi.”

“I wish you were here with me. kinda sucks we have to be separated.” he huffs and whines a little. you almost giggle at his cute act. surely, his fans would want to see more of this of him. alas, you could only witness this side of him and even bring it out.

“well, I’m not unfamiliar. I’m in your childhood home. which by the way, your mom has tons of albums of ENHYPEN here. your bedroom feels like a relic, it should be kept in a museum.”

“oh, my mom let you stay in my bedroom?” he tilts his head. you nod.

“yeah. oh and bisco is here too! i think your mom mentioned that he runs in here time to time because he misses you.”

“I’m going to cry that’s so cute.” ni-ki lays his head down on the pillow. “I’m so tired.”

“get some much needed rest, you have a concert tomorrow.” he hums at your words.

“I should visit home after the concert and eat there.”

“i think your mom is hoping for that. oh, maybe the boys can come over too?”

“I don’t think there would be enough space in my parents’ home, baby.” ni-ki chuckles a little.

"well, i'm just saying. i'm sure your parents would like to thank the people for taking care of their baby boy." ni-ki snorts.

"alright, i can't argue with you on that. oh, has bisco warmed up to you yet?" he asks. you panned the camera down to bisco wagging his tail and laying right next to you. ni-ki smiles widely.

"my girls."

"bisco is a boy."

"eh? but- right, boy." he clears his throat. "been a while since i've seen him. i think i forgot his gender."

"it's your family dog."

"it's not exactly my dog. it's my parents." ni-ki explains. you laughed.

"okay okay. it's seriously late and you need to sleep your jet lag off. go eat dinner then sleep."

"yes, ma'am." he salutes at you. you playfully rolled your eyes at him. he blows a kiss to the camera and you do the same before ending the facetime.

a knock at ni-ki's childhood bedroom makes you yelp, you looked up at who knocked on the door and it was konon. she smiles and points to the kitchen.

"my mom made some dinner for you before we left. she just heat it up, you should eat up and then go to sleep."

"oh, thank you." you say and konon leaves. you had gone to eat outside, bisco quietly follows you around as you had settled on the couch to eat. he lays his head comfortably on your lap. which was a little surprising considering you weren't someone bisco was familiar with.

after finishing up with dinner, you had cleaned up the plate and gone to sleep. once again, bisco had followed you into ni-ki's childhood room.

the next day, you and ni-ki's family were going over to the stadium. you'd think that you were just going to simply watch the concert but no. right before the concert, just hours before, you were brought backstage. ni-ki hugs you tightly.

"hi baby." he whispers in your ears. you smiled and wrapped your arms around his shoulder.

"hi." you replied. there was a furball following you around. stopping right at your ankles. "oh, bisco." you had picked him up. he doesn't exactly remember ni-ki since after all it's been years and ni-ki was different now then how he was back then at 14.

bisco looks up at ni-ki then looks away. ni-ki pouts and lets bisco smell his hand. maybe he would remember in a way. unfortunately, not at all. "maybe give him some time?" you say. ni-ki sighs.

"yeah, i know. this little furball is such a shit head. love him though." he ruffles the tiny dog before going over to his parents and hugging the both of them.

as time passes, the boys had to start their concert and so you and ni-ki's family had moved over to the designated seats that you guys were generously given. everyone around you (the engenes) were excitedly and patiently waiting for the concert to start. the lights dimmed and the concert starts.

there was a 7 clear silhouettes seen in the dark and everyone starts yelling. the song starts playing and that is truly when the chaos ensues. you were a little shocked by the yelling and screaming since you've never exactly seen this happen all the time. as time passes by, the boys were starting to wind down. they were talking about how fun they had.

"engenes!! thank you for enjoying today's concert. we will be sure to back next year for another concert here in okayama." jungwon says.

ni-ki picks up his mic, "engenes, i'm really thankful for every one of you for making my dream come true. i get to perform in my hometown and in front of my parents. there is something i have to confess though."

the stadium gets a little silent as ni-ki prepares what to say. "this may be controversial to say as an idol in a boy group. many of you might hate me. that is fine. you can't hate on enhypen. i-" he takes a deep breath in. "i have someone that i truly love. she's here and she's watching me perform in front of everyone that i love and care about. it would be great if you could also show her some love. she deserves the world. she managed to bring out the stronger version of myself today."

everyone was cheering. the boys weren't expecting for ni-ki to have revealed his relationship but they were still proud of him. he stood up for himself. they also knew this would impact the way k-pop was in a way. the culture and mindset behind dating.

"thank you engenes, i love you." he shyly showed a heart to the crowd.

after the concert ends, ni-ki's family and you had gone backstage again. you had ran up to ni-ki despite him still sweaty after the concert. he accepts your hug and held you tight.

"you've cause quite the stir, riki." you say as your voice was muffled due to his clothes. he laughs.

"i know but i had to let everyone know i'm madly in love with you." he says. you felt him peck the top of your head.

"what if they bullied you out of the group? you know how they are now with dating scandals." you asked him.

"don't worry, if the company doesn't do anything. i will. i'll kick whatever they send to HYBE and then throw it in the trash."

you laughed a little. "you're so adorable."

"not as adorable as you." he tilts your chin up and little and leans down to peck your lips. "i love you."

"i love you too."

taglist[perm]: @ja4hyvn @ahnneyong @milklix @kar0ki @sugarsunoo @http-gyu @simpforniki @vatterie @victoriazynui @myu3ki @jhopesucker @dimplewonie @chwlogy @ilovewonyo @xiaoderrrr @uwuheeseungie @miercerise @liikno @hxney-luga @tiktaktiki @ajayke-reads @yizhoutv @s00buwu @ilovehanni1 @starrpt2 @mystarryseas @moonliaworld @in-somnias-world @luvyev @engeneeee-168 @babyy-bambii @kimipxl @namau @gxwesn

[rivalsispunk]

Inappropriate (Chapter 4 of ongoing series When We’re Alone)

Best friend’s dad!Declan O’Hara, boss!Declan O’Hara x AFAB reader

Series summary: Journalist Declan O’Hara is in need of a personal assistant as his Corinium career skyrockets, and his daughter Taggie has the perfect candidate: her best friend. What seemingly starts as a professional relationship soon snowballs into something both Declan and reader were never expecting and are no longer able to deny.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, cursing, age gap romance (reader is a few years older than Taggie), mention of male appendages (IYKYK), mention of female orgasm, pussy pronouns, smut smut SMUTTTT, jealous Declan, all the good stuff

Word count: 11.4k

Chapter summary: Happening across your boss pants down only spells the beginning for you and Declan, but neither of you are expecting a surprise visitor to muddy the waters.

A/N: Thank you all for being SO SO patient with this one. I could've easily released this chapter in two parts but didn't want to disrupt the flow of the story (*ahem* smut). This has had a brief edit in my hastiness to publish so any mistakes... Shhhhhh!

© rivalsispunk please do not steal, copy, or translate any of my work onto other platforms!

Chapter Four: Inappropriate

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t had an inappropriate thought or two about Declan O’Hara in the time you’ve been friends with Taggie, perhaps more frequently since he’d become your superior, but that had nothing on the unadulterated filth that had infiltrated your brain in the hours since leaving The Priory. You can barely recall fleeing down its staircase or the drive home, what unfolded at the forefront of your mind until a self-induced orgasme lulled you into a deep sleep. Now, you’re permanently marred with the visual of Declan — your best friend’s father, your boss — fucking his hand with your name on his lips. You should feel dirty. You should feel violated. You should feel the way you do when Tony Baddingham’s beady eyes drink you in across the office. Like you need a scalding hot shower and to scrub yourself down to the bone. But you don’t. You feel like somebody’s doused you in gasoline and lit a match, your whole body burnt to flames — and it’s exhilarating. 

How many times has he done it?

Was that the first time?

And why do you want to watch him do it again?

“Did ya stay late last night?” Declan asks you the next day while you’re sifting through old newspapers in search for more dirt on Rupert, at your boss’ request. “Went straight up to bed once I got back, so didn’t hear ya leave.”

Liar, you think.

“Not too late. Eleven, maybe,” you respond, eyes glued haphazard clippings across your desk.

“Not that I would’ve heard you anyway,” he continues. “Not with the wailing guitar riffs at full volume on Taggie’s stereo.”

Only then do you flit your gaze up to look at the man on the other side of the office. Acting professional after that murky moment with Declan in the hot tub was one thing, but pretending you don’t know what your boss looks like with his pants dropped and cock in hand is a whole other kettle of fish. Under normal circumstances, you’d be awkward. Uncomfortable. But now it’s as if having his secret affection has allowed you the permission to challenge him. 

“Do you have something against Bon Jovi, Declan?”

“Under normal circumstances, no,” he responds, lighting a cigarette. “But when it feels like Jon is in bed with me screaming in my ear while I’m trying to sleep, I’m inclined to think otherwise.”

Let alone when you’re dancing around all but naked to it.

“So, can we count you out of belting Livin’ On A Prayer at Bar Sinister tonight?” you chide, reminding Declan of the invite you’d all received from the Joneses. Smoke plumes from his lips as he rears back from a drag.

“Yep. I’ll not be going anyway. Got too much work to get done.” “You always have too much work to get done,” you tell him. “You have to take a break sometime.”

“That’s what sleeping is for,” he counters, a slight smirk rising from under his moustache.

“Oh, come on, Declan. It’s one night.” You’re staring at him all doe-eyed across the room and your innocence, faux or not, does the heavy lifting of your convincing. “Come to Sinister. It’ll be fun.”

It’ll be fun, you’d said, voice all but a whiney beg that zapped like a rod of lightning straight to his crotch. But Declan’s struggling to find the enjoyment in spending his evening watching a revolving door of men try their luck with you, in that impossibly short merlot-coloured dress that’s befitting of Bar Sinister’s name. First, it was Bas Baddingham; the younger, kinder, though no less leery half-brother of Tony. Declan had noticed the pair of you when he arrived, his attention magnetised to you the moment he walked through the door. Bas had you cooped up in the corner by the floor to ceiling wine racks, his frame bowing over you while you chatted. 

Declan wasn’t prepared for the twist in his stomach, nor the prickle of heat that scaled his body until it reached his cheeks while he watched you giggle with Bas, eyes sparkling under his attention. It was almost as if he were a child watching someone play with his favourite toy, unwilling to let anybody else have a turn, even though he was well aware it wasn’t his to keep in the first place. You slung another one of your dazzling smiles Bas’ way, and it was enough to have Declan beelining for the bar to order a wine and a whiskey to keep his envy at bay. After a while, Bas was called away to assist with a kitchen catastrophe. He was quickly replaced with Rupert Campbell-Black, all smiles and slime as craned his neck to whisper in your ear. Whatever words he was imparting on you — undoubtedly dirty — saw you blush, a stunning flush of fuchsia flooding up your neck to your cheeks. This goes on for a while — too long, in Declan’s opinion — and every grin Rupert shoots your way, coupled with you staring up at him all starry-eyed like you’ve been touched by the hand of God, has Declan grinding his teeth to near-dust. 

He’s too old for you, he thinks. Certainly not good enough. The journalist had already been forced to warn the former Olympian off Taggie. He ought to do the same for you. But who was he kidding? He has no claim over you. You’re not his daughter.

The idea has him downing his whiskey in one gulp.

No, you’re definitely not his daughter.

Filthy hypocritical git.

You felt Declan before you saw him, his gaze like daggers slicing into you as you spoke with Bas, then even more so when while you chatted to Rupert. In all honesty, you had no interest in either men, but you made sure to ramp up the flirty act, particularly with Rupert, because you knew how much Declan disliked him. You weren’t entirely sure why; perhaps you wanted to see whether it bothered him, or how much it bothered him, but you could never get a good enough look at him to gauge where his head was at. You weren’t even talking about yourself, save for Rupert once again trying to coax you into a dinner date. Instead, you’d geared the conversation towards your best friend, whom you knew had a burgeoning crush on her neighbour despite her failed attempts to deny it.

“Are you expecting someone?” Rupert asks partway through gushing over Taggie’s catering at a recent hunt. “Or am I just boring you?”

His question falls on deaf ears, and you scramble to make up for your rudeness. “Sorry, Rupert. What was that?”

“Your eyes have been darting around this bar like you’re watching a tennis match.”

“I’m not—”

“Trust me, you are. It’s not often that a woman can bear to take her eyes off of me,” Rupert peacocks, cheeky grin blooming at his shameless confession. “So, who’s the lucky sod?”

God, he’s nothing if not perceptive, you think, chewing the inside of your cheek. Finally, you clock Declan by the till, his eyes stuck on you while Lizzie Vereker chats animatedly at his side.

“So, are you going to tell me or are you going to make me guess?” Rupert tries again. 

Turning your attention back to him, you make a show of laying a hand on the sleeve of his navy sports coat as you lie through your teeth. “It’s nobody. Nobody worth worrying about.”

“Are you trying to burn a hole through him?” Lizzie wonders aloud, cheeks already flushed from her half a glass of wine.

“He’s just… everywhere. It bothers me,” Declan tells her, not taking his eyes off you.

“Bothers you that he’s here, or bothers you that he’s here with her?” She looks at him quizzically before her sight slices to you.

“You know I can’t stand him, Lizzie. Sorry, I know he’s your friend but, God. Always lurking, trying to shag anything with a pulse. Even that might be too restrictive to the lengths he’ll go to.”

“She’s an adult, Declan. A strong-headed one, at that. She can make her own decisions.”

“Well, she’s making the wrong one with him. He's got all the charm of a burst hemorrhoid."

Lizzie swats Declan for his off-colour description. “And what do you suggest the right one to be, then?” She’s staring up at him, lips pursed like she knows something. Like she’s pried his skull open with a crowbar and all of his dirtiest thoughts about you have leaked all over Bar Sinister’s maroon carpet.

“Someone her own age,” Declan decides, as much as it pains him to admit. “Someone that’s not Rupert Campbell-Black.”

“Someone like Patrick?” Lizzie poses, and Declan’s head whips towards her at the mention of his son.

“Patrick? My Patrick?”

“It’s not that crazy an idea. He’s a perfectly lovely boy.”

“He’s also at university, Lizzie.” Far away from you.

“Was at university,” a familiar and all-too-missed voice sounds from behind the journalist, and he just about spills his Pinot Noir as he turns to greet his son.

“Patrick!” Declan pulls him into a hug, clapping a hand against his back. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I had a few days between exams. Thought I’d pay a visit.”

“Shouldn’t you be studying?”

“Come on, Dad. I’m here to have fun. You should try it sometime,” Patrick jests. There’s that word again. Fun. Despite your earlier promise, so far, Declan’s having anything but. “Hello, Lizzie,” Patrick leans down to drop a kiss to her cheek. “So, what are we talking about over here? Though with you Rutshire lot, I suppose the question should be who are we talking about?” he asks, taking the wine glass from his father’s hand and polishing off what’s left of the heady liquid.

Lizzie steals a quick look at Declan, who feigns disinterest. “We were just talking about that glorious young lady over there,” she tells Patrick, pointing with her wine in your direction. “Rather beautiful, is she not?” 

Patrick’s eyes narrow as he spots you across the dim-lit room, still deep in conversation with Rupert. “Isn’t that Taggie’s friend? I remember meeting her at my birthday party. Rupert hasn’t eaten her alive yet?”

“Seems she’s one of the only women in this town that’s immune to his charms,” Lizzie conveys, and Declan wonders if they’re watching the same scene; Rupert laying it on thick and you seemingly lapping it up.

There’s a soft, almost curious tilt to Patrick’s head, lip pursed over as he watches the pair of you. “She might stand a chance after all,” he announces, then he’s away as quickly as he appeared, swerving through the crowd as he makes his way towards you.

Freddie is eight minutes through Meat Loaf’s Bat Out Of Hell and the whole bar is loving it. You can’t recall a time you’ve had this much fun out, your throat is stinging from how loud, how ferociously, you’re singing along with the electronics businessman. Freddie’s off-key and lack of rhythm is long forgotten under the haze of alcohol, and even Declan has slid off his broody perch to join the sing-a-long. Before the unmistakable first riff of the song blasted from the speakers, you’d spent the last half an hour chatting to Patrick, who’d surprised his family for a weekend home from university. You’d met him once before at the O’Hara’s most recent New Year’s Eve party. It’d also doubled as his twenty-first birthday, though you’d barely exchanged more than a hello and goodbye on the night and he was yet to venture back until this evening.

The only son of Declan and Maud, and it isn’t hard to see where the majority of his genes descend from. Hickory curls wisp every which way, nougat eyes flecked with black just like his father’s. While Patrick is far more idealistic than Declan, he’s just as foolhardy and exudes the same charm. He’s funny, too, much easier to joke with than his dad, you find, and though he can’t hear what his son is whispering to you over the roar of the crowd, the way you lean into him and laugh between lyrics grates on Declan. He silently curses Lizzie for setting Patrick’s sights on you. He knows — yes, knows — she was doing him a favour, in some roundabout way, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. Especially when he has an unwilling front row seat with you standing between him and Patrick. To compete with Rupert and Bas was one thing, but his own son? Even if the whole thing was complete mental game, it wears on him, reminding him how fucking absurd his affection for you is.

The bar erupts in applause as Freddie wails along with the song’s final chord, his voice landing nowhere near the note Meat Loaf intended. Beside Declan, you cheer for the businessman while Patrick hollers in a way that’s more suited for a football match

“Right then, you randy bunch,” Freddie shouts, his cockney accent impossibly louder under the boom of the microphone. “Which one of yous dares to follow after the King of Karaoke?” The machine, some high-tech gadget flown in from Asia, fades into the next song, and the first couple of lyrics from Don’t Go Breaking My Heart appear on the screen.

“Oh, Daddy loves this song!” Taggie squeals from behind you, hands coming to shake Declan’s shoulders.

“What? No, I don’t,” he scoffs. “Where on earth did you get that idea?” “I’ve heard you singing it in the shower,” she says, shouldering her way between the two of you. “Both Elton and Kiki Dee’s parts.”

Declan playfully swats his daughter. “Oh, shut it, Tag. Can we have no secrets?” Their repartee makes you smile, even more to see Declan without that far-etched scowl he’s often sporting.

“Kiki Dee fan, hey, Dad?” Patrick teases, waggling his eyebrows. 

“Not enough to get up there and sing it.”

Nobody else has jumped at the opportunity yet, and Freddie’s still trying to hype up the crowd to find a taker as the instrumental track rolls into the chorus. 

“You’ll sing it with him, won’t you?” It takes you a second to realise that Taggie is talking to you. “You were saying on the way here that you wanted to step out of your comfort zone a bit more.” 

You shake your head. That’s absolutely not what you were referring to.

“I meant professionally! Not…” you gesture haphazardly to the stage. You hadn’t mentally prepared to get up and perform. It also wasn’t exactly the activity you had in mind when you thought about you and Declan.

“Oh, go on, you two!” Taggie eggs you on, hopping with excitement. 

“I’ll give you ten quid,” Patrick wagers, and Declan slices a dark look his way.

“Anyone?” Freddie is still trying, swinging the microphone around by its cable. Then, you feel a hot breath sluice over your cheek. The scent of whiskey emanating from Declan gives away the dangerous amount he’s consumed this evening, which could be why he drops his mouth to your ear. 

“I’ll do it if you do it,” he murmurs, the deep timbre of his words racking through you. You rear backwards, nearly headbutting Taggie in the process.

“Are you joking? Two seconds ago you didn’t want to get up there either!”

Declan gives a half-hearted shrug as if to say why not. “It is a duet, after all.” His gaze holds yours and walks a fine line between pleading and defiant. There’s something in it now, a dare lurking beneath the surface, like he’s waiting for you to rise to the challenge. The look hits you sharp, suddenly; a flash of lightning tearing through the dark, and one final daring tilt of Declan’s head pushes your reservations aside.

“Okay, fine.” You snatch his glass from his hand and throw back the rest of the thick amber. A swell of pride burns through his chest, watching you pitch up the courage — even if it’s liquid — to get up on stage. “Freddie!” you shout towards the host. “Start it up again. We’re doing this.”

“Woohoo!” Freddie pumps a fist in the air, winding up the crowd until their cheering and applause hit deafening heights. Between the whiskey and the support of Taggie and Rutshire, you should be amped up enough to get through one measly song. But not even the heat blooming from where Declan’s hand rests on your back as he guides you on stage is enough to distract from the terror gnawing at you. 

Despite the small set-up and there only being forty-odd people in the crowd, you might as well have been performing at Wembley. The relentless stage lights make it seem like you’re just metres from the sun and your heart is pumping a frantic, runaway rhythm that just won’t quiet. You blanch, surprised the microphone doesn’t slip from your clammy palm as Freddie passes it to you, the object a heavy weight in your hand. Just below you, Taggie pumps a thumbs up, and Patrick claps supportively. And then there’s Declan, standing beside you, his presence both grounding and electrifying as he leans in, voice low but steady as the intro to Don’t Go Breaking Your Heart starts back up again. 

“Just breathe, love,” he tells you. “The worst that happens is we both end up looking like idiots.”

The first four bars pump out of the speakers, and you barely hear Declan apprehensively sing the first line because you’re too focussed on not regurgitating the cacio e pepe you’d consumed at dinner. You’re already a beat off when you murmur through your round of the lyrics, but Declan does a fine job at making up for your lack of stage presence. He’s side-stepping to the beat, putting his hips into it and clicking with his free hand. He’s still rigid in his movements, because he’ll be damned if performing for his peers this way is a regular occurrence, but it’s all he can do to get the attention off you, to calm your nerves without pulling you into a storage cupboard and fucking the anxiety out of you. 

By the time the second chorus rolls around, you’ve loosened up enough to follow Declan’s lead, your feet no longer paralysed by fear. You move about the stage, pointing dramatically at Taggie and wiggling your body. The gesture is small, but swinging your hips in a circle has Declan stumbling over his words, his trousers tightening over his crotch. 

Ooh-ooh, nobody knows it (nobody knows), the entire bar is singing along now, and Declan’s welcome for the distraction because the song is right. Nobody knows just how far gone he is for you, and this little love song performance isn’t helping anyone. Thankfully, the music begins fading out, signally the end of your time up on stage, and you clamber down the two rickety steps to resounding applause. 

“See?” Taggie says when you return to your rightful place out of the spotlight. “It wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You ignore your heart leaping at the base of your throat and ignore the urge to steal a glance at Declan, who’s made straight for the bar. Again.

“No, not all bad,” you give in, smiling between your friend and her brother.

You stay for one more drink and a few more songs, finally calling it a night once Charles coaxes half the broadcasting staffers into a Les Misérables sing-a-long. You and the O’Hara’s venture outside, the crisp night air pulling all of the hairs on your arms to their ends. While the four of you wait for a cab, Patrick sloughs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, an almost silent that’s better slipping into the darkness. Lighting a cigarette, Declan tries — tries — to mind his own business. But his ears prick up at the mention of you and dinner.

“What do you say?” Patrick is asking you, voice competing with the sound of tires on wet bitumen and the chorus resounding from inside Sinister. “Tomorrow night? I’ll pick you up?”

The words hang in the air. Simple. Loaded.

You feel Declan’s gaze like a weight on your shoulders. You should want to go on a date with Patrick, right? You’re supposed to; he’s smart, funny and, more to the point, not nearly two decades your senior. But all you can think about is how Declan’s attention makes your skin flush, how he’s standing right there, probably watching this all unfold. You swallow, pressure mounting as Patrick’s invitation still hangs between you. A few steps away, Declan shifts, just barely, but enough to catch your attention. When you glance back at him, he busies himself with his lighter, like its manufacture is the most fascinating thing in the world. 

Would he even notice if you said yes to his son? Would he care at all?

You nod before you can second-guess yourself, your words tripping out like they’re not even yours. “Yeah, sure. Dinner sounds good.” Patrick beams brightly as a taxi pulls up to the curb. Declan’s unreadable as he stubs out his cigarette, while the energy pouring from Taggie is hard to miss.

“I’m so excited!” she whisper-shouts, her hands coming to wrap around your left arm as you approach the cab. “If this works out between you and Patrick, we’ll be sisters!”

Behind you, Declan pales at his daughter’s comment.

You and Patrick. Working out.

You and Taggie. Sisters.

The idea makes him sick.

“Is that thing broken?” Declan stabs a finger at the clock hanging in The Priory’s kitchen. He’s positive something is wrong with it. Every time he looks to the wall, the hands appear unmoving, perpetually stuck at eleven-fifteen.

“It’s working perfectly fine,” Taggie assures her father while kneading a mound of dough that would soon become dinner rolls for tomorrow’s black-tie event at the Baddinghams’. “I think the issue is you keep checking it every five seconds.” Declan shakes his head, boots scraping along the floor as he paces up and down the length of the room. “Daddy, can you stop for a moment? You’re making me motion sick.” “Patrick should’ve been home by now,” he says, ignoring his daughter while his eyes flick to the clock again. 

“He’s on a date, for goodness sake,” Taggie says, and the reminder of his whereabouts — your whereabouts — feels like an infected scrape across his heart. “Just leave him be. He’ll be home when he’s home.”

Declan barks out a laugh. “Leave him be! Thanks, Taggie. That’s just grand parenting advice. I’ll try that one with you when you’ve got kids galavanting around God knows where at all hours of the night.”

“I’d hardly call eleven all hours of the night,” she counters, and the comment stops Declan at the head of the kitchen bench. She keeps stretching and folding the dough, almost unphased by her father’s agitation. Declan smiles, just for a second, recognising that Taggie’s become far more outspoken, less inward, since having you around. He’d be proud if the situation wasn’t so infuriating.

“I’m just—” he stares at a crack in the timber benchtop. “It’s just getting late and he has to drive back to school tomorrow.” It was a cheap excuse. Declan knew full well that Patrick would have no issues making the two-hour drive back to campus, even on little sleep. In truth, he could roll in at four AM and he’d not bat an eyelid. 

But this isn’t really about Patrick, is it? No, it’s you. You, out there with his son, doing God knows what, God knows where. He could feel the weight of it— the resentment, the jealousy — settling deep in his chest. What if you’d kissed? Worse, what if you’d—No. His fingers tighten around the edge of the bench, knuckles coming up white. His mind deceives him again, and there you are, entwined in your bed sheets with Patrick, your laughter mixing with the sound of something more. The thought burns hot and quick through him, and the longer you’re out with Patrick, the harder it is to shake.

Then there’s the slam of a car door. The whine of hinges at the entrance to The Priory. Declan and Taggie both glance at each other before racing to the foyer to greet Patrick. 

“Are you guys waiting up for me or something?” he chides, unravelling himself from his navy scarf.

“No,” Declan is all too quick to answer. Yes.

“So?” Taggie, flour marring her right cheek, is just about levitating with the way she’s bouncing on her feet. “How was it then?”

“Lovely,” Patrick says. “She’s really great. So intelligent.”

Yeah, I know, Declan dares to think.

“Did you kiss her goodnight?” Taggie wants to know, gazing up at her brother like a toddler waiting on a fairytale.

A quiet chuckle rumbles from Patrick as he slings his coat over the staircase bannister. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, my dear,” he muses, thumbing his sister’s chin. 

“You know I’m going to find out from her anyway,” Taggie warns him.

“Then you’ll just have to wait until you see her tomorrow, won’t you?”

She rolls her eyes, and Declan’s stomach churns in a similar motion. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, but Patrick wasn’t usually one to play coy. The only reason for his self-effacement must be because he really likes you. And, as Declan trudges up to bed, throwing a tetchy goodnight over his shoulder to his children, he worries you likely feel the same.

The date was…fine. Patrick was twenty minutes late, but it was quickly made up for with the bouquet of roses, twice the size of his head, that he arrived alongside. After a quick peck to the cheek, he ushered you into the Clubman he’d borrowed from his father for the night. The car reeked of stale smoke and the leathery wood smell of Declan’s cologne. If you allowed yourself, you could almost hear the rasp of his voice and the sharp click of his lighter. Beside you, Patrick chatted away about his literature class at university while he navigated the quiet streets, completely unaware of how his father’s presence seemed to haunt every inch of this car. You bypassed Bar Sinister and town completely, ending up at Le Petit Chêne — The Little Oak — a small, family-owned French bistro fifteen minutes down the road. The food was delicious, the wine even better, but as the night wore on, you couldn’t help but compare Patrick to his father, even though you were well aware it wasn’t fair. Patrick had that same tapered jawline, those dark eyes, but where Declan’s gaze felt like a bolt of electricity, Patrick’s was softer, warmer. The laugh lines at the corners of his eyes were like something familiar, comfortable, like you could just keep moving through the motions and never have to think too hard. But Declan... Declan made you feel every. Single. Glance.

Still, the comfortability and Patrick’s friendliness made it easy to lose track of time as you traded tales from your time at university and compared your favourite novels, arguing over the crux of Of Mice and Men — you find it majorly depressing, while Patrick thinks it signifies hope. You agreed, begrudgingly, to disagree, the squabble wrapping up as your date pulls up outside your flat. 

“I had a really nice night,” he confessed when you reached your door. 

“Yeah, me, too,” you responded, shrugging off his jacket he’d once again loaned you. “That restaurant was lovely. Thank you again for paying.” “You’re worth it.” Patrick shuffled from one foot to the other, the subtle movement signifying the first time you’d ever seen the eldest O’Hara child anywhere close to nervous. You knew what was coming next, with the way he looked up from your doormat with hopeful eyes, blush pinching at the apples of his cheeks. “Can I kiss you?”

You should want to kiss him, the young, likable man standing in front of you. Going against your better judgement, you said yes and tried to enjoy his soft lips against yours. His touch was gentle, one hand on your waist, the other cupping your cheek, but the spark that should ignite at having a handsome man like Patrick wanting you was missing. It didn’t help that you could still feel the ghost of Declan’s presence, like the heat from his stare was still burning into your skin. No hairs stood on end. No rush of warmth flooded your chest. Nothing like the way you felt when Declan’s gaze lingered on you just a little too long, or when your hands brushed, the way they had that night in the hot tub. The gnawing comparisons followed you into your flat once you and Patrick had said goodnight, and tucked themselves into bed beside you, marking the beginning of a long night of fractured sleep.

The next evening, you find yourself in a sea of black tuxedos and satin gowns, the clink of glasses and low murmurs of conversation filling the ballroom in the Baddingham manor as you celebrate Four Men Went To Mow dominating the winter ratings. Early that morning, Taggie called to hear details from your date with Patrick, revealing that her brother remained mum about the night you’d spent together. You kept it top-line, telling her it was fun and that there was a peck, which was met with squeals from the other end of the phone. Taggie then dished that Patrick had extended his stay in Rutshire and would be attending that night’s festivities, and whatever excitement you held for the party dissipated.

After your date, you’d expected Patrick to return to university, taking whatever fleeting attraction he held for you with him. You found comfort in that, knowing you wouldn’t have to let him down easy and that Taggie would stop prematurely planning your wedding to her brother. Yet, here he is, looking dashing in a three-piece tux and already the life of the party. So, you push any awkwardness aside and focus on the night ahead. Patrick told you he was definitely leaving tomorrow morning—no harm in enjoying his company tonight, right? You can smile, have a bit of fun, try not to think too much about it. The music plays, the conversation flows, and you laugh, genuinely, pretending for a moment that everything is simple. But through it all, you can feel Declan observing the pair of you across the grand hall. No matter the conversations he finds himself amongst, whether it be with board members about his show, or colleagues exchanging gossip about interoffice affairs, a portion of his attention is always attuned to you. He winces every time your laugh rises above the chatter and he’s desperate to know what words his son is crooning to justify such a heavenly sound. There was something in the way you looked at his son — a softness that went beyond polite attention. But who was he kidding? Why wouldn’t you be interested in Patrick? Lizzie was right. Patrick is the right choice, and judging by the smile pinching at your cheeks as you look up at him, a choice you’ve gladly already made.

After two rounds of canapes have made the rounds, Taggie manages to steal a few minutes away from the kitchen to join you and Daysee on the dancefloor for the YMCA, the three of you giggling between the iconic moves as you try to decide which of the Corinium men would be each of the Village People. Despite the low temperature outside, sweat slides down your spine and the hairs framing your face stick to your forehead.  “I’m going to get some air!” you shout, gesturing to the doors in case your friends can’t hear you above the music. As the song fades into a Hall and Oates hit, you push through the throng of guests, ignoring the way Tony Baddingham’s eyes rinse over you in your baby blue dress as you pass by him and Freddie Jones in the corridor. When you step outside, the pulse of music and chatter drifts into the cool night, mingling with the quiet conversations and laughter of guests convening among the manicured hedges and flower beds. The air is thick with the scent of damp grass and the faintest trace of woodsmoke pumping from the manor’s chimneys and many roaring fireplaces.

Down the far end of the house, you spot Declan in the shadow of one of the sky-reaching pillars. He’s still, watching the party through the large windows, light from inside flickering softly across his face. It catches the curve of his cheek and the edge of his stubbly jaw in bursts, and battles with the glow of the cigarette he lifts to his lips. Smoke curls up into the night, and only when it shifts does he finally catch sight of you. He doesn’t say a word, just lets the silence stretch between you for a few moments until you ask him, “Are you hiding?”

“Just getting some fresh air,” he says, taking another drag. 

“With lungs full of smoke?” you dare. 

The cigarette tips towards the sky as Declan smirks. “Watch yourself.” You take the cheeky lilt in his voice as an invitation to join him, your heels echoing off the concrete pavers as you walk. “Are you having fun?” he wants to know when you fall into line beside him. 

“Yeah, it’s a great party. I just hope Freddie hasn’t brought that bloody karaoke machine with him,” you say, only half serious.

“I’ll say,” Declan agrees, dark eyes still fixated on the window. Beyond it, Patrick is talking animatedly with a group of six or so guests gathered around him, all of them ogling the young scholar over their drinks like they’re the disciples to his Jesus. As if he’s just relayed the punchline to a joke, his onlookers throw their heads back with laughter, and the man to Patrick’s left claps him on the shoulder, unable to contain himself.

“People are just drawn to him, aren’t they?” Declan wonders out loud. He doesn’t mean it as a test, but he’s curious to see if you open up to him about the night before. 

“It’s not hard to see why,” comes your answer, and it’s clear you’re keeping your cards as close to your chest as Patrick.

“He’s a good boy,” Declan forges on, nudging his chin in the direction of his firstborn.

“You told me that boys don’t know what they want.”

“Not my son. He’s known what he wants since he was in the womb."

“And what about you? Do you know what you want?” The question is playful and doesn’t probe in the way you wish you could ask, but it’s enough for Declan to debate answering.

What does he want?

You.

To not want you.

“He likes you a lot, you know," he pivots, as much as the facts pain him.

“Oh, yeah?”

Declan nods. “He was out here not long ago, banging on about your celestial light.” The phrase makes him chuckle while he shakes his cigarette, ash flickering from orange to grey as it drifts to the ground.

“Celestial light?" you scoff, breath turning to fog in the air. "You’re joking. I have about as much celestial light as a flickering lamp post.”

“Don’t do that.” Any amusement in Declan’s voice is gone with those three words. 

“Do what?”

“Put yourself down. Make yourself small.”

“I don’t know what you’re—“

“Don’t you?" Declan presses, head quirked. You don't fool me, is what he means. "You don't have to do that with Patrick. Don't have to do that with me."

"And the rest of them? I'm not naive enough to think that I'm more than some young thing expected to keep quiet and look pretty. That's just the way it is. All those men in there," you nod towards the sprawling windows that separate you from the party. "They don't think anything of me. They just see me as —"

“Smart? Witty?” Declan interjects, trying to meet your eye as you toe a stray leaf that's blown onto the concrete. “Beautiful as you may be, you have a hell of a lot more going for you. Believe me.” He’s being earnest, you can hear it in the way his voice dips to barely a whisper. In this way, his words are intentional and just for you. 

You abandon the leaf in favour of his face. “You think I’m beautiful?”

“Be crazy not to."

"Declan..." You don't know where your sentence is going, or why you step towards him, but you do, the confession — as minor as it is — digging into you like a hook and Declan's eyes, pinned to you, reeling you in.

"So, how was your date then?" The question throws up a wall between you. An unscalable, Patrick-shaped wall.�� A red flush spreads over your chest and blooms up your neck. You don't want to talk about this. Not really. Not with him.

"Patrick didn't tell you?"

"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, is what he said." There's a strangled edge to his voice, a frustration, like his son being cryptic was the most inconvenient thing in the world. "Did you —"

"There you are, Declan!" The voice has you skittering you across the pavement away from Declan, your heart tugging like you're still attached to him by that imaginary hook. 

"For fuck’s sake," he mutters, snuffing his cigarette out under his dress shoe as Tony Baddingham saunters towards you, sly smile poisoning his lips.

"And here you are," he croons your name. "Never far from Declan, are you?"

"I told ya, Tony. She's my right hand man," your boss says, and you snuff the smile threatening to crack across your face at the thought that Declan’s talking about you, needing you. He’s trying to sound aloof, but he hates watching Tony sniff you out like a wolf stalking its prey — circling, picking up every subtle scent of your discomfort, eyes glowing with that predatory gleam. 

"So, it would seem. I must admit, your show has taken quite a spectacular turn in the ratings since this one's come along," Tony continues, coming to stand beside you. His cool hand slides too comfortably around your bare shoulders, his fingers pressing into your skin with an air of ownership. You flinch and try to mask it with a forced smile, but Tony doesn't seem fazed, chuckling as he leans in closer, eyes trailing down the front of your chest. "This dress is something rather spectacular itself. How did you know blue is my favourite colour?"

"Lucky guess," you tell him, stiffening under the weight of his arm. Declan's jaw tightens, and while he's trying to stay composed, tension radiates from him in violent, crashing waves. Your eyes dart about as you shift uncomfortably — something that doesn't go unnoticed by Declan. 

He digs into his pocket, retrieving a small, stainless steel case that he holds out to Tony. "Cigarette?"

"Ah, I told the lady of the house that I would try to quit," Tony explains, referring to his wife, Monica. "But I suppose one never killed anybody." It feels like a tonne has been sloughed off you when Lord Baddingam unravels himself from you, moving towards Declan to light up.

"Thank you," you mouth behind Tony's back, and Declan returns a wink that goes straight to your warm centre. 

Inside the house, the party erupts in hoots and cheers as La Bamba starts over the speakers, and you catch sight of Daysee beckoning you back to the dancefloor from the other side of the glass. Tony begins rattling off competitor numbers and other industry secrets well above your pay grade, so you take the opportunity to slip back inside for another champagne, another dance.

Before too long, you’re swept into a conversation with Valerie and Lizzie — well, more Valerie, who is probing you for gossip from within the walls of Corinium. She’s a total fiend for a scandal. You’d heard through the grapevine that she’d told Monica Baddingham about her husband’s sordid rendezvous with Cameron Cook, and no doubt Valerie was well across the fact that Lizzie’s own husband was spending a great deal of time pants down in his dressing room with his co-host.

“Well, there’s got to be something,” Valerie whines when you tell her you tend to keep your nose out of other people’s business. 

“Oh, leave her be,” Lizzie tells her before turning to you. “How are you, love? More to the point, how’s Patrick? I heard the two of you went on a date last night.”

Jeez, word travels fast around here, you think.

“You and Declan’s son?” Valerie clarifies, tweeting at the revelation. “Handsome boy, him. God, Declan’s genes are strong, aren’t they?”

The mention of Declan has you searching for him through the windows, and you catch him just in time to see him storm away from Tony, disappearing from view until he barges back into the party with a snarl contorting his mouth. Most of the guests are too drunk to notice him stalking through the ballroom, or swipe a glass of whiskey off the tray of a waiter in one brisk snatch he doesn’t even slow down for.

“Oh, God,” Lizzie mutters, turning away from Declan as he shoves past your trio, the sleek material of his jacket scraping across your upper arm.

You call after him to no avail before Lizzie touches your wrist lightly, shaking her head. “Leave him, darling.”

“Why?” you ask, searching her face for some shred of a clue. “Lizzie, what’s happened?”

“You didn’t hear it from me —”

“Oh, don’t start with that,” Valerie squawks, her cockney twang exacerbated by alcohol. “The whole bloody country’s already read about it in the paper this morning.”

“For God’s sake, read what?”

“Declan’s wife — Maud — well, she’s got some big flashy part in some famous play in the city,” Valerie is all too excited to tell you, while Lizzie takes far too much interest in the ice melting at the bottom of her empty glass. “Three month run if it all goes to plan, the article said.”

“At least,” Lizzie finally pipes up, crimson colouring her face immediately after. “Poor Declan.”

Yes, poor Declan. 

Taggie and Patrick, who are dancing to a completely different song to the one that’s playing, are none the wiser that their father’s just come barrelling through here like a bull in a china shop. And, given that Taggie’s yet to mention anything about her estranged mother, your bet is that they have no idea about her new role, either. Your heart breaks for your best friend, for all of them, which is why you trail after Declan once Lizzie and Valerie have found another unsuspecting guest to pry information from.

The first few doors you try are no-gos: an office space that looks rather untouched, a sitting room decked out with floral upholstery complete with a couple you’ve never met going at it on a sofa, and an ornate guest bathroom. It’s not until the fifth door that you find Declan looking forlorn in the Baddingham’s library. He’s sprawled out in a dark armchair, tall frame filling it out. Legs spread like he’s waiting for someone to kneel between them.

“Hey,” you say quietly, closing the door softly behind you.

His voice is groggy with liquor when he responds, “Where’s Patrick?”

“Dancing with Taggie, I think. It’s nice seeing them together, I know she’s missed him,” you tell him, adding, “You’ve raised some good kids.”

Declan scoffs. “Dunno how. Workaholic father, absentee mother with a chronic wandering eye.” 

Your stomach dips. “I heard about Maud. Are you okay?” 

“So, everyone’s talking about it.” He sinks impossibly lower into the chair, its leather whining as he splays his arms out to his sides. The whiskey in his hand splashes over the edge of his glass with the movement. “Am I okay? What’s it look like to you?”

He looks like shit, inky hair disheveled from raking a frantic hand through it, but the frustration already emanating from him stops you from voicing it. The man just found out his wife has no intention of returning home anytime soon. The least you can do is give him some grace.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t pry.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Declan snaps. “And I shouldn’t be discussing this with you. It’s…” he ponders on the right word before settling on, “Inappropriate.”

You drag your bottom lip between your teeth. “Because I’m Taggie’s friend?”

He laughs incredulously. “Yeah, because you’re Taggie’s friend. You’re my employee. You’re…” He gestures haphazardly in your direction.

“I’m…?” you prompt, taking a few trepid steps towards him.

Insatiable. Infallible. Interminable. Indomitable. How could he ever settle on just one? 

“Insufferable,” Declan eventually mutters, chasing the confession with a slow swig of his drink.

It’s your turn to laugh now. “I’m insufferable? I’m not the one that’s stalked off to sulk and—” You stop, shake your head. “Actually, I’m not going to argue this with you. If you want to sit in here alone instead of spending time with people who actually care about you, people who are actually here, so be it.” After shooting Declan a pointed look, you stalk to the door, but there’s a buzz in your veins that knows you’re not ready to let up just yet, so you turn on your heel to face him again. “And I don’t need you telling me what is and isn’t appropriate. Your moral compass is far too gone for that.” “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Declan wants to know, sitting a little more upright in his seat.

“You’re kidding, right? I heard you, you know. The other night. Saying my name while you were touching yourself.” Declan’s whiskey glass freezes at his lips, black eyes locked on you. “Not very appropriate considering I’m Taggie’s friend. Your employee,” you confess, throwing his reasons for not opening up to you back in his face. Your chest heaves with shallow breaths, like spilling the secret of you watching Declan come undone has stolen every bit of viable air from your burning lungs. You half expect him to deny it, but his face is blank, and his silence is aggravating. Time, what feels like minutes, stretches between the two of you, gazes set on one another while you silently duel across the library. 

“Nothing to say, Declan?” you press. “That’s a first.”

Leather ripples through the room as he stands, abandoning his glass on a side table before stalking towards you. He doesn’t stop until you’re toe to toe and your back presses into the cool wood of the door. Whiskey, aftershave and a lick of sweat consumes you as Declan regards you down his nose. “Like I said,” he croaks. “You’re insufferable.”

Your jaw unhinges as you go to bite back at him, to tell him that he’s the one making things unbearable, but then he tuts, jabbing his forefinger into his chest. “You’ve said enough. It’s my turn to speak.

“Hiring you is up there with the worst things I’ve ever done, and believe me, love, I’ve done a lot of shitty things. That night in the hot tub? Ruined me for all I’m worth. I can’t go to sleep without seeing you. Can’t go to work without wondering what it’d be like to bend you over the desk. Can’t bear to watch you bat those fucking eyes of yours at Rupert or Bas or Patrick. Then there’s Maud…” His eyes slip shut as he speaks, a small shake of his head revealing shame eroded in the space between his unruly eyebrows. “Every moment she pulls away from me is a moment that pushes me closer to you, and I hate it,” he confesses. “And seeing you with Patrick is fucking eating me alive, because what kind of man — what kind of married man — wishes the worst on his son over a woman that he has no claim over?”

“Is that what this is about? You’re jealous?”

“Jealous,” Declan repeats. He can only laugh. “Did you fuck him?”

You pull back, head softly ricocheting off the wood behind you. “Did I— you can’t be serious, Declan.” “Answer the question. Did. You. Fuck. Him?” 

“Of course not!”

“No?” He sounds surprised, and you’re almost offended.

“No!” you spit. The thump of muffled music vibrates through the door, matching your heart trying to break free from your chest. 

“Why not?”

“Declan, stop—”

“No, tell me,” he probes, hot breath fanning over your face. “Is it because he’s not smart enough for ya? Not manly enough?” You divert your gaze, blurred vision locking onto some benign object in the distance, because you don’t trust yourself to keep looking at Declan. You can’t tell what his angle is, whether he’s jealous at the attention you’re getting from other men, or annoyed that you’re not interested in his son. Eventually, he cocks his head to meet your sightline, finger coming to your chin to turn you to face him. “Tell me why you didn’t fuck him.”

“Because he’s not you!” It flies out of your mouth before you have the sense to stop it, breath catching in the back of your throat as you await Declan’s next move. The energy caught in the mere inches between you continues to crackle, but the fire burning under him seems to have subsided as his shoulders fall from their tense fixture, his suit jacket sagging with his muscles. He looks down at you with heavy eyelids. He’s tired. So fucking tired. Of pretending he doesn’t miss Maud, that he doesn’t want you. That of both those unspoken truths piled together makes him feel like a right failure as a husband, as a father, as a boss. He was already broken, and your admission was the final crack that made him shatter.

Shaky hands come to cover your mouth, a barrier to keep any more secrets from polluting the fragile silence that hangs heavy between you. Declan shuffles back, just a hairbreadth. He’s got his head viced, one hand through his hair and the other gripping his jaw. “Fucking hell.”

“I’m sorry,” you tell him. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Even if it’s the truth?” He’s just barely looking at you, sheepish. Like he’s waiting for permission. Or a denial. The torture draining the colour from his face is making it hard to tell what’s going on in that gorgeous head of his.

“It’s not fair. On either of us.” 

“You’re damn right it isn’t fair. None of this is fair.” He’s back at you, crowding you against the door, one large dress shoe pitched between your platform heels. You’re certain that if he took one deep breath, his belt buckle would make impressions on your stomach. You can see the indentations in his lips, the miniscule patch of dry skin at the corner. “Do you have any idea what you do to me? I’ve exercised more restraint in the last month than I’ve ever had to in my life. You’re fucking ruining me.” 

The disclosure has thinned his voice to barely a whisper. Heat bubbles low in your stomach, the pull of wanting to close the gap between you warring with the consequence you know wait for you both if you give in. Still, the way he’s staring at you, with wounded eyes like twin black holes, how could you ever stand a chance?

It’s why you let another confession slip, for better or for worse.

“You think I don’t feel it, too?” 

Declan reaches to tuck your hair behind your ear, his hand trailing back to caress your cheek. The minute he touches you, your whole body goes lax, completely pliable for him. “So fucking beautiful,” he whispers, and you can practically taste the liquor on his tongue. Black eyes zigzag across your features while his palm moves to cup your jaw, the pad of his thumb meeting the swell of your bottom lip. 

“This okay?” You only nod because you don’t have the strength, the gall, to betray Taggie by vocalising how desperately you want her father to keep touching you in ways you’ve only dreamed about.

“Need to hear you say it,” he urges. “Gotta make sure you really want this.”

He has no fucking idea how much you do.

“Please,” is all you manage to muster before an animalistic growl scrapes up the back of his throat and Declan O’Hara is kissing you in a way that’s going to screw you up forever.

You’re folding like the world’s flimsiest house of cards the moment his mouth hits yours, all teeth and tongues, whiskey, tobacco and him. If it weren’t for him scooping an arm around your waist to hold you to him, you’d be in a heap on the floor. Declan’s faint grunts resonate around your tongue as his own explores your mouth with fervent jabs, only breaking the erratic rhythm to suck your lip so sensually it peels a whimper from you. His arm is scorching against the bare skin that sits above the low-cut back of your dress. His hips flex into yours, and you feel the cool metal of his belt through satin. Then you feel it. His hard length, constricted by his suit trousers, pressing to your stomach. Excitement and desire pulse through you, the feeling of his arousal against you intoxicating, knowing you’re the cause.

“Ya feel that, darlin’? Feel what you do to me?” Declan asks, each word heavy with need and muffled into your neck, tongue flickering over the salty skin there. Your hands twist into his curls while he sucks a kiss into your collarbone. It pulls blood to the surface, most likely noticeable, but you don’t care. Not when Declan branding you feels so fucking good. After a few good moments, he pulls back to take you in, his lips puffy from working over your decolletage. His eyes skim over your face, drinking in every detail — the pale lipstick smeared around your mouth, your glassy eyes, the pink flush staining your cheeks.

“God, look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe. “So fucked out for me already.” Any shame that previously coloured Declan’s features has evaporated, the pity drowning his eyes flushed out by incessant need. He kisses you again, though it’s not so much a kiss as it’s a collision, only slowing down his movements once he’s confident this isn’t one of his fleeting, filthy dreams. It’s been so long since another person has kissed you like this, touched you like this. It’s everything Patrick’s kiss wasn’t, intimate and intentional despite the roaring laughter and music on the other side of the wall. 

Declan’s large hand leaves your hip and you immediately miss it as his fingers brush over the cool doorknob. They don’t linger, there’s no hesitation before the click of the lock vibrates through you. You don’t hear it, though. Not over your pulse thrumming in your ears. It’s a purposeful, unspoken decision to shut out everything but the heat building between you, then his hand is back at your waist, pinning you in place against the wood. The other grazes down your body until he reaches the hem of your dress, sliding it up your leg until he has it gathered in a pool of azure at your hip. Your breathing hitches at the feeling of his skin on your hip bone. Under the flood of material, Declan’s fingers find the waistband of your underwear, thumb trilling over the flimsy lace holding your thong together. Your breaths mingle, lips barely grazing while his mind runs ragged with thoughts of what colour the garment is. Black to match that sinful bra you wore to your interview? Red like the pair you were wearing in his dream last night? He hooks a finger under the elastic, pulling the panties away from your body then letting them go so they snap against your skin. You let out a sharp gasp at the sting but he’s already soothing it, one step ahead of what you’re needing. 

“I’ve wanted to touch you like this for so fucking long,” he groans. His hand finds its way under the lace material again to glide over the bulb of your arse, kneading the flesh there.

“Declan,” you whine, jutting your hips into his, desperate for friction.

“What’s that, darlin’?” Even with your eyes clamped shut you know he’s smirking, relishing in your neediness. You arch forward again but he’s far stronger than you, his brawniness keeping you in place. “If you want something, all you gotta do is ask.”

“Please,” you sigh, following up with a strangled, “Touch me.”

Declan wastes no time in finding you bundle of nerves, but as soon as he’s there, it’s like time slows to an excruciating speed, his fingers featherlight over the thin material. You’re already soaked. Have been since he started berating you about how much him wanting you was fucking him up. Declan knows it too, groaning as he applies more pressure, your slick seeping around the pad of his finger.

“Christ, you’re wet,” he grunts. “Is all this f’me?” Your head cants incessantly, mind and heart and pussy chanting more, more, more. But it doesn’t come. He just holds his finger to you, steady, waiting, like a finger on the trigger of a gun. The only relief you’re getting is from you squirming under his touch, and even then, it’s just not hitting in the way you know Declan could if he would just. Move.

A chuckle rumbles in his chest and as sexy as it sounds on a regular day, under the circumstances, it almost has you seeing red. “Oh, there she is,” Declan says when you finally look at him. “Needy little thing, aren’t ya?” His eyes are glued to yours, half-lidded with a grin tugging under his moustache. It’s not a challenge. It’s a promise. He has you right where he wants you, and you can feel it in the air, thick with his quiet confidence. Your mouth goes slack when Declan removes his finger from the outside of your underwear, instead using it to push the material aside, granting himself full access to your swollen centre. Then it’s back to square one: unhurried, languid movements as he traces your folds. Up and around, not once sliding over your clit despite your unintelligible splutterings begging him to do so. Declan’s lips fall back over yours with a quiet, charged kiss as his hand comes to cup your mound completely, his tongue seeking purchase against your own. You stay like that for a moment, tongues battling each other, his hand covering your pussy like he already owns it. Every single one of your nerve endings is alight, every inch of your skin acutely aware of his presence as his moustache grazes your top lip, as his middle finger ever so slightly dips between your folds. Then finally, finally, he slides a thick finger into you and you clench around him, the unfiltered pleasure enough to never want to be without the feeling of him inside you again. You both moan, the sound disappearing into your kiss, your hand disappearing into his hair, holding him to you. 

The hard peaks of your nipples create little blue buds against your dress, and they rub against Declan’s chest while he drags his finger from your body, in and out, in and out, each movement as deliciously slow as the last.

After a minute, he breaks your kiss, letting his forehead rest against your own. “You’re so tight,” he grits, adding another finger despite his observation. The new addition allows the palm of his hand to jut against your clit, and the friction almost has you levitating. “Oh, you like that, huh?” Declan teases, pushing into you harder, faster. The change in pace has you jerking like a live wire. Totally unhinged, the world feels like it’s spinning off its axis, more dangerously the longer he keeps that unforgiving pace. All this pent up frustration and teasing and longing bucks you closer to the edge, pins and needles edging their way from your toes up your body until—

Knock knock knock.

The door thumps into your back, scaring your orgasm away with it. Declan’s fingers freeze inside you, your clit pulsating against his palm, your eyes locked on one another as you will away the intrusion. The doorknob jostles next and all you can think is thank God Declan locked it when he did.

“‘S occupied!” he growls.

“Dad? Is that you?” Patrick.

The whites of your eyes blow out as you glare at Declan, panicked by the arrival of his son — your date, not twenty-four hours earlier — as you conjugate just mere inches away. Declan lifts his free hand to his lips, pressing a single finger into the supple flesh. Shh.

“Dad? Are you in here?” Patrick asks again, trying the door for a second time. 

“Yeah, son. You alright?” Declan responds, and your eyes go impossibly wider at him answering while his fingers are still buried in your pussy. While his steely length presses into the crease between your thigh and crotch.

“Are you alright? You’ve been gone a while.”

Declan’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, leaving a devilish smile in its wake. “Everything’s grand,” he drawls, fingers slipping out of you to stake claim on your clit. The subtle movement yanks a gasp from you, a mix of embarrassment and arousal pumping through you as Declan begins to trace circles there. You’re caught between wanting to disappear and wanting more as Declan keeps talking, Irish accent laden with lust. “Just needed a few minutes to myself. Needed to…” he pauses, licking a stripe up the side of your neck before latching his teeth onto your earlobe for a hair of a second, “Decompress.”

“Mmm,” you moan, too loudly, because Declan claps a hand over your mouth to keep any more desperate sounds slipping from under the door. There’s a moment pause, and you panic, thinking you’ve given the pair of you away, but then Patrick is chattering away again, asking after you.

“Have you seen her? Could’ve sworn she came down this way.”

“Nope,” Declan lies, picking up pace as he strums your clit, like he’s getting off on holding a conversation while trying to take you to the brink of no return. “Haven’t seen her.”

The knot in your stomach mounts again, your whole body buzzing at high frequency. Patrick says something else, a goodbye, you think, but for all you know he could be speaking gibberish, the rush of blood to your ears blocking out anything that’s not Declan. 

The slight savour of sweat he’s worked up and how it tangoes with the cigarette smoke still lingering on his suit jacket.

How his mouth hangs slightly open, his tongue resting loosely against his bottom row of teeth, completely dumb for you.

The grunt wrapped in a sigh that pushes out of him when he plows two thickset fingers inside you again, and the matching moan you hum into the palm of his hand, the metal of his wedding ring cool against your upper lip.

“You’re making me crazy,” he says lowly. “Turnin’ me into someone who steals his son’s girl.” Your response comes out distorted, muffled against his skin. Declan’s hand slips from your mouth, finding its way to the nape of your neck and tangling its fingers into the frizzy hair there, the slight tension making your scalp tingle. “You got something to say, darlin’?”

“Not… his… girl,” you pant, words punctuated by Declan pumping his fingers impossibly deeper into your cunt.

“You’re damn right you’re not his girl.”

The subtext is clear. You’re not Patrick’s. You’re his. The feminist in you should balk at the insinuation but who are you kidding? Every stolen glance. Every car ride. Every solo orgasm you’ve yanked from yourself in the dead of night to the thought of him. Everything has led you to this. 

Your mascara flakes over the apples of your cheeks as you squeeze your eyes shut, Declan’s fingers expertly twisting and careening until the coil in the pit of your stomach is wound so tight you think you’re going to crack in two.

“Fuck, Declan,” you mewl, gripping his biceps to keep yourself steady. “So close.”

“Look at me, love. Wanna see those pretty eyes when you come.”

You could’ve fallen apart at those words alone, but you do what Declan says, gaze fluttering to his face as the butt of his hand against your clit works in tandem with his fingers until there’s a sharp and sudden snap, breaking you apart in a violent burst.

“Fuck, fuck, fu—” your expletives are swaddled by his hand yet again, eyes pricking with tears as you chase your high. Even through the blur, you see Declan grinning down at you with pride, nodding, quietly egging you on.

“That’s it, darlin’. Good. Good girl,” he whispers, thumb at the back of your head stroking tiny circles while his opposite fingers slow down with your breathing. It’s only when you stop convulsing completely that he drops his hand from your face. Your feet scream in pain as you come back to yourself, the weight of digging your heels in to keep you upright making itself known. Meanwhile, Declan slips himself from you, gently rearranging your underwear over your folds and allowing the skirt of your dress to float back down your legs. He shuffles backwards, allowing you space to gather yourself, to ground yourself, breaths still shaky as you step away from the door you’d come to be far too intimate with. You don’t speak, not yet, just watch as Declan peers down at his right hand that’s glistening with your slick, then to his left hand, where his wedding band glints under the library’s chandelier.

“Are you—” okay, is what you intend to ask, but Declan cuts you off, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets.

“I should go find Taggie and Patrick. Can’t have them hearing about their mum through some idle party gossip,” he says, voice steady but marred with a tinge of uncertainty, as if he’s trying to make sense of everything. He maneuvers around you awkwardly, all that cockiness from moments ago melted away. He pauses at the door, the heavy silence between you so palpable. His hand rests on the doorknob, but he doesn’t turn it. “This was…” he trails off, eyes searching the room for the right word.

"Yeah," is all you can manage, because you can’t find the words either. For how he just made you feel like every single one of your synapses was on fire. For the way he's treating you now, all cool and distant, like he's casually asking you to grab him a coffee. Declan forces a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and nods. Just once, stiff. With one final glance, he slips out of sight, laughter and clinking glasses and whumping music replacing Declan in the room before the door clicks closed behind him. And almost immediately, you feel irrelevant and unsure of what to do next. At least, you think it best to let a few minutes pass before you leave the library, so you shuffle over to the large mirror hanging above the fireplace to take in your dishevelled form. You look utterly wrecked, all puffy lips and smudged mascara. All at the hands of Declan O’Hara.

Oh, God, you think, doing your best to wipe away the fallout of the last twenty minutes from your face. What have we done?

When you’re satisfied that you don’t look like…well, like your boss just plied an orgasm from you, you trace Declan’s footsteps and step back into the party, hoping to go unnoticed by the sparse guests mingling around you. Just when you think you’ve escaped unscathed, you catch Rupert’s eye at the end of the hallway — sharp, knowing. He tilts his glass of champagne towards you, slight smirk with the quiet gesture. It’s not a greeting, but an acknowledgement, and you wonder if he saw Declan leave the library, too.

If you got this far, thank you for reading!!!! Let me know in the comments what you think, and what you predict might happen next?!

Previous chapters: Chapter 1: The Interview, Chapter 2: Beneath The Surface, Chapter 3: Driving Miss Crazy

[zepskies]

Aww thanks so much, friend!! (lol even SB can offer his own version of comfort. 😂)

That's so normal too with pregnancy! We can be our own worst enemy sometimes, but definitely rock those beautiful curves, hun. 😘💗 (LOVE that Joey gif!!!! loll)

Giving me full PTSD here, girl 😂

God I'm so sorry. 😭 Honestly I was using my own PSTD here, so you're not alone. 😅

And yep, that's always the worst when your partner eats so much crap and does not gain an ounce. Like, how?! Are you magic???

Right?!?! This is such a thing with men in particular I think, not just Dean lmfao.

Sobbing 😭 He so would do that! And honestly, love doesn't give a shit about looks. I mean, at some point, we all will be wrinkly and saggy, so you better hope there's more there than looks 😅🤷‍♀️

Gah, I'm so glad you agree! 😭😭 Exactly!! Of course attraction matters, but real, true love gets to the core of a person and doesn't just consider how they looked when you first met one another.

Bury me in a ditch... 🫠🫠

lmfao girl I'll hop in with you. 🤣

Lovely 😆 Oh, Beau! Sweet, sweet Beau... I can so see him and reader getting their wires crossed, and him not even registering it while she quietly suffers 🙈 I feel like that happens a lot to couples, though, when times get a little stressful and busy. Loved the realism of this!!

lolll that visual right? 😅😅 But busy Beau I thought made sense with him getting lost in a case at times, and yeah I agree -- I feel like something like this could very easily happen when couples have been together for a while. Life can just pass you by, but this was a big reminder for Beau. 💗

Poor, tired Beau, though, now dealing with a crying and upset reader 😂 (Do you think he retrospectively wished he would've just let her hop on for a quick ride? lmao)

lmao I'm sure he does!! Though consequently he's now wide awake. 💀

DEAD 💀 Also 💯 agree with this SB headcanon 😂😂 And weirdly, I thought from the start that Ben would probably mind the least of all of them if his partner put on a few extra pounds. If grannies don't scare this man, weight certainly won't either lol (His answer was perfection 😂😘)

ahahaha thank you, lovely!!! YES that was my HC too! I feel like Ben's not only "seen it all," but the granny thing would definitely expose him to some cellulite and stretch marks. I don't feel like a bit of extra weight is gonna deter him from some good pussy. 🤣🤣

But so on point for him to be jealous at first and accuse her of cheating 🙈 I also wonder how long she got away with it, considering that man's sex drive.

Ben has absolutely no chill! 😭 I can't imagine she'd get away with it for very long -- maybe a few weeks at most LOL.

Loved all of them so much, friend!!! 🩵🩵🩵

Aww thank you!! I appreciate you, friend. 🥹 This set of HCs hit close to home for me, and seeing as it did for you too, I'm very glad you enjoyed them. 💕💕

Headcanon: Body Insecurity/Appreciation

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Reader, Beau Arlen x Reader, Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader

AN: This one was requested by one of my lovely Patreon members, @roseblue373. 💜 It's a special one to me personally, being plus-sized myself and having gone through my share of insecurities. Wish I had one of these guys to make it better lol!~

Prompt/Request: Great job with the latest Dean/Beau/Ben reacts vignettes! I'd love to see one where reader has put on weight and isn't happy with their body, and how each would make her feel better!! IF the muse agrees, of course! ❤️

HC: How Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen and Soldier Boy (Ben) would react to your body insecurity.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Established relationship, body insecurity (but also body appreciation), thicc thirty, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, spiciness/smuttishness.

Dean Winchester

You've started breezing past mirrors when you get out of the shower.

Because if you catch sight of your own reflection, you can't help but utter a sigh, your lips dipping into a frown.

In the privacy of the room you share with Dean in the bunker, you take a risk in unwrapping the towel from your body in front of the mirror.

You inspect yourself with growing dejection, noting all the places that are rounder, heavier, less firm than they used to be.

Looks like no amount of running down leads and killing monsters has been enough to keep you in shape.

Too much shitty fast food, too many times you indulged yourself with snacks and dessert alongside your foodie boyfriend.

"What'cha doin', sweetheart?" Dean asks. He steps into the room while wiping donut icing from the corner of his mouth.

Speak of the devil.

When Dean finally catches you frowning at yourself in the mirror, you inhale sharply and close the towel back up.

"Nothing. Just need to get dressed," you reply quickly. "Shower's open."

You try to offer him a smile, despite the pang of jealousy when you eye him.

He gave you the first chance at the shower after the latest case wrapped up, so he's still wearing most of his FBI suit, sans jacket. The white dress shirt is rolled up to his elbows, a few days of scruff neatly trimmed across his cheeks.

The man can cram an entire pizza down his gullet and wash it down with three slices of apple pie, not to mention countless beers. And still, Dean stays looking downright edible.

By comparison, you feel...fat. Like you've let yourself go.

You turn away from him to grab your well-worn sweatpants and an oversized shirt; you plan to change alone in the bathroom, but Dean grabs your arm.

"Who says you need to get dressed?" he says, popping his brows with a suggestive grin. He slips his arms around your waist, but your instinct is to shy away from his hold. You chuckle awkwardly and avoid his now curious gaze.

"Sorry, babe. Um...I'm wiped. I just want to get to bed," you say.

But Dean isn't fooled. His spidey sense is tingling, and his gut is almost never wrong.

His hand slides down your arm and grasps your hand, tugging you back into his arms. You utter a little gasp, but you ultimately smile at his familiar grin. There's a perceptive gleam in his eyes though.

"You know, seems like you've been pretty wiped lately," he says, raising a brow. "It's been a while since we, uh..."

He waggles his brows playfully, squeezing your hips. You want to smile, but you can't let yourself. You can't quite look at him either.

For Dean, it's another glaring red flag. His lips form a frown, and he dips his chin to find your eyes.

"Hey," he says. "What's goin' on? Talk to me."

His tone is so sincere, you have to blink against the sting of tears. Your lower lip wobbles, and Dean frowns in earnest. He presses a hand to your cheek and gets you to look at him with your watery eyes.

"Sweetheart, you gotta tell me what's wrong," he says, more gently, but serious.

Eventually, you're able to get it out. You can't bear the thought of him touching you, because lately, you can't even bear looking at yourself.

"I know I've been gaining weight, I just..." your voice breaks, and you gesture haphazardly at your body. "I'd get it if you're not really into this right now."

Dean's heart clenches. He's downright shocked at your confession, and more than a little disheartened. He presses a hand to your cheek and guides you to look at him.

"All right, hold up just one damn minute."

His calloused fingers gently brush away your tears, but his hands keep moving, slowly traveling down your body. They slide down your bare arms, skimming the sides of your breasts.

Your breath hitches. Your hand is still fisted over your beating heart, keeping your towel closed. His hands continue to move, molding to the curve of your waist over the fuzzy fabric.

"I'll admit, we've been pretty busy lately with everything we've got going on. But if you think that means I'm ever not into this delectable, sexy, voluptuous, goddess body you got rockin' the house?" he says, grinning that utterly Dean grin of his.

You bite your lip against a bubble of laughter. He's too fucking much sometimes.

Dean tugs you closer, until your hips fit snugly against his through his slacks. His tall, broad frame crowds you. His lips skim your cheek, then over your lips in a tease.

He squeezes the flesh of your hips, tender and sensuous.

Your heart flutters at the feeling.

"Mmm, I like you nice and soft," he murmurs against your cheek, close to your ear. "Feels that much better when I fuck you."

A small gasp gets trapped in your throat, while the gravel depths in his voice go straight to your pussy in a pulsing throb of warmth.

By the time he claims your lips in a devouring kiss, you're all too willing to let him peel your towel open, drop it to the floor, and guide you backwards onto the bed.

There he'll take his time, forging yet another mental map of every plush square inch of you.

Beau Arlen

Beau is a busy man. You understand that.

As Sheriff, his job demands a lot from him. He's also a father and has an ex-wife to contend with. (You knew that going in, and you've come to love Emily too.)

However, you can't help but start to take it personally when your sex life begins to suffer. He's often claimed being tired...but there's another suspicion that's been taking root in your mind, feeding your doubts and insecurities about how your boyfriend sees you, and about how you see yourself.

When you slip into bed at night, a kiss goodnight is all he gives you lately, before he's sighing deeply and closing his eyes, his soft snores soon filling the room.

One night, you try touching his shoulder, leaning in to kiss his bearded cheek. He hums at the pleasant feeling.

"You wanna...?" You trail the question in his ear, pressing more sweet kisses down his neck.

"Aw, sweetheart," he groans. "I'd like to, but I think I'd just smother you. I'm about to pass out."

You huff a laugh. You teasingly walk two fingers across his chest. "What if I make it easy for you?"

You shift onto your side. Resting a hand on his chest, you lean down to kiss him. He hums at the softness of it, but the more passion you try to imbue into each new kiss, Beau isn't as responsive as you would like. Eventually, you stop all together.

You frown, becoming disheartened. "You're not into this, I guess."

He opens his tired eyes, gazes up at you in apology. He opens his mouth to reply, but you beat him to it.

"You know it's been a month since we've had sex," you say.

Beau frowns, sliding a hand up your back. Only now does he notice, with appreciation, the familiar silky négligée you're wearing.

"Nah, that doesn't sound right," he says.

"Well, it is," you say. "I know you say you're tired, but I mean, you've had this job for as long as I've known you, Beau." Your eyes fall away from him. "So is it the job, or...is it me?"

Beau's brows furrow. "Now wait a minute."

The mere thought dredges up what's been plaguing your mind recently, and it has your throat tightening. Tears of embarrassment and upset well up in your eyes, no matter how much you try to push it down.

You push away from him and turn away, crossing your arms. You try not to look at yourself in what used to be your favorite lingerie.

You can't stand the extra weight you've put on, mostly in your hips and ass, but in your middle and arms too.

You've gone through your own stress at work this year, with less and less time to try and take care of yourself, along with making sure Emily gets to and from school, cooking for the three of you, going to PTA meetings when Carla can't make it (since Beau often can't), and every other proverbial hat you wear.

Beau follows you, sitting up and laying a hand on your back. "Sweetheart--"

"I know I've put on a few. Hell, more than a few," you admit, hastily wiping under your eyes. "God, I can't even look at myself right now, let alone have you--"

"Hey. You stop right there," Beau says, more firmly. He gets you to turn around with his hand on your shoulder. He doesn't like the way you're curled in on yourself, as if hiding your body from his gaze.

That, and the sight of your tears damn well break his heart.

He cups the side of your face gently and presses a tender kiss to your forehead, followed closely by your lips.

You don't want to melt, but you just can't help it. You cling to the front of his shirt and lean into his kiss, like you've been lost in the desert, and his lips hold the breath of life.

You almost don't realize it when his arms slip around your waist. He earns a surprised yelp from you when he gathers you close against his chest and rolls you underneath him.

You land against the pillows in a huff. You stare up at his playful smile, his green eyes glinting with amusement, with fondness, and also with desire as they roam over your breasts, barely contained by dark green satin and lace.

"I've been neglecting you, haven't I?" he says. His voice is a low, earthy drawl as his gaze rakes over you. His big hand runs down your side and over your hip, then down your bare thigh, squeezing soft, tender flesh. He slips that hand under the satin night gown.

His hand can't span your entire thigh, but it's not for lack of trying. Your heart beats a staccato rhythm at the way he looks at you, your breath hitching when his thumb dips between your legs, brushing against the damp, silky fabric of your panties.

"It's not because I don't find you sexy as hell. Believe me, darlin', I do," he says. "You're so fuckin' beautiful, especially when you're all laid out for me here."

And he means what he says. You know it by the hardness you feel pressing against your hip. You slip your fingers into his hair with a sigh.

He bows his head to press kisses along your neck; down and down, he noses at the thin strap of your night gown. His path of kisses continue, and he indulges himself by dipping his tongue between the valley of your breasts.

"Filling out this lacy little thing so nice," he murmurs into your skin.

Your upset has turned to abject relief, but you still have to blink away the remaining urge to cry.

You let out a slightly tremulous breath.

"Oh, yeah?" you ask.

Beau pauses. He pulls away, just so he can look up and meet your eyes. He still finds insecurity in yours, so he meets you with a kiss filled with heat and intent.

He's now wide awake. He plans to take his sweet time taking you apart, inch by inch.

In fact, in the back of his mind, he also plans to do better about letting his deputies help him out more at the precint so he can have a better work-life balance.

(Because going a whole damn month without the taste of you is "no bueno," in his words.)

Soldier Boy (Ben)

The man may not be very patient, or particularly perceptive, but he's not an idiot.

At least, not about sex.

He knows that you've been feigning tiredness, and generally avoiding his touch.

What's strange is that you haven't been avoiding him. You still cook for him, still share conversation with him, still insist on having him spoon you on the couch while catching him up on the past four decades of TV shows and movies.

But when he begins to sneak a hand under your oversized shirt (an old one of Ben's), caressing your hip, then dipping down to your softer stomach on the way to your panties, breaking your concentration from the movie as unease laces down your spine.

You grab his wrist on reflex, instead lacing your fingers together.

"What's the matter now?" he asks.

You look over your shoulder at him and find him frowning at you, a divot between his brows. You don't manage to hold his gaze for long.

"Sorry," you say quietly. "I'm just, um, tired."

Ben doesn't believe you, and he's direct when he calls you out on it.

Reluctant to put what you've been feeling into words, you pause the movie and leave the couch (and him) behind.

Ben is annoyed enough to follow you (and underneath, he hides an edge of concern). The conflict leads into the bedroom, where you're still unwilling to open up.

He finally stops you from walking away from him, pinning you against the dresser by your hips. He practically looms over you as he demands an answer. He knows you're hiding something — something that's had you reluctant to let him touch you.

"Is there something you wanna tell me?" he says, a raw edge of warning in his tone. "What, are you fucking somebody else?"

Shock flashes in your eyes, making you angry. "What? No!"

"Well, you seem to be getting your fill somewhere, and it hasn't been from me--"

"Are you fucking serious? I'm not..." Your lips purse. You're actually hurt that he would hurl that accusation your way--and it couldn't be farther from the truth.

You tug your long shirt downwards and cross your arms, but it's more like you're hugging yourself, shielding your body away.

Ben's brows furrow a little bit more.

Eventually you get it out; you haven't been feeling up to being intimate because you're having a hard time even looking at yourself lately.

"I know I need to, um, get back in shape," you say, taking in a shaky breath to try and steady yourself. Your throat constricts, the beginnings of tears stinging your eyes. You want to look at anywhere but at Ben. "I just haven't had much time, with everything going on. But Annie gave me this guide on some different diets, like intermittent fasting, Keto--"

"Fasting," Ben intones. "What, you wanna fucking starve yourself? What the fuck is Keto?"

You sigh, barely resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

"No, not starve myself. And Keto's just..." The idea of trying to explain the new diet craze to your boyfriend is too daunting a task to consider. "Never mind. The point is, I have a plan. My hips, my thighs, my ass--"

Ben squeezes your hips at the mention of them. He happens to like the softness.

"Yeah, you've got a little extra. So fucking what?" he says, his voice deep and exacting as his gaze roams over your body. "Just gives me more to hold onto when I'm fucking you."

You utter a shocked laugh. "Ben!"

He grins lazily, and he turns you this way and that, admiring you from all angles. In his eyes, he doesn't find a side he doesn't like. You can't help but blush hotly under his gaze.

"Sweetheart, do whatever you want if it makes you feel good. But you don't need to starve yourself." His hands move to your ass, squeezing a bit harder on the plush flesh.

A yelp escapes you; he's pressing into you from the front as well, and you feel him heavy and already half-hard against you. You grab onto his arms for stability as your breaths quicken.

His attitude kind of surprises you, even though it soothes the frayed, insecure part of your soul that wants to be as beautiful and attractive in his eyes as he is in yours.

Ben is literally a super soldier. You're actually kind of jealous. The man can drug and booze hard and eat whatever the hell he wants, but his super metabolism just seems to absorb it into his washboard abs.

(The more you think about it, the more you want to smack him.)

Nothing about him isn't hard and lean, muscle and strength.

Only his hands have a measure of gentleless when they're holding you like this.

"I've just got so many stretch marks now," you begin to complain, in an emotional whisper.

He snorts. "And? You think it's anything I haven't seen?"

At that, your head tilts in consideration. Butcher's Granny Fucker remark comes to mind. You bite your lip against a smirk.

Ben crooks a curled finger under your chin. He guides you to meet his eyes, before he lures you into a lusty kiss.

It's somewhat rough because of his beard, but you still smile afterwards, leaning against him now.

"Ain't nothing about you that I can't handle," he adds, all smirking and cocky. To prove his point, he hooks those strong hands behind your thighs and lifts you onto the dresser.

You gasp and cling to his shoulders. From there, he makes quick work of ridding the oversized shirt from your body, revealing you to the cool air and his hot gaze.

You take his face in your hands and bring him in for an even steamier kiss, your heart lighter and trembling with anticipation.

You've held yourself from him long enough, Ben thinks, and he has every intention of devouring you right on your old dresser -- before you two even get to the bed.

AN: 😮‍💨 I feel like each of these could've been even longer with their own one-shot loll. I wrote the Midnight Espresso-verse for Dean, partially to explore what his relationship would be like with a plus-sized reader. 💖💖

Let me know which one you liked most this time!

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[chrissssssmut]

TRAPPED IN HER WORLD

Giselle x Male Reader feat. Ryujin

You never wanted to be here.

Clubs weren’t your thing.

Loud music. Sweaty bodies. Flashing lights.

It was a nightmare for an introvert like you.

But your so-called friends had dragged you along.

“Come on, Y/N, you never go out!”

“You need to live a little, man.”

So here you were.

Sitting alone at a booth while they disappeared into the crowd.

You checked your phone. 1:43 AM.

Just a couple more minutes. Then you could fake a stomachache and get the hell out of here.

That was the plan.

Until she appeared.

She slid into the seat across from you like she belonged there.

Long dark hair. Red lips. A Black Sexy Dress that somehow made her presence even bolder.

She smirked.

“You look like you’d rather die than be here.”

You blinked.

She chuckled. “Did I guess right?”

You hesitated. Then nodded.

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand.

“Well, lucky you. I like guys who don’t belong.”

Her eyes gleamed.

“What’s your name?”

“…Y/N.”

She grinned.

“I’m Giselle.”

And that was the moment your life changed forever.

Minutes turned into hours.

Talking with her was easy.

She didn’t ask pointless questions. She didn’t try to fix your introversion.

She just… understood.

And then—

“Let me get you a drink,” she said, standing up.

Before you could respond, another girl appeared.

Shorter. Sharp eyes. Dark blue hair.

“This is my friend, Ryujin,” Giselle introduced.

Ryujin smirked, sliding a glass in front of you.

“On the house.”

You hesitated.

Something felt off.

Giselle tilted her head. “What, scared I spiked it?”

You forced a chuckle. “Of course not.”

You drank.

And then—

The world tilted.

Your vision blurred.

Your heart slowed.

You looked up at them—

Giselle’s lips curled.

Ryujin whispered, “Nighty night.”

And then—

Darkness.

You woke up in a strange bed.

Cold. Expensive sheets. A faint smell of perfume and metal.

Your wrists were tied.

Panic surged.

The room was too quiet.

Then—

A door creaked open.

Giselle walked in.

She was different now.

No teasing smiles. No playful banter.

Just pure control.

She sat on the edge of the bed, running a knife along the mattress.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

Your breathing hitched.

“What the hell is this?!”

She sighed. “See, Y/N… I really liked you.”

The knife pressed into the sheets.

“But I don’t waste my time on normal guys.”

She leaned in.

“And you? You’re mine now.”

You fought.

Screamed.

Begged.

Nothing worked.

The windows? Bulletproof.

The door? Locked from the outside.

Your phone? Gone.

And Giselle?

She was everywhere.

Watching. Controlling. Owning.

One night, she sat across from you at dinner.

“I should probably tell you what I do,” she mused.

You didn’t answer.

She smirked.

“I sell things.”

She swirled her wine glass.

“Drugs. Weapons. Sometimes… people.”

Your stomach dropped.

She tilted her head.

“But don’t worry.”

Her fingers brushed your jaw.

“You’re too pretty to sell.”

You shuddered.

.

.

.

.

You waited for the right moment.

The second Giselle left the room—

You ran.

Through the hallway. Down the stairs.

To the front door.

It was unlocked.

Your heart pounded. Was she careless?

You shoved the door open—

And froze.

Because outside?

Nothing.

Not a street. Not a sidewalk.

Just endless forest.

A voice whispered behind you.

“Where are you going, baby?”

You turned.

Giselle.

Smirking. Holding a gun.

Your legs gave out.

She crouched in front of you, pressing the barrel under your chin.

“You really thought I’d let you leave?”

You whimpered.

She smiled.

And whispered the words that sealed your fate.

“There is no escape, Y/N.”

“You belong to me.”

Days blurred into weeks.

You stopped fighting.

Stopped thinking.

Giselle made sure of that.

She controlled your food. Your sleep. Your sanity.

And one night—

She cupped your face.

“You finally understand, don’t you?”

Your lips trembled.

She kissed you. Soft. Slow. Poisonous.

And when she pulled away, she whispered—

“Say it.”

Your voice shook.

“I belong to you.”

Her smirk widened.

“Good boy.”

And as she pulled you into her arms—

You knew, deep down—

You would never leave.

Not because you couldn’t.

But because she wouldn’t let you.

Epilogue – The Final Escape

You had one last chance.

One last, desperate attempt at freedom.

You waited. Watched. Planned.

For months, you played along.

“Yes, Giselle.”

“I love you, Giselle.”

“I belong to you, Giselle.”

And slowly—she trusted you.

Until, one night, she left the door unlocked.

A mistake.

Or maybe… a test.

But you didn’t care.

You ran.

Through the halls. Down the stairs. Out the door.

And this time—

You didn’t stop.

The forest was endless.

Your lungs burned.

Your feet bled.

Branches clawed at your skin, but you didn’t stop.

The moon was your only light.

And for the first time in months—

You felt hope.

Then—

A gunshot.

BANG.

The sound ripped through the trees.

And a voice—

“Baby.”

Your blood ran cold.

Footsteps. Slow. Calculated. Hunting you.

You tried to run faster, but—

BANG.

Pain exploded through your leg.

You collapsed, gasping.

Dirt filled your mouth. Blood soaked your jeans.

And then—

She was there.

Standing over you.

Giselle.

Her silhouette sharp against the moonlight.

She crouched, pressing the barrel to your temple.

“I’m disappointed, Y/N.”

Tears burned your eyes.

“Please—”

She sighed, brushing your cheek.

“I gave you everything.”

You sobbed.

She tilted her head.

“Did you really think I’d ever let you leave?”

Her finger tightened on the trigger.

And the last thing you heard—

Was her whisper.

“Goodbye, love.”

BANG.

But—

You weren’t dead.

Your ears rang. Your body shook.

The pain in your leg burned, but—your head? Untouched.

You gasped, blinking through the blur of tears.

Giselle’s voice was gentle.

“Shhh… it’s okay, baby.”

You barely processed it as she crouched beside you, her hands soft as they cupped your face.

“Did you really think I’d kill you?” she whispered, her tone almost… amused.

Your lips trembled.

“I—I heard the gun—”

She smiled.

And then—

She raised the gun to her own temple.

Click.

Empty.

Your stomach dropped.

She leaned in, her lips brushing your ear.

“I never load the last bullet.”

Your body froze.

She wasn’t planning to kill you.

She never was.

This wasn’t an execution.

This was a lesson.

Her fingers tightened in your hair.

“You’re mine, Y/N.”

She yanked you forward—forcing your gaze to meet hers.

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“No more running.”

You sobbed.

She smirked.

“That’s my good boy.”

And as she pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead—

You realized the truth.

She didn’t need to kill you.

Because she had already won.

[saturnbellfromhell]

Roasting your Moon Sign

Welcome back everyone to a little silly goofy post. I haven't been on the app for a long time because of my school, work and internship, but now I can proudly say I've finished a big chapter in my life and can't wait to be back writing, posting, chatting! Hope you all enjoy this easy-going post and don't take it to heart, it's just a fun time, not a serious time.

〰️ If you're easily offended by jokes and giggles don't read this post, most of my friends, family and people I know are some if these signs, so don't take it so far. In the end I will ne roasting myself as well. :)

➰️ARIES MOON

Why so explosive all the time? I know your emotions run wild, but being so dramatic won't get you anywhere. Take a nap sometimes will ya. No nobody thinks you're annoying all the time, just sometimes. We still love our divas.

➰️ TAURUS MOON

Sleeping again? Shopping again? Fighting over food with your significant other, aren't you? No, you can't get that puppy, you're too lazy to take care if it. Also, we get it, you love art and have the best taste in movies. You do have a nice decorated house, I'll give you that.

➰️GEMINI MOON

Yes, you're so different. Yes, we are all boring in your eyes. No, it's not cute to have an avoidant attachment style. Yes, your shoes are amazing, no, I wouldn't wanna go shopping with you. Why are you constantly buying new apps on your phone? Did you forget about your old friends again because you found a new group of people?

➰️ CANCER MOON

The moody bitch you are, always complaing about how stressed they are even though they cried 2 years ago. Do you always wake up and remember what food you didn't eat in a long time? I know for a fact you would be mad if I showed up at your house without an invitation. Do you also hate traveling because you're too scared to leave the safe place of your house or because you hate leaving your house?

➰️LEO MOON

We get it, you're always right. Yes you are loud yes you are annoying at times, but lovable aswell. Does everybody need to know your bf/gf treats you like a princess? Stop buying so much gold jewerly! You're moving in with a celebrity?

➰️ VIRGO MOON

So how was your day? No,no not work, not the new cleaning appliance you bought, how was your day? O the Turkish eggs at brunch were too cold when served and your dermatitis came back? And you deleted your "sad girl playlist? Damn that's harsh, but your eyeliner is still phenomenal, hope you have a good week even though I know you haven't had a normal week in a long time queen.

➰️LIBRA MOON

No I can't remember all your situationships, boy toys and playboys and wasn't Mark your ex in fucking elementary school, how'd you find him again? I know you're into pilates, you told me that 5 times already. No I don't want to get botox after 2 shots of tequila. Tramp stamp tattoos are cute, sure.

➰️SCORPIO MOON

Ok...yes your ex was a whore and that ex best friend really did lie to you. No don't get in your car and crash it into their house and than set it on fire and watch the flames feather out. Stop looking at me with those serial killer eyes! No, we will not stalk your boss because you think she's having an affair. Yes your knife collection is hot.

➰️ SAGGITARIUS MOON

We get it...you love porn. Yes we get it, you're so loose and easy going and so open and so talkative. No, blondy at the bar is not staring at you, she literally is sitting with her husband...You're moving to Malta? And you got a job in Thailand? And you're 2nd wedding is on the coast of rural Australia??

➰️ CAPRICORN MOON

Is your favorite movie still American Pyscho? O really, you still have the same routine as him, interesting. We get it, yes, you're an introvert. Yes people are gross, yes your cat is amazing. You got into Harvard Law?? On a random Tuesday and you got your Masters? Still fighting with your dad eh...yea, he's a cunt.

➰️AQUARIUS MOON

Can you stop being in your head for 10 minutes damn. And also can you stop talking about your feelings and just start you know...feeling them? Still trying to figure out why society is weird and you feel left out? You spent all your money on your library cards, are you serious..

➰️PISCES MOON

You broke up with your dismissive,back stabbing, crazy ex again? That's the 10th time this month. No, you don't love her, she's literally using you. No, we are not doing MDMA at a carnival to forget everything. Where have you been, why were you taking a walk for 5 hours?

That's all for now, hope you giggled a little. Love all my signs at the end of the day, we are all a little too much at times. Can you guess which I am...😅

[aylacavebear]

Bloodlines & Fate Chapter 2

Being Touched should have been a blessing—a mark of honor in your lineage, celebrated by your pack since childhood. But to you, it's always made you feel like an outsider, never really fitting in anywhere. Yeah, you had your best friend Jess, but for you, something always felt like it was missing. The land your pack runs on during the full moons brings you a sense of peace you don't fully understand, at first.

Paring: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader/You

Word Count: 2159

Warning: Angst, longing. Not much that I can think of.

A/N: Professor Rober Zimmerman is based off of The Doctor from Star Trek Voyager, as I absolutely love that character.

A/N: It's my first attempt with an A/B/O fic, be gentle please. I hope you like it. Not sure how many chapters this will be yet.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 2

Two weeks after your fifteenth birthday.

The last six months had flown by, your birthday still a blur of half-remembered moments. At least you hadn’t been paraded around to meet any alphas, and your pack had let you celebrate quietly. Still, the house was suffocating today, packed with family as they celebrated your cousin’s presentation. Too many scents. Too many voices. Too much of everything.

Jess had noticed the tension in your shoulders, the way your scent spiked with unease, and before you could say anything, she grabbed your wrist and pulled you outside. Now, lying on the forest floor, the rich scent of the damp earth filling your lungs, you finally felt like you could breathe again.

“Don’t let it get to you,” Jess murmured, rolling onto her side to face you. Even out here, she could probably still pick up the edges of your stress.

You exhaled a slow breath, watching the canopy above sway in the soft breeze. Sunlight flickered between the leaves, dappling Jess’s face in shifting patches of gold and green. “I know. I just… I can’t help it sometimes. Why couldn’t I just be normal?”

Jess huffed and flopped onto her back beside you. “I like that you’re not normal. Plus, normal is boring,” she said with a grin. 

That pulled a small chuckle from you.  “Let’s talk about something else. Tell me something weird from school.” Jess instantly perked up, her grin turning mischievous. “Remember that boy I told you about? The quiet one with the hazel eyes?”

Her excitement was infectious, the sparkle in her eyes lifting your mood.

“Yeah. Did you talk to him?” you asked, smirking.

Jess scoffed. “No. Boys are weird.” But the way she buried her face in her hands told another story. “I did overhear something, though. The teacher told him that he’s crazy smart, said he could advance in his classes if he actually tried. He wrote this really cool story about the summer his brother presented.”

You propped yourself up on your elbow, raising a brow, “You like him.”

Jess let out a scandalized squeak, her cheeks turning pink. “I do not! He’s just—he’s nice, okay?”

You snorted. “Do you even know his name?”

She groaned and covered her face, “No.”

The admission sent you into another fit of laughter. Jess, who had no fear of standing up to anyone, who could recite entire pages of textbooks from memory, was completely undone by a single boy.

“Well, you should ask him,” you said, still amused but sincere. “From what you’ve told me, he sounds nice”

She sighed and turned her gaze back to the sky. “Maybe one day. I don’t want to like someone and have them not by my soulmate, you know?” 

At that, you laid back down, the warmth of the sun barely reaching through the thick canopy. “Yeah, I know,” you murmured, fingers absentmindedly brushing over the cool grass.

The full moon flashed through your mind—the way the night air had carried your song, the way your soul had stretched toward something unseen. Someone unseen. He had answered you, but you still hadn’t seen him.

That was something that sucked—liking someone before presentation. It was common knowledge among your lineage that everyone found their soulmate or true mate, as some called them. On rare occasions, they would meet before presentation, but that was nearly as rare as the genetic mutation you had. So, you completely understood her predicament.

“Maybe you’re like me,” you suggested quietly after a good while of silence.

Jess turned and looked at you quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“Well, what if this boy is your soulmate? Sometimes soulmates find each other even before presentation, even if it is rare, like what I have,” you explained, still staring at the canopy as the leaves swayed in the gentle breeze.

For a few moments, she stayed quiet, pondering your suggestion before looking back at the canopy. “I don’t want to risk it. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us if we aren’t.” 

That was Jess, always considering others before herself. She had one of the kindest souls you knew. “Just, think about it.” 

—----------------------------------

You woke early on your sixteenth birthday, the habit becoming second nature over the past few months. The house was quiet, bathed in the soft glow of dawn as you slipped out of bed. Something felt different—like the air itself carried a quiet anticipation.

Padding into the kitchen, you froze, puzzled to find both your parents already awake, sipping coffee as if they’d been up for hours. They didn’t have work today.

Your father grinned when he spotted you. “Morning, kiddo.”

“Morning,” you muttered, still groggy as you reached for your own cup. “Why are you two up so early?”

They shared a look—one of those silent exchanges you could never quite decipher—before your dad slid an envelope across the table.

“Happy birthday,” your mom said softly.

Confused, you set your coffee down and picked up the envelope. It had some weight to it, more than just a card inside. But before you could open it, the front door slammed open.

“Oh my god!!” Jess came skidding into the kitchen, breathless and wide-eyed. “We get to go move onto the land.”

Heart pounding, you tore the envelope open. A set of keys clinked onto the table, along with a folded car. Your fingers trembled as you flipped it open. Happy Sweet Sixteen, Y/N.

We’re moving, and so is Jess’s family. You need the land. We know that whatever is there, it brings you more joy than being stuck in the city. It’s already been discussed with the elders, and they have agreed to let both our families become caretakers. Professor Zimmerman has been given special access to continue tutoring you until you graduate. Jess will make the commute to her normal school during the week.

Love, Mom & Dad

The words blurred as tears filled your eyes. You pressed a hand over your mouth, overwhelmed, but Jess was already throwing her arms around you, practically vibrating with excitement.

“We get to live on the land!!” she squealed, trying—and failing—not to shout directly into your ear.

You let out a waterly laugh, hugging her back as warmth spread through your chest. “Thanks, Mom, Dad. This means a lot to me.” Your voice was quiet, thick with emotion. Had you told them about the alpha who answered your song? Nope. And you weren’t planning to, not yet. This gave you the chance to explore, to follow the pull that had been lingering at the edges of your senses since that full moon.

The move happened fast. Within a week, the pack had rallied together, helping both your family and Jess’s transition to the land. Boxes were carried, furniture was set up, and before you knew it, you were standing in the doorway of your new home, inhaling the rich scent of pine, sap, and freshly hewn wood. Your family’s cabin was beautiful—newly built, crafted from the very trees that surrounded you. Just twenty feet away, Jess’s family had an identical one, nestled beneath the thick canopy of the forest.

Inside, the space was simple but perfect. The scent of the earth clung to the wooden walls, grounding you in a way that city air never could. Your room was upstairs, tucked away on the far side of the house, with a window seat positioned against the outer wall. When you sat there, you had a perfect view of the forest stretching beyond, the place where you had first heard him.

Movement in your peripheral caught your eye. Across the way, through the window of the other cabin, Jess was perched on her own window seat, grinning like an idiot as she waved emphatically at you.

You laughed, shaking your head, but waved back before dropping your backpack on the bed. Taking a slow breath, you let your fingers trace over the solid pine desk, the dresser, the smooth carvings of the nightstand—all made from the forest that would now be your home. This was where you were meant to be. You could feel it in your bones.

Within a week, the last of the boxes had been unpacked, and life settled into an easy rhythm. Each morning, you saw Jess off as she caught the bus into town for school, and every afternoon, you met her when she returned. The two of you fell into step on the walk back to the cabins, trading stories about your day—hers filled with school gossip and pop quizzes, yours with lessons and discoveries that made your mind buzz.

Professor Zimmerman’s first visit to the land was almost comical in its weight. He was one of only a handful of outsiders granted access, and you could tell he understood the privilege. The reverence in his gaze, the way he took in every detail of the land, humbled by the trust placed in him—it made you respect him even more.

Your lessons took place in a designated cabin, a space that felt more like a sanctuary than a classroom. The walls were lined with maps—of the world, of shifting territories, of forgotten histories. Timelines stretched across one side, chronicling events that shaped civilization. A pair of towering bookshelves housed tomes that looked older than your parents, filled with knowledge you were just beginning to scratch the surface of. And then there were the books Professor Zimmerman brought just for you—college-level texts, subjects he thought would challenge and inspire you.

One afternoon, after lunch, he leaned back in his chair, studying you thoughtfully. “Have you given any thought to what you’d like to major in?” 

The question caught you off guard. You were graduating early, but you hadn’t let yourself think too far ahead. “I think I want to take a couple of years off first,” you admitted, setting your pend down. “Just… breathe for a while.”

His lips twitched in a small, knowing smile. “That’s a wise choice. Burnout is real, and it’s good to step back when you need to.” His voice carried that quiet understanding you’d come to appreciate. “When you’re ready, I’ll be here to help.”

“Thanks,” you replied, grateful, before going back to your current lesson.

—---------------------------

The first full moon on the land was different.

The pull was stronger, more insistent, as if something in the air had shifted. You felt it in your soul, in the way your skin tingled with anticipation. It took everything in you to wait—to let the pack splinter off into their groups, to let their howls fade into the distance—before slipping away into the night. Barefoot, you ran.

The earth was cool beneath your feet, the whisper of wind through the trees urging you forward. Your wolf stirred inside you, pressing against the barrier that kept her at bay. She couldn’t break through, but that didn’t stop her from trying.

Moonlight spilled through the canopy in scattered beams, illuminating the forest floor in silvery light. Unlike others, you saw the world in shades of gray at night—an advantage gifted by your genetic mutation. Every branch, every shift in the terrain was crisp, as if the moon itself was guiding you.

By the time you slowed to a walk, the air around you felt different. Lighter. Quieter. You’d gone further than before, farther than you ever had, but you weren’t afraid.

The trees thinned here, allowing the full moon to cast its glow uninterrupted. Ferns swayed in the gentle breeze, brushing against your bare calves as you stepped forward. You closed your eyes, tilting your face toward the sky, and let your song rise into the night.

It carried everything—longing, uncertainty, the ache of questions to big for words.

And, just like every night before, he answered.

A howl, deep and resonant, echoed through the trees.

But this time, it was closer.

Your heart pounded as you scanned the darkness, searching for movement, for a shadow between the trees. He was near. Maybe you had moved toward him, or maybe he had been closing the distance all along. Either way, you weren’t ready—not yet.

The words from the files echoed in your mind.

Do I want to meet my soulmate now? I’m only sixteen. How will my life change? Will I still get to be a teenager, or will all that be over the moment I see him?

Doubt coiled in your stomach, tightening around the edges of something raw and unspoken. You exhaled, long and slow, before turning back the way you came. The walk home was easy, your feet finding the path even as your mind remained tangled in thoughts.

By the time you reached your cabin, your decision was made. You would take the next two years for yourself. Maybe it was selfish. Maybe he was waiting, just as unsure as you were. But this time was yours, and you weren’t ready to give it up. Not yet.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 3 - coming soon

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[yanderes-galore]

Hey if it's okay I can request a yandere doflamingo with prompts 25 "if you weren't such a dumbass, this wouldn't have happened" and 6 "tell me darling. do you like making me mad". Where darling gets caught trying to escape with the help of a friend or family member.

Oof, I'm writing one creep after another. Here's Doflamingo being... himself.

Prompts Here

Yandere! Doflamingo Prompts 25 + 6

“If you werent such a dumbass, this wouldn’t have happned.”

“Tell me, Do you like making me mad??” 

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulation, Possessive behavior, Swearing (Obviously), Kidnapping, Isolation, Violence, Murder, Blood, Threats, Forced relationship.

The sickening crack of a flintlock pistol goes off in your ears. You barely registered the scream that left your mouth. Even as a loud thump hits the ground... you barely register this as reality.

"Sweetheart... People don't just leave the Donquixote Family..." A familiar deep voice purrs, a large figure shuffling closer.

"Especially not with help from outsiders...."

You knew what he said was true. With how deep you were into the Donquixote Pirates, there was no way you were going to get off with no issue. Your plan was a desperate yet foolish one...

Even more so considering Doflamingo was your 'lover'...

Not by your choice.

It was not your intention to gain Doflamingo's attention. You saw him and his crew as tyrants and wanted nothing to do with him. Unfortunately...

Doflamingo always found your defiance attractive.

Against your family's wishes, Doflamingo claimed he wanted you to join his crew. Normally it's rather difficult to be a part of his 'family'. Although... you weren't meant to be like the rest...

You've always been more of a pet or a toy compared to a genuine lover.

Taken from your family against your will, Doflamingo claimed you to be his. You were made to always follow the Warlord around. If he was busy, you were to stay in his palace like a good pet until he came back.

You had been with Doflamingo for... nearly two years. Doflamingo's influence made escape plans difficult to put together. So for a year and a half... You've been trying to play a good pet for Doffy while your family escapes Dressrosa.

Most of your family managed to escape amongst the chaos of Doflamingo's rule... and because you pleaded with Doflamingo to spare them. Your new ruler complied, but only because you were to be his. Since then you've waited to escape with secret correspondence... Waiting for the day you could escape...

Today was meant to be that day.

But you should've known Doflamingo could read what you were doing.

"Tsk... I should've known you'd disrespect our deal." Doflamingo scoffs, twirling the steaming flintlock in his hands.

You barely recognize his words, too focused on the slowly bleeding body in front of you. They were a family member of yours, one who promised to come save you. Now they had a lead bullet through their skull...

The bloody sight makes you nauseous... but this fate was probably the most merciful thing Doflamingo could've done.

You've seen him massacre many with his strings throughout the months.

"Sweetheart... We both know this plan was foolish." Doflamingo hums, stepping closer to tower over you. You flinch when he turns you, grabbing your chin to force your gaze upwards.

"If you weren't such a dumbass, this wouldn’t have happened." Doflamingo states bluntly, a grimace on his face. "Don't look at me like this is my fault. If you just kept being a good pet like we agreed on... I wouldn't have to shoot them for thinking they owned you."

Owned... right.... What did you expect from someone that came from Celestial Dragon lineage? He thought he owned you....

"Love... Sometimes I really do wonder about your naughty behavior...." Doflamingo scoffs, tugging you away from the newly made corpse on the dock when he sees you try to reach for it.

You struggle when he pulls you along, hand on the back of your shirt as though he was dragging a stray cat. You struggle against him but Doflamingo merely tugs you in front of him... making you tumble to your knees.

"Tell me, Sweetheart. Do you like making me mad?" Doflamingo sneers, amusement not present behind his grin.

You shake your head desperate, making Doflamingo hum as he cups your cheek.

"Even after all this time... and everything I've done for you... I thought I had you tamed." Doflamingo frowns, caressing your skin. "Yet you defy me even now. How naughty, pet...."

Doflamingo kneels down to your height, catching sight of the blood that stained. There's no sympathy in his eyes when he sees it. In fact... He just grins.

He's happy knowing your rescue is dead.

"Maybe this was punishment enough, hm?" Doflamingo teases, admiring how defeated you look. "However, you've betrayed my trust..."

You tense when Doflamingo hoists you up from the ground, practically holding you over his shoulder. You know better than to struggle at this point. He's already mad enough.

"Looks like my cute little pet needs some... lessons." Doflamingo hums, carrying you as if you're a child having a tantrum. "Don't worry... I'll have you at my command this time."

The warlord chuckles as you shift in his arms, causing him to pull you back enough to look you in the eyes.

"You don't need that family of yours. Your family is with me." Doflamingo hums, lips ghosting over your neck.

"I'll hunt that family of yours down if you're going to keep disobeying me, sweetheart." Doflamingo warns, gently nibbling at your skin.

"You don't want that, do you?" Doflamingo hums in a taunting tone against your skin, making you shake your head. "No, of course you don't..."

You then feel him bite down harshly, making you squeak as he carries you back to his palace... the hell you're meant to call home...

"So let's hope by the end of your punishment... You learn your place."

[33max]

ALPHATAURI ANNOUNCES FOUR-TIME F1® WORLD CHAMPION MAX VERSTAPPEN AS OFFICIAL GLOBAL BRAND AMBASSADOR

Max Verstappen and AlphaTauri proudly launch an official partnership with the Four-Time F1® World Champion becoming a Global Brand Ambassador in 2025. In this role, Verstappen will highlight AlphaTauri’s fashion on a global scale, traveling to 24 different racing locations worldwide for the 2025 season – and doing so in style.

To celebrate the Launch, AlphaTauri sat down with Max for an interview. Boosted by his recent victory and another successful season, having secured his fourth Formula One World Championship title with Red Bull Racing, he is enthusiastic about sharing his experiences.

KEYS TO VICTORY

The victory, he is quick to tell us, feels great; he’s thankful and humble when receiving congratulations. A lot of the credit, he says, comes down to intense teamwork: “We really had to pull it together as a team. Also, from my side, I had to try to overperform a little bit, which is not always the easiest, with so many good Formula 1 drivers. There were a few races where we overperformed, and I think that made the difference at the end of the day in the championship.”

THE JOYS OF GLOBAL TRAVEL

With a global career and Monaco as his home base, travelling is one of the most incredible aspects of his life. Japan, he shares, is one of his favourite destinations. While some of his preferred tracks are located in iconic European cities, Tokyo is the city that conquered his heart long ago. “Everyone should see it once in a lifetime. Travel to Japan, for sure!” he exclaims. “Austin is also a really cool place; Miami too. In Europe, a lot of the more traditional tracks are amazing. It‘s often the track for me that defines the place; sometimes it‘s the city.”

FINDING BALANCE

Staying grounded amid such an intense schedule, he explains, is the key to success. Max finds balance by striving for his dreams while cultivating happiness close to his family and friends: “It‘s very important to find your own time, to rest up, and to spend time with family and friends,” he says. “Freedom just means being at home, not having to think about the schedule that I normally live on. That is proper freedom.” For Max it’s about values and the people who matter most. “I‘ve been working towards success my whole life,” he reflects. “At the end of the day, though, that doesn‘t define happiness. Real happiness comes from your friends, and loved ones. That is the real success, if you have that.”

DRESSING FOR SUCCESS: MAX AND ALPHATAURI

AlphaTauri and Max share a long history of friendship, and he knows the designs well. “I always like the AlphaTauri styles; it‘s very classy. It‘s a good fit, and very comfortable,” he says. The synergy between design and technical functionality is key to his confidence – whether before a race, off the track, or while travelling to a Grand Prix. “There are other brands where it can look cool, but it‘s not comfortable to wear. With AlphaTauri, what I like is that it looks slick, it looks really stylish, and it‘s really great to wear.” With those words, Max Verstappen brings the interview to a close and confidently walks on set, ready for the shoot.

[the-fyre-flie]

So... people hating on Justice League × RWBY, the two cross-over movies for DC and RWBY, has to be blown out of proportions or a joke... right? Cuz these movies are great. At least, in my opinion. They're fun and a bit stupid and incredibly entertaining for me, who's a fan of both DC (my current biggest fixation) and RWBY (my friend likes it so I must like it too) (Link to the movies at the bottom btw!)

Sure, I'll relent they're a little boring at times, and they completely butcher both DC and RWBY characters sometimes, but like... I finished watching a review by The Judgemental Critter (who I love btw and I think their opinions are pretty agreeable most of the time! No hate to them at all!) but a lot of the points just... don't make sense to me?

More Yappage Below

The animation and models being bad was said a lot, and while I can agree in some places like Weiss' weird skirt, saying the hands and faces look weird just... doesn't feel right? They look fine to me? I'm a 3D artist, I make thumbnails and promotional art for youtubers as a job and animate as a hobby, and the models look more than okay. The proportions are a bit wonky, but RWBYs animation has always been wonky. Calling the lowered framerate lazy and ugly also bugged me, cuz like... lowering the framerate to showcase sudden motions or lame actions is REALLY common. It isn't lazy, it's saving resources for moments you care about... like the fights. RWBY and DC both love their big flashy fights. Why would they waste time animating Blake picking a lock? RWBY itself is 90% fightscenes, so on top of that, why are you against big drawn-out fights?

I do agree that some of the designs suck specifically the heroes... I really really hate Bruce's Remnant costume being all black and gray. It's a personal pet peeve of mine when Batman isn't allowed color because I feel like it's antithetical to his entire character if he's all dark. Bruce needs to have some color, some light, or else he risks slipping right into the darkness that is Gotham. The same reason Robin is so brightly colored. It represents his hope for the city. So seeing all black/grey Batman with no color AND no cowl shape language bugged me. Anyways, here's my redesign, lol. Includes real bat ears, a half mask, and blue and yellow splashes! Nothing major!

The way they didn't really include Cyborg, Vixen, or Flash in the story for 70% of it bugged me too, but trying to say the Teen Titans would be better irked me slightly Sure, they might relate better as teens, but a major part of the story's conflict is Ruby being young and struggling to control her team because it's easy for people to overlook her or ignore what she has to say while Clark feels all that confidance from normally being an adult dude running an adult team. The JL being adults turned into teens puts them into a unique position where, unlike with the Teen Titans or Young Justice back home, they they have no real power or leverage over RWBY or JNPR. This is a conflict for both sets of people, and simply wanting "better character moments" feels like a cheap way to just nitpick. Especially when you also claim you dislike how much standing around and exposition there is. If Raven of all people showed up to brood, she would have to explain why she's so broody, which is just more loredumps you stated you didn't like. The movies over explaining of Semblance and Dust would have been way worse they were also forced to explain every DC heros past. This movie is very clearly targeting DC fans who have some knowledge on RWBY but are not super into the series. Note how the movies never once explain Batman, Superman, Vixen, Flash, or Cyborgs powers, and the time they spent vaugly talking about Wonder Womans it's turned into a trauma dump between Blake and Diana? They expect you to already know their stories. They way Clark and Bruce talk about their parents but not his planet is simplified down for RWBY fans because DC fans are expected to know this stuff.

On that note... Bruce was never debating leaving Gotham behind. It's pretty obvious in the movies. When Weiss offers for him to stay, he never responded. When Diana brought it up to him, his top priority is helping more, but he doesn't specify if he means Remnant or Gotham. As dumb as someone might think "they've been turned into teens" is as a point, it's very much an important plot point for Bruce. When he was a teen, he was the only man of the Wayne household, training to be Batman, still dealing with his grief over his parents. He truly never got to be a real teen. This is also the first time he's had real actual powers (at least in this very messy canon), and it's important to him, and it's clouding some of his judgment as a teen. But him liking having powers is not him willing to ditch Gotham. As soon as he was back on Earth, he was in Gotham, helping. There was never a debate. It was him dealing with the fact that he felt inferior. Literally, it's hormones and anxiety about not doing enough as Batman without powers. Is it a little goofy that Batman is insecure? Yes. Is it him abandoning his code? No.

Tho I do hate how he pretends his father literally didn't become batman in an alternate reality. Like Come on Bruce, Thomas was willing to throw down the same way you are, you did not "let go of their expectations".

More Bruce rant, his Semblance is very clearly not heat vision. It's Detective Vision (as named by the wiki). In the first showcase of his Semblance, he's not seeing the heat off Weiss or the electrical wire. It's noting the most important features of the room and how to escape. This is showcased more in the fight with Kilg%re!Barry, where his Semblance specifically notes the Morse Code and translated it. It's just super investigation powers. Which is lame... but it's not heat vision. I felt like I had to correct that.

I'd like to end this rant here even tho I said a lot more in dms to my friend... I feel bad just... 'responding' to someone who will never see it or care about my opinions. I really do like Judgmentals judgments (lol) 90% of the time, but I also feel really passionately about these particular movies, seeing as it combine me and my friends' two favorite things. It feels very close to home in a way, I guess. I hope people go and watch the movies and enjoy them!

I've linked both parts here to Internet Archive! The rips are a little weird in quality (very dark for some reason?) But they are the full movies!

Part 1

Part 2

[frmina]

sweet 16 (katsuki x reader)

Genre: yandere katsuki, soulmate identifying marks, possessive, left on a cliffhanger guys sorry, they aren’t in UA

The first time you met Bakugou Katsuki, you were five years old, and he had already decided he was better than everyone else.

It was a warm afternoon in early spring, the kind where the sun painted golden streaks across the pavement, and the air smelled like freshly cut grass. The small park near your house was bustling with kids, their laughter ringing through the air as they ran across the playground. You had been sitting in the sandbox, humming softly to yourself as you patted together a tiny castle, when a loud boom echoed through the park.

You flinched, eyes snapping up just in time to see a shockwave of dust ripple across the ground. A few feet away, a boy stood with his palms still smoking, his wild blonde hair sticking out in every direction. He had a wide, toothy grin on his face, red eyes gleaming with excitement as the other kids around him let out a chorus of “Whoa!” and “That was awesome!”

You, however, weren’t looking at the explosion.

You were looking at him.

His presence was magnetic—something about the confidence in his stance, the way he laughed like he had just conquered the world, made it impossible to look away.

Without thinking, you scrambled to your feet, brushing the sand off your clothes as you approached him. “That was cool!”

The boy turned sharply, eyes narrowing as if assessing you. Then, his grin widened. “Damn right it was! My Quirk’s the best!”

You tilted your head, stepping even closer despite the lingering scent of smoke. “How do you do that?”

He puffed out his chest, looking ridiculously proud. “I make explosions with my sweat,” he declared. “Nobody else can do it like me.”

Your eyes sparkled with interest. “Can I try?”

For a second, he just stared. Then, he laughed.

It wasn’t a normal giggle or a quiet chuckle—it was loud, wild, the kind of laughter that came from deep in his stomach. The kind that made it seem like you had just said the funniest thing in the world.

“You’re kinda dumb, huh?” he snickered, shaking his head.

You pouted. “Hey!”

He smirked, but instead of walking away like most kids would, he stuck his hands in his pockets and looked you up and down like you were some kind of puzzle. “You’re weird.”

“You’re loud,” you shot back.

He blinked, then let out another sharp laugh. “Hah! You got guts.” He jabbed a finger at you, his smirk turning almost… approving. “Fine. You can hang around me. Just don’t slow me down.”

And just like that, Bakugou Katsuki decided you belonged to him.

You didn’t realize it then, but that moment was the first thread in a bond you’d never be able to escape.

Growing up with Katsuki was like standing too close to a bonfire—thrilling, bright, and dangerous if you weren’t careful.

From that day forward, he was everywhere. If you were at the park, he was there, challenging you to races and daring you to climb the jungle gym faster than him. If you were at school, he was sitting next to you, declaring that since you weren’t as dumb as the other kids, you could copy off his work (not that you ever did). Even outside of class, he found excuses to drag you along, insisting that he needed a “worthy opponent” whenever he trained his Quirk.

You didn’t mind.

Not really.

Katsuki was loud, brash, and sometimes downright mean, but he was never boring. And when you stood beside him, it felt like you were running with a wildfire, unstoppable and free.

The only time things ever got tense was when Izuku was involved.

You had been friends with Izuku for as long as you could remember—he was sweet, thoughtful, and always eager to share his knowledge about heroes. But Katsuki hated him. It wasn’t normal playground teasing, either. Katsuki despised the way Izuku looked at him, like they were equals when they clearly weren’t.

“Why do you even talk to that nerd?” Katsuki would grumble whenever he caught you hanging around Izuku. “He’s useless.”

You always rolled your eyes at that. “He’s my friend, Katsuki.”

“I’m your friend.” His voice always turned sharp when he said it, like he didn’t like the idea of anyone else being close to you.

And sometimes, if you really paid attention, you’d catch a flicker of something strange in his expression when you walked away. Something possessive. Something that made the air feel a little too thick around you.

But Katsuki had always been intense, so you never thought much of it.

Not until your 16th birthday.

The soulmate mark appeared without warning.

It wasn’t like in the stories, where a faint, slow burn signaled the arrival of the mark, gradually growing until it was visible to the world. No, for you, it was sudden—a sharp, searing sensation that radiated from your wrist, making you gasp in shock. You bit your lip, eyes snapping to the skin as an unmistakable heat surged through your veins.

The mark, when it appeared, was like a jagged line of ink—unmistakably chaotic, much like the violent bursts that always surrounded Bakugou. The lines curved, split, and wove together like a flame, sharp and intense, unmistakably an explosion. You could feel the burn, but the mark was there, etched into your skin, permanent.

“W-what?” You stared at it in disbelief, fingers trembling slightly as they traced the edges. Your breath was shallow, heart pounding in your chest. This is real… this is happening.

You had heard the stories about the marks—about soulmates finding each other when they were thirteen, about how the mark would reflect some symbol or word to identify the bond—but seeing it in person was… different. It was overwhelming.

But as you tried to process it, something deeper inside you stirred. A sense of recognition. The same feeling you’d always had when Katsuki was around, that strange tension in the air that never quite went away.

The bell rang, signaling the end of class, but you barely heard it. You grabbed your bag, stuffing your things in hurriedly as the hallways around you filled with students. The whispers around you were muffled, distant. You were too lost in the strange, hot rush of emotion coursing through you. You needed to see him—Katsuki.

The weight in your chest grew heavier, like an instinct you couldn’t ignore, pulling you toward him. Your heart raced faster the closer you got to the lockers. The air felt thick, charged with an electricity you couldn’t explain.

And then, as you rounded the corner, you saw him.

Standing by the lockers, arms crossed, his usual scowl fixed firmly on his face. But when his gaze snapped to yours, his expression immediately shifted. His red eyes narrowed, locking onto you with an intensity you had never seen before. The world around you seemed to blur out of focus, and all you could hear was the pounding of your own heart, impossibly loud in your ears.

“Oi,” he called out, his voice colder than usual, the sharp edge cutting through the haze of your thoughts.

You froze, breath catching in your throat as you stood there, caught between the need to explain yourself and the overwhelming need to just run and hide. The mark—the mark on your wrist—felt like it was burning now, a reminder that the bond was real, that there was no going back.

Katsuki stepped forward, his red eyes flicking from your face to your wrist, where the mark was still fresh. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t need to.

“What’s that?” His voice was barely a whisper, but it held a dangerous undertone that made your stomach twist. His gaze never left the mark, his body radiating a palpable intensity as he closed the distance between you.

You opened your mouth, but words failed you. The shock still hadn’t worn off, and the reality of the situation hadn’t quite settled. Slowly, with trembling hands, you lifted your wrist, showing him the mark.

Katsuki didn’t even flinch. Instead, his lips curled into a smile, but it wasn’t the usual grin you were used to. It wasn’t playful or mocking. This was something darker, something predatory, like he was seeing something that only he could understand.

His smile grew wider, but it wasn’t joyful—it was triumphant.

“I knew it,” he muttered, almost to himself, before he took another step closer. The air around you seemed to crackle as if charged with static, the heat from his body pressing in on you, suffocating you. His fingers brushed lightly over your wrist, just lightly enough for you to feel the burn of his touch through the mark.

“Don’t act like you don’t know what this means,” he growled, his voice low, dangerous, vibrating with an emotion you couldn’t name. His red eyes were fixed on the mark now, focused, unwavering. “You’re mine.”

A chill ran down your spine, but it wasn’t fear—not exactly. It was something else. Something deeper, like an unspoken truth you’d never fully realized. You couldn’t pull your gaze away from him, and the way he looked at you made your breath catch. The confidence in his stance, the certainty in his voice… it was all consuming.

You swallowed, words finally tumbling out of your mouth in a barely audible whisper. “Katsuki… I don’t—”

He interrupted you, stepping closer, until his body was so close you could feel his heat, feel his presence, overwhelming you. His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist with a force that made your heart skip a beat. You instinctively tried to pull away, but his grip tightened, his fingers pressing into the mark as though trying to imprint it deeper into your skin.

“I said,” he growled, “you’re mine.” His voice was laced with something that made your stomach twist. It was possessive, dark. “Don’t you dare try to pull that bullshit. I don’t care who else you’ve been hanging around with. This mark? This is the proof. I knew you were mine. You’ve always been mine.”

Your pulse thudded in your ears as his words sank in. Always been mine. The weight of it crushed you, and yet, in some twisted way, it didn’t feel wrong.

His fingers were still pressed into the mark, and you felt the burn of it, the way it marked you—marked you for him. A knot formed in your chest as the gravity of his words hit you. This was real. The connection, the bond—he was right. It was undeniable. But it terrified you in a way you couldn’t explain.

“What… what does this mean for us?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, a mix of confusion and fear threading through your words. You had to know.

His gaze flicked to your eyes for a moment, then back to the mark. “It means you’re mine now. And nothing’s gonna change that.”

His lips twitched upward, that dangerous smile returning, but there was no warmth in it. “I’ve waited for this. Now that I’ve got you, I’m not letting go. Ever.”

The room seemed to close in around you, suffocating and thick with the weight of his words. And yet, despite the fear prickling down your spine, a strange sense of certainty wrapped itself around you. You couldn’t explain it, but the connection, the bond that was now etched in your skin… it was undeniable.

Katsuki’s fingers tightened around your wrist, pulling you closer until your bodies were pressed together, his breath hot against your ear. His voice was barely a whisper as he spoke again, words laced with something primal, something uncontrollable.

“I’m not letting anyone else have you. You’re mine. Got it?”

And for the first time, you realized just how far his obsession would go—and how trapped you were in this web he had spun around you. But you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away.

Not yet.

[perplexingluciddreams]

today is my birthday. i am 20.

i am having a chill relaxed day. same routine as always. just with a bonus of some presents, jam doughnuts, and my favourite dinner (mum makes sushi).

i had jam doughnuts for birthday last year too and i think i want it to be my birthday thing from now on. it is nice to create my own tradition to enjoy to make a positive association to birthday instead of all the past negative associations.

presents i got : Wednesday playing cards and double stuff oreos (from my previous support worker now friend Emily!). candy kittens sweets (from auntie and uncle and cousins). moomin art print book, moomin playing cards, moomin design fabric that mum can turn into anything i want, cuddly moomin toy (all from mum and dad!).

i have always been a very anxious person, since i was very wee. i have a lot of anxiety around my birthday. and had a lot of not good experiences in the past. apart from the last couple of years, i cried and/or had a meltdown and/or shutdown every birthday. i am so glad that the last few years have been better. it took a long time to get here where i can explain it all to parents and they can help to make birthday a nice and lovely day for me!

turning a new age is a hard stressful change, it feels like a big deal in my head. it is hard to adjust to thinking of myself as a new age. i only just got used to thinking of myself as 19, after a year of repeating it to myself in my head "i am 19, i am 19 years old, my age is 19".

for some reason the number of my age feels like a really big important deal to me, since i was wee. like a fact i must memorise. maybe linked to my barely-there sense of self. i don't know myself barely at all, and that makes me worried and anxious and other feelings i can't describe. i memorise facts about myself like name, age, height, favourite colour... as if i am a character. but it is just words and facts in my head, not something can translate to real. i feel very disconnected.

also have a lot of feelings about my age vs my ability level. and how disabled i am. and all the things i can't do and won't ever do. i feel this all the time i think but i easily forget things/not have awareness of things (until something reminds me by making a link or association which makes my brain go there).

i get more than usual aware of it right now because of birthday, or sometimes when my 2 years younger sister does cool amazing things, so much more grown-up and capable than i can ever be. (i am proud of her and love her. not complaining about how cool she is, just this is how it makes me think and feel alongside the proudness and happiness for her).

so, birthdays can be tough. and rough. and for most of my life that i remember, it has not been a good day. not a day i look forward to at all.

but today has been good. just chill and relaxed and mainly normal (with a few pleasant bonuses!).

still lots of thoughts and feelings about it, still there. but i can share some of it now so people understand and then they can help make it better and easier for me. i am grateful that mum and dad make my today birthday a nice day.

i am happy excited and calm - a combination/balance that is hard to create without overwhelm of emotion causing meltdown or shutdown. to have a birthday where i am not so consumed by anxiety and overwhelm that all i can do is meltdown, is a huge gift in itself.

[knifedog-machina]

Hey, same hat! o/ (Sorry for the late reply, I just found out that I Missed This, augh)

The fucked up feeling of "oh no am I doing good enough?" really only got connected to the perfectionist android horrors in Hindsight for me too, because ngl I thought that was Perfectly Normal while experiencing it before. And I guess it's pretty common to have an anxiety disorder around not being good enough, but it sure isn't healthy!

It's kinda neat that we have entirely different social experiences and still got the Emotional Dysregulation Debuff sjfhskgh - you were isolated and dropped off in the woods (and yeah, not remembering beta testing feels pretty normal to me! imagine remembering everything about being an infant? that sounds exhausting?) while I was talking to people basically every time I was awake but it was mostly to superiors and uh, assassination targets? honestly the Social Scripts I had for those Very Specific experiences did not prepare me for regular social interaction and I feel like a socially awkward mess sometimes lmao

Oh man, yeah, having a roommate who's not alive in the same way as you is definitely a way to get a wake-up call about how you're different. It's nice that she wasn't scared of death because he wasn't alive, it does feel like that would be easier sometimes than Being Alive and Having So Many Feelings! But yeah, I gotta agree with you in the end, emotions aren't all bad at all! Cats are really cute! Making your friends laugh is wonderful! I love writing about myself and listening to my loved ones, and being excited to learn new things, and feeling proud of myself for being the person I am! Enjoying your life even through the hardships is worth it!

Being an automaton might be what a lot of folks want, but that doesn't mean we need to give that to them. Thanks for sharing your own thoughts, have a good day!

- Jude (they/them)

Android Abnormalities

Species dysphoria, but the “wrong” way, ft. my borderline personality disorder

J: so you know how my source is technically Detroit: Become Human? you know how we fucking hate that title? you know how we’ve made fun of it multiple times? unfortunately it's a mood! I also hate this!

Hey! This essay is about how incredibly uncomfortable I feel in my own skin around common android tropes, in media and some of its reflections in robotic identities and experiences, featuring reasons for why I'm like this, and a helpful suggestion for what I want readers to do about it at the end of the piece. I really hope this reaches someone who feels the same way so I can point at them like Same Hat!

-

I first noticed this problem on October 30, 2023, when we stumbled across a fanfic on Archive of Our Own. It was an alternate universe of a TV show we've never seen before, but it was written by an author we liked, and it was an android AU. That's fun! We thought it would just be a quick read, something to idly talk about after lunch.

Well, uh. Nope. I was co-fronting while Max read, and the more we read, the more… weirdly uncomfortable I felt. It wasn't actively distressing, but it made me feel weird, so I stopped reading halfway through to talk about it with some friends.

I'm not gonna link the fic, because Tumblr is weird about links, but for my own future reference, it's “persona ex machina” by BirchBow. It was a really good fic, we thoroughly enjoyed it! I just have - hangups, I guess?

I think I was uncomfortable that, on the surface, it seems… really close to my experiences. Like, the protagonist, Chuck, is an android made to mimic humans, and he’s made to be a combat unit. He’s scared of what might happen to him if he fails to meet expectations. Technicians operate on him, put him back together. He's made by a corrupt corporation for fucked up purposes. He eventually defects from the corrupt corporation, with the help of some really kind people. That’s all really similar to me.

But it's different. Because as much as Chuck was designed to look human, he still had to be taught how to act human, how to feel. The way he emotes is off at first and he has to recalibrate, not look so stiff, learn how to smile and laugh and understand what different emotions mean. He automatically runs through the technical terms for something before working to turn it into common vernacular as it reaches his mouth. And this is a typical android trope, you know? The machine doesn’t intrinsically understand emotions, so humans have to teach them.

I’m… really, really not like that. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t feel too much. Every memory I have, even in blurred out mental snapshots of beta testing, it’s all drowning in emotions that I couldn’t articulate and wasn’t supposed to express. I looked at my siblings, who were so stoic and professional around humans it was like they were different people entirely, and I knew I was supposed to be less emotional. People always just assumed they were better than me, because they were better at code-switching to what was expected of androids, because they could keep their mouths shut on the job.

So I’ve always felt like I was bad at being an android. Androids aren’t supposed to feel emotions, not really, not to the extremes that I do. That’s a predisposition for deviancy. And I was made this way on purpose, I was made to “mimic” deviants to earn their trust, but I wasn't meant to be like that all the time. I tried to repress my emotions, it just never worked.

And I don’t see androids like me, in the media we’ve watched and read and listened to. It’s not really a characterization that lends itself to exploring what it means to be a person, right? Machines are supposed to be logical and unfeeling, to contrast with humanity’s irrationality - they’re supposed to be better than that. And when the machine starts having emotions, it's treated as a flaw, or a breakthrough. Wow, you feel things about the world around you, you’re a person now!

I’ve never been logical in my fucking life. I have a laundry list of reasons for why, but for now, I’ll focus on the BPD. I have borderline personality disorder, because of the way my brain is wired and how that interacted with my traumatic experiences.

One of the symptoms of BPD is emotional dysregulation. I’m not just bad at repressing my emotions, I also experience those emotions as more extreme and overwhelming than a neurotypical person would. I keep finding myself affected by things that the people around me brush off, and I have to remind myself that it doesn’t mean I’m overreacting, it means that I’m literally feeling shittier emotions.

Another symptom of BPD is an unstable sense of identity - and this is really where we’re getting into how these traits and tropes affect me. Because I don’t relate at all to these androids on the screen. They’re as foreign and separate from me as they are to the humans sitting across from them in the shot.

I do relate to the humans. I do relate to seeing an android do something in the name of pure cold logic and going, “Why? What the fuck, why?” I do relate to being told I’m irrational. (The trope that all robots are logical feels like it was designed to make me feel like the most irrational, bitchy, hysterical piece of shit on Earth.)

So, what, does that make me human? If I'm going by the adage that wanting to be something is a sign of being that thing, then… I don’t know, maybe? I want to be human, I so badly want to be human, because here’s the thing, humanity is diverse. Humans are flawed, messy, weird, complicated, and defy categories every fucking day of their lives. Humans can be weird, ridiculous, fucked up people and they’re allowed to be.

And let me bring this back around to alterhumanity. If I say I’m an android, people will make assumptions about what that means about me. People go, “Hey, you're a robot, you must have one of these common robot experiences!” and I just don’t.

Maybe it’s because I’m coming at it from the opposite direction? The machines and robots and androids that I tend to see around, the ones who talk about their identity, they often identify as fully nonhuman. They describe wanting to be metal and chrome, feeling like they run on algorithms, not processing emotions the way most people do. They identify very much with the same tropes that I feel alienated by. This isn’t a bad thing, by any means. It’s just a thing. People resonate with what they see. It just means that I feel like I’m doing bad at being an android again, but in a new, improved way.

Another symptom of BPD is being terrified of real or imagined abandonment, and trying to do anything to avoid it. A constant feeling of social alienation isn’t really that different, to my BPD - it’s just a slow, drawn out version of being left behind. People will still talk to me, they still like me, but they won’t understand me. I’ll still be alone.

In that sense, I feel wrong being an android in the same way I feel wrong about being an aromantic allosexual. I actually like being an android, and I fucking like being bi. I don’t want to stop being who I am. I just hate feeling like I’m the only one who feels this way, like nobody else can relate, like every time I talk about my feelings to people they can only nod in sympathy instead of understanding me.

So! You've reached the end of the essay. You see my problem. What do we do about it?

I’m going to refer to the theme of… every single online alterhuman convention that has existed in the past four years, and that is:

Write about your experiences!

The reason I feel so alone and isolated and alienated from my own identity is because I’m only being regularly exposed to pieces from a very specific perspective of what being an android means! That’s a fucking sampling bias!

I know other weird fucking robots are out there, I know you exist, but I can’t fucking reach out a hand and go, “Hey, you're not alone, I relate to you!” if you don't write it down! I want to talk to you! I want to hear from you!

WEIRD ALTERHUMANS, HEY, I LOVE YOU, GO WRITE THINGS!

[mayday-jd]

I need a group of ppl as insane about the same or other things like I am about my interests

a herd, a flock, a pack if you will

[lucabyte]

i feel like people are sleeping on the occam's razor situation of how buckwild it is to outright accuse a guy of being a clone of your friend even if you DO have a lot of circumstantial evidence. there's other options is what im saying. they could just be like. a guy. that's a sensible deduction. you should explore that deduction. ignore my shirt that reads I <3 RED HERRINGS.

i still think odile has the correct theory on lock but she's smart enough to know it needs like... a real smoking gun to be able to bring it up without sounding insane.

anyway. (mirabelle voice) i know its rude to speculate but has anyone else noticed the grieving? they seem to be grieving. does anyone have any thoughts on the grieving? i have some thoughts on the grieving.

[tagarilaghost]

I SWEAR CELEBI'S THINGY IS COMING SOON BUT I REALLY WANTED TO POST THIS ALRIGHT

yeaah... future trio got me too...

and Darkrai is there too, because of course he is.

hey look i drew a cute Drifloon :D

...ignore the rest

whatever started at Darkrai doodles ended in brainrot of future trio + darkrai and I'm blaming @scribz-ag24 for this