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earthlybeam · 2 days ago

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The reader (you) , with your bratty personality, loved teasing the elves. You always find ways to get their attention at the most inconvenient times, often by reaching out to touch the elf’s sensitive ears. (For the elves, it was more than just a simple touch—such actions were seen as intimate, a signal of courting, and a serious one at that also incredibly sensitive to pain and pleasure. If the reader (you) didn’t get the response you wanted, you’d torment the elf’s ears further, pinching or tugging until their target finally relented. You knew just how to push their buttons—always with a smile and a glint of mischief in their eyes.)

Gil-Galad, Thranduil, Elrond, Celeborn version below.

🏵️𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭

Gil-galad was no stranger to the burdens of leadership. As the High King of the Noldor, the weight of the crown often pressed heavily on his shoulders. He was accustomed to being in control, to having his decisions made with unwavering precision, and his commands followed with absolute loyalty. His days were filled with strategy, diplomacy, and endless matters of state, leaving little room for distractions. But you—you, with that mischievous glint in your eye—seemed determined to be the exception. He was used to the quiet hum of his court, the careful, polite whispers of his council members, the solemn discussions that shaped the fate of Middle-earth. He had learned to maintain a stoic calm in the face of countless pressures. But you—you had a way of unraveling his composure, bit by bit, until there was nothing left but the heat of your teasing touches.

Today was no different. As he stood on the balcony, gazing out over Lindon, deep in thought about the future of his people, he felt it. The familiar sensation—the lightest brush of fingertips against the edge of his ear. His sensitive elven ears twitched involuntarily, a small gasp escaping his lips before he could stop it. The touch was innocent enough, playful even. But he knew what it meant—knew that you had every intention of making a game out of it. Turning his head slowly, Gil-galad’s eyes found you standing just out of reach, feigning innocence. His gaze narrowed, and despite his better judgment, a small, indulgent smile tugged at his lips. “Are you so certain that you want my attention, little one?” His voice was calm, but there was a trace of warning beneath the surface.

You couldn’t help it. There was something so satisfying about making Gil-galad lose that composure of his. For all his wisdom, his age, his power—he was still, in some ways, just like any other Elf, sensitive in ways he didn’t want to admit. And those ears? Oh, you knew exactly what a simple touch could do. You’d watched him closely, noticed how his ear would twitch when you brushed too close. How his expression would falter, just a fraction, when your fingers lingered on that delicate, pointed curve. His stoic façade might fool many, but you had the key to unlocking something deeper, something raw beneath that calm exterior. With a grin that barely restrained your mischievous intent, you took a step closer. He was standing there, too absorbed in his thoughts—so serene, so dignified—and you had no intentions of letting him stay that way. You reached up, pinching one of his ears, the motion quick and sharp, just enough to make his jaw tighten. His immediate reaction was almost imperceptible—a tightening of his lips, the briefest flicker in his eye. But you had felt it. You had seen it. He was trying so hard to remain stoic. “Careful, my King,” you whispered teasingly. “You wouldn’t want to lose that composure, would you?”

The pinch sent a sharp jolt through Gil-galad’s ear, and he closed his eyes for a moment, taking in a slow breath to steady himself. How bold you were. You knew exactly how to push him, to provoke him, and in such a way that he could hardly stop you. The delicate skin of his ear was more sensitive than most would realize—and you knew that. Too well, he thought. “Enough,” he murmured, though his tone carried a softness that betrayed his usual authority. His eyes softened ever so slightly, but there was an edge to his words, a warning that came with the weight of being a king. “You do not want to test my patience, my little flower.” But, of course, you did not relent. You never did. A second later, his ear was subjected to your playful torment once again—a quick pinch, then a teasing brush that made him flinch. His breath hitched before he could fully mask it. It was maddening how you always seemed to find the perfect moment to push him to the edge. He stood still, his hand clenched by his side in an effort to maintain some semblance of control, but it was becoming increasingly difficult.

You were relentless, always just out of reach, always knowing how far you could push him before his control slipped away. His gaze flickered to yours—dark eyes filled with a quiet command, though a trace of something else lingered there, something unspoken. “Do not tempt me,” he growled, his voice low and almost dangerous, the edges of his usual calm fraying as his patience began to thin. The flicker of vulnerability in his voice made you smile. It was too tempting. His authority was always present, a constant weight upon his shoulders, but that look—that brief moment where he faltered—it was priceless. You could feel the tension radiating from him, the strength of his restraint warring with the pull of your teasing.

“Oh? Am I tempting you, my King?” you replied with a soft chuckle, stepping closer, just a whisper of space between you. You didn’t touch him, not yet, but you hovered near him, close enough to make him feel your presence, feel the pull of your proximity. His stoic face remained carefully neutral, but you could hear the slight hitch in his breath as you hovered near his ear. You brushed your fingers lightly along the curve of his ear again, just enough to make him feel it, just enough to make him fight to maintain his composure. Gil-galad’s gaze narrowed, his muscles tensing at your every move. His lips pressed together tightly, and you could see the faintest tremor in his jaw. He was trying so hard to remain composed, to hold onto that elusive control, but you could sense the undercurrent of tension in him, the subtle flicker of his resolve weakening with each passing moment. The smallest of movements—a barely noticeable shift in his posture—betrayed the struggle within him.

“Gil-galad,” you murmured, leaning in a little closer, your breath warm against his ear. “I only want to play. A little teasing never hurt anyone, has it?”His heart beat faster, but Gil-galad didn’t let it show. Damn you, he thought, yet he couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth from twitching in a near-smile. The battle for composure was growing harder by the second. Every time your fingers brushed against his ear, every light touch, it felt like a thousand whispers all at once. He had lived for centuries—he was a king, an ancient elf, and yet you, with your bratty little games, had a way of unraveling him that no foe ever could. His patience, once as steady as the mountains, was eroding. Slipping away like the sands of time. “Enough,” he repeated, his voice still steady but laced with something far less certain. A soft tremor was hidden beneath the calm façade as his hand reached up, almost involuntarily, brushing the side of his ear where your fingers had just been. The gesture betrayed the subtle storm brewing within him. His body was betraying him, and it irritated him more than he cared to admit. “You test me, little one,” he said, his words thick with something deeper now—something affectionate, despite the strained composure he was desperately trying to cling to.

His eyes found yours, dark and smoldering, eyes that burned with both authority and something much more dangerous—an edge of challenge, of desire, that he hadn’t shown you before. The king was gone for a moment, replaced by something far more personal, far more exposed. And before you could react, his hand moved again, reaching out to cup your chin gently, lifting your face so your eyes could meet his, locking with yours in a way that sent a surge of heat through your body. “If this is how you wish to earn my attention, then so be it,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, a playful thread woven into the depth of his words. “But you must know, I am no stranger to games of my own. And I always play to win.”

You could feel it then—the challenge. You’d pushed him, unraveling his composed façade, and now he had you right where he wanted you. That calm, regal authority was still there, but beneath it, something new simmered—something that you hadn’t seen before. The eyes that once seemed so distant, so distant and cold, were now filled with a raw intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. His words, laced with such quiet power, rang in your ears, and you realized with a thrill that the game had changed. Now, you were both players in this dance of seduction and challenge. You met his gaze, daring and unyielding, but there was a hint of uncertainty in you, a slight tremor in your chest that you would not allow him to see. You knew he had been affected, perhaps more than he cared to admit, and that gave you all the power you needed. The satisfaction of knowing you had drawn him in—drawn him to this point—was worth everything.

“Then play, my King,” you whispered, your voice low, with a daring smile tugging at the corners of your lips, letting him decide how the game would unfold from here. You could feel the heat between you, the challenge that stretched like a taut wire between you both, just waiting for one of you to pull. You had drawn him into this dance, and now the steps were his to lead. But deep down, neither of you needed to say it aloud—this was far from over. Neither of you had the intention of stopping. The game had only just begun. Gil-galad’s breath caught at your words. There it was, the challenge that he had been holding back, the undeniable invitation that left him both exhilarated and dangerously intrigued. You had called his bluff, and now there was nothing left to do but follow through with the game. The fire in his chest was growing, stoking his desire to see just how far you would push him—and how much of him you could make him lose control of.

His eyes never left yours as he stepped closer, the space between you shrinking in a way that felt inevitable. His body was taut, like a bowstring drawn too tight, and the faintest flicker of something darker lingered in his expression—something raw, something almost primal. “You will learn, little one,” he murmured, his voice now thick with promise. He moved as if the world itself had slowed, every step measured and deliberate. His hand brushed lightly against your cheek before his fingers slid down, grazing the curve of your jaw, sending a shiver down your spine. His touch was gentle—deceptively so—but the heat in his gaze was undeniable, a flame that danced behind his cool composure. The moment stretched, taut like a drawn bow, and he leaned in close, his breath brushing against the shell of your ear as he whispered, “Do you know what you’ve done?” His words were low, hushed, barely a breath against your skin, but they held weight—he was no longer the High King of Lindon, the untouchable ruler. Now, he was something more dangerous, more tangled in this game than you could have imagined. You had pulled him in, and now, in the space between desire and restraint, he wasn’t certain who was winning. A flicker of amusement danced in his eyes, despite the intensity of the moment. He couldn’t help but admire your audacity, how you still stood your ground even as the storm between you both built. His hand slipped to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, his grip not harsh, but enough to keep you where he wanted you. Close. “You’ve awakened something, and now I intend to see it through.”

His lips, hovering just above your own, were a breath away, but he didn’t kiss you. No, he was letting the anticipation stretch, letting the power shift in his favor. His other hand brushed against your ear once more, this time with far more intention, as if to remind you of just how sensitive he was—of just how far he would let you push before he decided to take control. Your teasing had worked, but now, the stakes had changed. There was no going back from this. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he warned, his lips curling into a smile that was as much a challenge as it was a promise. “But I warn you, I don’t lose.” It was a statement, but it held something deeper. Something intimate, something that carried the weight of more than just words. Gil-galad leaned back slightly, his hand still resting on your neck, his thumb brushing gently over the curve of your skin. The control was back in his hands, but the tension between you still crackled like an electric charge, both of you knowing that the game was far from finished. The power was shifting, but neither of you was ready to give up just yet. His gaze swept over your features once more, his smile still lingering. “You’ve played your hand, little one,” he said softly. “Now, let’s see how you respond when the game shifts in my favor.” And with that, he moved, a step closer, as if to close the distance between your lips with a kiss that was still just out of reach.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

Thranduil sat at his desk, the dim light of his study flickering softly against the walls, casting long shadows. His fingers moved across ancient maps and scrolls, the weight of centuries of leadership heavy in his thoughts. Mirkwood was calm—too calm. His mind was always occupied with the threats that loomed at the edges of his kingdom, but tonight, he was lost in the minutiae of strategy and diplomacy. The faintest sound of light footfalls reached his ears, but he didn’t lift his gaze from the scroll in front of him. He had learned over the years that Mirkwood was full of intrusions, both from the forest and from within his own halls. Still, something in the air felt different.

You crept into his study with the same mischievous glint in your eyes that had earned you both admiration and frustration from the Elven king. Thranduil hadn’t noticed you approach at first, so focused was he on his work, but that only gave you the advantage. You hovered behind his chair for a moment, taking in the sight of the king as he immersed himself in his responsibilities. His hair, long and flowing like silver threads of moonlight, framed his strong features, his brow furrowed with concentration. The sharpness of his gaze, even when unfocused, was enough to make anyone stand at attention—but you were not just anyone. You could feel the tension in his body, the way his shoulders slightly tensed whenever you were near. And you had a particular fondness for that subtle vulnerability, for the way he resisted, and yet seemed to appreciate your antics.

Reaching forward slowly, your fingers brushed against the tips of his elven ears, and you felt him freeze immediately. The slight tremor of his body was all the confirmation you needed to know that, yes, the rumors were true. The sensitivity of an elf’s ears was nothing to be trifled with. At first, you didn’t press it. You simply caressed the delicate points of his ears with a feather-light touch, the softness of his skin beneath your fingers sending a shiver down your spine. His breath hitched ever so slightly, but his voice remained steady as he continued working, his posture betraying his growing awareness of your presence. “Did you need something?” Thranduil’s voice was quiet, but there was an underlying strain in it, as though he were trying to maintain his composure despite your proximity.

You smiled, a devious twinkle in your eye as you leaned in just a little closer. “Oh, nothing in particular,” you said softly, your breath barely a whisper against his ear. “I was just thinking… how long will it take before you give me your full attention?” You pinched his ear gently, just enough to make the skin flush beneath your fingers. Thranduil’s body tensed almost imperceptibly, and you could see the corner of his lip twitch in irritation. He slowly lowered the scroll in his hand, his gaze sharpening with a mix of wariness and amusement as he looked up at you, finally turning his head. “You have an insufferable way of getting what you want, don’t you?”

The words were tinged with both exasperation and something else—perhaps a touch of fascination, though he would never admit it. You loved how he tried to stay composed, how he fought against your little games, but you knew him well enough by now. Thranduil might be a king, but he was also an elf, and underneath that regal facade, he was not immune to temptation. You didn’t wait for a response, instead choosing to torment him further. You pinched his ear again, this time a little firmer, twisting it with a deliberate movement. His breath faltered, and his hand clenched the arm of his chair. “You’re being quite cruel,” he muttered, but there was a note of frustration creeping into his voice. He didn’t move to stop you, though. Instead, his sharp eyes narrowed as he studied you—waiting, perhaps hoping that you’d stop, but knowing, too, that you wouldn’t.

“Am I?” you teased, pressing your thumb to the edge of his ear and giving it another, more insistent pinch. “You seem to like it, though.” Your fingers danced along the sensitive tip, and you felt him shift beneath your touch, his chest rising and falling slightly faster. Thranduil’s eyes flickered to your hand, and his lip curled ever so slightly. The King of Mirkwood had his pride, and even in this vulnerable moment, he wasn’t one to beg or show weakness. But you could tell his patience was fraying. His grip on the chair tightened, and there was a quiet warning in his voice as he spoke again. “I am not one to be trifled with, little one.” The words were clipped, but there was an undertone of something deeper. Desire, perhaps. Or simply the need to regain control. You leaned in close again, the tip of your nose brushing against the side of his face as you whispered, “We’ll see about that.”

Thranduil’s breath caught in his throat as the sharp, unexpected pinch of his ear jolted him from his thoughts. His eyes, usually steady and calculating, flickered with a moment of vulnerability, and he couldn’t suppress the soft, involuntary hiss that escaped his lips. He had never quite expected this from you—the delicate balance of teasing and torment. You had crossed a line now, and the energy between you crackled with a dangerous tension. His pride, unshakable and centuries-old, flared, and yet, a deeper part of him, something raw and instinctive, stirred to life. It wasn’t pain he felt—not exactly. The sensation was sharp, yes, but something else lingered too: the unsettling pulse of his own body responding to your touch. The way his ears burned under your fingertips, how the very edge of the discomfort had a strange, intoxicating edge to it, unlike anything he had ever allowed to happen. And now, here you were, smirking at him with that unmistakable gleam in your eyes, knowing exactly what you had done.

“You,” he growled, his voice dropping lower, filled with a dangerous calm, a blend of amusement and something darker. “You will regret this, little one.” He didn’t need to see you to know that you were savoring this moment. You always seemed to delight in seeing him on the edge of something he couldn’t quite control. You were like that—a force of nature, wild and mischievous, playing with him like a cat with a mouse. But Thranduil, the King of Mirkwood, never let a game slip from his grasp, and he wasn’t going to start now. Your smirk widened just a fraction, the gleam in your eyes only deepening as you leaned back slightly to admire your work. You had gotten under his skin. You had made him feel something he wasn’t used to feeling, and for a brief moment, it unsettled him. He had never thought his weakness—his ear, his damnable sensitivity—would be exposed like this, let alone by someone who took such delight in tormenting it.

Your gaze didn’t waver from his, the challenge clear in your posture. The tension built as Thranduil’s lips parted, eyes flashing dangerously. This wasn’t a moment of weakness. It wasn’t pain that gripped him, but something else, something far more complicated. His hand rose, almost too quickly, his fingers latching onto your wrist with an unexpected force. He didn’t yank you, but there was no denying the strength in his grip, the way it seemed to hold you in place as his presence towered over you. He could have simply taken your hand away, could have made this interaction nothing more than a swift rebuke, but no—Thranduil wasn’t one to be disrespected without consequence, especially when it came to something as intimate as his ear.

“You think you can play with me like this, little one?” His voice was a low murmur, but it carried a power that made your heart beat a little faster. “Let us see how well you handle my attention.” The words were carefully chosen, as if to remind you that this wasn’t a simple game. He was the king, the one who commanded Mirkwood, who had spent centuries as both a ruler and a protector of his people. But in that moment, you weren’t thinking of any of that. You were thinking of how the game had shifted. How the roles had reversed, and now, Thranduil was the one who had been provoked. You could see it in the way his lips curved slightly, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t just annoyance that flickered in his eyes—it was interest. A challenge.

You didn’t flinch. In fact, your lips curled into a slight smirk of your own as you met his gaze, unflinching and confident, like you were in control of the situation. You had provoked him, and you knew he was no longer the one unaffected. You had caught his attention, and that was a dangerous thing for both of you. His fingers remained tightly wound around your wrist, but his touch was controlled, deliberate, as if marking his territory, asserting his dominance in this little game. And yet, there was a flicker of something else in his expression—a deeper curiosity, even a hunger, that you had never seen in him before. It wasn’t just about punishment anymore. No, this was more complicated. He was intrigued by you. You had made him feel something raw, something old and long buried, and now, you had his full attention. You swallowed, but still, you didn’t break eye contact. The challenge had been issued. It was no longer just about the playful teasing or your little games. Thranduil’s attention was now focused entirely on you, and you had the feeling this would no longer be as easy as you expected. The game had begun, but now, it was a game of give and take. And you? You were ready for whatever came next.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

The tranquil halls of Rivendell hummed with the gentle whispers of flowing water and rustling leaves, a sanctuary of peace and beauty. Yet, in one particular study, serenity was far from the prevailing mood. There, at his grand oak desk, Lord Elrond sat, his elegant quill scratching steadily over a parchment filled with intricate Elven script. The lord of Imladris was the picture of focus, his noble features serene as the golden light of the afternoon filtered through the arched windows. Unfortunately for him, you were also in the room. You were standing not far behind his chair, arms crossed, lips twisted in a playful pout. The stillness of the room was only broken by the soft rustling of parchment as Elrond worked, lost in whatever task had so firmly claimed his attention. The sight of his perfect composure, the calm yet powerful figure of the lord, only fueled your impatience. He had been like this for hours, completely immersed in his work—totally ignoring you.

With a dramatic sigh, you leaned slightly forward, careful not to disturb his quiet routine too much. “Elrond,” you began, dragging his name in a playful sing-song that was sure to catch his attention. You could see his shoulders tense just slightly in acknowledgment. “How long must you sit there ignoring me? You’ve been staring at those scrolls for hours. Do you even know I’m here?” Elrond’s hand paused for a brief moment, his quill hovering just above the parchment. His focus shifted, but only just. Without looking up from the words he was writing, he responded, his voice calm, but laced with that familiar, measured elegance. “I am well aware of your presence, Mellon nín. However, this task demands my attention.” You scoffed lightly, knowing full well that his response was nothing more than an attempt at deflection. His voice was smooth, practiced, but you could feel the tiniest hint of his own frustration under the surface. “More than I do?” you teased, arching an eyebrow, stepping a little closer, your gaze fixated on him with an impish glint. He didn’t look up, but there was the faintest shift in his posture, the smallest of smiles tugging at the corner of his lips. “Patience is a virtue, my dear,” he replied, a quiet warmth in his voice. You pursed your lips and planted your hands on your hips. “Patience is overrated.” The words slipped out with a confident, almost bratty edge, an open challenge. But as you spoke, your eyes wandered. You watched him, the lord of Rivendell, so poised and composed. And then, there it was—the delicate curve of his ear, just peeking through the dark strands of his silken hair.

It was a sight that you had grown to recognize. His ears, those slender points, were not just a distinguishing feature of his race but something deeply personal. To touch them, especially the sensitive tips, was an intimate gesture for an elf. So many unspoken things were tied to that one action, and you couldn’t help but wonder how far you could push him before his patience gave way. The mischievous spark in your eyes grew as the idea took root. If you won’t give me attention willingly, I’ll just have to take it. Your steps were light, but deliberate as you moved behind his chair. His attention was still on the parchment, but you knew—he knows. His incredible hearing, that gift of Elven sensitivity, had undoubtedly already sensed your movement, the slight shift of your presence. Leaning in just a fraction closer, you reached forward, your fingers brushing against the fine, soft strands of his hair. Elrond did not stir, but you could see his ear twitch slightly, ever so subtly. You smiled inwardly. With a barely audible breath, you pinched the very tip of his ear. Elrond’s response was immediate. His quill stopped mid-motion, hovering above the parchment, and his hand froze. His body stilled for a heartbeat, a slight tremor passing through him. The air between you thickened, and you could feel the weight of his attention slowly shifting from his work to you. His sharp, clear eyes widened in surprise for the briefest of moments, before narrowing with a subtle warning. A soft, almost imperceptible intake of breath left his lips as his gaze flickered to you over his shoulder, catching the playful glint in your eyes.

For a moment, he didn’t speak. You could sense him holding his breath, weighing his options. He was torn between annoyance and amusement—torn between the responsibility he bore as the Lord of Rivendell and his inability to deny his body’s reaction to your touch. Elven ears were a sensitive thing—sensitive to both pleasure and pain—and you had expertly walked the fine line between them. His tone, when it came, was low but edged with a warning. “(Y/N), do you truly wish to test me today?” His voice was calm, measured, but there was a flicker of something deeper in the depths of his gaze, something that made your heart beat a little faster.

Feigning innocence, you took a small step back, holding your hands up in a mock gesture of surrender. “Test you? I’d never,” you replied, your voice dripping with mock sweetness, a layer of innocence laid over your mischievous grin. But your eyes—your eyes betrayed you. The glint in them, the playfulness in the curve of your lips, revealed everything that needed no words. Elrond’s gaze softened, but only briefly. There was a softness in his eyes that spoke of a long history of affection, but beneath that, there was something more—a challenge in his stance, a resolve that only you could bring to the surface. He leaned back slightly in his chair, the corners of his mouth curving up just enough to betray his amusement, though the challenge in his eyes remained unyielding. “You are truly a handful, Mellon nín,” he murmured, and there was something almost affectionate in the way he said it. But the look he gave you was a clear warning. You knew this game wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.

Before Elrond could return to his work, you reached out again, this time brushing your fingers along the smooth curve of his ear. The response was immediate—his body stiffened, his back straightened with military precision, and his lips pressed into a thin, controlled line. His elegant features, usually so composed, wavered just for a moment, and the tips of his ears turned a faint shade of pink, a silent admission of how deeply your touch affected him. His sharp eyes darted to you, and for a brief second, you thought you saw a flicker of vulnerability there—something that made the ever-dignified lord seem a touch more… mortal. He caught his breath, as if unsure whether to scold you or indulge your playful torment. “(Y/N),” he said, his voice deeper now, laced with an undeniable warning. “You know how delicate a matter this is. Touching an elf’s ears…” His words trailed off, the weight of his knowledge pressing down. “Oh, I know,” you interrupted, not giving him a chance to finish. A mischievous grin spread across your lips as you leaned in closer. “That’s exactly why it’s so much fun,” you teased, your voice barely above a whisper, but laced with just enough intent to make the air between you thick with playful tension.

Elrond’s gaze sharpened, his lips curving into a subtle frown, but there was a spark in his eyes that betrayed a hint of curiosity. “Fun, you say?” His voice held the faintest note of disbelief. “Mm-hmm.” You leaned in even closer, lowering your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re so serious all the time, Elrond. I think you need someone to remind you how to have a little fun now and then.” You saw the slight tension in his jaw as he exhaled softly, resigning himself to the fact that you would not be easily deterred. He set his quill down with exaggerated care, each movement deliberate, as though the moment required his utmost attention. Then, turning in his chair to face you fully, he clasped his hands together, folding them on his lap, his posture one of restrained patience. “And you believe this is the way to achieve that?” he asked, his tone gentle but pointed. You tilted your head, feigning a thoughtful expression. “Well,” you said, drawing out the word, “you leave me no choice. If you won’t look away from your work, I have to get your attention somehow.” Elrond’s lips twitched ever so slightly, and though his gaze remained sharp, there was something in his eyes—something warmer, perhaps even fond—that softened the edges of his irritation. “You are incorrigible,” he muttered with a quiet chuckle, the words losing their sting when paired with the faint smile tugging at his lips.

“Maybe,” you said with a casual shrug, grinning unabashedly. “But you love it.” Before he could offer a retort, you moved again, quicker this time, your fingers catching the soft curve of his ear once more. The moment you made contact, you saw his entire body react—his posture faltered, and his breath hitched sharply, his chest rising and falling just a little faster. His cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink, more pronounced now, as though the warmth from your touch had burned straight through his usually composed exterior. With a swift, decisive motion, Elrond reached up to capture your hand in his, his grip firm but not harsh. “That is quite enough,” he said, his voice low and rich, a commanding undertone settling in that was impossible to ignore. There was a promise in his words—something that hinted at retribution, and yet, a part of you couldn’t help but wonder if he enjoyed this little game. “Oh, come on,” you teased, leaning in close enough to see the faintest, barely-contained smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Admit it—you like it when I keep you on your toes.” Elrond’s grey eyes, which usually carried the weight of centuries of wisdom, softened just a fraction, and for a brief moment, he looked younger—almost playful. The flicker of something mischievous sparked in his gaze, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by a tender patience. “What I like,” he said softly, his voice taking on a more indulgent tone, though it still held the weight of that quiet exasperation, “is a challenge. And you, Mellon nín, are most certainly that.”

Triumph surged in your chest at his words, and you flashed him a cocky grin. “So I win?” Elrond’s lips curved upward in the barest of smiles, and his gaze held a knowing gleam, one that suggested you may have won this small victory, but the war was far from over. “Hardly,” he said, his tone a blend of fondness and mild reproach. Before you could process his words, Elrond stood up from his chair with fluid grace, his tall, elegant frame towering over you. You didn’t have a chance to react before he leaned down, his face just inches from yours. The sheer closeness of him—the warmth of his breath mingling with yours—was enough to send your pulse racing. His expression was calm, but his eyes glinted with something far more dangerous, something playful. “You forget, my dear,” he said softly, his voice like velvet as it wrapped around you. “An elf always has the upper hand.” The words held a knowing finality, a promise that you weren’t as in control as you thought. And before you could respond, Elrond’s hand moved, swift as a shadow, brushing the side of your neck with a feather-light touch—deliberately echoing the torment you had visited on his ear. The sensation was electric, the light touch sending a shiver down your spine, and you couldn’t help but gasp at the unexpected shock of it.

Elrond’s smile deepened as he straightened, leaving you breathless and momentarily off balance. “You see?” he said, his voice victorious. “Two can play at this game.” You glared at him, your heart thumping wildly in your chest. He had turned the tables, and he knew it. His composure was impeccable once again, his features settling back into the calm, regal manner of the Lord of Rivendell. But you saw the smirk on his face, the faintest spark of amusement in his eyes. “Well played,” you admitted grudgingly, your voice a mix of admiration and frustration. “Indeed,” he replied, his voice rich with approval, as he resumed his seat at the desk. He paused for a moment, allowing the tension between you to linger before he spoke again, his tone no less authoritative. “Now, if you are quite finished with your antics, perhaps I can return to my work?” You crossed your arms, huffing in mock indignation. Yet, the glimmer of affection in his eyes softened the blow of his words. Despite everything, despite his firm stance, you could see how much he cared for you in the small, fleeting expressions that he couldn’t quite mask. You’d let him win this round—but only because you were already planning your next move. And this game, you knew, was far from over.

🩵𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓸𝓻𝓷

The golden light of Lothlórien filtered softly through the canopy above, dappling Celeborn’s study with patches of warm sunlight. You sat across the room, your chin propped up on your hand as you watched him work. His posture was impeccable as always, back straight, shoulders relaxed, every movement precise as he dipped his quill into the inkpot and scrawled elegant script onto the parchment. His silver hair shimmered like liquid starlight, cascading over his shoulders in waves. At first, the sight was mesmerizing—a portrait of elven grace and focus. But the novelty wore off quickly. The silence stretched on, broken only by the occasional scratch of the quill or the soft rustle of paper. You sighed dramatically, shifting in your seat to make your presence known, but Celeborn remained unbothered, his eyes fixed on his work. The boredom began to creep in, your fingers drumming absently on the armrest of your chair. You studied him closely, your gaze wandering over the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the slight furrow of his brow as he concentrated. Then your eyes settled on his ears—delicate, pointed, and oh-so-tempting.

You knew enough of elven customs to understand the significance of touching them. Their sensitivity was almost legendary, and to an elf, their ears were as intimate as any touch to the heart. It was precisely why you couldn’t resist. The thought of flustering Celeborn—who was always so composed and regal—sent a mischievous thrill through you. Your lips curled into a sly smile as you shifted in your seat, leaning forward slightly. He didn’t notice. The perfect target. The quill moved steadily in his hand, and his focus remained entirely on the parchment in front of him. Oh, you’d fix that. Your hand darted out, your fingers aiming straight for the pointed tip of his ear, unable to resist the challenge of breaking through that impeccable calm. The smirk widened on your face as you anticipated his reaction, and the game began.

The tranquil stillness of Lothlórien was interrupted not by the sound of an intruding force, nor the rustling of the leaves underfoot, but by a soft, unexpected pinch on Celeborn’s ear. The Sindarin lord paused mid-sentence, his voice faltering as he attempted to resume the careful dictation of a letter to one of his allies. His quill hovered over the parchment, ink threatening to drip onto the pristine surface. A faint pink blush dusted his cheeks, but his expression betrayed nothing more than mild annoyance. Slowly, Celeborn turned his head, his silver hair brushing over his shoulders like flowing water, only to find you perched nearby, a smirk playing across your lips. “Must you?” he asked, his voice even but carrying an undertone of exasperation. “I must,” you replied, your fingers reaching out to tweak the delicate tip of his ear again, your grin widening when he flinched. “You’ve been sitting there for hours, Celeborn. Scribbling letters. Talking to yourself. Boring. I’m rescuing you.”

Celeborn let out a long-suffering sigh, the kind that only someone with millennia of patience could muster. “These letters are of grave importance,” he reminded you, shifting slightly to move his ear out of your reach. His tone was measured and calm, but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed the faintest flicker of amusement. “And I am not so easily distracted.” You raised a brow, your bratty demeanor gleaming with mischief. “Oh, I disagree. I think you’re very easily distracted,” you said, leaning closer until you could feel the warmth radiating from him. “Especially when it comes to these.” Your fingers danced toward his ear again, and this time, you lightly traced the pointed tip. Celeborn froze, his body going rigid, the quill slipping from his grasp to land unceremoniously on the desk. His breath hitched, the tiniest sound escaping his lips—a mixture of surprise and irritation, though there was no disguising the faint shiver that coursed through him.

“Stop that,” he said, his voice slightly strained. His usual unflappable composure was beginning to crack, and the sight of it only encouraged you further. “Stop what?” you asked innocently, tilting your head to the side. Your fingers returned, pinching the soft cartilage gently before trailing downward. “This? Or this?” Celeborn’s hand shot up to catch yours, his grip firm but not forceful. His cool gray eyes locked onto yours, the faintest spark of warning in their depths. “You know precisely what you are doing,” he said, his tone low but steady. “And you know precisely what I want,” you countered, not pulling away from his grasp. You leaned in, close enough that your breath tickled his cheek. “A little attention. That’s all. Is it so much to ask?”

“You have my attention,” Celeborn replied, though his voice betrayed just how much effort it took to maintain his calm. “And I would appreciate it if you did not assault my ears in the process.” “Assault?” you repeated with mock outrage, laughing softly. “I think you like it. Your ears don’t lie, Celeborn—they’re turning red.” He let out a slow breath, his grip on your hand loosening just slightly. “My kins ears are sensitive,” he said, his voice dropping to a quieter tone, as if that fact was not already glaringly obvious. “And you are testing my patience.”

“Patience is overrated,” you said breezily, your free hand darting forward to trace the outer curve of his other ear. His reaction was immediate—his shoulders stiffened, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Enough,” he said, and this time there was a distinct note of command in his voice. His hand released yours as he turned in his chair to face you fully, his silver hair cascading over his shoulders. Though his expression remained composed, there was a faint intensity in his gaze now, a hint of something sharper beneath his calm exterior. But you were not deterred. If anything, his reaction only fueled your mischief. “Make me stop,” you teased, leaning back just slightly, though your fingers still hovered near his ear, ready to strike again at a moment’s notice.

Celeborn studied you for a long moment, his keen eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing his options. Then, in a move so swift it caught you off guard, he reached out and caught both your wrists in his hands. His grip was gentle but firm, unyielding as he pulled you closer until there was barely any space between you. “You are relentless,” he said, his voice soft but laced with a quiet authority that made your heart skip a beat. “But if you wish for my attention so badly, you need only ask for it. There is no need for this… torment.” Your smirk faltered for a moment, his closeness and the intensity of his gaze sending a thrill down your spine. But you quickly recovered, leaning in with a playful glint in your eye. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Celeborn sighed again, though this time there was a faint hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “You are incorrigible,” he said, releasing your wrists but not leaning back. Instead, he reached up and brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering for just a moment. “Perhaps,” you admitted, your tone softening just slightly. “But you love it.” Celeborn’s gaze softened, his serene composure returning as he regarded you with a mixture of affection and exasperation. “I have endured much in my long years,” he said, a faint smile finally breaking through. “But you, I think, will be the greatest test of my patience yet.” “Good,” you said, your grin returning as you leaned back, victorious. “I’d hate to be boring.” As Celeborn returned to his letters, you couldn’t help but notice the faintest twitch of his ears as he tried—unsuccessfully—to ignore the way your eyes lingered on him. Perhaps he wasn’t quite as unflappable as he liked to pretend.

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vidavalor · 3 days ago

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You never know but I'm pretty sure that there is no Great Plan, other than for all to live freely by making their own plans.

I think that Armageddon is not just the Biblical, end-of-Earth kind but the idea that a person is a planet of their own, too. The big, global/Biblical war types of Armageddon are metaphorical for a person's own mental health struggles-- their own personal Armageddons-- that, if unchecked, could cause the end of their worlds aka themselves and the world they've made out of their life and the people in it.

The Nice & Accurate Prophecies seem to me to really be all just a series of well-observed, realistic, and empathetic life advice and notes on how to unfuck yourself if you get stuck. You can break down the prophecies and apply them to the different plots in the story but you can also just take them as good advice for living your own life, too, as needed.

I think that one of the big messages in the story overall, though, is to always think critically about what messages you internalize. It's to not blindly follow the words of another but to be open to listening to viewpoints, thinking critically about them, and then crafting your own world view.

It's just like the horoscope in The Tadfield Advertiser that The Voice of God brings up. There's nothing wrong with reading a silly horoscope on a bad day and allowing its intentional vagueness to feel applicable to your life in a way that you might need or want in that moment. What would be wrong would be blindly believing it to be some kind of Divine Sign in such a way as to not think critically about the sources and the validity of the advice.

As The Voice of God points out, many things in the horoscope can be correct... but not all of it is always correct. The horoscope in question, for instance, says that you should avoid salads... and we all know that it's not actually healthy to do that. It's showing that if you put blind faith in something without thinking critically about it, you're actually putting yourself on a very unhealthy path.

The Voice of God is talking about a horoscope, yeah, but... she's also not just talking about a horoscope.

She's also talking about the bullshit, manipulative kind of life guidance like that of influencers like Famine, about different forms of propaganda, and, more than anything else, she's talking about all religious texts... especially, The Bible.

It's a warning to people to be open to the ideas of others and curious, always, but to also think critically about the motivations of those behind and pushing those ideas, instead of blindly following them. It's a warning to not blindly follow the words of another but to read and study everything you can get your hands on and then make up your own mind on what you believe is the correct path.

It's perfectly fine to say 'there's some good stuff in here that I needed to hear today but the bit about the salads was totally incorrect' and move on. Whether it's a silly horoscope or any other secular thing or whether it's The Bible that we're talking about doesn't matter. Resist thought control and groupthink through being curious and learning everything you can and thinking critically about everything you take in.

I've got some quibbles with Agnes Nutter's writings, even though I like many of her prophecies quite a lot, and I'm amused by the fact that my main issue with them is the vagueness of what she wrote and how some people might mistake the meaning of it by looking at it too literally and... do I now not actually sound like I might as well be describing The Bible? 😂 Pretty well-played by this religious satire, no? *giggles*

Books Can Go Up Like...

...paper.

The expression is: "[x] can go up like paper."

It's used as a warning to be careful in having certain, highly flammable materials around open flames. The simile is in how, of all materials, one of the easiest to catch fire and go up is paper.

Something on fire is something that is going up or burning up... but what is the end result of that fire?

What goes up in flames is really something that is burning down.

During S2, our visiting angels to the bookshop help to teach us a recurring metaphor: books = people.

When Muriel asks Crowley for a book, they describe books by saying that "books are like people, only portable." For much of the season, Jim works hard to group the books together in a way that is thoroughly illogical when applied to literal books but actually brilliant if applied to those metaphorical books known as people. He's grouping books together by the first letter of the first sentence of each book. By their shared origins and experiences. By the things they have in common so that they feel less alone.

Books, written by people, are a metaphor for people.

So, when Nina says during the bookshop attack where they are trying to keep literal demons at bay as a metaphor for keeping Aziraphale's own inner demons at bay: "Why all the fire extinguishers?", Aziraphale recounts when the literal books went ablaze in S1-- at the same time as when he went Up-- when he explains:

Aziraphale points out that, as is often the case with metaphorical books, there was once a fire that burned down every book in this bookshop. In a moment of Aziraphale's own going Up, so, too, did the thing metaphorical for himself-- his bookshop and all the books in it.

The literal books all went up in flames and then fell down, charred into ash, all around the fallen angel who lights the good kind of fire in the book known as Aziraphale and whose trauma from this particular, literal fire is such that he needs a fire extinguisher within reach in every room, in hopes that that might be enough to keep the bookshop, its books, and the metaphorical book who owns it from ever going up in flames and burning down again.

Fires start, though, and there's another idiomatic expression of note, too: What goes up must come down. It's just gravity.

#good omens #good omens meta #agnes nutter #aziraphale #crowley #good omens theory

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unsolicited-opinions · 19 hours ago

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I'm leaving off the identifying info from this Tumblr post because I want to vehemently disagree with the ideas expressed, not shout at a person.

Even a casual review of history shows that any attempts to accommodate/appease Nazis will not save those who seek to appease them. (If you disagree, please give an example from history where appeasing any authoritarian has worked out well for those who attempted appeasement)

To be clear, I continue to support the ADL. The ADL's work is needed, it matters, and it should not only continue, but radically improve.

The ADL must improve its information gathering methods, improve its reporting methods, develop and commit to a clear set of principles, and find leadership with both a spine and functional knowledge of history.

I can only think of two plausible motivations for Greenblatt's spectacularly bad decision:

1. If Greenblatt was frightened of how a pissed-off Trump administration might attack the ADL and allowed that fear to make this choice for him, he lacks the spine to lead the ADL's mission and should resign. The ADL's job is to oppose Jew hatred. Greenblatt failed to do that.

2. If Greenblatt didn't want to criticize what he saw and recognized as sieg heils (and dogwhistles to the white supremacist base of MAGA) because he feared potentially jeopardizing the Trump administration's support for Israel, he is willing to excuse Jew hatred from Nazis in the *US* half the Jewish world in order to prioritize the *other half in Israel*. The job of the ADL is not to prioritize where to fight Jew hatred based on political convenience, but to oppose Jew hatred everywhere. Greenblatt failed to do this and should resign.

With this one excruciatingly bad decision, Greenblatt has ceded the ADL's position as an authority on Jew hatred and thereby weakened the ADL for at least a generation. The damage to their credibility may never be repaired.

We are living, in many respects, in 1933 Germany, whether or not Jews are the explicitly named targets of this administration. You know it and so does Greenblatt. There's no excuse for his failure to condemn the accelerating US slide into authoritarianism, and no excuse for his failure to condemn Musk's dogwhistle.

You say the ADL was wise to avoid alienating what you and I agree is an antisemitic administration. I believe that the ADL should seek to alienate and aggressively oppose anybody who is threatening the Jewish people.

You say that Greenblatt's lie was a "little white lie" which will make it easier for your children to live here. A white lie is a minor lie which could be considered harmless, or even beneficial. I believe that lies on this scale and on these topics are not little and not harmless. Appeasing antisemites (which is what you admit Greenblatt did) has never in history made Jews safer.

Greenblatt could even have released a statement saying something like:

"While we cannot know what was in Mr. Musk's heart and speak with certainty regarding his intent, we are nonetheless concerned that his behavior will be regarded by hate groups in the US as a dogwhistle and a sign that Musk and the administration he speaks for are (again) expressing solidarity with racist, hateful, anti-democratic organizations. Here are the things we hope Mr. Musk and President Trump will do to alleviate those concerns..."

Counter to what you wrote, the ADL does not need to meet any legal standard or satisfy the requirements of any court to do this.

Instead, Greenblatt saw the sieg heils, recognized them for what they were, then rushed to lie about them in the most public fashion possible, doing enormous damage to the cause he's tasked to lead. He capitulated to an antisemitic administration in advance. How is this a "little white lie?"

Greenblatt should resign in disgrace. I think he won't, though, because disgrace requires having a sense of shame.

I don't know if Greenblatt never had a spine, a brain, or a sense of shame, or if he got rid of them specifically for this occasion - but all three are needed, he doesn't have them, and he should resign.

Lastly, I reject your characterization of all Jewish criticism of Greenblatt's spectacular failure to meet his most basic responsibilities...as "stupid."

By all means, do disagree. There's nothing more Jewish than a good disagreement - but there's also nothing stupid about the countless US Jews who know history, who see clearly what Trump and Musk are, and who are justifiably angry with Greenblatt for spectacularly failing in his most fundamental responsibilities.

#Jumblr #elon musk #Jonathan Greenblatt #ADL #Right wing antisemitism #Nazis #Sieg heil #Nazi salute #Nazi appeasement

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akookminsupporter · 1 day ago

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There’s a photo—or, well, I guess it's a screenshot from this clip—that happens to be one of my absolute favourite pictures of Jimin and Jungkook. This clip itself is one of my favourites of the two of them for two reasons.

The first reason, and probably the most obvious one if you’re someone who pays attention to details, is how perfectly their outfits are coordinated. It’s like they’re matching but not in a way that’s too deliberate or forced. They’re both wearing the same colours, but the way those colours are used or styled is slightly different in each of their outfits. Jimin and Jungkook do this quite often—whether it’s a coincidence or intentional, who knows?

If you think about it, they’ve always had this knack for wearing the same colour palette. Over the last few years, they’ve even started leaning towards a similar overall style of clothing. The main difference is that Jungkook’s outfits tend to be noticeably more oversized, while Jimin’s clothes are oversized as well, just not to the same extreme. But in general, their styles are so alike that it’s hard not to notice. They both gravitate towards neutral tones—white, black, greys, and the occasional earthy tones. Jimin, however, is a bit more adventurous when it comes to colours. He’ll sometimes add a pop of something unexpected, but even then, he stays within a very sophisticated, monochromatic or neutral vibe.

This makes it pretty common to see them with outfits that feel unintentionally coordinated. Sure, other members also dress similarly from time to time—for example, Yoongi often wears neutral tones, too but you wouldn't immediately say he coordinated his outfit with Jimin or Jungkook or both.

Now, the second reason I love this clip has more to do with the phrase written on the back of Jungkook’s bomber jacket. If you take it from the perspective of what we believe their relationship might be, that phrase feels incredibly meaningful. It almost seems to capture how they have to navigate the world they’re in. For people like them—living under constant scrutiny, with so much pressure on their shoulders—it must be incredibly isolating at times. And yet, the phrase on his jacket seems to reflect the idea that, no matter how hard or lonely it gets, they’ve got each other.

Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but I’ve always thought that phrase encapsulates so much about who they are and how they seem to handle things together. From the way I see them, there’s this unspoken connection between them—a sense that they just get each other on a level that’s hard to explain.

This connection goes beyond clothes or coordinated outfits. Jimin and Jungkook seem to share so many things in terms of their personalities, tastes, and even their thought processes. Out of all the members, I feel like this is something almost unique to them. It’s not just fans who notice it, either. The other members have commented on it, sometimes confusing one for the other or saying that either one of them could’ve done or said something because they’re so similar. Even their laughter sounds alike, especially when they’re together. It’s one of those little things that feels so endearing and makes you wonder just how much time they’ve spent together to develop such similarities.

Can you imagine what they’ll be like once they’ve finished their military service? I can’t wait for all the behind-the-scenes content that’s bound to come out when the group starts promoting together again.

At the end of the day, their dynamic feels so special. Whether it’s through their coordinated outfits, shared laughter, or the way they just seem to click, there’s something about them that’s completely unique. It’s one of the reasons why moments like this clip—and even something as simple as a photo from it—stick with me. It’s not just about how they look together but about everything they represent.

#I had no business writing all that about a 5-second clip but once I started I just couldn’t stop #I even had to cut some of the things I wrote 😂#random thoughts about jikook #favourite jikook moments #thoughts about jikook #rosie's thoughts

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sugarcubeindulgent · 1 day ago

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can you make a Jerry x chubby fem reader??

jerry stokes with a chubby f!reader.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ contents. fatphobia mention. suggestive content.

a/n: doing headcanons for this request as i've no idea how to make a oneshot with it and i am exhausted of the "chubby reader is insecure of their weight" troupe! thank you for the request!

⊹ ࣪ ˖ i believe jerry wouldn't care if you were chubby, skinny, tall, gangly etc etc. i truly believe he is the only member without a set type. if there's a sexual and romantic attraction then that's all that matters. so if you were chubby, he'd love it!

⊹ ࣪ ˖ would constantly insist on you wearing clothes that are more fitted to you and/or show skin. skinny jeans, halter tops, tank tops, mini-skirts, etc etc.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ he would very much mean well in sending you the corniest "above text" kinds of memes about your size.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ jerry would not defend you against the fatphobia from the fellow members i fear. adult!jerry would but definitely not any jerry still impacted by the members.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ would go up a bit in size in some of his clothes, claims it's "a style choice" but really he wants to see you in his clothes when he can.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ plusher thighs means he'd LOVE laying his head on your lap.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ constantly pokes at your chub no matter how much you threaten him or tell him to stop. if his hands are on you in public he'd randomly pinch or squeeze soft parts. his personal stim toy (i apologize).

⊹ ࣪ ˖ calls you a bbw one time by accident and then never does again when you tell him to look it up and all that comes up is porn.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ will never stop begging you to put on a harley quinn cosplay don't ask me what this has to do with being chubby, something something tight bodysuit.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ your hands would be his favorite part of you. thighs are a very close second.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ "i ❤️ fat bitches" shirt i'm so sorry.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ^ would wear it to sleep if you ban him from wearing it.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ "this is you" i.m.'s and it'd be attached photos of fat cats or bunnies. would follow with a "did u block me again :/".

⊹ ࣪ ˖ anything and everything that would leave jerry's mouth would be well-intentioned and affectionate, even if you don't take it as that.

#the eltingville club x reader #the eltingville club #welcome to eltingville x reader #welcome to eltingville #jerry stokes #jerry stokes x reader #jerry stokes x you

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haveihitanerve · 2 days ago

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youtube

Ze Blackberry Is Here. Back with more commentary. Y'all know the drill, hope you enjoy :)

“Its gonna be OSCAR nominated! BAFTA award winning!” I believe it! (truthfully, i have never seen this skit before, so this will be my first time watching it, I know, I know, shame, i've been a fan for a little under a year and i've never seen Ze Blackberry? But im here to remedy that now, and I believe it'll be beautiful and oscar winning)

Tom making eye contact with AJ and grabbing his chair and AJ just following suit- they communicate without words i love it

Also side note- Aj has hair..... anyway now carry on

“Captured by ze germans!” AJ’s side glance over his shoulder at Luke as he says it- cheeky little shit :)

“Look at ‘em, the Aryan look.” Sam enjoyed that one :) Aj chuckling at his own joke too

“Oh! If he was only a foot and a half taller he’d be a perfect nazi!” Of course we have to go for the cheap shot, love it!!- also- Aj already cracking before he finishes the joke, beautiful, he knew where it was going

Luke’s smile and side eye- gorgeous boy

Tom and Aj cracking when they see Sam- honestly wow, they were much more relaxed with laughing on stage from what i can see lol- Aj literally looks to the heavens like “give me strength!!”

“Oh my god! Its Hanz van Purple Buerer!” stellar joke AJ, really: 10/10

Luke laughing in the corner

The person who screeched with laughter in the audience that it sounded like a door being opened has my heart- so real

“The blackberry himself has come to deal with us.” AJ's snort of laughter, Luke’s slow smile, and Sam’s resigned grin as he looks at his outfit

“JA! Ze Blackberry is here.” Perfect quote. 10/10

“Hello my little pocket sized aryan” i knew he loved the joke- also idk what Luke does just then, but it looks really cool- the little foot tap together of a soldier standing at attention or smth idk

Luke just reciting his NPC German phrases he knows XD (as a german tho, decent accent, pretty good)

Tom and AJ absolutely baffled XD- genuinely asking “did he just sniff his ear?” with such concern- priceless lol- “i think he wants to fuck him” idk why aj emphasized, or rather didn't, fuck, but it really adds something... je ne sais quoi

“Just flying a plane, over berlin-” Aj chuckling because he knows damn well that was a bad excuse wtf Tom’s gonna make it sooo much worse XD “just normally!” there it is!

“During ZE SEKOND VORLD VAR!?!?!” Sam- woah

“I call it a good time to goooo…” Hes really looking for an excuse here- “parachuting” nailed it, perfect delivery- he wont suspect a thing

“Les frere parachutes!” Ok Aj, flaunt that french i see you

Sam smacking Tom(not literally, they havent gotten to that point yet- but just wait until Old Lady Margaery) and Aj also flinching- grinning before Sam even says anything because he knows, he just knows he shouldn't have

“ZHAT IS HOW YOU ZLAP ZE MASTER WAY!!!” The slap was so good Sam had to break the fourth wall lmaooo

“Von ponte!” Idk why thats funny- but AJ laughed immediately after saying it, so its probably a french joke of a location or smth??? Or not at all?? Idk im not french

AJ’s genuine look at concern over to Tom when sam said “staler and harder”

“Don't- don't let them make me get hard!” AJ has given up and is now just looking down trying not to break- real

“Oh i think he wants- *uncontrollably afraid head nodding* they both want the fucking-”

“In many ways thats better, its better as a two way street” Tom our consensual king… that sounded wrong- but consent matters!

AJ’s scream of genuine terror XD

“Then maybe you'll have a, you know, you'll come in like 70 years for a bit and it'll be weird and then you'll fuck off again!” Tom getting into actual history, love when they do that, adds intentional and unintentional humor- also love how the girl(sry idk her name) has just decided she does not want to be a part of whatever the fuck this is and is just watching

AJ’s singing!!!!! YAY!!! (actually one of the most compelling reasons why i wanted to watch this lmaoo) also the way he makes eye contact with Luke and immediately breaks mid song

Sam being a random unidentified animal as Tom casually strokes his back- for absolutely no reason but they couldn't let Aj be the only weird one in the scene- solidarity ig??? Whatever the reason its fucking hilarious

“Im- in the wrong place.” yes AJ wtf are you doing XD???

“How are you Sarah?” YES UNIDENTIFIED WOMAN!!! MAKE LUKE FEMALE!!!

The eruption of laughter as Luke contemplates how to handle this new piece of information about himself

“Well he didn't come ‘ome so!” Fair point, fair point

“You're being- ridicule.” the casual slipping in of random french words they picked up from duolingo, or, y'know, AJ ig, is beautiful

“I know of an admirer” Audience member: oooh Luke: *shoots them a glance, eyebrow raised* idk man any interaction with the audience and im a sucker for it-

“Ok Xavier will have to wait until Jean-Luc is “officially dead” then” idk who this girl is but shes funny XD-

“She said i would also meet a man called Javier.” *does quick calculations of how many people are already characters and how many more plots they can afford to fit into the already moving script….* “But I already met him and he was… very ugly.” Luke- lmaoo

Aj- my king i love you

THE WAY THE GIRL LITERALLY HAS TO TURN AWAY WHEN TOM ENTERS

REAL

Can i just mention real fast- when AJ collapses, faints, wtv- Tom tries to catch him before realizing that “oh its part of the bit ok” -like??? His arm swings back because he was trying to be a support for Aj to lean against, not expecting him to completely swoon to the floor- anyway they're cute

“No no no no-” oh here comes the scene *the writer is giddy with excitement* “i will give her, ze kiss of life.” *then genuinely surprises Aj with a kiss because his hand twitches with the movement XD* “I could ‘ave mimed it, but i deed not” Tom you absolute king-

*licks Luke’s hand like a weirdo* like lol Tom what was that???

“I don't know the french word for mice-” *AJ has been summoned* i just love how he spawns in, so ready to share his native language, its too cute

And Tom promptly picking up on it :)))))) so cute

“To keep me satisfiiiiiiied.” The chair tilt- ughnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn *deceased*

Also- Luke is completely at ease. He’s a bit surprised, sure, but he keeps his legs floating, crossed, has complete faith that Tom will keep him steady and is not worried at all about finding stability himself- they’re so fucking adorable help-

Toms hand on his neck 😭

“Do not be afraid. Xavier is here.” Well i've never felt safer in my life so-

“Im just a bit lonellyyyy” lmao this girl is fun! “Make sure you get the right buttock, its the good one! But the left one is good as well!” Ofc it is Xavier, of course

“III am a man.” thank you for making sure we know that Xavier…

SAM AND AJ!!!! WHAT !!!! XD IM DYING!!! They planned out, and then actually went through with, meeting on opposite sides of the stage, wearing their medieval helmets, and decided to charge at each other, in that exact moment- fuck i love them sm omg- XD

AJ’s little finger flick to indicate Tom to come over 😭 subtle things and i love them so much-

Tom: *casually yeets himself across stage*

“I can feel it in the… breeze.” smooth aj, makes sense, yes yes ofc ofc, very airtight reasoning

“Its- its the- nazi looking guy!” LMAOOO poor luke XD

“FRANCOISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!” AJ has a lot of breath support damn

The silence as Sam continues clopping along, debating whether or not to point out that girl- i really should learn her name- just casually jumped onto a moving wagon or smth idk lol

AJ: *just casually starts sobbing* Sams wife: if you’re thirsty you could just drink it!!! LMAOOOOO

“By the way while you were captured,*AJ smiling already because he knows what's coming* the nazis occupied us.” both laugh. cuties

“BIG HANDS! This is big Hans.” Sam not being able to speak in order to not burst out laughing. I know AJ is so glad to have a pumpkin covering his face so he can laugh lmaooo

“Well you could have surrendered better.” Sam having to look down to laugh XD

“No zey, zey really couldn't.” Luke- you're german yeah? Not french…

“We are French, we are very good at surrendering.” poor AJ lmaooo XD

“That joke would be dated, but its 1942 so…” setting a time period, nice work Tom lol

“Les coqs! Hah!” Luke just wants to be French atp lmaooo

Tom walking right through the stagecraft horses. Tsk tsk

“Reach in there, grab a big coq and eat it.” he saw the joke and he took it, golden.

Luke: *casually stroking AJ’s hair and entire face without any regard* love them so much omg-

I said it once and ill say it again: their slow motion stuff is sooooo good, especially because usually only one person starts it- like AJ- and its subtle at first, but the others pick up on it so fast it quickly becomes noticeable but like they notice it before the audience- anyway…

“Lets go- fuck!” …. “What???” "WHAT???" “It doesn't matter!” No i think it does aj what were you going to say????

*speedy horse noises*

Sam and Aj moving in time together as they transition to the next scene 😭they're always so in sync it hurts

The way the camera angle only sees Luke, and then Tom’s leg just appears. Beautiful cinematography. the cameraman knows what the people want😏

“I am an improvised comedian, it does not pay well *pouts*” I feel like you're bringing a lot of reality into this scene Frankie…

Luke cant even laugh, its true 😭

Damnnnnn. Like i've seen Xavier edits ofc, but now i've seen the play and now i know- gawddddsss

“If you are such a man zen why are u not fighting ‘or francez freedohm?” Oh damn Sarah does not play- yes Jean-Luc your wife still has faith in you… i hope. Pls give me a luke/aj relationship- pls(so far they haven't even been in one scene together as a married couple 😭)

“Chat got your tongue?” … i laughed wayyy too hard at that and Luke looks wayyy to proud of it too…

“Im doing a lovely job ‘ere.” yes you are queen, yes you are

“Thought you said it wasn't dirty- its horrible.” yes queen!!! Tell him!!! “Look at it!” she sounds so genuinely disappointed. “Its dust! You know what dust is? Its skin. Human skin and rat poo.” girl you keep monologuing till your heart is content this is wonderful

Tom and Luke are too stunned to speak :0

“Are you quite finished?” damn Luke… tt. “I mean im not if im honest about it..” yes queen!!!! Don't let him interrupt you XD

“Do you want to know what-” *blinks in trilingual* “am i german am i french?” shakespeare ok

DAMN that slap was perfect! And this is a time when its still fake, i see i see lol

“Viva la france!” Audience member: viva la france! Loving this solidarity lol

“Im off now.” “oh fuck off already!” Sarah is done lmaooo

Aj coming in with the French… what is it called? Battle cry of France? Slogan? Whatever Fraternity, Egalite and Eternite is for France… i should truly know what its called… slogan… ok whatever i'm digressing-

“That is right. I was tortured by.. *thinks back to very beginning of play* two men… getting... with each other next to me..” *said while looking at one of said men and having just ridden other said man into the scene* also wow- how did, whoever suggested it, suggest that idea???? Anyway-

“They are always doing that the nazis.” Casually Sam and Luke being the ones to say it…

“I just wanted to tease ‘im a little bit. I’m french its in my nature!!!” even Sam is flabbergasted that he said it right to AJ’s face lmaooo

“So where is your kni- awww.” Tom was so ready lol

“When i say knife… I mean HUGE katana.” *laughs* idk why but this sentence just tickles my brain properly for some reason

“Ye-es?” Sam i cant. Aj struggling not to laugh, Tom questioning how he can hit Sam without messing up the scene, and Luke just going for the joke- “where did you get my dildo?” priceless XD

“Thats a good… whatever you are.” thats what we all want to know too, but its safer not to ask…

Sam singing epic fight song. Glorious

The blood- i cant breathe- XD

This just might be the best possible kiss scene in all of SFTH history omg- the way Luke walks to AJ- cups his cheeks, then wraps his arms around his neck as AJ hugs him completely, turning so that Luke is dipped low, and Luke’s legs go limp, trusting AJ to hold him up without any fear, its so cute and so tender and omg i love them sm-

ANyway that was Oh My God, Is This A Joke? Very glad i finally got around to watching it, absolutely beautiful play as always boys, wow, and AJ still had hair, anyway gorgeous.

Also i feel the need to point out that in this one every single person was trying to get with Luke at one point or another. Thats all. Byebye now!

@dawn-speckled @snek-of-eden

#sfth #shoot from the hip #oh my god is this a joke #besties #platonic soulmates #jean luc and sarah are officially my favorite couple #after ofc Derek and Titch #no one can beat my sweethearts #anyway #hope you enjoyed this ones chaos #i know i did #alexander jeremy #luke manning #sam russell #tom mayo #shootimpro #Youtube

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maxdibert · 1 day ago

Note

I've been watching from the shadows of my sewer about this Severus s/a thing. It feels like this is being taken WAY too seriously, but then again, fiction mirrors the real world, so it is important to be careful of what we say and how we view things.

I am extremely neutral when it comes to any character in Harry Potter. I do not favor one over the other because I don't care about them for anything else other than their lore. I do, however, find Severus's lore very interesting, and I tend to pay attention to him more than other characters in this series.

No back to what I was originally going to say: Pantsing is a weird thing to do, and it's even weirder to excuse it as something casually done between prepubescent, stinky, boisterous boys. I grew up in the States, and unfortunately for me, I still live there. I can't explain how many times I've seen pantsing be done on teenage TV shows as comedy relief, or as a way to make the bully really seem like a bully.

But here's the thing, though. It's always seen as bad, even though it's comedic relief. The person who has been pantsed ends up feeling horrible, embarrassed, or humiliated, and the crowd would feel for that person because they understand how it feels to be in that position. It's assault - sexual? Perhaps. It's still assault, nothing changes that.

And the other thing is, these people aren't saying that James or Sirius aren't bad people - they are well aware that they are, but what they're worried about is how some others with similar experiences label what happened to Snape. My question is: why do they care? Why are they so bothered? Even if either of them went through s/a, which, unfortunately, is a common thing to happen to people these days, of course, they'll have different views on the matter. But to start arguing with people, calling them rude things because of something they don't agree with...it's just tasteless and classless. That's all from me.

- An0n. ps, pantsing is a cowardly trick. One only idiots practice to feel less inferior.

My issue with these people is that they don’t understand that their point of view is irrelevant when it comes to categorizing an offense or a crime. This isn’t about perceptions or morality—it’s about facts.

When I talk about violence or the bullying Severus suffered, especially the pantsing scene, I’m not speaking from the projection of my own traumas (I never experienced bullying, either in school or university) or from things I’ve witnessed in my life (I’m from Spain, and doing something like that is in no way normal here). I’m speaking from my perspective as someone who works in the field of criminal law.

These people have the audacity to claim it wasn’t sexual assault because there wasn’t sexual intent, and that strikes me as extremely dangerous because crimes of a sexual nature are not based on the intent of the aggressor but on the perception of the victim. If the victim feels their privacy has been violated, then it can be reported as a sexual offense. There’s a lot of legislation about this, and a sexual offense doesn’t always have to be rape or an attempted rape. There’s an enormous spectrum of sexual crimes, ranging from being a creep to, yes, forcibly stripping someone in public.

So I don’t care what these people say because facts are facts. If someone grabs my breast, for instance, maybe they didn’t mean to harm me, but I consider it an assault. We don’t care about the aggressor’s intent. Intent and premeditation are factors taken into account to add or reduce weight to a verdict, nothing more. It’s incredibly dangerous to claim something isn’t abuse if the abuser “didn’t mean to,” because how many women report assaults, and no one listens to them because the aggressor is their partner and they were supposedly having an intimate moment? How many abusers or rapists claim they genuinely thought the victim wanted it? Before talking about such serious topics, these people really need to educate themselves, because every time they open their mouths, it’s just absurd.

Then there’s the argument that justifies the act by saying Severus invented the spell. So what? That’s irrelevant. That’s like saying if I get assaulted at night and someone kills me with a knife I was carrying, it’s my fault for carrying the knife. Do these people even hear themselves?

I think their reactions are rooted in the fact that, in their minds, they can justify bullying. They can say, “It’s no big deal; lots of people bully others and then change.” But it’s much harder to confront being a fan of a character who has committed sexual assault, because that’s a very serious and deeply immoral concept. They feel triggered and personally attacked by this. But they’ll have to live with it because it’s a fact. And no matter how many times you repeat a lie, it doesn’t become the truth.

#severus snape #pro severus snape #severus snape defense #severus snape fandom #james potter #james potter was a bully #Snaters #marauders stans #marauders fandom

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afreakingdork · 3 days ago

Text

Soft Spot - Chapter 26

RotTMNT Donatello x Reader

@garbagemilkshake making Donnie as scrumptious as possible. What's better than crib flexing? 🤤

Rated: Explicit

Warnings/Tags: Romance, Established Relationship, Married Couple, Married Life, Aged-Up Mutant Ninja Turtles, Villain Donatello (TMNT), Love, POV Second Person, Babies, Pregnancy, AFAB reader, Vaginal Sex, Rough Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Creampie, Breeding Kink, Multiple Orgasms, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Fertility Issues, Pregnant Sex, Pregnancy Kink, Reader-Insert, Cunnilingus, Fellatio, Cum Eating, Turtle Noises (TMNT), I have a Biology Degree and I’m Using it, Menstruation, There WILL NOT be any Miscarriages

Synopsis: First comes love. Then comes marriage. Then comes the next step about as smooth as the others arrived. The baby-oriented sequel to Weak Spot.

Also available on Ao3

This one goes out partially to @obstinatejules who actually asked for one thing, but I can't count, so now they get two and this is the first half.That will probably be offset by how heavy the chapter opens so…. Sorry about that 😅

First 💜 Previous

LAST WARNING FOR THE 🍋 UNDER THE CUT. MINORS DNI!

Trigger Warning: This chapter addresses themes of anxiety, stress, negative body image, and mentions of harming others and self-harm associated with pregnancy. Please prioritize your well-being while reading.

You were sidelined.

It was a blow to your entire being.

Even if it was just.

You hadn’t started out as a nuisance; your day had begun with all intention of being helpful. Today was the day Donnie brought in the near completed crib pieces. He had been working on it for weeks up on the roof. He cut down the best pieces of wood and spent the long hours while you were at work sanding. It had been the bulk of his project and he described it as therapeutic. You weren’t sure you would have been able to muster the many hours of work, but Donnie had just the fortitude to make sure everything was perfectly smooth and safe. After staining, curing, drying, and a simple coat of baby-approved paint, he presented the sides of the crib for you to assemble together.

It was supposed to be an event.

A celebration of your 30th week and Dr. Kuro had confidently decreed that you were on track for a typical human 9 month gestation.

All your baby’s progress was at a predictable rate.

The only intrigue left was birth.

With everything now on a known timetable, Dr. Kuro felt it may be possible for you to safely pass that oddity of the egg shell. Her myriad of tests seemed to indicate that its makeup was unlike your husband’s spiny softshell genes. His species typically laid hard eggs and with that she launched into a commentary on the chicken myth. She pressed that not all eggs laid are hard, especially when it came to reptiles. Either something in the mutagen’s cocktail or the fact that your body wasn’t equipped to create one had sent your egg toward the heavily calcified and flexible territory. Since you were only incubating half a shell, what was there appeared malleable enough that it could pass through the birth canal without incident. She projected that it would bend through the pressures of birth and because of that you would also be protected from any sharp bits of plastron. There was really only the matter of orientation left and Dr. Kuro plainly said she wanted to see if your baby would move into the typical head down position.

You were in for an all natural birth if you wanted it.

It was frightening and you weren’t sure.

Pros.

Cons.

It seemed meaningless when you had everything else to deal with.

Time was slipping through your fingers and you barely had a hold of your heartburn. You were drinking water nearly as fast as you would urinate it out. Your ankles had somehow contracted all that supposed water weight and ballooned. It felt grossly in time with the child inside you that took on a half a pound per week. Every inch of you was going into creation and what was left was a nervous husk who had to also contend with pushing said baby out or getting sliced open and having your organs laid out to retrieve the little person you worked so hard to make.

It was bad.

Everything was bad.

All that and more.

Hemorrhoids.

Sketch marks.

Varicose veins.

Exhaustion.

Constipation.

Back pain.

Leg cramps.

You set it all aside to build a crib.

You clung to the building like a single ray of sunshine burst from the clouds of your discomfort. Donnie laid out the crib pieces and was downright ecstatic. You shared his joy and it was infectious. You had to kneel down to start construction. It was there that those clouds gathered up.

You immediately found yourself unable to get on your knees.

You teetered and almost fell.

With Donnie’s help and a tick that said you were optimistic about the weather, you were in position.

The clouds hadn’t budged.

Leaning over pressed your bladder and you needed to get up.

You couldn’t.

Your center of gravity was far too low.

Your pelvis was spread too wide.

You were stuck again and sent weepiness up to your husband.

It broke actual tears with only a trickle.

He helped you up with overbearing concern.

A concurrent wave hit and you were angry.

Why were you crying?

Your eyes watered when you yawned; this wasn’t that much different than fatigue.

When you were upright, you tugged away from your mate to go to the bathroom. You took a solitary moment behind the bathroom door to breathe. Your belly protruded wide in front of you and all you could sense was all the things you needed to do in just this room. There was getting your pants down, an agonizing process. You had to sit, which was always a thing. Then there was undoing all that had been undone; you had to get back up and put your pants back on. It came with pain and irritation.

All to do it again in less than an hour.

Your crib was meant to be a testament.

It was a prelude to when you wouldn’t be struggling to move and your baby would be in your arms instead of attached to you via your organs. You executed each annoying step of peeing until you were done and by the door again. There, you breathed out the negativity and joined Donnie where he was waiting.

Getting on your knees wasn’t an option, but you had others.

You bent over to get the wood.

You were thrown off balance from your weight and almost fell again.

Donnie caught you and tepidly offered to grab the pieces you pointed.

Rage boiled up and you subdued it with a soft, “That works.”

You could hold things.

That was helping.

He held up a side for you.

“I’ve studied all necessary safety regulations and protocols. This was built to the utmost standard. With these last pieces affixed and secured, our first child will have their first bed.” He told you.

Something about the way he phrased it made you think this bed would be used again.

Fresh tears sprouted at the thought of the future.

The joy of creation and your child having a sibling.

How they interacted.

Donnie experiencing his youth more than once.

He had a name for that period back then, you vaguely thought, as each joint perfectly fell into place with little more than guiding.

You couldn’t remember what it was.

It wasn’t his name and it wasn’t his villain name.

He never named the latter.

He had named another.

You thought and thought.

“If you could.” Donnie gestured for you to switch sides with him.

He clicked more lengths of wood together until the crib developed into a frame.

You remembered it ended in an ‘O.’

Something that sounded like Donatello.

You were hung up on it.

You couldn’t remember the last time you heard it, but you wanted to remember.

You didn’t want to ask for more help.

All Donnie did was help.

He minded you.

He followed you.

He had to make sure you didn’t get hurt.

He fussed.

Got you drinks.

Got you food.

Got your pills.

Endless.

Always.

You could do this.

You could remember something as simple as a name.

You had a good enough memory.

An ‘O.’

Hugo.

Bruno.

Antonio.

How many syllables was it?

Mikey’s judgment passed through your ears.

“Battle shell? S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.? Talk about on the nose!”

Your defense had been that your husband was just a kid.

A name a kid would come up with.

Donatello.

A name he picked from his precious books.

A name for the library that had given him the closest thing to an upbringing of all he knew.

A literary name.

Representative.

You hadn’t talked about baby names yet.

Was that because Donnie had picked his own name?

Who picked the other turtle’s names?

The ones that infuriated him for sounding similar to his own.

For encroaching on his territory.

Splinter didn’t seem much of one for classic art.

He liked game shows that had a high rate of contestant injuries.

He did movies.

Was he classically trained in theater?

There was Draxum.

He had the boys first and he was a baron.

He also hated humanity.

Were the old masters secretly yokai?

You would believe anything.

“Awaiting the mattress delivery.” Donnie chirped stability as he reviewed how there was space for one now. “I hope its softness was not exaggerated.”

“I’m sure it’ll be super soft.” You were almost amazed at how on task he was.

You also weren’t.

You were off.

It felt like things were flying in and out of your head at a constant rate.

“Blankets…” He mooned softly.

“Safe and soft.” You heard yourself say.

Donnie’s eyes closed in the moment.

You felt the peace until they popped open.

“Slats!” He was bliss as he gestured to the pile. “Now that the frame is assembled, we affix the slats.”

“I think I can manage that.”

He nodded and grabbed two at a time.

You were passed one slat and observed the two dowels on each end. They matched up perfectly with holes along the frame. Donnie took a moment to grab some adhesive of his own making and showed you how best to apply some to each dowel. There was something about it being baby safe after it cured and how long it would take to bond to the wood, but the explanation didn’t permeate. You had to do a good job on this since you already said you could do it. This was now a test and you were going to pass.

He got in position across from you and you both slid your respective slats into each side. You marveled at both how easily and sturdily the pieces fell into place. They were expertly cut. You never thought lightly of your husband’s handiwork, but experiencing it like this was something else. Each inch of this crib held his craftsmanship and care. You bet he daydreamed of the baby for all the hours he was sanding.

You spent most of your evenings now with him between your legs.

Not in an unsavory sense, but ever since he figured out that he could settle with his face upon your stomach to commune with your baby, it was all he wanted to do. Just like that, he had fallen asleep more than once. You always felt bad stirring him, but you saw glimpses of your near future.

They would surely sleep together.

Your eyes welled up as you placed more slats in their holes.

You saw Donnie collapsed on the couch with one hand holding up your baby securely, even while unconscious. Your small child fit so perfectly upon that ledge of his plastron. They were both tuckered out after a bout of crying. Donnie had a rag for spit up still sitting messy on his shoulder. He smiled even in his sleep.

You were done with the row before you even realized.

Next came the headboard and baseboard which had far fewer pieces. You got those lined up into a small protective jail cell. You had caps for all the looming slats and it took great care to line up all the holes. Donnie came around with a level and you directed him by eyeballing as best as you could. The moment everything was in place, Donnie pounded with the hammer of his palm to make sure it was secure.

“I should get some clamps.” He ruminated as he held the seemingly finished piece in place.

“I can hold it while you do.” You offered.

He openly thought.

“I think I can handle it.” You pressed.

“Not my concern.” His head tilted. “I wonder necessity.”

“‘Cause of the glue?”

He nodded.

“There’s still screws to put in right?” You tipped only your head to see where there was a clear exterior hole to fasten the sides.

“Brackets. Yes.” He gestured that he would step back.

You held the crib firmly.

He reviewed the object as a whole. “Safety begets nothing less than adequate tightness. I will be right back.”

“Sure.”

He departed for what you guessed was the roof as he jogged out the front door. As soon as it closed behind him, you looked over the crib. While the slats were glued into place, the four sides were only connected by their seated joints. You could see Donnie’s concern as the headboard and baseboard had the unit’s legs. It was built with the future in mind. Not gluing the side panels onto the head and foot of the frame meant the crib could eventually be converted into a toddler bed. The screws were the last piece currently necessary and you spied the small tub of them off to the side.

They were housed in a tub that detached from a larger unit. Your husband’s organizational skills were a wonder and he had every bit and bolt you could fathom. You bet he made the hole on the bed the same size as the brackets he already had. You scooted in the direction of the tub to see after checking that the bed would hold.

The glance over the crib made you wonder about the bottom. While you left most of the crib choices up to Donnie, you had both discussed the mattress platform. You had opted for the support of more slats as the box spring mechanism freaked you out when you considered a fragile baby. Everything was built snuggly enough that there was no way your child could get to the springs, but now you thought further into the future. You weren’t sure if slats would hold up to inevitable jumping when your child became more mobile.

You watched a vision of your baby scrambled up onto their bed a hundred times. Each leap got shorter. Everytime they hoisted themselves up it was easier. They were growing like a weed in your mind and you jumped developmental stages. Your tiny helpless baby would outgrow this bed and need another. You were getting weepy again and you reached up to rub a tear that had matted itself amongst your eyelashes.

Your baby kicked suddenly and you heaved.

“Why…?” You whimpered out loud and hunched over slightly.

Your child was quiet in a sort of pouty way.

“You don’t like it…?” You brought your other hand down to your stomach.

You felt some wriggling.

“What’s wrong?” You turned to better hold your stomach. “You didn’t like lunch? I thought that soup was pretty good…”

Your baby hadn’t settled.

“Yeah… You know, I didn’t think sweet potato and black bean would go together, but your papà did a good job.”

Your baby kicked a second time.

You jolted backwards at the sharp strike, bumped wood, and heard a creak.

Your adrenaline wrapped its hand around your throat.

The front door opened.

“I gathered the entire set.” Donnie called.

You barely lifted your head and saw the bed teeter in your periphery. “Ah!”

“What?!” Donnie appeared in a blur as all four sides of the bed fell outward and apart.

The headboard clipped the tub of screws.

In a perfect arch, they shot up into the air and scattered down like pelleted rain. The little plops trickled and your husband was still in motion. He yelped to a halt and it was enough that you caught a glimpse of all the clamps. They lined his arms and he reared in pain. It caused a few of the clamps to snap off and, with their combination of plastic and metal, they bounced harder than the screws. One landed directly on the headboard and carved out a chunk of its wood from the force.

Donnie brought his good leg up and grimaced as there was a screw embedded in the center of his bare foot.

“Donnie!” You moved forward on instinct.

You could only see the head of the screw.

The metal bits weren’t lengthy screws, but they were long enough.

Over an inch was shoved straight into his arch.

“It’s alright…! It’s-!” He found the couch for stability.

You kicked one of the legs of the bed frame and the pain shot straight through you.

“Y/N!”

“Fuck!” You couldn’t reach your stubbed toe to nurse it.

There was nothing near you to hold on to.

You scooted forward, but the bed pieces were scattered.

If you stepped, you chanced landing on those same screws.

It was dramatic.

You felt the absurdity right at the crest.

The emotion continued to rise.

Anger.

At your baby for kicking.

At the bed for falling.

At the screws that hurt your husband.

At his insistence on making a bed instead of buying one that would have been just as serviceable.

At yourself.

At your constant needs.

You sobbed.

Drops fell onto your belly.

Too large and angrily in the way so that you couldn't even cry in peace.

“Darling. Dearest. My heart…” Donnie approached you and was clearly offsetting any sort of hobble.

You looked at him through fat tears.

“Let me clean up.” He told you.

“Your foot.” You blubbered.

“It’s alright.” He ushered you away from the scene. “Here. Sit a moment.”

He led you to the edge of your bed.

You sat.

He checked in with you for a solid look.

You returned a watery one.

He squeezed your arm before he moved to clean up.

You watched him.

He moved mechanically to pick up each and every screw. Like clockwork, they went back into their awaiting tub like sheep herded from their time in the field. He tended to the fence next in the form of the crib. He got the sides of the bed and clamped them where he saw fit. The unit appeared whole again and he propped it up out of the way. It was in the process that he found the divot in the headboard.

He mumbled something about filling it in.

That meant wood filler.

That meant drying time.

He would have to sand it a second time.

Stain.

Dry.

Cure.

Paint.

Again.

Because of you.

You sat with your enormous ass on the bed.

An uncomfortable lump.

An unsightly and useless shape.

That’s why pregnancy clothes were ugly, you thought then.

They were meant to make you disappear.

A frumpy look for your final shame.

When you were too large to be anything but a problem.

What had upset your baby had settled.

You had been mad at them.

You hugged your stomach the best you could.

Even for a split second, you hated that the feeling had flashed by.

What happened when they drew on the walls?

When they spilled food?

When they broke something?

What would your anger do then?

You had punched Donnie long ago.

You had warned him and thought you were justified.

Violence.

It flashed by you with anxiety.

You saw yourself as a vicious person.

A swirling image where your guts were rotted pustules.

Not part of you, but something you harbored.

A cyst to be excised.

Your baby.

You almost screamed aloud.

Your baby wasn’t some parasite.

Fear shot like an icy injection through your veins.

It coursed and took your anger and morphed it.

Its born frustration consumed you.

“My love…?”

Donnie touched your knee.

Yet another bulging knob that ached.

You looked up at him through streaked cheeks that sagged.

Dull vision met his where he tensed at the sight of you.

Hideous.

He tenderly took your head.

His hands felt warm.

“What can I do?” He asked in a voice that was soft.

It blanketed over you.

You needed to order those blankets.

Your lids closed and your attention bottomed out.

You slipped straight through yourself and caught on the huge weight hanging off your front.

“I don’t know.” You spoke all you understood.

“Describe it…?” He tried.

“I don’t feel good.”

“Your stomach? Heartburn? The lunch?” He asked.

You shook your head between his hands.

“The bed? Were you injured?” He clearly looked.

You repeated the negative motion.

“The baby?” He stopped moving. “Are they-?”

Third.

You weren’t sure if you were happy he had asked about your wellbeing first or mad that he waited so long to ask about your precious child.

Both occurred.

They trashed your mental form where it was already in tatters.

More tears leaked from you.

You would have to drink those up and pee those out.

The endless cycle.

The discomfort.

The pressure.

“Help.” You felt yourself whisper.

It rattled up and out like something clawing from within.

Your child begged its parents to stop being like this.

It affected them too.

Donnie squeezed the base of your skull.

Open your eyes, he said without saying a thing.

You did so with lopsided curtains.

Your husband was there with a stern expression.

You expected concern.

The bubble of confusion popped to clear away your muddled emotions.

“Donnie?” You murmured to his apparition.

His thumbs swept down from your eyebrows.

He made you close your eyes.

The redundancy bred further confusion.

Hadn’t he asked for your attention?

Your uncertainty made a noise.

He chirped in response.

What did that mean?

You ran through definitions, but came up short.

A chirp was a multi-faceted sound.

Highly dependent on a frequency you couldn’t actually hear.

A tongue you didn’t have.

An appendage that didn’t exist in humans.

“What do you feel?” Your mate asked.

“Confused.” You responded immediately.

“I need to get something.”

“O-kay…?” You wondered slowly.

His fingers lightly massaged your neck.

He played pressure valves and you sank into his touch.

He gave a final squeeze before he departed.

You looked after him and watched him scour a drawer.

He produced a sleep mask and you felt your brow crease.

“Dearest.” He approached with it.

The mask had been a recent purchase for himself. Your thoughts had become too loud at night so you had started to compensate with the television. You turned it on a low volume in the living room for a drone. Instead of counting sheep, you tried to make out the voices which took your focus until sleep could have you. The noise didn’t bother Donnie as he could easily tune such things out with his implants, but he was far more sensitive to the flashing lights beyond the bed. With him acting as your pregnancy pillow, he often couldn’t turn away if he needed to face them. The mask was a simple solution that worked.

“May I?” He offered it to you.

You looked at it and then him.

You didn’t understand.

It leaked from you.

“To help.” He whispered.

Could it?

You nodded once.

He eyeballed the measurement, adjusted the band, and stretched the elastic to apply it to you. When he came away, it was a snug fit that allowed for no light to leak in. You were entrenched in darkness and that spoke to the mask’s quality, you guessed. It felt a little like his hands without the warmth which you missed until they quickly found you.

They coasted down to show you their destination. If he wanted to sit in his favorite position between your legs, then you were nowhere near ready. You weren’t adjusted for it and everything about you was far too broken. He would have to prop you up like something lifeless and with that came more of his help.

You heard your breathing pick up.

Donnie caught your knees and held them firm.

They would not be moved.

Then what was he doing?

If he wanted to confer with your child then he needed to go about the necessary steps.

All that needed to be done.

Everything.

He slid his grip up and squeezed the outside of your thighs.

The pressure tipped just a bit stronger than it should have. A prickling of his calluses caught your smooth skin. Your flesh had been supple from the constant moisturization. It’s the one thing you felt alright about. The thing your mate helped with that you didn’t mind. You let him churr against your stomach and he rubbed you down with all sorts of creams at least once a day.

Skinship.

You pressed against him.

You offered to be his weighted blanket once.

It felt like a fond memory.

You were just you then.

Not this person housing another person.

Not a version of you that was so bloated that two of you would fit in place of one.

You were someone who had time once.

Selfish cares of your own.

Donnie’s hands moved again.

To the widest part of your hips where he added pressure.

It reminded you of a dancer’s hold.

You used to dance.

Before there was a bulbous growth separating you.

He traveled further up to what was once your waist.

He could easily hold you once.

His fingers tingled along your ribcage and he touched your arms. He pressed and tested the flesh like he was performing an examination. You knew that as well. He had his pound of flesh and then some. There was nothing left of you that was new. That was why you bred a new creature.

You had gone stale.

Bloated.

You would pupate and another would claw out of your remains.

Endlessly used.

Tears cropped up within your mask.

Donnie grasped your upper arms and held you there. “Y/N.”

You startled, but he had you. “Y-yeah?”

He knew.

You tried to hold your expression.

“When I hold you here…” His fingers sank into your limbs. “What do you see?”

“See?” You felt yourself parroting.

“Imagine.” He pivoted.

“You.” You spoke softly.

“When I touch here you see me?” He flexed his digits.

You nodded.

“And here…?” He returned to your waist.

“You…”

His hands drifted downward.

“All you.” You felt embarrassed to say.

You heard him move.

His clothes rustled as if he was sitting up.

In a split second, you felt all the hairs in your body rise on end.

Would he kiss you?

Your lips puckered in preparation.

Maybe he’d kiss your cheek instead.

You felt the readied flush.

He could also hug you.

Readiness tickled your spine.

You heard a puff of air.

You blinked into the darkness of your mask.

He chuffed with an affectionate noise.

As if you were cute.

“Donnie!” You scolded and squirmed.

He was gone, you realized then.

None of him was touching you.

You searched for him with your hands and knees, but didn’t find him.

The pads of his fingers ghosted over your cheek.

You squeaked involuntarily.

It didn’t feel like fear.

It felt like relief.

From not to knowing.

Your husband was absent once again.

“Donnie?” You tried softly.

“I’m here.” He sounded like he was right where he had been.

You thought for a moment before you searched for him with your toe.

It was your injured one, but it only ached faintly when you curled it curiously into the air.

You heard his pant legs rub as he adjusted.

You toed his shin.

He had been injured.

“How’s your foot?”

“I’ve yet to remove the screw.”

“What?!” Your hands flew out to him.

That time you heard him dodge.

“Hey!” You waved your limbs.

You felt he was pleased with himself as he maneuvered your blind advances.

“You can’t just leave it!”

“I’ll tend to it later.”

You felt a whiff of him and tried to come down on that. “Gotcha!”

In a duck, you felt him dip through your palm and shove his head up into you.

You held him with wide fingers before you pet over him.

He was facing you based on what you could feel.

He added a bit more upward pressure before he left your grip.

“I don’t want it to get infected.” You told air.

“I won’t. Promise.” His nail brushed your chin.

There was another flicker of excitement at the connection point.

“Raised sensitivity.”

“Hm?”

“Depriving eyesight.”

“I can’t tell where you’ll be.”

“I’m right here.” He spoke plainly.

That conjured a bit of a smile. “Sure, but I can’t tell where you’ll touch me.”

He trilled softly and a tap came to the back of your calf.

You slid your foot.

He brushed his knuckles against your forearm.

It left goosebumps in his wake.

A curled finger touched the center of your sternum and led up.

You looked down through darkness.

He didn’t make contact with your chin again.

“You’re overwhelmed.”

“Yeah…”

He skimmed around the mask.

You let your eyes shut as there was no point in leaving them open.

“There’s no remedy.”

“I don’t think there is.” You nodded solemnly. “Not until the baby is out of me.”

“I wish to alleviate your discomfort.”

“Thanks, but you do enough already…”

“Y/N.”

“I know. I know you don’t mind. I know.” You shook your head and didn’t feel him. “But this can’t be fixed and there’s… no use.”

He had paused.

He was thinking.

Your head moved as if to look for him.

“Can I describe what I see?”

The thought struck you as curious.

A hand settled above your knee.

You mimed looking down at it. “I guess.”

“My mate.”

You took a turn giving an amused chuff. “Donnie…”

“My stunning heart.”

“Hey…”

His thumb warned near the corner of your mouth before it landed on your lips.

For a moment, you thought you could see him.

Half crouched and looking up at you with adoration.

Your husband.

“These lips…” He waxed.

You listened.

“How they speak what I most hope to hear. The longing in which dispels fear. Take nary but air between sweet sips.”

A poem.

It wasn’t too flashy, but you were still surprised.

Donnie preferred to drum up romantic drama with his actions.

You took a shaky breath.

“My heart…” He continued.

His hand felt down above your breast and pressed to the beating organ.

“Displaced for one I hold dear. Left in your presence to steer. For no other does it dare chart.”

Your hand came up and covered your mouth.

“Your strength…”

His hand moved away only to be replaced with his head.

“Your canter, your walk, all that you do. Raise earth and touch fire as if you always knew. No measurement possible per your distance lengths.”

You delicately traced his head.

“Your prowess.”

You felt his breath warm your breast.

“Watching you is an undeniable show. You cast forth in life and erase my woe. An honor that which allows us.”

He turned his head and listened.

“What words could I have.”

Your heart beat layers.

“Any which to label the entity of you.”

You leaned your head against his.

“Of all language combined there are still far too few.”

He moved slow until he could kiss the underside of your chin.

“Without you I am but a half.”

Othello.

You knew it then.

Amongst his sonnet.

That was his pseudonym of a bygone era.

The ego death of the character he could have been.

If given the chance.

A love of theater and something dyed the tragedy of Shakespeare.

You pulled up your mask.

Your husband appeared against your chest and was clearly embarrassed by the dark flush to his cheeks.

Your eyes widened.

“Juvenile.” He spoke in a sudden moping. “Why I thought that may help…?!”

“Sweet…” You reached for him.

He watched you warily. “I have encyclopedic knowledge. Possess all prose and yet I come up with such paltry drivel. It is not comparable.”

“I liked it.”

“You are not moved.” He chuffed.

“No?”

“No.” He decided. “I thought how to quell concern that I cannot give name. I will need to be better. More creative. Lullabies. Stories. All while suiting you.”

You smiled as he included your child. “Young kids are pretty forgiving. It’s the whole ‘never experienced the world’ thing.”

“After that?”

“They judge anything you do, no matter what.”

Donnie sighed slowly.

“You wrote me a poem.”

He twitched.

“While you were reciting it or before?”

“During…” The self-consciousness returned.

“Why the blindfold?”

“Limit your stressors.”

“If you’re practicing then you should know you can’t blindfold a baby.”

“I’m aware.” He scolded you with a nudge of his beak.

You smiled and let your head loll.

He waited a moment before he kissed your neck.

It went straight through your pulse.

“I thought I’d mention it...”

“Your troubling root is abstract cause. Errant emotion. My prime concern lies with you. I would have no other practice partner. Produce heirs with no other. You alone are my life.”

Your cheeks warmed. “That might be a better poem.”

He made a lightly disgruntled sound.

“I think instead of flowery words, poetry is more… connecting emotions we can’t name so easily. It’s basically impossible to capture and compare certain feelings, but you try.”

He looked up at you.

“As long as it comes from the heart.”

“My heart.” He leaned further into you.

“Donnie…”

“My gorgeous, stunning heart.” He stopped just shy of a kiss.

You wondered why and searched him.

“You are beauty.”

The honesty coming off him was palpable enough that it conjured adolescent giddiness.

“You always are.” For the first time, in all that time, he touched your stomach. “Not for this. Not the glow. The chemicals. The hormones. You, my dearest, are ethereal. Without compare or language. You are all that I see and knowing I conjure the same…?”

You knew he was talking about how each touch reminded you of another of his.

“I will woo you for all our days.”

“You’re doing a good job.” You blurted out.

He was quiet.

It felt like building courage, but you looked at him.

He was blushing again.

You knew you were doing the same.

Heat broiling, you gazed into each other’s eyes before you both flicked glances down to one another’s lips. They were the next to connect. With all your years of practice, it was almost embarrassing that your kiss was a sloppy miss. You were far too eager to linger on the mistake. You both immediately moved to correct. It bumped your noses and melded your flesh.

You parted for gulps even though you hadn’t kissed long enough to starve yourselves of oxygen. Desire scented the air as Donnie ghosted close. You breathed each other in literally and made figurative your need. When you connected again, it was you each raising up to consume the other.

A push and pull in tandem.

Two bodies moved of the same necessity.

His grip plied into your limb.

You tugged at the material of his shirt.

The thin separations were too much.

He avoided the expanse of your belly.

It wasn’t the point.

Your giddiness was reassurance.

A comfort.

Your love.

Safety against him.

With him.

Your devotion.

And his.

He found the fallen sleep mask and gave it to you suddenly. You gawked at it from where you were nearly nude. He dipped down momentarily and you heard a rip of fabric. He came up with a length from the sheets and a stunned vowel left your lips. In a whip and curl, his fangs glinted a smile as he tied it off around his head.

On top of the mask he already wore.

Instead of giggling, you felt the continuing urge to match him and donned your mask. Both unseeing, you felt one another. It lit all your nerve endings to each touch. His being was all the more enhanced by your imagination and all he sought of you was the same.

Your body.

You messily fell back into bed.

Your heart.

He hoisted your legs up.

Your mind.

The scald of his dropped cock swiped against your inner thigh.

Your soul.

Messy and directionless, he felt out his path with his hands before trying to follow it with is prick. His tip dragged pointed need across your leg. It leaked his passion and surged with all that was built up inside you. Tangible and more, until he ran his cock over the length of your cunt. Pleasure centers fired all over your body and brain.

Your thigh where he had a grip.

His knuckles about your labia where he adjusted his cock.

His dick that ached to slip inside your inviting caverns.

Where your two joints fit under master craftsmanship.

Fated to be matched and connected snuggly.

His glans pressed your entrance and fed ins. That glue of his was his cum and had stuck you with quite the entity. When he bottomed out, you felt the edge of his plastron press your bulging body. He churred a reverberation that shook through your bounty. You the fruitful horn to bear harvest.

With discoordination, you found each other amongst thrusts. You giggled as you blindly caught his arm after a few missed tries. He laughed when he incorrectly wove your fingers. You got hold of each other and you wound your legs around him. You weren’t that youthful version of yourself and you weren’t the one who only received.

You had long grown.

More powerful.

Learned.

To handle him.

To match him.

To exceed him.

You captivated him.

You heard him gasping for your attention.

“Here.”

You beckoned.

“Here.”

You called.

“Here.”

You told him just where.

This time when you kissed, it was exact.

Firm.

Established.

“I’m turning you.” He spoke intensity.

“H-huh?” You felt settled.

He swiped around you and you felt what had to be a pillow messily drag down your torso. He ushered you onto your side and lifted your leg to stay connected. The pillow tucked under your belly to mitigate the hang and he scrubbed his pelvis forward. It met flush with yours and your child was out of the way.

“Donnie!” You harked.

“Y/N!” He returned the call.

Your leg hiked up and bled into his form.

Each jostle shook you to your core, but the resulting shake wasn’t jiggling out of your mate’s reach.

He moved all of you.

Into you.

Around you.

He had you.

“Close.” He warned.

“I’m not, but please!”

“Won’t stop.” He promised.

You knew he wouldn’t.