#that’s probably why I don’t do them often

[jobean12-blog]

Hanging by a Moment

Pairing: Joel Miller x female reader

Word Count: 5K

Summary: Joel's wanted you since the moment he saw you...what will it take for him to make a move.

Author's Note: Between Cannes this weekend and the upcoming episode six of TLOU 2 I'm pretty much useless and my life revolves around the next Pedro pic/gif/vid that will ruin me. It's fine though. I had to channel it somewhere so here's some tension and smut and all the good stuff. Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: lots of tension, some fun, some fluff, flirting, meddling Tommy and Ellie in the best way, fingering, oral (f rec), unprotected p in v (wrap it in rl pls), light dirty talk and praise, Joel and his guitar

“Ellie’s out on patrol. Ben is inside drawing…what has you smiling like that?”

Tommy’s question goes unanswered as Joel continues staring straight ahead, his eyes bright and crinkled at the corners. Tommy turns to follow Joel’s gaze and let’s out a snort of laughter.

“No fuckin’ way brother,” Tommy says as he claps Joel on the back. “Good for you.”

Joel stares a second longer then swings his eyes to Tommy. “Good for me what?”

Tommy looks between you and Joel. “I’ve only seen you smile like that at two people, and neither are here, so…I’m glad you finally made a move.”

“I…what? I didn’t…do anything,” Joel stumbles.

Tommy frowns. “Then why are you starin’ like she belongs to you.”

Before Joel can reply you part with Dina and start walking toward the two men.

“Hi,” you say to them then turn your eyes to Joel. “I think I found something you can use to file those saddle slots.”

Joel’s mouth lifts into a soft smile. “Thanks,” he says.

“I’ll bring it by after lunch,” you tell him.

“Saddle slots?” Tommy asks as he watches Joel watch you walk away.

“For the guitar,” Joel grumbles before he turns on his heel.

Your knock goes unanswered, so you gently push the door open and call his name. Still no answer but you hear the tap of wood and the plucking of strings as you head toward the living room.

“Joel?”

He spins around, his safety glasses slipping down his nose.

“Hey,” he says gruffly. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I knocked but I figured that. I have the file.”

You hold up the tool and he smiles.

He wipes his hands on his jeans and reaches out for it. You watch in silence as he carefully files down the edges of the saddle slots, every so often blowing over the wood to clear the shavings.

“I don’t know what you’re doing but it looks really beautiful already.”

When his eyes meets yours they’re soft and his expression filled with gratitude . “I hope she likes it.”

“She will,” you assure him. “Will you teach her to play?”

“If she’ll let me,” he says lightly.

You step closer and lean over the instrument, lifting a hand to lightly run it along the shiny wood. Your next words of admiration are cut short because his warm, strong hand covers yours, guiding it down the neck of the instrument and over the curve of the body.

“The top is made of a softwood, probably cedar and the sides and back a hardwood like mahogany,” he explains, his hand still leading yours.

The feel of him more than his words shocks you silent and you hold your breath.

“The different types of wood present different tones,” he continues.

You find yourself leaning into him subconsciously, and he squeezes your hand before releasing it.

“I can’t wait to hear you play it,” you whisper, still recovering from the contact of his skin.

“What time are Ellie and I leaving tomorrow?” Joel ask Tommy as they add more hay to the horse stables.

“Eight am sharp,” Tommy says with a smirk.

“What’s that about?” Joel says frowning.

Tommy shrugs but his smile widens as Ellie approaches.

“Did you tell him?” she asks Tommy, her eyes sparkling.

“Tell me what?” Joel grumbles as he rests his hands on his hips.

“You’re doing patrol tomorrow, but not with me,” Ellie says excitedly.

“What do you mean?” Joel asks, his tone dangerously low. “You’re not thinkin’ of goin’ out on your own…?”

“No,” Ellie says, waving him off. “I’m staying behind to train with Jesse.”

“I don’t understand,” Joel says with an exasperated sigh. “Why can’t you two just be straight with me.”

“I’m giving you a chance to make your move brother,” Tommy says with a wink.

The next morning with the fog of a humid night still hanging in the air you wait by the gate for Joel. The clip clop of hooves turns your head, and you see him leading Shimmer your way.

“Only one horse?” you say as you pat Shimmer’s side.

Joel’s gaze finds yours and his dark brown eyes stare at you so unapologetically it unnerves you in a way.

“Tommy says the others need rest.”

You give him a shaky smile and wait as he lifts himself onto the horse and then offers you his hand. You take it, his warm and calloused fingers strong around yours as he helps you up behind him.

“Comfortable?” he asks once you’re settled.

“Yes,” you say quietly, all at once aware of every sense- the way you’re pressed up against Joel’s back, the cool morning breeze along your heated skin, the smell of spice and leather.

You remain quiet for most of the ride, enjoying the warmth from the rising sun and the way it plays off the mountainsides, bathing the newly growing flowers and vegetation in a soft glow. The sounds of birds chirping and animals scurrying made things feel almost…normal.

“I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed springtime…and the fact that all the snow ‘s melted.”

You feel him laugh. “You’re tellin’ me. We never saw snow in Texas.”

It’s a quiet patrol and you and Joel pass the time with easy conversation about whatever comes to mind but when midday hits the sun is strong overhead and you’re both hot and in need of water. He stops Shimmer by a small stream and helps you off, first taking your hand then surprisingly grasping your waist, slowing your descent as you slide off the horse and into his arms.

“Thanks,” you breathe out.

He nods but doesn’t release you. Not until Shimmer whinnies and stamps forward a few steps for a drink.

Joel heads to the stream and starts to take off his flannel, revealing his forearms and biceps, the muscles flexing and tightening as he reaches down to fill his canteen. He takes a long sip, the strong column of his throat shifting with each swallow and you suddenly feel more thirsty than ever before in your life.

After a small lunch and a water refill you’re back on Shimmer, headed to one last spot before returning for the day.

“Those clouds don’t look very good,” you mumble as you glance out west to the darkened sky.

“They don’t,” Joel agrees. “It feels like rain.”

“Do you think we’ll make it back in time?” you ask.

As if on cue, Joel’s radio emits static before Tommy’s voice comes through asking for your location.

You listen to the conversation, your stomach sinking when Tommy says the rain has already reached them.

“Think we’re gonna have to find a safe house to wait out the storm,” Joel says as he clicks off the com device.

Thunder rumbles far in the distance and the corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk. “Better get movin’.”

Just as he shoulders past the dilapidated door the rain drops start to fall. He holds a finger to his lips and tucks you behind him, stepping quietly and slowly into the house. He shines his flashlight in the corners of the room, the dark clouds now blotting out most of the days earlier sunshine and casting shadows all around you.

You wait, your grip on his shirt tight as you follow in step. When he’s satisfied the house is clear he clicks off the flashlight and his shoulders relax.

“Looks ok,” he says.

When you don’t release his shirt he looks down at where your hand is still fisted in the soft material. You track his gaze and release it quickly.

“Scared?” he teases.

You shake your head and let out the breath you were holding in.

An hour later you’re seated on the dusty floor, laughing as Joel tries to land the broken pieces of a vase into another that’s still intact.

“Your aim stinks,” you laugh.

“I’d like to see you do better,” he says.

You stand and hold your hand out for some of the pieces, staring down at him and waiting for him to move over so you can sit in the right spot. He shoves to the side but only enough for you to sit with yourself plastered to his side. Something sparkles in his eyes and is lips curl just a millimeter before he motions with a tilt of his head for you to take your best throw.

With a wry smile you line up your throw and launch it, missing the opening of the vase by half a foot. His body shakes next to you, and you elbow him in the side.

“Oof,” he mumbles before going quiet.

You try again but fail to get it inside the vase.

“I have to stand up!” you say determinedly.

“Don’t think that’s gonna do any good,” he jokes, and you give him a solid side eyed glare.

After your fourth missed throw, instead of his laughter, which you were prepared for, his hand meets the small of your back, and you sharply inhale at how warm and massive his palm is over the thin fabric of your tee shirt. He had to have felt it, the way you jolted at the contact, but he holds you steady and sure as he positions your body.

“Try now,” he says, his voice low.

He fixes the angle of your elbow then with a reluctance you can sense he moves away. You take the shot and get it inside the vase without even hitting the edge.

“YES!” you cheer far too loudly, the sound echoing around the emptiness of the house.

Both you and Joel go still, his eyes darting around as he takes a step closer to you. A sound outside the house startles you, your gasp catching in your throat when you see a shadow move outside the window. Joel wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you behind him, pressing you into the wall as he walks toward the kitchen. He reaches behind his back, his hand brushing along your stomach in the process, and pulls out his knife.

You wait, barely breathing as whatever is outside continues to pass the window. After several heart stopping moments, it turns and you realize it’s just a deer grazing outside the house, it’s large ears turned upward and out as if to listen itself.

“Shit,” you sigh, relaxing against Joel.

When he turns around to face you his body is merely an inch from yours, his eyes searching your face when he asks, “you ok?”

“Yeah,” you tell him, swaying closer. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” he whispers. “It’s fine. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

You give him the best smile you can and wait for him to step back but he doesn’t, instead, leaning forward and crowding you against the wall. His eyes drop to your mouth, lingering before he drags them back up and his lips part. You let out a shuddering breath, your eyelashes fluttering along your cheeks and your breath hitching when you feel his fingertips graze your neck.

The shrill sound of static and Tommy’s garbled voice breaks you out of the moment and you both move away with an intake of air. Joel let’s out a sigh and grabs the walkie talkie.

“Looks like we’re goin’ to be spendin’ the night,” Joel says as he watches you closely.

You can’t sleep. Despite the coolness of the rain filled night and the coziness of your sleeping bag, your body is heated, and your mind is racing. You decide to explore the house. Glancing at Joel’s sleeping bag it appears he’s still in it but it’s hard to tell under the blanket of darkness. Quietly, you creep free of the cocoon of fabric and tip toe toward the back of the house. Any other sounds of the night are muted by the consistent downpour of rain and the worn wooden floors are cool under your bare feet.

“Ah, and here I was thinkin’ I was alone.”

You jump at the deep voice, blinking repeatedly in the darkness as your eyes adjust. Slowly, a figure comes into view, a dark shadow that the closer it gets the more you recognize as Joel, broad shouldered, arms crossed over his chest and a small smile pulling at his lips.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.

“Not really,” you answer as you lean back against the kitchen counter.

You can’t see his eyes clearly in the dark, but you can feel them like warm rays of sunshine on your skin. You rub your hands over your bare arms, your tank top suddenly feeling paper thin, while minutes ago you felt too hot in your sleeping bag. Taking his time, but with purposeful steps, he moves closer to you, resting along the counter next to you. Your fingers curl around the edge of the grimy Formica, as if the action will keep you from reaching out for him.

“Why are you up?” you ask.

His face turns toward yours. “Wanted to make sure I could keep watch…keep you safe.”

You inhale deeply and his eyes fall to where you chest expands. “I like that you want to keep me safe.”

His nostrils flare, eyes searching your face, lips parted like he wants to speak but something holds him back. You watch the bob of his throat with his heavy swallow, the hollow area where his neck meets his collarbone as it ebbs and every muscle in your body tightens, your legs squeezing together.

He’s close enough now that even through the shadowed veil of night you can see the intensity of his gaze and feel his warm breath caress your cheek.

“I like to protect what’s mine,” he husks, his nose barely skimming yours.

At your gasp of air, his lips tilt upward, and warm fingertips brush the outside of your thigh, just above your knee. You feel the goosebumps erupt in a wave over your skin and he leans closer, his hips pressing into you, the large bulge between his legs brushing your stomach and outlining every substantial inch of him.

He has to know you feel it, has to know you’re just as affected, but just as suddenly as he’s right there, he steps back, turning away as your breath rushes back with a kick.

“Get some sleep darlin.’ We have an early start tomorrow.”

The next morning, the rain clings to the grass in sparkling dew drops and the air smells of damp earth. Shimmer trots away from the small town, away from what almost happened last night, and back toward reality. You try not to lean into Joel, but the uneven ground bobs you up and down, back, and forth, and constantly into his body. His tee shirt is thin enough that you feel the flex and shift of his back muscles beneath it and you can smell his skin, lightly dampened with sweat from the rising sun.

You reach Jackson without incident and part ways with Joel, quiet and reserved. Fortunately, you’re able to keep busy the next few days, catching up on various chores you missed and some much-needed sleep.

At least, until the middle of the week when Ellie drags you over to her house to show you the new guitar Joel gifted her. When you walk inside there’s no sign of Joel and you deflate with disappointment, the realization that you’ve missed him hitting harder than any time before.

Ellie excitedly chatters over the instrument as she shows you everything, even strumming some chords Joel’s started to teach her. You can’t help but feel her happiness, especially knowing how hard Joel has worked to fix the guitar.

“Maybe you’ll teach me after you learn more,” you tell Ellie with a smile.

Before she can answer you hear Joel’s gruff voice. “I’ll teach you to play.”

He emerges from his bedroom, running a hand along his bearded jaw while the muscles tick as he looks you over.

“Yeah?” you ask with a raised brow, trying to appear nonchalant.

“I’d love to,” he says, his words soft, subtle.

Ellie’s eyes swing back and forth between the two of you, her brow furrowed. “I’m just gonna go show this to Dina,” she squeaks. “See you guys later.”

She rushes off with the guitar and a slam of the door.

You cross your arms over your chest and drop your gaze. He’s across the room before you can register the movement, his thick fingers pressed under your chin to lift your eyes to his.

“Joel…”

“Don’t say my name like that, darlin’,” he warns, his eyes flicking to where you’ve pinned your bottom lip with your teeth. “Not unless you want…”

“Want what?” you interrupt.

He steps closer, his hand reaching out for your cheek and brushing along your lip to pull it free of your teeth. The pad of his thumb rubs the spot, slowly, teasingly, until your lips part with a gasp. His hand sweeps back, gripping the nape of your neck lightly. He pulls you in, and your eyelashes flutter along your cheeks.

The sound of boisterous laughter fills the air, and you hear the turn of the doorknob before Ellie and Dina bound in, breathless and smiling.

“Oh shit,” Ellie says, her smile falling before rising again now laced with mischief.

“I thought you said they were fighting?” Dina asks, her smile matching Ellie’s.

“They were,” Ellie says through the side of her mouth.

Joel’s teeth grind and Ellie’s smile widens. “I’m just gonna grab the tuner then we’ll be out of your hair.”

She rushes over to the table and rips the tuner off, sprinting back toward Dina and pushing her out the door.

For a long moment, Joel watches you, a million indecipherable emotions surging in his eyes. You watch the muscles in his jaw tighten; watch the way he slides his hands into his pockets as if it’s the only way to keep them from reaching out to touch you. He lets out a long, slow, and steady exhale, and then the door opens again, and Tommy appears.

“Need your help with somethin’,” he says, looking to Joel before his eyes slide to you apologetically.

Joel walks you back to your house, leaving you with a mumbled apology and following Tommy to the town hall. You flop back on your bed, covering your face with a pillow before screaming into it. Then you pull it off and stare up at the ceiling, your legs bouncing against the mattress. Your nerves are buzzing, and you’re entirely too restless and turned on. You lay there for a long time, forcing yourself to calm your breathing, placing your hands on your chest to follow the rhythmic rise and fall.

Just the pressure of your hands and the brush of your fingertips has you inhaling sharply, your thoughts shifting immediately to Joel and how his hands would feel along your bare skin. You flatten your palm to your stomach and let your mind continue to drift.

The way his eyes seem to devour you every time he sees you, like it’s the first and last time he will.

The words he spoke…he protects what’s his.

Every stolen touch and almost kiss…what would his kiss feel like.

Your knees drop open, your hand sliding between your thighs.

You can smell his skin, feel the growl of want rumble through his chest as he pins you to the bed.

A pulse shoots between your legs, and you chase the sensation with your fingers, running them through your wet folds before circling your clit. You moan and arch into the touch, imagining every touch, every whisper of his lips, until your fingers circle faster and your hips roll.

The faster your fingers move, the more your thoughts run wild, and you twist in the sheets, chasing the feeling as you slip a finger inside you.

Just then, a hard knock pounds the door. Your eyes shoot open, and you nearly kill yourself trying to get off the bed and to the door. Thankfully, your bedroom is in the far back of the house, so Joel is only in the living room when you walk out.

His brown eyes look darker than usual, and he smirks, letting his gaze sweep over you from head to toe. Your body hums.

“What were you doin’ darlin’?” he asks. “I thought I heard some…noises.”

“I feel asleep!” you say quickly. “And I think I was having a dream.”

He raises a brow and pops his knee out. “Hmm.”

“Is everything ok?” you ask, needing to change the subject.

“Yeah, just fine,” he says, “but we need to give our patrol report to the council.”

Then he turns and walks back to the door, holding it open for you.

After the meeting, Ellie’s back and requesting more guitar lessons so you leave them to it, not missing the way Joel’s gaze lingers on you until you disappear from view. It’s not until you’re out for an evening walk that you see him again, sitting quietly on the porch with his guitar over his lap.

He motions for you to come over and you do so without question, leaning against the porch railing.

“Where’s Ellie?” you ask.

“Doin’ something with Dina,” he says with a relaxed wave of his hand. “She had enough of me and my old man music.”

You cover your mouth to stifle your laughter and watch his face light up.

“What were you playing just now?”

“Some song from the 1980s…”

“I like it.”

He stands, taking the guitar with him.

“Here.”

You look from him to the guitar then take it in your hands, arranging it in front of you as best you know how.

“Like this,” he gently instructs, fixing first your hand positioning then your fingers. You try to focus on what he’s saying but instead can’t seem to stop the way your breath hitches at his touch.

His warm palm slides up your arm and he pulls you closer, pressing your back to his chest so he can show you how to play a chord. You can feel him hard against your lower back and you lose all trace of coherency.

“I know what you were doin’ earlier,” he whispers into your neck. “Heard you call my name.”

You whimper with need at this words and when he presses a soft kiss under your ear you have to lean all your weight into him to hold you steady.

“How long are we going to pretend?” he murmurs, his lips moving higher and skimming the shell of your ear.

You tremble in his hold. “Pretend what?”

“Pretend like you’re not already mine.”

Your next breath shudders out of you, and he takes the guitar from your hands and rests it to the side, then without warning spins you in his arms so you’re trapped between him and one of the posts of the porch.

“Yours…” you breathe out, confirming it.

He pulls you flush against him, lining up every part of your bodies in a way so possessive you feel your knees weaken.

His large palm runs between your breasts, up your collarbone, until his fingers wrap around your neck, squeezing just a pinch, and then releasing it to trail his fingers higher. His thumb sweeps over your bottom lip, and you open your mouth, tasting the salt of his skin. Your eyes connect with his, and his nose flares, his cock flexing against where your bodies are pressed together.

He groans, his next breath nothing but a hiss, his nose dragging along your neck with a deep inhale. His long fingers splay along your cheek, and he tilts your head up with the press of his thumb under your chin before his lips brush yours lightly.

The contact is too much and without wasting another second his lips are on yours, completely consuming. He presses you harder against the post of the porch , meeting your hips with his own. He grips your wrists in his hands, guiding them up over your head until they’re pinned along the wood of the post and he kisses you harder, biting your lower lip before soothing it with his tongue.

“Is this what you thought about as you were touchin’ yourself baby?”

He kisses you again, swallowing your moaned confirmation. He takes over where he has your wrists pinned with one hand, letting the other trail down your arm, your neck and down to your breast where he caresses the soft flesh.

His hands, one so powerfully restraining you, while the other dips lower, feather light, into the waistband of your pants, threaten to ruin you. You gasp and arch into the touch and his knee wedges between your legs to spread them open.

“I need to touch you,” he murmurs as he slips his warm finger beneath your panties, running a line through your wet desire as your entire body convulses with the contact.

You chase his lips, unable to do much more than lean into him, reaching with your mouth where he meets you with another all-consuming kiss. A cry slips past your lips when his finger brushes your clit, sliding deeper until he’s teasing your entrance.

“You’re so fuckin’ wet baby,” he hisses, slicking his finger before teasing your clit.

“Please Joel,” you practically beg.

“You’ve been drivin’ me crazy since the first time I saw you,” he whispers, his touch still light, still teasing, but his words full of desperation.

He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes locked onto your face as he slides one thick finger inside you. Your lips part and your eyes start to flutter closed.

“Open them,” he growls. “Look at me.”

You do as he says, his nose skimming yours as he starts to work his finger in and out. Your breathing accelerates and your hips move with his hand and when he presses his thumb to your clit you let out a cry of his name. He silences you with a kiss, only pulling away when he feels you tighten around his finger. You fall apart and he releases your wrists, your body sagging into his arms as he drags out your pleasure with slow strokes and soft praises.

You don’t know how you make it into the house, can’t remember him opening the door and pulling you inside. All you know is the feel of your back against his mattress and his fingertips seeking, roaming, gripping, and tugging. He meets every desperate touch of yours with one even more anguished of his own. Your hands tangle in his hair, his big hands covering your breasts before his mouth does. You gasp at the sensation and writhe beneath him.

He sits up only to tuck his thumbs at your hips, slowly dragging the fabric of your panties down your legs.

“You’re a masterpiece,” he murmurs before his eyes meet yours and he moves again, settling between your spread legs.

You rock your hips, whining when you feel the roughness of his jeans. He quickly unzips them and kicks them off, barely giving you a chance to admire him before he presses his palm to your inner thigh and opens you wider for him. You feel the press of him between your legs, hard, warm and like silk.

His hand on your thigh pushes harder and he slides down your body, your whimper at the loss of him quickly softened when his nose grazes your clit and his tongue dips inside you.

“Oh god,” you cry, your body shaking.

He answers by holding you even more steady, open, and wide as he buries his face between your thighs and licks and sucks your clit in a rhythm that drives you wild. Your hands fall to his hair, gripping hard the closer he brings you to your release. Your orgasm rushes through you, your hips rocking into his face and your fingers tangled in his hair.

You’ve barely caught your breath when he slides back up your body, kissing and nipping as he goes to find your lips, your taste on his tongue.

“You taste even sweeter than I imagined,” he whispers, his hips moving until you feel the tip of his cock right where you need him.

With a breathy exhale you press into him, closing your eyes and digging your nails into his broad shoulders.

“Keep those eyes on me,” he commands. “Understand?”

You open them with a nod, wetting your lips and rolling your hips.

He grins at your compliance, kissing you hard before his gruff voice rumbles against your lips. “Good girl.”

You would respond but he gives you a look, one filled with so much emotion it steals your breath, then he fills you. A shocked moan leaves your mouth, and his eyes stay locked on yours as he withdraws and slowly pushes inside again, stretching you open, his body trembling.

“Fuck baby,” he breathes, looking down to watch himself disappearing inch by inch.

His hand smooths along the curve of your waist, over your hip and to your thigh, squeezing before he hikes it higher, opening you up so he can push deeper. It’s too good, he feels too perfect, and you feel your next release building quickly. You slide your fingers down his arms, feeling the muscles in his biceps tight with restraint as he holds himself above you and sets a bruising pace. Your whispered plea for more is all it takes to snap his control, and the rush of sensations hits you all at once.

Your body shakes and you tighten around him, fueling his own release. He growls, dropping his head to your neck as a shuddering groan rips through him and you feel him pulse inside you.

For long moments, he just holds you, his damp forehead pressed against your skin, breathing labored and his body wrapping you in a warmth that feels like home.

“Fuck,” he sighs, smiling softly when his eyes find yours again. “You,” he whispers, kissing your lips. “Are,” another kiss. “Magnificent.”

He peppers your face with soft kisses. “Are you ok?”

“Yes,” you smile, “never been better.”

He sweeps his thumb along your cheekbone then cradles your face in his hand. “Good. Because I’m goin’ to do whatever I can to keep that smile on your face.”

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

Can’t live without your love inside me now

Tags: sextherapist!Nanami x fem!reader, nocurse!au, taboo romance, heavy topics such as sexual assault, dead dove due to the power imbalance and heavy conversation.

Synopsis: In which Kento Nanami is a sex therapist, and his client is a young neglected wife with an emotionally absent husband. He teaches you what love is really all about.

An: Was really on the fence about posting the first part to this series. i’m glad most people seem to be enjoying it though :) so sit down and let sextherapist!nanami be your comfort for today

Part one. | Part two. |

‘I guess it makes me feel like I’m not good enough for him. Every time we have sex I try to cater to him, but it just feels like it’s never enough. If he had it his way, we’d probably have sex everyday, but I just don’t have that kind of time, energy, or desire.’

Those words burned Nanami’s ears. He knows it’s only your first session, but he can see that there’s already progress being made just by having these discussions of sex out in the open..

It reminded him just why he was so passionate about safe sex measures.

“I was only going to take the tea to placate you…”

Even if he knew that was the truth behind your answer, it still left a heavy somber feeling on his heart. He nodded, keeping his face trained on an empathetic expression.

“Do you do that often..? Put your needs behind the wants of others..?”

God, why was he reading you to filth right now? You took a deep shaky breath, reaching for more tissues because you’re definitely going to need them.

“It’s just easier..” Your throat feels like it’s trying to close as you’re attempting to force back your tears.

“Shh, let it all out..” Nanami knows that he shouldn’t be taking this tone of voice with you. He shouldn’t be shushing you and cooing to you that it’s okay, but he can’t override his innate biological need to protect and nurture.

The tears begin falling down your cheeks once again, and your shoulders shake with each small sob that wracks your body.

Nanami can’t resist himself. He leans over, and his big thick palm rests on your shoulder, feeling like a secure anchor out in the middle of the ocean.

“Such a kind, caring soul..” he whispers to you, using his hand to rub on your shoulder soothingly.

You feel the urge to press your face into his chest and vent out all of your innermost feelings and thoughts to this man while he strokes your hair lovingly, but you hold yourself still in your chair, knowing it’d be highly inappropriate.

Soon, your tears dry and you take a sobering breath. That was a lot, and the session isn’t even over yet.

“So, what do I do about.. him hounding me..?” For some reason, you still can’t come to terms with using the word coercion. It feels like a betrayal to your marriage, even if you do implicitly know that he’s been coercing you to get what he wants.

“Well, what can you do?” Nanami asked softly. He eased back into his chair, preparing himself mentally to get back in his counselor mindset.

“I guess I could…” you search your mind for answers. The only obviously wrong answer is to continue giving into him. “I could tell him how it stresses me out when he does that.”

Nanami nods his head. Inwardly, he doesn’t think that’s going to be enough. If your husband was anywhere near a halfway decent person, he would be able to understand how asking multiple times is inappropriate.

“What do you think will get in your way from telling him about how it makes you feel?”

You imagine telling your husband and how he’d react. “I guess I can be scared of him going in the complete opposite…”

Nanami’s eyebrows furrow, and he pushes his glasses up on his nose. “What do you mean by that?”

“Like… I imagine telling him, and he’ll probably respond by saying that he’ll never ask again and that I’ll need to initiate sex anytime I want it.”

Nanami can feel his eye twitch. Is there any manipulation tactic that your husband isn’t using? “I can see how that’d be discouraging. You unfortunately can’t control how your husband responds, but you can control how you phrase the question. Let’s roleplay this conversation if that’s okay. Pretend I’m your husband.”

Your face heats a bit. A tiny voice in your head tells you that if Nanami was your husband, you wouldn’t be having this issue. After taking a deep breath, you try and pretend that you’re speaking to your husband.

“When you ask me to have sex with you multiple times in a day, it really stresses me out and puts a lot of pressure on me.”

“So? What do you want me to do, Y/n? Am I suppose to read your mind and know when you want it?” Kento’s voice is uncharacteristically sharp and irritated. He watches your eyes widen in response, hurt coils on your face. “Is that how he’d respond?” he adds in a much softer tone, trying to remind you that this is just a roleplay exercise.

After a long pause, “Yeah, you got it spot on somehow…”

Because I know how narcissistic assholes act, he thinks to himself.

“Let’s try that question again, but this time, I want you to phrase your statement so you put blame on the questions and not your husband, okay?”

“Okay,” you breathe out, trying to find the words to say. “Those types of questions make me feel really pressured and make it hard for me to feel ready for sex.”

“Perfect. You did so well,” Nanami praises you with a warm smile.

Butterflies swarm your stomach. It’s not often you hear those words instead of hearing more things you need to work on. A small, timid smile curls on your lips.

“Do you think he’ll react poorly to that too?” you ask, wanting to know Nanami’s opinion.

“There’s no way for me to know how he’ll respond, but there’s only one way to find out, right? If we get no where with this plan, we’ll do something else,” he assures you, sitting back in his chair.

His eyes flick down to his watch. The session needs to come to an end soon, but the thought of you walking out of his home makes his stomach feel tight. He’s not ready to let you leave yet.

“Let’s briefly touch on the second thing—“

Your phone’s ringtone interrupts Nanami’s words, and you quickly apologize before fishing your phone out of your purse.

“It’s my husband. He’s probably wondering how much longer I’ll be.” You click the reject button and lock your phone, but Nanami can see how the simple act of rejecting his call makes you feel nervous. Your fingers shook lightly, and you gave him a tight-lipped smile.

“That’s okay. We can wrap it up here for today… During our next session…”

The sound of vibration fills the room this time.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Nanami. He gets worried..”

More like controlling. It’s just barely been one hour.

“Send him a small text and let him know we’re almost done.” Nanami gives a kind smile, even while he’s having violent thoughts about your husband.

He watches as your fingers fly across your keyboard, quickly typing out a small message. You then lock your phone again, stow it away in your purse, and you return your gaze back to Nanami.

If you keep your husband waiting too much longer, you’ll hear about it later today.

“During our next session, I want you to tell me how it went with your husband. I also would like to touch base on the next thing you said while we talked about your lack of sex drive. You mentioned that you try to cater to him, but it’s never enough. We’ll get into what that means next time, okay?” Nanami says, finally getting his words out without an interruption.

You swallow thickly, immediately feeling nervous for the next session. You’re not sure if you’re ready to talk about the act of having sex, but you knew it’d come up eventually.

“Okay… I’ll see you then, Mr. Nanami. Take care,” you wish him farewell before rising from the small couch. Nanami rises with you and guides you toward his front door.

His eyes can’t help but glance down towards your figure, and he feels his hatred for your husband grow. He must not truly understand how lucky he is to have a wife like you.

“Take care, Y/n. You have my number if you need to come in earlier than scheduled.”

As soon as the front door closes, you dial your husband’s number, ready to explain that the session went over in timing.

Meanwhile, Nanami also picks up his phone, and he dials a peer’s number, Atsuya Kusakabe. Nanami’s known Kusakabe since they were in graduate school together. They often shared phone calls with each other and their other friend, Hiromi Higuruma. While Higuruma wasn’t a therapist, he did work in legal, which helped Kusakabe and Nanami out a lot with legal questions.

After a few rings, Kusakabe answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Hey, you’re not in a session, are you?” Nanami asks, holding his phone between his ear and his shoulder. He pours water into his kettle to start on some tea.

“I wouldn’t have answered if I was in one. I only do intakes today, and I finished those up hours ago. Why? You needing to talk?” Kusakabe’s voice sounds even more gravely over the phone than it does in person. Nanami imagines he’s probably enjoying a cigarette right now.

“Yeah, I just got out of a first session with a female patient. It’s weighing on me.”

“I don’t know how you do what you do, Nanami. You know, you’d probably have a better quality of life if you focused on something else.”

“Not an option. I didn’t spend years of my life researching to do something else. This also isn’t weighing on me like my other cases do.” Nanami leans against one of his kitchen counters, looking up towards the ceiling. He debates on not telling Kusakabe at all about how your case. If he tells him how he feels, that means he has to acknowledge that it’s teetering on breaking ethical code.

“Well? Go on.”

“My client has a piss poor excuse for a husband, and I’m pretty sure the story runs a lot deeper than what is being said.”

“Jeez Ken, you said this was her first session, right? Of course there’s more to the story. That’s a given. You think there’s abuse going on?” Kusakabe flicks his cigarette, looking out into his property. He always enjoyed the quiet life way more, which is why he did career counseling. It was way less stressful.

“I know there’s at least emotional abuse going on. I can tell she’s not even aware of the levels of manipulation her husband is using. I had to bite my tongue several times throughout our session.”

A chuckle sounds from the other side of the phone.

“Don’t tell me you’re already partial to this woman, Ken.”

Nanami doesn’t respond immediately. His jaw tenses slightly. Luckily, the tea kettle whistling breaks the slight tension. “I just care. That’s all.”

“You wouldn’t be doing this job if you didn’t care, but do you care too much to do your job effectively?”

Taglist: @theuniversesnepobaby @aldebrana @pandabiene5115 @petrichorvzlia @stargirl-mayaa @simssssssss5 @des-todoroki @nevvynev @dysphxriaii @rjreins @sukunawhores @nanamin-chan @mullermilkshake @thelostkira @anuncalledbridge @elliehenry24 @williamafton26 @ambiguouslady42 @airandyeah

[spaceyaemonds]

pairing: dr. jack abbot x reader

sum.: you see your mother face to face for the first time in years, and it starts with a rocky conversation.

warnings: age gap (jack is late 40s, reader is 23), unplanned pregnancy, this is very much centered around reader and her mom (jack is only mentioned in this part), mentions of a difficult mother/daughter relationship, and angst due to that, i think that’s it?? minors DNI.

notes: i have still been struggling with a bit of writies block for this series :( so i am sorry if this is not the best. i also couldn’t quite get the flow right for this part. initially, jack and reader met with her mom, and then met with jacks mom (and his sister showed up) but as i was rereading it and trying to wrap it up today, i felt like it didn’t make a lot of sense, so decided to split part 7 up where it’s reader and her mom, jack and his mom, then them both with readers mom, and then with jacks mom. also, i really projected my own issues with my mom here, so if it feels like the relationship makes no sense that may be why💀 i hope you guys aren’t too disappointed with this! unedited. and as always, any feedback is extremely appreciated, it helps keep me motivated. especially reblogs/comments/asks!

wc: 1.3k (ish)

prev next

You and Jack both decided it would probably be best for you to speak with your mother on your own for the initial conversation. You, knowing your mother and all the snide remarks she’ll be giving, and him, taking your word for it that this is the best way to go about it.

So, after taking an entire day off of work to prepare for her coming, your apartment was spotless and a nice lunch had been made.

Every so often, you feel your girl kick at you from the confines of your womb.

You feel your heart rate pick up at the knock that sounds throughout the apartment.

“Okay, bug, let’s get this over with.” You mumble as you rub a hand over your stomach.

When you open the door, you force your eyes not to roll back into your head when she immediately pulls you into her embrace.

“Oh, baby,” She mumbles as she kisses the side of your head repeatedly.

“Hi mom,” You awkwardly rub her back.

When she finally pulls away, she keeps her hands on your shoulders as she looks you over.

She glances between you and your stomach twice, “Oh, wow.”

There it is. You scoff lightly before opening the door a little more to let her in.

Once the two of you are sitting at your dining table, you check your phone for any updates from Jack on how his conversation with his own mother is going.

Your mom huffs in annoyance, “You haven’t seen your mother in almost three years, and the first thing you do is get on your phone?”

You nearly laugh, but hold it back, “And whose fault is that? You came up with nearly any excuse you could to not come here for graduation last year.”

She narrows her eyes at you, and for a moment you feel sixteen again, but you hold her eyes.

“Well, then I’ll just say what I feel should be said then,”

“Oh, let’s hear it then,” You mumble out sarcastically.

“I think you should move home to raise the baby, with my help.”

Now you do laugh, “I’m sorry, what?”

She raises an eyebrow at you, “Baby, what exactly do you think is going to happen here?”

You open your mouth to speak, but she continues, “A man old enough to be your father got you pregnant. And sure, he’s here now. But what happens when she’s born, huh? And he decides he doesn’t want to be a father? Or worse, tries to take her from you?”

Tears well up in your eyes before you can even stop them, “This is why you came? To lecture me about my life and then force me to come home with you?”

To her credit, her eye’s soften slightly, “No, baby, I’m just worried. This is a big deal.”

“You don’t even know him! All you do when I see you is try to dictate my life.”

She looks taken aback, “Now-“

“No, it’s true. You resent me for one reason or another for not turning out exactly like you wanted me too,”

“I wanted a better life for you then the one I had! Is that a crime?”

You scoff, “You hated me!”

Her mouth drops slightly, “I could never hate you. You are my child,”

She lets out a shaky breath, “Life was hard for us sometimes, and you didn’t make it any easier on me. I never hated you. I wanted the absolute best for you, that is still all I want for you.”

“Then don’t come here trying to sweep me away or convince me that the father of my baby is going to try to take her from me!” You grit the last part out, because no matter how hard you try to deny it, it’s still a very real fear for you.

She looks at you, frown ever present, “I am sorry if it seems like that’s all I came here to do. It wasn’t my intention, even if that’s what I think is for the best.”

You just shrug, not having anything else to say to her.

The two of you sit in an awkward silence for a few minutes before you get up and plate the salads you made for lunch.

You eat in silence before she finally speaks up again, “Well, tell me all about it.”

You glance up, brow furrowed, “About what?”

“The baby. Her dad. Your life. Everything.” She has a smile on her face that transports you back to being ten years old, when she was your best friend and made you feel so loved and so invincible.

She must sense your distrust, because her face falls slightly.

“It’s a girl, I think I mentioned it, but if I didn’t. She’s a girl,” You smile when you talk about her.

You tell your mom names you’ve picked out, the types of food you're craving, which she tells you when you mention cravings similar to the ones that she had.

You tell her about work and your friends. She smiles, and though you know her, know that she doesn’t love you living in Pittsburgh and the path you’ve chosen, you can tell she is happy for you.

“And how did you meet Jack?” Your mom asks casually as she takes a sip of water.

You wince, “Um, a bar?”

She coughs, face turning red, “Was this a one night stand?”

You wince again. You’d kept the details out initially. Just telling her that you’d met a guy and gotten pregnant but you were trying to still get to know each other. Which wasn’t a lie.

“I mean, I guess you could call it that?”

Your face heats up under the judgemental look in her eyes, and it causes you to shrink in on yourself.

She stares at you a moment longer, eyes glancing down at your stomach and lingering, “Is he good to you?”

You look at her, a soft smile taking over your face as you talk about him, “Yeah. I mean he’s busy a lot, but he’s always here when I need him. Goes to the store to get snacks in the middle of the night and wakes up with me if I get sick.”

Your eyes get distant as your hand rubs your stomach, “He’s changed his whole life for her, for me, and I know it isn’t conventional or anything. And he and I are doing this all backwards but,”

You trail off, eyes focusing back on her, “I think this is a really good thing. Scary, like really scary, but I think it will turn out really good.”

She reaches across the table to grab one of your hands, “I know you’re an adult who can make her own decisions, and I know there is no one harder on you than me. Trust me when I say I know that,”

To your surprise, she lets out a shaky breath and tears start to fill her eyes, “I know this is the time in your life for me to let you do what you think is best but I just can’t help but still want to keep you safe, safe with me.”

You haven’t felt the way you feel right now in almost a decade. Your relationship turned sour and complicated around the time you started high school. She was tough, and though you don’t have any ill feelings in your heart over it, she was jealous of the life you had when hers was so hard.

Moving for college mended some of that, but not all of it, and the resentment still lingered, however small, even some today.

But hearing that? It’s either your inner child begging for her mom again, or the hormones from growing your own, but it makes your chest feel heavy.

You squeeze her hand twice, against your better judgement.

[moniquill]

Thread ported from Facebook, via

PK: Ive been thinking about this comment a lot today …. Kind of all over the place with it. (And this is just me thinking and rambling. Everyone is allowed to fee how they feel and I’m not saying I’m totally right…. Perhaps I’m way off in some ways but, these are just my thoughts as of right now……)

1. I was thinking of how some people think we shouldn’t wear sealskin. I’d always thought it was such an a-hole-ey opinion but, once someone I know and respect asked why I thought it was ok to ware fur and I said well for one thing when you kill an animal to eat it, it seems like it would be wasteful to throw away the skin when you have a use for it. I think a lot of people must believe that most animals are being killed for only one part of them. (Although I/we don’t always use the skin)

2. Once I saw a picture of people with a dead giraffe that they killed and my instant thought was something like “eeee they killed a giraffe”. I’m embarrassed to admit that I was so quick to be judgey but I was. However I was quick to correct myself and tell myself that probably/hopefully they now have 3 years worth of giraffe burgers in the freezer. (Maybe they were unethical tho…. I don’t know… I don’t know anything about giraffe hunting but, I shouldn’t have been so quick to turn up my nose at something I know nothing about.

3. Once my uncle tagged me in a picture where his daughter just got a nanuk and someone from the city told me that polar bear should only be hunted in the old traditional way with darts/unak….. and I was thinking after “man, imagine he’d witness that scene with darts and dogs vs with a rifle … what way would he call more “humane?” (Not that traditional hunting is not humane because people do their very best to make it quick for more than one reason but, with the evolution of ways of hunting and modern ways people are often able to be more safe and more efficient. And hopefully not wasteful tho.)…..: speaking of “safe” and “traditional ways”….. yes we want to preserve practices and knowledge but, Geeze I’m not gonna take my kids in boat without a life jacket now-a-days. And I’ll take running water over buckets. I’m just saying that we don’t have to reject everything modern or not invented by Inuit in order to embrace our culture.

4. I feel like harvesting an animal from nature is far less cruel than raising a pig in a cage knee deep it its own poop. (See I’m being judgy again cause I don’t know how pigs are raised ….. “slaughter house” seems to be pretty descriptive tho.). I’ll look it up after this post to educate myself better. And I realize there is many different paths to fattening up a pig.

….. I dunno I’m just rambling. When I told my husband what I posted in response to that persons comment he said there was a time when he would have voted to attack the person but he said why don’t you educate her.

Well….. laugh first , educate second I guess. Haha

And really this is just my thoughts. I’m certainly not perfect and I live a very modern life in Ontario …. me and my family do our best to keep my children familiar with our home and have them visit often and stay long but, as my dad says “our culture has to be practiced to be strong”…. It makes me sad to be contributing to weakening the youths connection to land based lifestyle but, we all do our best in any way we can….

If you are feeling some kind of guilt like that, I think we need to tell ourselves that we are doing our best …. Not use it as an excuse but, use it so that we don’t feel shame.

Ok. I need to stop going on and on and on. lol.

Reply by Gokomis' Creations: Colonizations main objective is to assimilate everything Indigenous. By telling us that our traditional ways of harvesting, living and healing are wrong is just another form of assimilation. Just another form of assimilation to make us feel shame and drop our beautiful and incredible culture. But we need to remind these colonizers that leave these awful comments, “Indigenous people have been living sustainably and living in harmony with all of the creators gifts since wayyyyy before colonization. I’m pretty sure it’s not us that is causing all of this damage. It is colonization. It is colonial ways that are making these impacts. It is colonization that caused the over fishing and over harvesting in general. Not us indigenous people. We have been living sustainably and in harmony with Mother Earth for centuries even millennials before colonization.

[august-anon]

Hello my friend!! You called for batfam prompts and I will happily deliver!! Ok here is one of the ideas that have been circulating around in my head: dick tickles damian pretty often and every time his excuse is something like 'this is just what big brothers do!' and so damian starts thinking that jason and tim are out to get him when they're literally just Existing. Not even Breathing in Damian's general direction. But Damian is Hypervigilant and finally cracks under the pressure and is like "JUST DO IT ALREADY" but jason and/or tim is like do what??? and damian explains that grayson said big brothers tickle little brothers (but in his own Damian way like "what, you don't think I can handle it?? You don't think I'm WORTHY?!?!?") and so jason/tim are like this has literally never crossed my mind but now that you've ASKED how could i not??? and damian gets flustered and wrecked by a Tickle Monster of His Own Creation.

ROSIE!!! as you can tell by the sheer wordcount on this fic, i was Obsessed with this idea skdjfhdsf Tickle Monsters Of Damian's Own Creation coming right up, my friend!!

____________________

Little Brother Privilege

Fandom: Batfamily (no specific source material/continuity)

Ship(s): Gen!!! Platonic!! Familial!! No batcest here

Characters (lee/ler): Lee!Damian, Ler!Dick (briefly), Tim, and Jason

Word Count: 6974 words

Summary: 

Damian isn't quite sure why Todd and Drake have not made their attack yet, but he's not going to let his guard down until they do. He will not be made a fool of, even in brotherly contracts.

AKA, Damian gets tickled to pieces by two tickle monsters of his own creation.

[ao3 link]

____________________

It was the third time that weekend alone. Damian kicked and scrambled and tried his hardest to get away, but Richard was bigger and stronger and could contort his body into the oddest of poses. His grip was near-impossible to escape. It was clear why Nightwing was such a feared and respected hero, even if those skills were currently being used to absolutely mortify Damian.

“Come on, Little D! I just need to hear a few of those giggles. I need something to tide me over for when I go back to Bludhaven!”

“I do not giggle,” Damian grunted before sealing his lips shut, trapping the condemning noise inside before he could prove Richard right.

“Sure you do! I just gotta get your giggle spot– which is riiiight here!”

Richard lowered a clawed hand to Damian’s stomach, digging his fingertips into all the correct pressure points to have Damian doubling over in a futile attempt at protection. Richard laughed above his head and twisted his hand ever-so-slightly, hitting that accursed “tickle spot” (as Richard called them) to the right of his navel. Damian swiftly lost the battle, his laughter bubbling out from between his lips in a horrendously childish display.

“There they are!” Richard crowed, doubling-down on his attack.

No matter which way Damian squirmed, Richard was easily able to follow. He bounced between Damian’s ticklish spots without rhyme or reason, drawing out surprised noises in between more of those horrendous giggles. He heard Richard cooing over his head and had the distinct urge to stab him, but he settled for jabbing an elbow hard back into Richard’s ribs. Not that it deterred him in any fashion. No, it just seemed to give him the idea to start crawling his other hand up Damian’s own ribs.

“You said– you said just a few!” Damian called out, his laughter garbling his words.

“Hm?”

“Just a few giggles!”

Richard laughed, slowing his attack. “Oh, alright, alright. I suppose that’ll have to be enough baby brother giggles to tide me over until my next visit.”

Damian scoffed. “I don’t delude myself into thinking you won’t attempt to attack me again before you leave.”

Richard grinned, wide and toothy. “Probably.”

Damian scowled – it was not a pout, no matter what his siblings said, it wasn’t his fault his cheeks were still plush with baby fat and puffed out when he frowned – and tried to get his clothing and hair back in order. “I do not understand why you insist on doing that so much.”

Richard scrubbed a hand on his head, ruining his attempts at straightening his hair. “You had fun – don’t deny it! You totally could have stabbed me if you weren’t.”

Damian said nothing. He kept scowling.

“Besides – that’s just what big brothers do! Tickle the snot out of their baby brothers.”

Forget stabbing. Damian was starting to feel the urge to bite. “I am not a baby.”

Richard tilted his head at him. “Jason’s my baby brother, too. Do you think he’s a baby?”

Damian tilted his head, considering, and it earned him another laugh from Richard. 

“Okay, maybe don’t answer that one. But – it’s just a way to have fun with your siblings, Damian. It’s alright to let loose and laugh and have a little fun here and there.” Richard’s grin turned mischievous as he raised two clawed hands. “Especially when the Tickle Monster’s involved.”

Damian would forever deny that he let Richard catch him. He just wasn’t able to gain enough speed to escape Richard’s game of chase, was all. He’d have to work on that in training later.

*     *     *

It’s just what big brother’s do! was a common insistence of Richard’s, every time Damian demanded an explanation for one of his (mortifyingly frequent) tickle attacks. There did seem to be some merit in the phrase. After all, Damian wasn’t Richard’s only target. Todd, Cain, Drake, Thomas, even Brown, and she wasn’t even related to them. Richard launched his surprise attacks against them all, tickling them to the floor and teasing them all the while. Todd did as well – pinning Drake or Brown to the training mats and tickling them until they tapped out or screamed loud enough that Father put an end to it. Cain was a bit harder to catch in the act, but he swore he saw her tickling the others at various times herself.

But the only one who targeted Damian was Richard himself (and sometimes Father – but he did not count, as he was not a “big brother” to any of them). Damian did not know why the others seemed disinclined to participate in this bonding activity with him. They seemed to engage with it plenty between each other, so why was Damian left out? Not that he wanted to be tickled, certainly not – it was humiliating. It would be remiss of him, however, to not participate in this so-called “family bonding.”

The only explanation Damian could come up with was that they were luring him into a false sense of security. They wanted his guard down, so that they could topple him with little resistance. Well, Damian wouldn’t let them get away with that. No – Damian would be ready, whenever they decided to strike. He would be hypervigilant, ready for their attack at any moment. He wouldn’t rest. He wouldn’t let his guard down. Todd and Drake would never make a fool out of him.

Except – well, the thing was, hypervigilance became tiring after a while. He grew weary of being on edge when around his brothers. With Richard he’d learned to know what to expect. Any playful moment – an unserious argument, a competition, a spar, anything – Richard had the possibility of taking advantage of. He didn’t know Todd and Drake’s habits surrounding this event, he didn’t know what to expect from them or when to expect it. As the days went on, the anticipation wreaked havoc on his nerves. Eventually, he couldn’t take it anymore.

Todd and Drake were having a pre-patrol spar in the Cave. Damian observed as he completed his own warm-ups on the mats nearby. He swore he could feel their eyes flickering in his direction and it took all of his hard-learned self-control to not fidget under their watch. Finally, after toying with him for nearly five minutes, Todd pinned Drake under his weight until he tapped out.

“Come on Baby Bat, you want a match?”

Damian’s guard immediately went up. The training mats – this is where many tickle attacks had taken place, from any number of his family members. Even Father was known to participate, if he was in a particularly playful mood.

“I suppose.”

Drake shifted himself to the sidelines as Damian took his place. He could feel Drake’s eyes burning through his back.

“Damian, are you injured?”

A false injury check – he’d seen Todd and Richard (and even, on rare occasion, Father) use that ploy on Drake more than enough times. With ribs as sensitive as that, it made him an easy target. Was that method now to be used on Damian?

“No,” Damian said firmly. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re just all,” Drake waved his hand in the air, gesturing to Damian’s form, “stiff.”

Todd’s stance shifted as he eyed Damian up and down. “The Bird’s right – you sure you’re not injured, kid?”

“I am in perfect physical condition. Are we going to spar or not?”

Todd raised his hands in surrender, backing into place across the mats. “Alright, alright. Timmers, you referee.”

Not the injury check, then. The spar was still in question. This may finally be the moment. Damian could begin to learn their patterns and perhaps finally relax in their presence again. He hated being so tense any time they visited.

Drake called for the match to start and Todd immediately lunged for him. Damian was put on the defensive, dodging and weaving between his attacks. He managed a few good hits, but despite his bulk, Todd was fast, and Damian always had to back off quickly. He knew he couldn’t take Todd head-on, the man was twice his height and three times his weight, so he needed a strategy. Without his belt or any of his gadgets, it would be a difficult victory.

Unfortunately, Drake had been correct – Damian was stiff. Not from injury, but hypervigilance. And it certainly had a poor effect on his focus in a spar. Every lunge, jab, swat, Damian was convinced it would connect with a ticklish area and Todd would proceed to pin him to the mats until he was red-faced and cackling. 

It only took one failed swerve for Todd to tackle him down to the mats and pin him. Damian held his breath, watching Todd with wide eyes. After a moment to make sure Damian wasn’t going to try and break the hold, he was released and Todd maneuvered off him, wiping the sweat from his brow. The dam burst.

“That’s it?” Damian blurted out, unable to stop himself.

Todd and Drake both turned to him, frowns and furrowed brows in place.

“Damian?” Drake said.

“I grow tired of these games! Just do it, already!”

For the second time that evening, Todd raised his hands in surrender. Drake’s confused expression melted into concern. The jittery feeling in Damian’s stomach did not abate.

“Do… what, exactly, Dami?” Jason spoke to him like he was a child – the same voice he used on the young street rats of Crime Alley to try and build trust and rapport.

“Do not patronize me, Todd, I am no fool. Grayson made the rules of this game quite clear to me. Do you find me unworthy in some way? Too weak for such things? What is it?”

“Whoa – Damian, hold on,” Drake sat down on the mat, like he was trying to make himself smaller, and scooted closer. “We don’t even know what you’re talking about. Explain it to us first.”

“I told you not to–”

Todd cut him off. “We’re not patronizing you, Damian. Neither of us has any clue what the hell you’re talking about.”

Damian thinned his lips, shifting uncomfortably where he sat on the mat. He shoved his hands under his thighs so he wouldn’t be tempted to fidget with them. “Richard – he said older brothers tickle younger brothers. It’s ‘just what they do.’”

Drake let out an incredulous laugh, Todd pressed his lips together as if he was trying to avoid doing the same. Damian felt himself flush, starting in his neck and travelling all the way up to his forehead.

“Yeah,” Todd said, his voice trembling with withheld laughter. “I remember he used that line on me plenty, when I was as short as you.”

“Think he’s used it on all of us,” Drake said, still laughing. “Still uses it now, honestly.”

Todd plopped himself back down on the mat next to Damian. “It’s not a rule, kid – Dick’s just teasing you. Giving himself an excuse for why he tickles the snot out of you three times a day when he visits.”

Damian’s shoulders dropped. “Oh.” His face grew even warmer, travelling up his ears now.

Drake chuckled again, leaning forward with a sudden mischievous tilt to his mouth. “But, since you asked…”

Todd’s smirk took on the same quality. He wrapped an arm around Damian’s shoulders and Damian’s breath caught in his throat. He was torn – did he run? Did he stay and face the torment he asked for? The jittery feeling in his stomach grew stronger, almost ticklish in and of itself. He was paralyzed with indecision, but found himself fighting off a grin anyway.

Drake crawled closer. Todd’s clawed hand inched towards his neck. Damian shrank in on himself, making no move to flee and preserve his dignity.

“Boys!” Father called. “Suit up, let’s go!”

Drake and Todd snapped to attention, grumbling under their breaths. Damian felt like he was still trying to catch his own. When Drake reached out to squeeze his shoulder, he nearly jumped out of his skin. He let out an unbecoming squeak when Todd’s hand jumped away from his neck to scrub at his hair.

“This isn’t over,” Todd said, heaving himself to his feet.

“We are so talking about this later.”

Damian was, as Todd would say, fucked.

*     *     *

They didn’t even have the decency to put him out of his misery immediately following patrol. Todd returned to his own apartment afterwards to lick his wounds, and since Father had incurred an injury of his own, Drake took straight to the Batcomputer to log the night’s events and plan their next moves. Damian was sent upstairs alone, ate the post-patrol snack laid out by Alfred alone, and went to bed alone.

They continued to not have the decency the next day, or the next, or anything for near a week. Oh certainly, when they would run into Damian on patrol they would give him those infuriatingly teasing smiles, perhaps wiggle some fingers in his general direction or give a quick verbal tease, but even they knew better than to start such nonsense on patrol. Still, it infuriated him to no end, all this buildup and no follow-through.

Damian had half a mind to stab them, the next time he saw one of them. No one could say they didn’t deserve it.

That was, in fact, what wound up nearly happening the next time Drake stopped by the Manor for an extended period of time. Damian had been in his bedroom, perfecting a sketch of Titus as he sat at his desk. He had taken up listening to music as he worked, finding that it helped calm his mind and improve his focus, and that day he’d chosen to use earbuds to properly experience the full layers and mixing of all the sounds.

As such, he didn’t hear the knock on his door, nor did he hear Drake enter. He only became aware of Drake’s presence when a calloused hand ruffled his hair, startling him out of his hyperfocus and nearly making him ruin his sketch. Without thinking, Damian snatched a spare blade off his desk and made to stab his attacker. A hand grabbed his wrist, squeezing the pressure points just right to force him to drop the dagger.

“Damian!” 

Damian finally turned to face his intruder, then took a deep breath and tugged the earbuds out of his ears. “Perhaps you should learn not to sneak up on people.”

Drake scowled. “I didn’t even sneak! I knocked and everything!”

Damian scowled back, resenting the way his cheeks puffed up a little with the expression. It made him look far too childish.

“You know what,” Drake continued, tugging Damian out of his chair and over toward the bed, “I’m gonna make this even worse because of that.”

Damian’s face dropped in shock. “Wait, Drake–”

Drake gave him an absolutely devious smile. “Don’t stress, Dami. Just fulfilling my big brother duties.”

Damian resolutely did not yelp when Drake scooped him up underneath the arms and tossed him onto the bed, no matter what Drake claimed later. Damian scrambled against the sheets, trying to crawl off the bed, but Drake launched himself as well. The bed bounced under his sudden weight, knocking Damian off-balance just enough for Drake to snatch his ankle, tugging it to force him onto his back and quickly crowding into Damian’s space.

“Drake, no!” Damian’s voice had gone shrieky and shrill, embarrassingly childish and out of his control.

Drake, of course, laughed at him. Damian sealed his own lips shut to prevent any other incriminating sounds. Just in time, too, as Drake started squeezing at his sides. Damian made a protesting noise in his throat, but swallowed down any other sounds. 

“You know,” Drake said conversationally, “you’d think after making such a big deal about this, you’d be less stubborn about it.”

Damian’s ears grew hot, but he knew what Drake was doing. He kept his lips stubbornly sealed.

“I mean, you outright asked for it – were practically begging for it, actually.”

The heat in Damian’s ears spread to his cheeks. “I did no such thing!”

Curse him.

Drake grinned, digging into Damian’s stomach the moment he began his protest. Damian snapped his mouth shut, but it was too late. Strained chuckles escaped through his sealed lips as he squirmed away from Drake’s hands. He fumbled for Drake’s hands trying to push them away, but Drake was unfortunately successful at tossing his hands off.

“I’ve seen Dick tickle you, you know.”

Damian tried to glare at him. He didn’t imagine he was very successful, what with the wavering smile on his lips. In fact, based on the way Drake paused his one-sided conversation and pressed his lips together in a tight smile, he was likely resisting the urge to coo at him like Richard often did. His face grew warmer.

“I know generally where to target, you can’t hide the tickle spots from me. Just takes a little effort to find just the right place.”

As if he timed it, Drake’s wildly skittering fingers passed over that accursed spot to the right of his navel. Damian squealed and tried to toss himself off the bed. Drake laughed, bright and open, and lunged after him, pulling Damian back in with an arm around his waist. Damian kept his face turned away from Drake, trying to hide just how bright his smile was. Drake would almost certainly know it wasn’t just from the tickling – he was infuriatingly insightful like that.

“Get back here!”

“No!”

Drake’s fingers found that spot again and Damian doubled over in giggles. He shoved fruitlessly at Drake’s arms, trying to free himself, or at least stop the ticklish feeling.

“What’s wrong, Dami? Ticklish tummy?”

Damian growled through his giggles. “I’ll kill you!”

Drake laughed again. “That’s fair.”

Thankfully, Drake moved away from that spot. Unfortunately, his next target was Damian’s neck. He scratched at the skin with short, blunt nails, occasionally skittering them behind Damian’s ears. Damian was lost to mortifying squeaks and snorts, shaking his head to try and throw Drake off.

“See, I get why Dick does this so much, now–”

“Shut up!”

“– you’re actually pretty adorable like this. Still got those murder-eyes, but they’re almost cute when you’re being tickled silly.”

Damian twisted around and flopped back onto his back, throwing himself away from Drake’s tickling fingers. Catching sight of Drake’s face again, he could see the bright, teasing grin splitting across his face. Based on the way Drake’s eyes brightened, he’d caught Damian’s smile as well and read into it much further than Damian wanted.

“Alright, I’ll quit with all the teasing. Let’s get on with the main event.”

Teasing? Main event? Damian’s heart thudded in his chest, that jittery, almost-ticklish feeling in his stomach taking over again. That hadn’t even been part of Drake’s true attack? Drake had just been toying with him?

“Wait, Drake–”

Damian held out a hand, as if that would do anything to hold Drake off once he lunged. Drake snatched his wrist and pinned it to the bed.

“Why? I’m just doing what you asked.” His smile turned evil and mischievous again. “Gotta prove that you’re not weak or unworthy, after all.”

“No–!”

Damian burst into loud, childish laughter as Drake attacked his exposed underarm, scratching and scritching away against the fabric of his t-shirt. Damian tugged at his arm, but unfortunately the tickling and laughter had weakened him, leaving him firmly trapped. Instead, Damian tried to pry at Drake’s fingers with his free hand, but he couldn’t quite get the coordination he needed.

Damian squealed as the tickling dipped below his underarm, fingers wiggling along the length of his ribs and delivering nibbling pinches between them. He kicked out at Drake, aiming for his midsection to push him off, but Drake dodged his uncoordinated attempts easily.

“Man, Dames, you’re so right – I should’ve been doing this the whole time.”

“Stoppit!”

“I really dropped the ball with my older brother duties before, but you have my word that I’m gonna rectify that.”

“Cut it out!”

Damian finally got a good amount of momentum and corrected his arm, landing a foot directly in Drake’s abdomen. Drake grunted, releasing Damian’s wrist and ceasing his tickling as he was pushed back. He let out a little “oof” as the air was forced out of him.

“Did you just kick me?”

Damian blinked at him. “Yes.”

Drake narrowed his eyes. “You’re gonna regret that.”

Damian didn’t have a chance to protest or even gasp before Drake had thrown himself over his calves, pinning them to the bed with his body weight. The only sound that left Damian for a while after that was hysterical, cackling laughter and wordless almost-screams as Drake attacked his knees with ruthless precision.

“Are you sorry, yet? Apologize, you brat!”

Even if he wanted to, Damian wasn’t sure he could. The only thing he could think about was how badly it tickled. Richard’s tickling was ruthless and impossible to beat, certainly, but Drake’s methods were their own special form of torture. Damian felt as though he were being studied as Drake cycled through different techniques.

He would pinch at the pressure points just above Damian’s knee, making Damian’s legs jump as he choked out yelps between his laughter. He clawed at Damian’s kneecaps, driving Damian into a full-bodied squirm as he laughed helplessly into a pillow he tugged over his face. After tugging said pillow away, he did an egg-cracking motion over Damian’s knees, and Damian squealed until his voice went out. When he traced designs on the backs of Damian’s knees, Damian hiccuped with frantic, high-pitched giggles, the likes of which he had never made before. 

Damian thought he might go insane.

“Drake! Timothy! No more!”

Drake’s hands faltered, but only for half a moment. Then the tickling started up again with a vengeance, combining all the most ticklish techniques he had found to make tears of mirth spring to Damian’s eyes.

“What was that, Dami? Didn’t quite catch that.”

“I’m sorry!”

“Oh yeah? For what?”

“Kicking you!”

Drake released him, rolling off his legs to instead recline next to Damian. Damian did not move, lying boneless on his bed as he caught his breath and tried to get his residual giggling under control. He swore he could still feel Drake’s fingers on his skin, tickling away at his sanity.

“They’ll never find your body.”

Drake snorted. “You think that was bad? Just wait until Jason comes after you.”

The jittery feeling in Damian’s stomach came back with a vengeance. He smacked Drake in the face with a pillow for the crime.

*     *     *

Todd’s attack was almost predictable, after all the games of anticipation he had played. Damian had known Todd was in the Manor – his motorcycle was in the garage upon his and Thomas’s arrival home from school with Alfred – and he knew Drake’s warning would not have been without meaning. After all, he’d seen Todd take Drake to pieces many times in the past. Drake would know well the brutality he was capable of.

They entered the Manor through the side entrance, the door closest to the kitchen, and were accosted almost immediately by Todd. An apron hung around his neck, dusted in flour and some sticky-looking batter, which he began untying once he caught sight of them.

“Hey, Alfie,” he said, passing the apron off when Alfred reached out an open palm. “Cookies are in the oven, I’ve got a meeting.”

Before Damian could think of a snappish retort, Todd was yanking the backpack and school blazer from his shoulders and tossing them to Thomas.

“Hey!” He yelled.

Thomas stood there, slightly dumbfounded. “I didn’t realize I was a coat rack.”

“You are today, sunshine. I’ve got business to attend to.”

Damian yelped as his feet left the floor, and grunted as his stomach met Todd’s shoulder. He started squirming almost immediately, trying to break Todd’s grip.

“Unhand me, you imbecile!”

“Do try to keep it down, Master Jason.” Alfred seemed uninterested in the happenings of the mudroom as he entered the kitchen, taking in the state of it. “Master Bruce acquired a concussion last night and I’ve only just finally convinced him to get some rest.”

Todd scoffed, bouncing Damian’s writhing body on his shoulder a couple times. “Come on, Alf – you know those bedrooms are basically soundproof.”

Alfred leveled them both with a look, so flat that Damian even stopped squirming for a moment. “Do not disturb your father.”

Todd huffed, moving toward the door leading to the rest of the Manor. “Fine, we’ll keep it first-floor only.”

“Thank you, Master Jason.”

“Uh – should we not be, like, concerned?”

Damian scowled at Thomas. “Are you going to just stand there? Help me!”

Thomas hesitated. Todd shot him a look over his free shoulder. “You intervene, you get your own big brother treatment. Where was it that got you shrieking, last time? Your feet? Or maybe it was your armpits? Eh, my arms are pretty long. I’m sure I could get both at the same time.”

Thomas cleared his throat and took a step away from them. “No, yeah – I’m good. I’ve got, like, homework and shit.”

Todd hummed. “Better get to it.”

“Yup.”

Thomas, the coward, fled via the kitchen.

“Thomas, you get back here and help me! Thomas! Duke!”

Todd snorted and made his way through the door of the mudroom, stalking through the halls as Damian fruitlessly kicked his legs and pounded on Todd’s back. “Resorting to first names, kid? Damn, you must be ticklish.”

Damian growled and twisted his hips in Todd’s grip, aiming to knee him in the face. Todd grabbed his ankle before he could, holding it fast as the rest of him continued to wriggle.

“Damn – ex-Boy Wonder was right, you’re a real squirmer. Dick ever call you a wiggly worm?”

Damian let out an enraged shout, punching at Todd’s back even harder. Richard had, in fact, called him a wriggly, wiggly worm before. Damian had bit him in response.

“Let me down, you brute! You bumbling beast! You–”

Damian yelped as he was unceremoniously dumped onto a plush couch. He scrambled upright, barely getting a glance of his surroundings – the library, he should’ve known – before Todd was upon him, properly wrestling him down against the cushions. A dangerous smile crossed his face.

“See, Dickie? He would’ve used that little comment to play some silly tickle monster game with you, really play into the whole ‘beast’ thing.” He effortlessly caught Damian’s wrist in his hand before Damian could punch him in the midsection. “Me? I’m just gonna make you regret it.”

“Todd, wait–!”

Todd cocked his head to the side. “Why wait any longer? Thought you would’ve had enough of that, by now.” His grin widened. “Timmers said you were practically crawling out of your skin. Don’t think I didn’t notice too, on patrols.”

Damian gasped as his other wrist was captured, feeling the heat flood his face at Todd’s words. His heart thumped in his chest and he stared up at Todd’s face helplessly.

Todd’s grin twisted into a diabolical smirk. “Giving up already, baby assassin?”

Damian could just accept his fate. He could give in, let his nervous system have a rest from the hypervigilance, allow Todd to tickle all of that out of him… But when had Damian ever endeavored to make things easy for his brothers.

Damian wiggled, half-trapped under Todd’s bulk as he leaned over him, and managed to squeeze his legs underneath Todd’s arm and up into his own chest. Then, he shot them out towards Todd’s chest, putting all the power behind the kick that he could manage. Todd laughed, deep and low, and darted backwards. It was almost like he had been anticipating the attack.

He snatched up Damian’s legs, bringing them to a tight hold against his chest with one arm as he stood from the sofa. Damian growled as his world titled upside-down, trying to kick out of Todd’s grasp and finding it near unmoveable. Only his head and shoulders still rested against the cushions, the rest of his body dangling in the air from the anchor point of his calves.

“Todd!”

Todd chuckled. “You know – maybe you should be eating more. You feel way too light for a baby vigilante.”

Damian threw a punch at Todd’s thigh, though he didn’t even flinch. “I am in peak physical condition!”

Instead of answering, Todd latched his free hand onto one of Damian’s knees, sending him into immediately hysterical laughter. Being held in the air like this, his legs so securely pinned, Damian had nowhere to squirm. All he could do was twist his body back and forth and bounce his knees – though as he quickly lost strength due to his laughter, he lost the ability to do even that effectively, as bouncing his knees meant raising his whole body along with them. After what felt like an eternity (but likely wasn’t more than a minute), Todd stopped and let him breathe. 

“See, I could stay there all afternoon – make you beg and cry. I think it would end too quickly if we did that, though.”

Damian groaned and uselessly tried to kick out again. It was no use, Todd’s grip was inescapable.

“I mean, I made you wait more than a week. It would be pretty shitty of me to tickle you out so fast, huh?”

Damian bared his teeth. “I will make you regret ever being born.”

Todd mimicked his expression, though his version was far more gleeful. “Wanna bet?”

Damian inhaled, opening his mouth to speak, and all the air immediately left him in a giggly yelp as Todd began clawing at his stomach – right in that spot next to his navel. In the privacy of his own mind, Damian let out a slew of curses. Did everyone know about that accursed “giggle spot?” He blamed Richard’s repeated exploitation of it.

“See, I do my research, kiddo. I know all the best places to tickle already – and we might even find more along the way. And I’m not going easy on you like Timerbly did.”

Damian shot a wide-eyed look up at Todd, trying to pry his fingers off his stomach. Todd smirked.

“Good thing you’re already having fun, then, right?”

“Screw you,” Damian hissed through his giggling.

“How viscous,” Todd said, voice flat. “Like a truly fearsome kitten, really.”

He switched to clawing his hand up and down Damian’s ribcage, jumping back and forth between his left and right. Damian screeched, trying to leverage his shoulders against the cushions to twist away from Todd’s hand. Todd grumbled something in response and hitched Damian up even higher, lifting him away from the cushions, and stepped away from the couch. Damian dangled freely now, hanging uselessly in the air. Every squirm sent him swinging, making it even harder to control his movements despite the fact that Todd was able to follow his momentum easily.

Easily enough for his hand to crawl all the way up into Damian’s underarm, massaging deep into the muscle.

“No!” Damian cried out before losing himself to bubbly, boyish laughter and humiliating snorts.

Todd chuckled along. “No? No, what? Is something wrong down there, little demon? Something bugging you?”

Damian barely caught the sound of jingling through his own laughter, tilting his head up (or was it down, considering his flipped position?) to see Titus trotting into the room at the sound of his torment. Damian reached an arm out for him – the one not currently glued to his side from ticklish shock – which quickly turned out to be a mistake, as Todd switched to tickling that underarm instead. His arm snapped back to his side, but the brief movement had still caught Titus’s attention and he approached.

“Titus, help me!”

Todd laughed above him. “What’s the dog gonna do, you little snot? Take me down? Doubt it.”

Damian made his voice as commanding as he could despite the laughter. “Titus, attack! Bite him!”

Unfortunately, childish guffaws did not a commanding voice make. Titus tilted his head to the side at the unintelligible words before lowering himself down into a bow. Damian gasped as he realized what was about to happen, bringing his free arm up for protection, but it was too late.

Damian had learned early on that Titus loved the sound of laughter. He seemed to recognize what it meant – a happy, joyful human – and it always put him in a playful mood. Damian’s laughter in particular seemed to excite him more than most, likely due to the close bond they shared.

Low in his bow, Titus barked twice, before bouncing back up and prancing a bit on his front paws. Then, he shoved his cold noise right into the crook of Damian’s neck, snuffling away against the skin.

Damian squealed, then shrieked, then flapped his hands uselessly at the overwhelming ticklish feelings flooding through his body. Todd laughed again, thankfully pulling his own hand back, but doing nothing to deter Titus. Damian waved his hands around in the air, disoriented from hanging upside down and not certain how to even push Titus away with his lack of leverage. Titus, spurred on by Damian’s happy noises, continued to nuzzle away in his neck and at his ears.

“Titus, no! Down!” Damian shrieked again at a particularly breathy snuffle to his ear, trying to swing his body away from Titus unsuccessfully. “Todd! Todd!”

“What?” Todd’s voice was heavy with his own laughter, low and fond in a rare way that made Damian feel even more bashful. “I’m not even doing anything, Dames. That’s all Titus.”

“He’s– it’s– No!” Damian cut himself off with another squeal.

“Aw, what? Does it tickle? See, look, you’re so ticklish that even Titus knows what to do. Didn’t realize your neck was that bad, though. Reminds me of the one time I was able to get Bruce.”

Damian put his hands on either side of Titus’s head, trying to push him away. The touch only excited Titus even more, his licking and sniffing getting even quicker.

“Like father like son, I guess.”

Damian slapped at Todd’s thigh. Normally when Titus started this game, Damian would have been able to redirect him by now. The longer Titus stayed in his neck, the more hyper-sensitive he seemed to get. He knew it wasn’t his most ticklish spot, that curse lay firmly in his knees, but he didn’t think he’d ever been tickled so unbearably in this spot before. Todd seemed to get the message, shooing Titus off towards the dog toys in the dog bed in the corner of the library.

“Alright, go to bed, boy. Don’t want you tiring him out and stealing all my fun.”

Titus huffed, but trotted obediently off towards his bed, his tail wagging wildly at Damian’s continued giggles.

“How do you get anything done when you’re this ticklish, huh? I bet your clothes even tickle.”

“They do not,” Damian said, though the vehemence of his protest was lessened by how breathless and giggly he still was. The slight wooziness from the blood rushing to his head made the laughter even harder to stop. “I’m not that ticklish!”

“Really, you’re not?”

“No!”

“Hm. Are you sure? Why don’t you tell me how much this tickles.”

Todd’s hand shot towards his side, and Damian shrieked and swung his body the opposite way. All that did was get him swaying like a pendulum, practically swinging his body into Todd’s wiggling fingers and away again. Todd hummed out another chuckle, rocking to add a little more sway to Damian’s body to keep him rocking into and away from his tickling hand. It was a horrible tease that had Damian whimpering and giggling in equal measure, trying to shove at Todd’s hand every time he grew close.

“You’re doing it to yourself at this point, kid.”

“Stop talking!”

“Mm, nah. It’s pretty funny when you go all red. Especially since you’re the most uptight preteen I’ve ever fucking met.”

“I’ll kill you!”

“Been there, done that. Get some original material.”

Damian tried to growl, but the sound was interrupted as Todd targeted his giggle spot again as the pendulum swinging slowed. Damian clutched at his wrist, squeezing his eyes shut. After Titus’s attack seeming to set his nervous system alight, everything seemed to tickle even worse than before.

“Jason! Cut it out!”

Todd whistled, low and impressed. “I get a first name shoutout? Damn, maybe it’s time for the grand finale before your brain turns to mush.”

Damian’s eyes snapped wide open. His hands started flailing to try and catch Todd’s before he could up his attack. It was a pitiful attempt, and Todd’s hands connected with the muscle above his knee in moments, massaging away at the pressure points.

Damian practically screamed, and he hoped beyond hope that they were far enough from the stairs to the family wing to avoid waking Father. No doubt he would join in, seeing Damian red-faced and cackling. He was as bad as Richard when it came to his childishly named “tickle monster” tendencies, and if he decided to join in, Damian doubted he would see mercy for a long while yet.

And as much fun as Damian refused to admit he was having, adding in another set of tickling hands when he was already so consumed by the ticklish feelings with just one of Todd’s? He might truly die from it.

Todd jumped around, exploring around his knees as Damian cackled and snivelled and screamed in laughter. Clawing at his kneecaps, skittering at the thin skin behind his knees, jumping down to his claves or up to his thighs when Damian started to run out of air to give him some semblance of a break. He wasn’t methodical like Drake, but he was still precise. Every minute weak point was found and targeted with single-minded focus, until Damian thought he was going to die from tickles from just one hand.

Then, just when Damian was beginning to think he couldn’t take anymore, just when he was debating swallowing his pride and begin begging, Todd stopped. Damian gasped in a deep breath and it left him in a whoosh as he was dropped unceremoniously back onto the couch. His head swam from how long he’d been upside down and Damian allowed himself the luxury of going boneless, sinking into the plush cushions. He could see why Todd spent so much time in the library when he came by the Manor – this was exceedingly comfortable. He could fall asleep right there.

“Still with us, Baby Bat?”

Damian debated kicking Todd as he plopped on the couch next to him, but decided that it was ultimately too much effort to move that much. 

“Your days are numbered,” he mumbled instead.

Todd let out a humming chuckle deep in his throat, reaching over to ruffle Damian’s hair. If Damian leaned into the touch, it was entirely because his neck was too tired to support his head. It was absolutely not because he enjoyed the affectionate touch.

“Me ‘n Alfie’s cookies are probably cooled enough to eat, by now. Want one?”

This time, Damian did kick at Todd, just lightly against his hip. “I deserve at least three.”

Todd ruffled his hair even more. It was probably sticking up in every direction, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Yeah, probably. You got it, kid. Three cookies and a glass of water coming right up. If your limbs start working again, pick a book out. I’ll read you something.”

If Damian wound up cuddled up to Todd’s side under a fluffy blanket, munching on cookies as Todd read to him aloud, no one needed to know. Especially not the fact that he dozed off only a few minutes after finishing his snack, Todd’s deep rumble soothing him into slumber before he even realized what was happening.

*     *     *

“Heard you had quite the eventful couple weeks,” Richard said as he practically bounded into the training area.

Damian refused to look at him. “We will not speak of it.

Richard slipped behind the punching bag Damian was attacking, forcing his cheery grin into Damian’s sight. “Aww, Dami – it’s okay! You wanted some more big brother tickles. No one will blame you for that!”

Damian delivered a particularly vicious punch to the bag, but Richard was unphased, only smiling brighter.

“I think Jay and Timmy had fun, too. Better look out though, kiddo – now that they know you’re tickle-able, you won’t be escaping them anytime soon.”

Damian’s ears grew hot. “I know,” he grumbled. “They’ve already proved as such.”

Now that whatever unspoken wall protecting Damian had come down, it seemed as though he couldn’t go more than two days without Drake or Todd deciding he deserved another round. Damian didn’t think he’d laughed this much even when Richard was in town, tickle-attacking him at least twice a day. He would likely never have a day's peace again.

Richard smirked, releasing the bag and leaning down so they were closer to eye-level. “Something tells me you don’t mind as much as you pretend to.”

Damian bared his teeth, aiming his next punch for Richard’s nose, overly telegraphing the movement. Richard laughed, snatching the wrist up and using it to spin Damian around, pulling him into a backwards hug to dig his fingers into Damian’s sides and ribs. He immediately burst into bubbly laughter.

“That’s okay, though, kiddo. Those are just the privileges of being a little brother.”

Someday, Damian vowed, he would be bigger and stronger than all of them. He would exact his revenge ruthlessly and without mercy, and as frequently as possible. Someday, they would fear his “tickle monster” prowess.

For now, though, he supposed he could live with these so-called “little brother privileges.”

[couch-potato28]

Imagine being a Blue Lock manager! ⚽️

VERSION XVI.

(a/n: YOU GUYS ARE THE BEST cause guess what? We hit a 100 followers omg 😭🎉 you don’t know how grateful I am, thank you so much for reading these I swear I’m gonna improve!! tyyy x 1000 love u 🫶! back to Hiori idk what took over me during my time writing this but I guess it fits the sentimental vibe so yeah lol ty for ur support again!)

Warning-none

wc: 1k

also: @ttheggrimrreaper @irethepotato @ohagiyoo ❤️

——————

FROM THE PROLOGUE:

“Congratulations L/N Y/N! Based on your results, you've earned your place in Blue Lock as the manager of player number…

…16, Hiori Yo.”

The more you read his name under the little icon, the more familiar it sounded.

While trying to recall a memory of anyone with the same surname, someone whispered behind you to their friend.

“Aren’t his parents famous? My mom used to talk about them.”

Bingo! Yes, that was it. His parents, famous athletes of Japan, their names printed in the newspaper your dad once read out loud during breakfast before moving on to the weather. Damn, does that mean you got an already talented prodigy?

Leaving the room with a satisfied smirk, you patted yourself on the shoulder, feeling smug about your luck.

Imagine being Hiori Yo’s manager.

——————

Hiori Yo who notices you trip and hit your arm while walking down the stairs before quickly recovering as you glance around, hoping no one saw your little incident. He can’t help but smile at your clumsiness across the field, watching you take a seat on a bench while pulling out some papers from a folder. He’s doing his warm-up exercises, running the usual laps, while wondering why didn’t you approach your player before the match, but figures you wanted to observe him first—so he carries on, silently reminding himself not to get distracted just because you’re pretty. You probably weren’t even his manager to begin with.

Your eyes stayed fixed on the cyan haired—despite his solid build and smooth moves, there was a certain softness in his features that made the boy much more captivating compared to his teammates. The quiet presence on the sidelines, making assists that turned into goals—ones that wouldn’t have happened without him.

As the match comes to an end, you try to get his attention by waving your hand before he notices you and nods.

“Hi! I saw ya—uh, waving to me right? I’m Hiori Yo nice to meet ya.” he smiles, giving you a warm handshake.

“Yes, I’m L/N Y/N, your new manager. Nice to meet you too!” gosh that smile was gonna be the death of him.

——————

•Hiori whose calm personality makes the everyday chaos seem just a bit more bearable than usual. He’s careful with his words, always being the first one to greet you in the morning before accompanying you to the cafeteria.

•Good listener especially when you’re rambling about how busy they made both of your schedules to be, barely giving any time to get to know each other better. He agrees while assuring you that friendly talks can always be squeezed in between breaks.

•Hiori is a well-built gentleman, doing what he’s instructed without a complaint, and gives all his attention to you during your suggestions for the games. He’ll speak up when needed, and respectfully shares his opinions.

•You don’t say anything but you notice it—the way the spark in his eyes seems to fade on the field, unlike when he spoke to you the other day about his love for gaming.

•Trains hard, early mornings and late nights are what he’s always been accustomed to. Not wanting to be left behind or get lazy, he often takes the extra effort to be better, making you happy to get such a hardworking person.

•On some days though—he’ll secretly stay up all night, playing video games without your knowing before the next day you catch him yawning a lot more than usual, rolling your eyes at his explanation.

•“Wasn’t worth pissing ya off but it felt nice to beat someone online after a hard day, y’know?”

•Months of working together means you get to know the boy better than ever, conversations often shared besides work and training plans. Yet the one topic he never talks about is his parents.

•Hiori who took a long time before he finally opened up, only letting you know basic details about him, carefully avoiding the topic of his childhood. You figured he wasn’t on good terms with his parents when you told him about yours—his smile barely visible, voice more quiet than usual.

•It happened on a rather tiring day—everyone, including Hiori was easily annoyed and by the time analysis came around, he broke down after a lost practice match, telling you everything that was weighing on his heart as he sobbed for comfort, spending the whole night in your arms.

•“So you don’t even like soccer?” you asked, his head on your shoulder as a small chuckle left his mouth.

•“No, not really anymore.”

•The things said that day were kept a secret—a special moment that made you one of his closest friends, forming an unbreakable bond between the two of you.

——————

AFTER THE U20 MATCH…

•Hiori changes his views on soccer, his playstyle evolving into something new, something better, and the spark in his eyes seemed to return for the first time after a while.

•God of fan service. He’s so chronically online it’s crazy. Knows all the memes, slangs, ships and phrases going around the internet that even his fans cringe whenever he uses them in interviews.

•Loves to raise his eyebrows while looking at a camera and once mouthed the word “kaisagi” when Kaiser and Isagi were arguing, the two boy barely keeping any distance, making it look like something else.

•While his screen time skyrockets, his sleep schedule reduces to a mere 5 hours a night, making you groan, and seriously consider confiscating his phone at the sight of dark circles under his eyes every morning.

•Often plays with fans, quickly gaining followers on each of his social media accounts.

•Hiori who’s been a big fan of the yogurt drink, Yakult, since his starter days, causing you to get him a collab with the brand, in hopes of getting free drinks for his training.

•You also make sure to try, and help with his mental health—offering a sheep plushie after a Bastard München win, telling him it helps to cope with loneliness and all that, making him laugh at your serious face. Says he doesn’t need it but can’t sleep without it since :)

•To be fair, you always knew you had a bright future ahead when they paired you with Hiori and when he tells you he’s looking forward to working with you even after the top 23 announcement?

•You happily agree, sharing the same sentiment—a quiet sense of reassurance washing over both of you.

[postsforposting]

>#I don’t think I get it but it feels like it’s probably cool if you do

there's a form of irl religious belief where god is a "watchmaker", ie, he created the world, pressed go, and let it run itself without his interference. like a maker of watches does. it is an explanation for why gods don't reveal themselves with miracles, and why there is the problem of evil. the problem of evil is about the contradiction between a supposedly all powerful and perfectly benevolent god, who nonetheless allows evil to flourish despite that even the most backward person would stop things like murder.

to "throw the book at someone" or to "hit them with the book" is to dispense justice. like what vimes does as a.....watchman. like he did as he...rebuilt the City Watch. like a....watch-maker, building a watch.

pterry's work often gets described as "getting floored" by the way he articulates how the world works, like his Boots Theory of Economics. lots of people also say that, when rereading discworld books, a clever pun they missed the first time around punches them in the face and they're floored all over again.

so....if you're getting punched and floored by a book, are you not....getting hit with the book?

and if the author of a book is "god", a watch-maker, and the book is hitting you.....is not the book of god--a holy book--throwing itself at you....?

is that not a Watch-man, a watchmaker, you could put real faith in?

would not such a holy book about ethical conduct be called the Books of the Watch?

I like to imagine that Sam Vimes, instead of dying properly, instead got minor godhood. All watchmen at some point thank him for his actions, his actions a ripple across the Disc. There's precedent in the Duchess of Borogravia, and in his arc. He keeps getting promotions, and hates each one. What higher status could he be unwillingly raised to than divinity, eternally watching the watchman?

Anyways, that's just a headcanon i've got

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I will never understand people who want female characters in the game, you know why the game only has boys, the game is for the female target audience, there are several games with only girls

[Referencing this post!]

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting to see more women in Twst in general! You’d expect it, wouldn’t you…? Maybe not at NRC, but with the students so often going abroad or into Foothill Town or meeting with their family members, they’d surely run into women at some point or another. It makes the world feel more fleshed out when these women are actually give unique designs and characters, as we see with some siblings, parents, and grandparents.

However, these women would likely not become playable because Twst is presented as a story exploring relationships between men and the primary setting is an all-boys magic school. Outsiders can’t even come onto NRC campus without authorization because of its magic barrier. Twst is also aiming for a certain target demographic, and while women can also enjoy women, it’s just not the direction the devs have decided to go with. It hasn’t chosen to be a mixed gender gacha game from the get-go, so expecting or demanding it of the devs isn’t the way to go; no expectation of a playable mixed gender roster has been set for Twst.

I don’t think anyone is calling for an all-girls game, but I have seen complaints that there’s no all-girls magic school mentioned, only all-boys ones as far as I am aware. It creates the impression that magic and elite schools are only for men, but I don’t think that’s the intention of the game?? It feels like a limitation due to the format and assets (like how the game only shows beastmen students in Savanaclaw when the manga and anime show beastmen in all the dorms). With the franchise being so centered on appealing to women, many of whom are yumejoshi (self-shippers) or are fujoshi (enjoyers of men loving men), introducing an all-girls school may cause tension with ships the fans have. The mere PRESENCE of a girl has caused waves in fandoms before, even if the girl just exists and doesn’t do or say anything flirty. (See: Obey Me fandom when Thirteen was announced; some fans felt threatened that she would “steal” the boys away.) Maybe Twst wants to avoid that…? Granted, OM is a dating sim/romantic in nature and Twst isn’t, so the reaction may not be the same.

I want to point out men do this too, even for games that aren’t romantic or dating sims. When Granblue Fantasy did a collab with Love Live, they eliminated all men from the event story except for the player character so as to not have any men BUT the player interacting with the Love Live idol girls.

In any case, I’m sure that all-girls magic schools exist in Twst, but just are not mentioned or explored in order to not infringe on this large aspect of the fandom. This is probably also why no NRC staff are women, even though one-gender schools irl typically don’t insist the staff match that gender as well (as this would be gender discrimination). Again, it’s not Twst’s focus. Just because Twst doesn’t call attention to it doesn’t mean it isn’t real or that it never happened. (If that were the case, then we’d assume silly things like the characters not showering is true even though they must clearly all clean themselves off-screen.)

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if Twst introduced more women characters that weren’t family members or ineligible NPCs (like the Ghost Bride/Eliza) 💦 What would happen if Twst gave us a cute girl around the NRC students’ age that frequently interacts with the main cast of boys? Like… would there be vitriol towards her from the shippers?? Would she be seen as “competition”???

And, interestingly, Yuus are an exception to this because they are seen as a proxy for players (who are largely feminine-presenting women) who self insert and project onto them. Fans liked when Yuuka Hirasaka (Episode of Savanaclaw manga Yuu) “canonized” girl Yuus, and they LOVED Yuuna Oujou (Episode of Scarabia manga Yuu) for “canonizing” outright feminine Yuus because they validate femme fans’ identities.

I find the fandom reaction to Yuuna (whom I adore) especially fascinating because I think it actually highlights some issues with the expectations we have for women and how we perceive the same relationships entirely differently just by swapping out a femme!Yuu for a masc!Yuu. I would recommend reading this post by Kallisto; I found it so enlightening and it made me see this matter from a whole new perspective.

[amphitriteswife]

Could you write how sabbath would be with a reader that is scared of them getting hurt after watching them do dangerous tricks and techniques in races ?

Sabbath crew with an S/O who is scared of them getting hurt

‘Helloooooo~ you listening?’ Wooin tugged on a strand of your hair. His form flexing on his bike. His ryes darted to yours from his yellow tinned sunglasses. He had noticed you spacing out a lot in the recent times. Wooin snickered when he saw your startled expression. He stretched out his body, sitting back onto the bike and riding along you. He felt your eyes following. Why are you following him? You like how he looks? ‘Why you staring? Am i looking particularly handsome today?’ Wooin joked. Well. Half joked. He knows he looks good. Always. His hands in his pocket, and his eyebrows wiggling at you suggestively. His shoes were still pressed on the pedal. ‘Want to see me swerve?’ He asked you, one of his arms wrapping around your shoulder. ‘Please don’t.’ Your reply made Wooin pop out the lollipop in his mouth, his expression a little confused. Why not? He usually showed you all kinds of tricks. And he uses them in most of his competitions anyway. ‘Why?’ Wooin asked in a rather singsong like voice, he doesn’t think your concerns are really that bad. He’s skilled! And he knows what he’s doing! So there’s no reason to worry! His eyes glanced at yours, well, tried to. He was soon met with your stern gaze. Which almost made him fall off his bike. Wooin threw his hands up in defense. ‘Okay okay! I wont do it Stop looking at me like that..’

Knowing your boyfriend, he’s probably already cycling somewhere in the city. Taking his times by exploring new roads. Well…making his own roads. You’ve seen him ride his bike in many ways. Most of them were dangerous. Life threatening. But that’s where Hyuk kwon saw the pleasure in being a cyclist. You’ve told him numerous times how dangerous it can be. He could break something or undergo a serious injury, but Kwon himself never seemed to worry about that. He kept you waiting for around 3 minutes than the original time of the meet up. It wasn’t all that bad. At least that’s what you thought. Unfortunately, even this time your words didn’t seem to get to him. The loud sound of a wheel screeching against a surface made you stop for a moment. A sound that was usually from the ground…so why is your boyfriend looking at down at you and landing right in front of you with his bike. Did he really just ride down a flight of stairs? And did he really jump over you with his bike? Hyuk came to a halt and got off his bike, popping a coin in the vending machine. He brought a finger to his lips. ‘Hm…do you want one too babe?’ Contemplating which drink he should get. At least. ‘HYUK WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT-’ Hyuk pressed a cold can of soda against your cheek. Trying to stop you from your angry rant at him. Unfortunately for him. That wasn’t enough and he still received an earful from you. Hyuk sipped his soda, focusing more on the bubbles than your rant. He wasn’t going to stop riding dangerously. He likes it way too much. It makes being a cyclist fun.

‘Vinny.’ Your voice made Vinny stop for a moment. A quick glance your way. A sign that you can proceed to talk and that he’s listening. Vinny was feeling his bicycle tire, checking if he needed to pump air into it or not. After all, he has a competition to win. ‘Be careful okay?’ Vinny glanced at you again, this time furrowing his brows. He knew you often feared of him getting hurt in his competitions, yet he doesn’t know what to do to make you feel more at ease. This race means everything to him, and he’ll do whatever he can to make sure he wins. He can’t always promise you that he won’t resort to some dangerous move, or for example bumping into someone. Or tumbling down a flight of stairs. Most of the time he’s careful and knows what to do, most. Vinny stood up straight, dusting off his pants. He turned to you, placing a gentle kiss on your cheek. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. Watch me.’ Vinny told you before going back to grabbing his bike and making his way to his crew, who was watching the two of you like some reality show. It was…weird to say the least. Vinny usually did and said what he thought would make you feel at ease. But this time you weren’t so sure…even if he did. He said he’ll be okay…so you’ll trust his word for it.

Joker doesn’t always do tricks when he cycles. He usually just does the bare minimum. Whatever makes him win is fine and good enough. He still has his morals after all, like not riding through red, or saving animals in the street. He’s just like that okay? Even now when he jas to participate in yet another cycling competition, he seems pretty chill about it. He doesn’t mind and thinks its pretty okay-ish…the race that is. When it comes to you though…he’s not so sure. You have expressed your concerns to him more than once. You’re afraid he’ll do something reckless. Or slip when it rains and he rides too fast. He miles out all. And he does take your advice, he stops cycling when it rains and waits when it’s not pouring down. Or he walks with his bike in his hands. He doesn’t want you to worry so much about him, it makes him feel guilty. And knowing you worry so much about him also makes him a little happy that you care. He hopes he doesn’t disappoint you…even if it totally pissed off his crew because they keep losing. He doesn’t mind though. As ling as you’re happy he’s happy too!

[guiltyandashamed]

headcannons: jealousy

The 7 brothers and their responses to you getting buddy buddy with someone else.

Lucifer

Outwardly calm, inwardly devising a plan to remove the other person.

He tells himself it's beneath him to be jealous—but the way his jaw ticks when you're laughing a little too hard at someone else's joke gives him away.

He won’t interfere directly but will mysteriously show up at your side, arms folded, expression unreadable, standing just close enough to claim territory.

If you ask him directly? He’ll deny it, then casually change the subject and assign you more tasks so you spend more time near him.

You know he's jealous when he offers to escort you to RAD, normally he leaves earlier than anyone else, but he'll put his responsibilities aside (temporarily) until he's satisfied with time spent with you.

Mammon

Horrible at hiding it. Truly, pathetically bad.

Starts off huffy and sulky, arms crossed, muttering under his breath. “Tch, what’s so great about them anyway?”

Gets louder the more he tries to act like he doesn’t care.

Will suddenly be clingier, draping himself over your shoulder, bringing up shared memories loudly in front of whoever made him jealous.

May go full on “I’m your first, remember?!”

Will probably demand cuddles or attention afterward and won’t let go until his pride is patched (which may take a while).

Leviathan

Avatar of Envy, duh.

Withdraws first. Goes quiet. Eyes follow you but he doesn’t say much.

Starts comparing himself to the person you're talking to, convinced they’re cooler, more normie-attractive, probably a better match.

Will game aggressively to distract himself, drown himself in anime and manga, but he starts seeing parallels so he freaks out even more.

Needs reassurance, a lot of it. His face will be hiding in his hoodie and you know you've won him over when he finally stops hiding in it.

Satan

Possessive in subtle ways.

Doesn’t make a scene, but will insert himself into the conversation with charm that borders on cold.

Suddenly has facts or anecdotes that one-up the person you're with, effortlessly.

His smile doesn't reach his eyes when he’s jealous. That’s the tell.

Will call you out later in private, “You seemed very entertained tonight.”

If you reassure him, he relaxes instantly—maybe even smirks and says, “Good. I don’t share what’s mine.”

Asmodeus

Jealousy? From him? Never... unless… wait, are you flirting??

Overcompensates by trying to outshine whoever you’re talking to. Laughs louder, touches your arm more often, plays the charm up to eleven.

If it doesn’t work, he deflates a little.

Will pout in your room later, lounging upside down on your bed, demanding, “Do I not make your heart flutter anymore?”

Needs physical affection to feel reassured: cuddles, kisses, anything to remind him he's still your favorite.

Once soothed, he snaps back to being sunshine and glitter like nothing happened.

Beelzebub

Confused at first. Then bothered. Then protective.

Doesn’t know why he suddenly doesn’t like the way someone’s leaning too close to you, but it makes his stomach twist in a way that isn’t hunger.

Watches you quietly, then stands behind you like a silent wall.

Subtly moves you closer to him—maybe by offering you food or gently steering you away.

If pushed too far, he might say “I think you’re standing a little too close” straight to the point.

Tells you afterward, “I didn’t like the way they looked at you,” and hopes that’s enough to explain it.

Belphegor

Doesn’t hide it. Blatantly obvious.

Glares openly. Broods. Gives the person you're with a long, deadpan stare that makes most people nervous.

Will pull you into naps more often. Hugs you tighter. Might whisper snide things about the other person as he drifts off on your shoulder.

“Tch. Can’t believe you were smiling like that for them”

Will absolutely steal your blanket and refuse to share it until you give him a kiss or acknowledge he’s your favorite.

Grumbles less once you curl up next to him, but still mutters “Mine” under his breath when he thinks you’re asleep.

[cultkinkcoven]

Weird strange. random and confusing shit I’ve noticed Lucifer does (NSFW)

1. Tends to be left handed, I only noticed this last night. He usually writes with his left hand.

2. Watches me swallow stuff- this is probably related to the mouth fixation thing. He likes to watch me swallow- drinks, food and whatnot but also just in general, spit. When he offers me a drink he watches me until he sees me swallow it, or he’ll explicitly order me to swallow it even though yeah that’s obviously what I’m going to do.

3. I’ve mentioned this before but he has a size fixation. He comments on my smallness often, (which is interesting because I’m not particularly short or anything, I’m 5”7) the size of my hands, my feet, my head, my nose. He finds the smallness of the human body to be endearing.

4. He’s a big sniffer, he’s extremely into bodily odours but also just scent in general it seems like. He smells the food offerings I give him more than he eats them.

5. He’s actually really mean- not to me, ever, but towards strangers. I’ve noticed that he sometimes makes comments about other people when I’m out and about that are SO mean. It’s usually not entirely unprompted, but sometimes I’ll be in the mall or something and a guy will bump into me, and I’m like oops sorry. And I hear Lucifer be like “this fucking idiot doesn’t seem to know how to walk straight.” We see a guy and his crying child making a scene in the store and he’s like “what a pathetic excuse for a father” LIKE DAMN OKAY

6. He’s extremely territorial about my body being touched by strangers. Lucifer has never been protective over me in regards to like my boyfriend, he loves when my boyfriend touches me. But if we’re in public and someone brushes up against me, his energy manifests pretty immediately. He doesn’t always say anything, it’s more so just him becoming extremely aware and watching to figure out who touched me and why. This ties into the last one, because if it’s a stranger he may have something unkind to say about it. “I don’t like his filthy hands on you,” lol okay love it was literally just a touch in passing it’s okay.

7. Makes comments about my hormones??? This is a really fucking weird one. So yesterday he was doing that thing where he sniffs all up on me, and he made a face and said something like “oh, you’re ovulating, have you been feeling hornier these last couple days?” and I was like pardon my fuck??? For context I am a trans man on testosterone, I haven’t gotten a period in literally like a decade, I didn’t think I even could ovulate anymore. But he was like “yeah, lseems like you’re ovulating right now,” and he said it in a way that was so obviously charged. Wtf bro. I’m only now realizing as I’m typing this that his scent thing is probably a hormone thing. He’s probably smelling my hormones. Alrighty then.

8. His sense of humour seems really random at times. This is perplexing because sometimes he’ll laugh over something that doesn’t really seem funny at all, like what’s the punchline?? He says often that he thinks that I am very funny. His laugh is very cute.

9. He actually does care quite a lot about his spaces. Like astral spaces, places I go to during trances. For example, his throne room office. I always assumed these things were more metaphorical, just the way my mind rationalizes his energy and the place. I didn’t think he would care if I spilled wine on the carpet for example, because in my mind this place wasn’t actually real. It’s just a projection. But a couple times we have been smoking together on the couch and I’ve accidentally ashed on it, and he’ll like furrow his brow and try to brush the ash away without smearing it on the couch. He’ll ask me to use a coaster when having a drink with him as not to stain the table. The one time I actually did spill wine on the floor he wasn’t mad, he tried not to make a deal about it, but I could tell it did bother him, and he spent a minute trying to soak it up.

10. He’s a tickle monster. And FUCK him for that. It usually serves a practical function, if I’ve been very deep in a trace or altered state of mind, his tickling immediately brings me back to lucidity. It’s a shock to the nervous system. Doesn’t make it any less evil though.

11. He’ll re-explain things seemingly at random. Like we’ll just be hanging out and then he’ll be like “that time I told you that thing, I didn’t explain that correctly, I actually meant this.” and i’m like oh ok. And..? and he’s like “that’s all. I just thought I should correct myself.” It’s usually something like “I told you once that Jupiter doesn’t have rings, that’s technically incorrect.” and I’m like ok. I wasn’t even thinking about Jupiter or that conversation but alright good to know.

[caramelpenguin]

reincarnation au coffee shop simons pov

reincarnation au coffee shop willes pov

What Wille has learnt, in all these lifetimes, is that they don't have a chance. Simon will inevitably die- sometimes his life ends without ever remembering Wilhelm. Most often, he does remember, and they only have a few days together before the world plots against them.

They were foolish this time. Simon remembered six days ago and he hadn't yet died. For one blissful moment, Wille had let himself believe it was over- the curse broken, the cycle done. They would live.

He nods at the palace guards before rushing down the dungeon corridor, the smell of candle wax and dust echoing in his ears, heart in his throat. He dashes past inmates who have been stored for months, past inmates who would probably never see light again, before arriving at the newly imprisoned, the people who slowly began to trust him through all their secret meetings. And there, Wille finds Simon curled in the shadows, alone in a cell towards the end.

"Simon," he breathes, falling onto his knees and clutching at the bars separating them, as if they'll dissolve under his desperation. He'd heard the rumours murmured around only fifteen minutes ago, how a rebel group had been caught. "Simon, what-"

Moonlight slinks through the small window in the cramped cell. Simon is glistening in sweat and dirt, face gaunt with exhaustion, clothes ripped at the seams, frayed at the edges. He crawls to the bars and clasps Wille’s hands tightly through the bars. His eyes are shining. "I have until tomorrow."

"What?"

"I'm first on the list. To be executed. The guillotine-"

"No!" Wille exclaims, the word erupting from him like a wound. He presses forward, as if he can break the iron bars. He slips his fingers through, touching Simon's cheek. "They- i don't understand- why-"

"They want me dead by 9 am tomorrow," Simon says, voice hollow. "That's around exactly seven days since I remembered everything. Our time's up."

“We could run,” Wille almost cries. He should be used to this pattern. “I’ll get you out. I’ll-” But the rest breaks against his throat. He knows it’s too late. The execution is scheduled. The wheels are already in motion. The machine is already hungry.

“You always say that.”

Wille swallows hard, fingers trembling. “But I mean it.”

“I know.” A soft smile ghosts over Simon’s face. “You always do.”

The stone floor is cold beneath them, history thick in the air. Wille wants to memorize every detail - the line of Simon’s jaw, the warmth of his breath, the calluses on his hands. In this lifetime, they had met in whispers and rebellion, kissed behind cellar doors lit by flickering flame. It was danger itself, plotting against the crown, but Simon thrived. Wille could do nothing but follow, pretending with every aching heartbeat that this was the first time they'd ever met.

“Can you stay?” Simon asks.

He nods. “Of Course”

Simon pulls him a little closer, voice shaking. “Don't let go.”

Wille bites down on a sob, presses his forehead against the bars again. “I don’t want you to go. I- I can’t keep losing you, Simon.”

He closes his eyes. “But you will.”

Wille doesn't let go. Not until the sun creeps into the sky as dawn approaches, as the guards unlock the cell door. Simon clings to his hands until the last second, until their fingers are forced apart. He goes screaming.

Wilhelm doesn't watch the execution, but he hears the guillotine fall.

[w1w2]

Messy

Part 1 | Next part

Rosé x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ca. 7k

Rosé - Messy

"Baby, I'm obsessed with you and there's no replica Maybe if it's messy, if it's messy, if it's messy Then you know it's really love.."

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

The Parisian winter had a way of sneaking into your bones, not with brute cold, but with elegance. It whispered through the streets like cigarette smoke, curling around ankles, slipping into the spaces between silk and skin. Outside the Bourse de Commerce, where YSL’s latest collection was set to unveil, the air shimmered with anticipation. Flashbulbs popped in manic rhythm, drivers idled at the curb in sleek black cars, and just beyond the velvet rope, fashion’s elite were already assembling like constellations waiting to align.

The door of a matte black car eased open and Y/N stepped out. One heel touching the wet pavement like a punctuation mark. The moment she rose to full height, the cameras found her. 

All of them.

A wall of sound, shutters, murmurs, her name called in accents that turned her initials into something foreign and reverent.

She wore a tailored black tuxedo with a satin collar, sharp enough to cut through glass. Underneath, no blouse. Just skin, a deep V, and a sliver of gold, a minimalist chain peeking from beneath the lapel. Her hair was pulled back in a low bun, soft tendrils framing her face in deliberate chaos. The kind of effort that whispered “I don’t need to try.”

No logos, no team patches, no lanyard with access codes. 

Just YSL and her.

She paused on the carpet, letting them have their shot, her expression unreadable, somewhere between "I know exactly what I’m doing" and "I dare you to ask me why I’m here." Her fingers curled lightly around the small black clutch in her hand. It wasn’t her helmet, but it still felt like armor.

Truthfully, she felt off balance. This wasn’t her track, it wasn’t a grid or a starting line, there was no roar of engines, no headsets crackling in her ear. The adrenaline was different here, more glitter than gasoline.

But it buzzed under her skin just the same.

She inhaled slowly. The air smelled like cold stone, champagne, and something floral, probably whatever the latest YSL fragrance was, misted into the air like a spell.

This world wasn’t unfamiliar, not completely. She’d done press, she’d sat front row at team sponsor events, smiled through awkward interviews in languages she barely understood. But this was the first time she was the guest, no one behind her telling her what to say, no teammate by her side.

And from the looks of it, they were all watching her like she’d already said everything.

Eyes forward, shoulders down. “Don't shrink,” she told herself, repeating the mental drill she'd used since karting days. Confidence wasn't just posture, it was performance.

She stepped off the carpet, into the lobby of the venue, where the lighting dimmed to a moody gold and voices dropped into low murmurs. Stylists, models, celebrities, all dressed like a dream, mingled in loose clusters, too polished to look excited, but not indifferent enough to hide the glances they threw her way.

She didn’t return them, didn’t need to.

Rosé was already there.

Front row, in a strapless white dress with soft ruffled detailing that caught the light when she moved, which wasn’t often. Her heels crossed at the ankle, just visible beneath the hem. A single bold gold bangle wrapped around her wrist, gleaming against her skin. Her posture was relaxed, regal in its simplicity, and her hair, loosely styled, framed her face in soft waves that softened the edges of her presence without diminishing its impact.

Rosé sat with the kind of composure that came not from performance, but from habit. A stillness learned over years of stages, cameras, curated rooms. She didn’t shift, didn’t fidget. Her attention wandered only slightly, glancing across the crowd with the faint smile of someone who had already seen this all before.

Around her, the space murmured with pre-show anticipation. Conversations were soft but pointed, the kind that floated above designer perfumes and the subtle clink of fine glassware. Editors chatted, photographers checked lenses, stylists whispered critiques they’d deny giving later. Rosé had made the rounds already, brief embraces, air kisses, the sort of interactions that skimmed the surface but never dipped deep enough to touch anything real. It was the performance before the performance, and she knew it by heart.

She was smiling politely at someone across the aisle when something shifted, not in the show, which hadn’t yet begun, but in the atmosphere.

A ripple in the room’s composure.

The change came in sound first, the cadence of camera shutters outside the entrance, once scattered and rhythmic, suddenly converged into a staccato burst. Sharper, urgent, like something, or someone, had stepped into the spotlight and turned it all up a notch. Rosé tilted her head toward the source without any real urgency. She’d seen it all before, actors arriving fashionably late, influencers hoping for relevance in someone else’s seat.

But then she saw her.

The entrance was framed by gold doors, and in the center of them stood a woman whose silhouette disrupted the room’s polished sameness with disarming ease. She was tall, dressed in an impeccably cut black suit that defied the standard of overaccessorized drama. There were no obvious designer markers, no sparkle, no embellishment, just clean lines and a presence that didn’t require permission.

Her steps were confident but unhurried, heels tapping against the marble floor in a rhythm that sounded like certainty. She wasn’t looking for cameras or company, she wasn’t smiling to please anyone. She was just moving through the space like she belonged to no one and somehow, that made her belong everywhere.

Rosé’s gaze narrowed slightly, sharpened by something she didn’t yet name. As the woman turned to follow the usher toward her seat, her face caught the light, and in that instant, recognition locked in.

Y/N.

The name came to her before she could stop it. Not because someone said it, but because she’d seen it enough times to memorize the angles. Press coverage, editorial shoots, a campaign with TAG Heuer, and of course, on the track.

On podiums, in motion.

Y/N, the first female driver on the grid. McLaren’s wildcard, a media sensation, a name that had leapt off the sports pages and landed firmly in global culture. Rosé had scrolled past her photos more times than she could admit. But standing here, in person? Y/N was something else entirely, not just beautiful, but arresting, unfiltered and present in a way most people weren’t, especially in rooms like this one.

“She’s the one they’ve been courting,” came a voice behind her, her manager, leaning in with a half smile. “YSL’s trying to lock her down as their next face. Big fanbase, she’s the real deal.”

Rosé didn’t answer right away. Her eyes never left Y/N, who was now settling into her seat with an ease that made her presence feel inevitable. She wasn’t pulling out a phone or adjusting her outfit for attention, she simply crossed one leg over the other, rested her arm along the back of the chair beside her, and took in the space like she was studying it, not trying to impress it.

“I’ve seen her,” Rosé finally murmured, and her voice was quieter than she expected. The syllables felt more like a thought escaping than something she meant to say aloud.

And it was true, she had watched the races, not all of them, but enough to remember Y/N’s name, her driving style, the intensity behind every overtake. There was something cinematic about the way she moved even on a track. Precision layered over instinct, a mind that could calculate risk in real time without flinching.

That same energy lived in her now, only redirected, distilled into stillness instead of speed.

Rosé felt something shift in her chest, subtle but unmistakable. She couldn’t tell if it was admiration or intrigue, maybe both. There was a control in Y/N’s demeanor that Rosé found rare in this world, not the kind that begged for attention, but the kind that drew it naturally. The kind of magnetism that didn’t ask to be noticed but made you look twice anyway.

“She doesn’t look like anyone else in this room,” Rosé said softly.

And that was the truth of it.

Everyone else here had been styled to fit the narrative. Y/N had simply walked in and rewritten it. Rosé adjusted slightly in her seat, her spine straightening just a bit as she studied the other woman from her vantage point. She wasn’t in the habit of pursuing people at events like this, too much effort, too little reward. 

But tonight? Something about Y/N tugged at her attention like a thread waiting to be pulled. She didn’t know yet if it was curiosity, attraction, or something more complicated, but she knew that she wasn’t going to let the night end without at least hearing Y/N speak.

After all, she already knew how the collection would look, Y/N was the only piece in the room she hadn’t seen before.

The afterparty lived in warm shadows and carefully designed indulgence, tucked inside a private venue that didn't need a name. There was no signage outside, no line, no chaos, just a black door on a narrow street near the Seine and a man in a sharply tailored suit who opened it without asking your name if he already knew it.

Inside, the world shifted.

It was like stepping into a secret. The ceilings were low and intimate, designed not to contain but to pull people closer, velvet drapes in deep charcoal lined the walls, muting the outside world entirely. The air carried the scent of something expensive and hard to name, leather, spice, a twist of citrus, mingling with warm skin, champagne, and the ghost of too many designer perfumes.

The lighting was deliberate, as if someone had spent hours perfecting the exact wattage of golden glow, chandelier crystals caught and scattered the light like glass raindrops, casting soft reflections on silk dresses and polished shoes. Pockets of brightness illuminated cheekbones and sequins, but always left enough in shadow to keep a sense of mystery. No one was fully visible, no one wanted to be.

The music pulsed low and slow, the kind of beat designed to settle into your bones without interrupting conversation. It was modern but smooth, vocals buried beneath rhythm, all suggestion and breath. Bass threaded through the floorboards and up your spine, syncing with the tempo of moving bodies and half-formed thoughts.

It was the kind of place where the walls never echoed, where laughter was rich and subdued, and where every movement seemed slightly slowed, like the party was underwater, or maybe underwater in silk. Time didn’t stop here, but it definitely forgot to hurry.

People stood in curated circles, glasses of something amber or clear in hand, sleeves pushed up, collars artfully undone, smiles carefully lazy. Editors with pinched expressions leaned in toward designers with cigarette thin wrists, models draped themselves over the arms of velvet chairs like silk scarves left in passing. You couldn’t always tell who was famous, which was the point.

It smelled like wealth, but not new wealth, old money worn casually, tucked inside vintage leather clutches. The kind of money that didn’t try too hard, the kind that had nothing to prove.

And above it all, a current of performance that no one admitted to. The slow turning of heads when the door opened, the split second judgment behind every glance, the soft war between being seen and seeming untouched by it.

It was beautiful, pretentious and addictive.

And for now? It was Y/N’s stage, whether she wanted it or not.

She stood near the bar, the stem of a glass resting lightly between her fingers, its condensation dripping in slow trails across her knuckles. The chilled glass left a delicate print against the warmth of her skin, something solid to focus on while the noise of the room floated around her like background static.

Someone beside her, tall, wearing something sheer and architectural, was halfway through a story about Milan. A show that ran an hour late, a designer’s tantrum, something about feathers being flown in from Morocco. Y/N nodded along, polite, engaged in the way people are when they’re listening but not really registering. She couldn’t even remember if she’d been introduced to them. Probably a stylist, or maybe a creative director, or just someone with good bone structure and the kind of confidence that didn’t ask questions.

She wasn’t trying to be rude, she was just distracted.

This world, this dim, gilded cocoon of whispered names and calculated nonchalance, wasn’t foreign to her, but it still felt like stepping sideways into someone else’s life. She’d done galas, brand dinners, even one or two campaign shoots where she’d had to learn how to pose without looking like she was trying to win something. But this? The post-show scene, full of microhierarchies and coded glances? Was a different arena altogether.

Still, she could play the part.

Her black shirt was unbuttoned just enough to feel easy, sleeves rolled to mid-forearm like she’d done it without a mirror. The collar sat open, relaxed. The leather jacket was draped over one shoulder, not worn, because wearing it would have made it look like she was trying. It wasn’t about warmth anyway, it was armor, a finishing piece. Her dark slacks were pressed and precise, and her sunglasses still rested on the bridge of her nose, low enough to make eye contact optional. A statement, not a shield. Though, maybe both.

She looked the part, more than that, she looked good. She could feel it in the way people glanced at her over their glasses and in the way conversations paused when she passed. But beneath the polish, her pulse stayed steady, unimpressed. Detached in that quiet, centered way she’d learned on racetracks.

What they didn’t know was that she was trained for this kind of pressure, the unsaid kind. The kind that watched and waited for cracks, this wasn’t a circuit, but the tension wasn’t all that different.

There were no screaming fans tonight, no autograph lines or chants of her name. This attention was quieter, sharper, it came in glances that lingered half a second too long, in whispered questions disguised as compliments.

“Is that her?” “She’s even better looking in person.” “I didn’t know she cleaned up like this.”

She felt it. 

The weight of observation, but it didn’t rattle her. Not exactly, it just kept her alert, the way an engine did when it purred beneath her, waiting to launch.

She brought her drink to her lips again, letting the edge of the glass touch her bottom lip before she took a slow sip. The corners of her mouth curled slightly, not into a smile, exactly. Just the hint of one, a flicker of amusement at nothing in particular, or maybe at herself for pretending she didn’t find this all strangely entertaining.

And then something shifted.

Not loud, not visible to anyone else, probably. But to her? Unmistakable.

The music didn’t change, but it felt like the air thinned, like the molecules around her had suddenly been rearranged. Her body responded before her brain caught up, a straightening of the spine, a pause mid-sip, a subtle stillness settling over her limbs.

The room hadn’t changed.

But someone had just walked into it.

Y/N’s attention tilted before she even knew why, a flicker in her periphery, a ripple that moved from one side of the room to the other, like champagne just beginning to fizz.

She turned her head, just slightly, just enough.

And there she was.

Rosé stepped into the room as if she’d always been part of it, not interrupting, not performing, simply becoming the moment without asking for permission. She wasn’t announced, and yet the room realigned around her, people parting like silk drawn through fingers as she moved with quiet command.

She had changed, of course she had.

The soft white of the runway dress was gone, replaced by something sharper, a black off the shoulder dress that clung to her like a second thought sculpted in fabric. It ended mid thigh, leaving just enough to the imagination and nothing to chance. Simple, but deliberate. It didn’t sparkle, it didn’t shout, it whispered luxury, confidence, and precision, the kind of dress that made statements without ever raising its voice.

Her skin glowed under the low light, a soft sheen tracing her collarbones, her shoulders bare and luminous. A single gold bracelet wrapped around her wrist like a signature, her heels made no sound, but the room seemed to know they were there, tracking her movement even if eyes pretended not to.

Her hair fell in gentle waves around her face, a few strands brushing her cheek with every step. She looked like she’d stepped out of a film, not one from this decade, something older, something timeless.

And Y/N watched her without meaning to.

Not staring, just taking her in. Carefully, quietly, like watching a storm roll in from the edge of a calm sea, knowing it wouldn’t touch her yet, but feeling the electricity all the same.

Rosé’s eyes scanned the room, but not with idle interest. She wasn’t grazing, she was searching with intention. She moved past conversations and bodies angled toward her in thinly veiled hope. Past designers in sharp lapels, models laughing too loudly, men and women with eyes too quick to catch.

She didn’t stop for any of them.

And when her gaze finally landed, it did so without hesitation.

On her.

On Y/N.

For the briefest moment, the room disappeared, the crowd, the music, the weight of attention that had been draped across Y/N’s shoulders all night.

It all fell away.

Rosé’s expression didn’t shift, no smile yet, no raised brow, just recognition, like this was exactly where she meant to arrive. Like this was the reason she’d come at all.

And across the space, Y/N’s fingers loosened slightly on the stem of her glass.

Rosé didn’t hesitate.

There was no flicker of doubt in her steps, no glance downward to adjust a hem, no pause for effect. She didn’t reach for her phone, didn’t smooth her hair, she didn’t need to. She crossed the room with the kind of ease that wasn’t learned, it was owned. Like the music had changed tempo just for her, like the floor moved slightly out of respect.

She didn’t walk like someone chasing attention, she walked like someone used to getting it.

Y/N felt her presence before she saw her approach, not because the room noticed, but because the air around her shifted. Subtle, inevitable, like gravity leaning.

She didn’t turn her head right away, she kept her eyes on her glass, fingers tightening just slightly around the cool stem. Not nerves, no, just instinct. The kind that makes your body prepare for something important before your mind admits it.

And then, she looked up.

Rosé was already there, standing beside her at the bar, framed by gold light and shadow. Close, but not crowding. Present and quiet, for a moment.

She didn’t open with the usual. No “Hi, I’m Rosé,” or “Nice to meet you.” No fake surprise at finding her here. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, eyes skimming from Y/N’s rolled sleeves to the leather jacket on her shoulder, to the sunglasses still resting just low enough to half conceal her gaze.

She smiled, slow and deliberate.

“You look better than half the models tonight,” she said, her voice like velvet wrapped around something sharper. “Or me. But I’ll forgive you.”

Y/N blinked once, then let out a short, genuine laugh, one of those caught off guard sounds that slipped through before she could catch it. Not because the line was clever, but because the delivery was effortless. No chase, no try.

She turned toward her fully then, reaching up to slide the sunglasses off her face, slow and natural, not to perform, not to show her eyes, but because she suddenly wanted to see Rosé clearly.

Now that she was here, up close, she looked impossible.

Y/N’s gaze swept from the off the shoulder line of Rosé’s dress to the bare shimmer of her collarbone, to the single gold bangle on her wrist, like everything she wore was chosen with no intention of impressing anyone but herself.

“I don’t know,” Y/N said, her voice low, her eyes steady as she gave her a once over without apology. “That dress is dangerous.”

Rosé smiled at that, not the faint, curated kind worn for photographers or social niceties. This one reached her eyes, it came with a slight tilt of her shoulders, like the compliment settled somewhere warmer than expected.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

The music buzzed faintly in the background, steady and slow, and the crowd moved around them like a soft blur, but here, in this small radius of eye contact and shared quiet, the world narrowed.

Rosé leaned in just slightly, not enough to close the space, just enough to let her presence speak louder.

“I was hoping to find you,” she said.

And Y/N, feeling something strange and sharp pulse beneath her ribs, met her gaze with a calm smile of her own.

“Looks like you did.”

The afterparty had thinned without ever truly ending, like a song fading out instead of stopping. The volume dipped, the crowd softened.

Some guests had vanished quietly, slipping into chauffeured cars, their laughter echoing in hallways before the doors even closed behind them. Others were making vague promises about one last drink somewhere deeper in the city, places with red lights and no menus, places they probably wouldn’t remember in the morning.

What remained in the room was a curated kind of residue, the ones too wired to sleep but too content to leave. The air was warm with perfume and fatigue, the music now more ambient than beat, a slow pulse of synth and bass barely rising above the whisper of conversation. Ice had melted in glasses, lipstick faded on rims, chairs had been pulled closer together, shoes long since abandoned.

Y/N and Rosé hadn’t moved.

They were still tucked into their corner, perched on a velvet bench half hidden behind a screen of palm fronds and flickering candlelight. Someone had lit votives on the windowsill behind them, and their glow danced across Rosé’s collarbone, catching in the loose strands of her hair and gilding her edges like a Renaissance painting, her heels sat abandoned beneath the bench, one strap trailing like a ribbon.

Y/N had one arm slung along the back of the cushion, her other hand loosely curled around her glass, idly watching the amber liquid shift as she turned it. She wasn’t drinking anymore, just moving, swirling, letting the rhythm of the moment guide her while her eyes drifted back to Rosé.

There was no urgency in the way they spoke now, no need to fill the silence, no fear of it either. Their conversation had slowed into something softer, the kind that didn’t follow a script, the kind that wandered, that paused in places most people would rush through.

They talked about strange things, beautiful things, the moment after a song is finished and before the audience claps. The loneliness of hotel rooms that cost too much, what it means to be watched and still feel unseen. Names came up, old friends, old fears, people they used to be, and people they were still pretending not to outgrow.

They didn’t look at their phones once.

Y/N had learned that Rosé didn’t like long silences in a crowd, said they made her skin crawl but craved them in private. That she felt safest when there was no pressure to perform, no expectation to respond. 

Rosé had learned something too. That Y/N sometimes felt more herself in a helmet at 300 km/h than in a room full of applause, that praise made her feel like a statue, admired, unmoving, held in place.

They’d laughed at that, quietly. Not out of irony, but recognition.

Now, they weren’t really talking anymore, not in full sentences, just letting thoughts drift and land where they wanted to. The party around them existed only in the periphery, the faint hum of a world that felt farther away with every passing minute.

Rosé glanced toward the window, her features bathed in gold and shadow. “It’s almost two,” she said, not moving.

Y/N let her head rest back against the bench, tilting toward her. “Feels earlier.”

Rosé didn’t answer, she just smiled, soft and tired, the kind of smile that came when the walls finally fell. A beat passed, and then she said, “I should probably head up.”

Y/N nodded. 

“Yeah,” she said, though her voice made it clear she didn’t mean it.

Neither of them moved.

Rosé’s gaze flicked toward the ornate clock on the far wall, then back to Y/N. “You heading straight back?”

“Eventually.” Y/N let the word hang. “Didn’t peg you for a party until dawn type.”

“I’m not.” A subtle smirk. “But I was curious.”

Y/N looked at her, eyes narrowing slightly in amusement. “About what?”

Rosé didn’t hesitate.

“How long I could talk to you before it felt like too much.”

Y/N smiled, slow, wide, and real. A smile with weight behind it. “Still not there.”

Something softened behind Rosé’s eyes, she exhaled, not a sigh, more like the release of something she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Then, without a word, she leaned forward and rose to her feet. Not abruptly, not as a goodbye. Just movement, elegant, deliberate, and unhurried. The hem of her dress swayed around her thighs as she turned back to Y/N. The light caught the edge of her gold bangle as she brushed her hair from her face, now looser than before, undone by the hour, or the conversation, or both.

She didn’t say anything else, she just looked at her.

And Y/N stood too.

No signal, no invitation, no plan.

Just instinct.

The lobby was warm in the way expensive places always were, not just in temperature, but in tone. Soft gold lighting spilled across marble floors, painting everything in a kind of hush. The air smelled faintly of polished wood, citrus oil, and something subtle and floral, like wealth worn quietly.

Sound didn’t echo here, it was absorbed, contained, made gentle.

Behind the sleek marble desk, the concierge was murmuring into a discreet headset in French, his voice low, practiced, perfectly disinterested. A single bellman stood off to the side, arms behind his back, eyes unfocused, the kind of presence that disappeared unless summoned. Even the music, barely audible from the hidden speakers, was designed to be forgotten as soon as it passed through you.

Y/N stepped in from the cold, the glass doors closing quietly behind her with a sigh. She paused just inside, letting the sudden stillness settle around her. It felt like stepping into the end of something, the kind of silence that only exists after a night has burned itself out.

Her jacket was slung over one shoulder, her shirt creased now at the elbows and collar, her hair had fallen from wherever she’d tucked it earlier, soft waves brushing her jaw, a little messier, a little freer, her boots didn’t make much sound on the polished floor, but they still echoed faintly in the corners of the space.

The quiet felt good, earned, but not quite complete.

She was halfway across the lobby, headed toward the elevators, when she heard it, soft, almost cautious.

“Y/N?”

She turned, instantly, like her name had reached her on a different frequency.

Rosé was standing near the elevators, half-shadowed by one of the massive black columns that framed the hallway. Her heels dangled from her right hand, the delicate straps looped loosely around her fingers. On her feet were oversized hotel slippers, the kind too large for her but somehow still graceful, absurdly charming in contrast to the black dress still hugging her frame.

There was something disarmingly human about her now. Her posture had softened, one shoulder dipped slightly as she shifted her weight from foot to foot, and the sharp elegance she’d carried earlier had given way to something quieter. Her makeup had faded at the corners, mascara just smudged enough to make her eyes look sleepier, her hair had come undone in places, a few strands falling forward, catching the light as she brushed them back with the hand not holding her shoes.

She smiled, hesitant but warm, like she wasn’t sure if this was too much or too perfectly timed.

“Same hotel?” Y/N asked, voice low, eyes flicking once from Rosé’s face to her feet, then back.

“Looks like it,” Rosé said, shifting her shoes to her left hand so she could tuck her hair back again, slower this time. Her fingers lingered just a second too long at her temple, a nervous habit, maybe, or a moment of indecision.

Y/N stood still, watching her.

The elevator behind Rosé chimed, a soft, elegant sound, and the doors slid open with a quiet hush.

Neither of them moved.

Rosé glanced over her shoulder at the open elevator, then back at Y/N. She didn’t speak, she didn’t need to.

Y/N crossed the final few steps, her boots whispering across the marble. She reached out to catch the door just as it began to close, holding it with one hand, the other resting lightly on the frame.

She looked back at Rosé, chin tilted slightly, her voice soft but certain.

“Well?” she asked. “You coming?”

Rosé’s smile deepened, and without saying a word, she stepped forward, past the column, past the echo of hesitation, and into the elevator.

The doors slid shut behind them with a soft hiss, and for a moment, everything stilled.

Inside, the light was diffused and warm, the kind that softened edges and made time feel slower. The mirrored walls reflected them in gentle fragments, Y/N’s jacket draped over her shoulder, Rosé’s bare arms crossed loosely at her waist, both of them standing just far enough apart to feel the space between them.

Neither spoke, not because there was nothing to say, but because the quiet suddenly felt too deliberate to break.

Y/N stood near the buttons, her reflection catching her from three different angles, chin slightly tilted, mouth neutral, but the faintest flicker of a smirk touching her features, her fingers hovered near the control panel, but she hadn’t pressed anything yet.

Rosé leaned back against the railing on the opposite side, one foot tucked behind the other, the straps of her heels still looped through her fingers, the soles of her slippers were silent against the brushed steel floor. She glanced toward Y/N, not directly, just enough.

“You don’t seem like someone who enjoys small talk,” she said softly, her voice quieter in the enclosed space, made silkier by the stillness around them.

Y/N looked over, one brow arching just slightly, the smirk turned audible.

“Not unless I’m trying to avoid the truth.”

Rosé smiled, the quiet kind that didn’t reach her lips all at once. She didn’t answer right away.

The elevator hummed as it climbed, floor numbers blinking slowly into place.

One. Two. Three.

“I was going to order something,” Rosé said then, glancing sideways, her voice softer now. “Room service, something bad for me, and I still have too many questions I didn’t get to ask you.”

A pause, not long, just long enough for both of them to feel it, that slight checking in, a mutual, silent scan “Is this okay?”

Y/N didn’t hesitate, her hand dropped from the button panel, she turned toward her fully, that smirk still in place, softened now into something more sincere.

“Yeah,” she said. Just that, simple and certain. “Okay.”

The suite was quiet in the way only expensive rooms are, not empty, not hollow, just composed. Like the silence had been designed, not left behind.

It was minimalist, but warm. Deep oak along the built-ins, matte black metal detailing the corners of the room like eyeliner. The floor was covered in a thick, dark rug that muffled even bare feet, floor to ceiling windows framed Paris in sleep, the Seine a slow ribbon of silver, rooftops stacked like memories beneath a misted sky.

Rosé entered first, her steps nearly soundless as she padded across the rug, slipping out of her hotel slippers and placing her heels neatly beside the bed. She didn’t reach for the lights, didn’t turn on music or offer drinks, she simply walked into the space like she knew it didn’t need anything more.

Y/N lingered near the door for a beat, eyes scanning, not because she was uncomfortable, but because she didn’t want to look directly at Rosé too soon. The bed was large, too neatly made, the desk was clean, save for a folded paper bag and a small stack of lyric notebooks. A pair of rings sat on the nightstand, beside a nearly empty glass of water.

Rosé turned toward her then, not from the center of the room, but from beside the bed. Her expression was calm, not inviting, exactly, just open.

“You can sit here,” she said, and the words were softer than they had been in the elevator. “If you want.”

Then, after a small pause “And, please call me Rosie.”

That made something shift.

Y/N let out the faintest breath, one she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and slipped her jacket from her shoulders. She draped it carefully over the armchair near the wall, then walked to the bed and sat, cross legged, near the foot of it. Not far, but not presumptuous.

Rosie climbed up beside her, settling near the center of the mattress, legs tucked up, back resting lightly against the headboard. They weren’t touching, but they were close enough to feel the quiet humming between them.

The suite was still, undisturbed. No food trays, no clutter, just the clean surfaces of a room. The minibar was closed, a single linen napkin sat folded on the desk beside a room service menu, untouched. Everything else was still, like the space had been waiting for them to fill it.

Rosie hadn’t ordered yet, she hadn’t decided whether she was hungry, or just not ready for the night to end. Maybe both.

Y/N didn’t ask.

They just sat, the city glowing outside and the silence between them thickening, not with discomfort, but with possibility.

Y/N leaned back slightly, letting her hands rest on the mattress behind her. Rosie shifted too, drawing one knee up toward her chest. Eventually, without really meaning to, they mirrored each other. Legs bent, bodies angled inward, spines curved like they were leaning toward gravity without falling into it.

And then the words started to come, slowly, at first.

Rosie talked about touring, not the shows, but the days between them. The cities she forgot the names of, the way hotel rooms blurred, how sometimes she didn’t know what time zone her heart was in. She didn’t say it dramatically, just fact, honest.

Y/N nodded, understanding more than she expected to.

Then Y/N talked about race days, about the hours leading up to them, the way the world turned silent just before the engine screamed. How the helmet felt like both armor and silence, how it gave her something no one else could, space and privacy. Even while the whole world watched.

They talked about the pressure of being first at something, what it meant to break through doors you didn’t ask to walk through, how the applause always came with weight, and how no one clapped for you when you needed it most, at 3 am, after the cameras stopped flashing, after the high wore off.

Rosie told her she sometimes wished she could disappear, just for a while. Long enough to hear her own voice again, without thousands of others echoing it back to her.

Y/N looked at her for a long time before replying “I already know how to disappear,” she said. “The helmet helps.”

They sat in silence after that, but it didn’t stretch. It held.

There was no pretense now, no performative comfort. Just two women, stripped of stage and spotlight, sharing the kind of exhaustion that doesn’t show up on skin, only in the way your shoulders eventually drop when someone finally listens.

Outside the window, the city breathed beneath a blanket of fog and silver.

Inside, two people who’d only just met sat like they hadn’t needed words to understand each other at all.

And for the first time in a long time, neither of them felt the need to be anywhere else.

Time didn’t pass the way it usually did in Rosé’s room, it softened, slowed. Lost the need to be measured.

The conversation had thinned into something quieter, something that didn’t need structure or rhythm anymore. Their words were still there, but they blurred a little at the edges, not slurred, not tired, just hushed, as if the room itself was asking them to speak more gently now.

Rosé had shifted a few inches higher on the bed, her knees drawn up close to her chest, her back resting against the headboard. Y/N stayed cross legged, her weight shifted slightly onto one arm, fingers tangled in the folds of the blanket. The space between them had closed without either of them noticing. Not by design, not by decision. Just slowly, like gravity had pulled them inward until their arms brushed.

Y/N’s voice, once teasing, edged with wit and charm, was quieter now. Less clever, more honest. She wasn’t trying to impress anymore, she was just there.

Rosé tilted her head, resting her cheek on the top of her knees, her eyes half lidded but awake. She listened, not with nods or polite sounds, but with the stillness of someone who genuinely wanted to know, she didn’t interrupt, she didn’t steer the conversation. She just let it breathe.

And when Y/N’s voice eventually faded into silence, Rosé didn’t fill it. She didn’t shift away, instead, she moved just slightly, a soft, instinctive adjustment, and leaned to the side. Not much, just enough that her shoulder touched Y/N’s.

Y/N stilled, but she didn’t tense, her body recognized the gesture before her mind did. It didn’t feel invasive, it didn’t feel sudden, it felt like trust.

Rosé let her head rest there, gently, the weight of it light but real, her hair brushing against Y/N’s collarbone, a single strand clinging to the edge of her open shirt.

Neither of them said anything, they didn’t have to.

Outside, the city hummed in sleep. Inside, the room held its breath. Rosé exhaled softly then, a breath she’d been holding without knowing, like her body had been waiting for permission to finally rest, and as she did, she let herself sink closer, her arm moving in a slow, uncertain arc until it came to rest across Y/N’s stomach.

Light, hesitant, then still.

Her cheek slid down just a little, until it found the steady rise and fall of Y/N’s chest, and stayed there. Y/N blinked once, staring at the ceiling, her eyes adjusting to the dark between the faint halo of the city lights outside. Her body didn’t move, her fingers didn’t twitch.

She wasn’t frozen, she wasn’t shocked, she just breathed. Shallow, careful breaths, not out of fear, but preservation, as if this moment might dissolve if she broke it with too much movement.

Because it had been a long time since something felt this gentle.

There had been touches, sure, there had been noise and tension and want. But this? This was different, this was stillness. The kind that made your bones go quiet, the kind that didn’t want anything from you.

And even though she barely knew her, really, by most standards, barely knew her at all, it didn’t feel like too much, it didn’t feel rushed.

It felt right.

Like their edges recognized each other.

So Y/N let her hand stay where it was, just beside Rosé’s forearm, close enough to touch. But she didn’t move it, not yet. She just closed her eyes, the rhythm of Rosé’s breathing syncing slowly with hers, and let the silence cradle them both.

There was no plan, no promise, just two women, who had nothing left to perform, choosing not to be alone tonight.

And that was enough.

Paris woke first.

Not with color, but with light, the kind that didn’t announce itself, but crept in through glass and space and stillness. A faint silver pressed into the corners of Rosé’s hotel suite, brushing against the walls, making shapes out of shadows. The sky beyond the window was pale and soft, somewhere between grey and blue, the kind of color that only exists when the world is just beginning to exhale.

Inside the room, it was quiet, no city sounds yet. Just the soft, steady hum of distant movement far below, blurred into white noise by double-paned glass.

Y/N opened her eyes slowly, and for a moment, she didn’t remember falling asleep. She just knew she was warm, grounded. Her body hadn’t moved much during the night, one arm curled at her side, the other stretched across the bed in a loose arc. There was weight there now. A head, an arm.

Breath.

She turned slightly, not sharply, not enough to wake the other girl, just enough to see her.

Rosé.

Still asleep, her lashes resting soft against her cheek, her body tucked in close, half-curled into Y/N like they’d done this before, like this was normal. Her dress had slipped up slightly in the night, one bare shoulder catching the soft glow of morning, her arm draped across Y/N’s waist, relaxed and weightless. Her hair was a mess, flattened on one side, tumbling over the other, one strand stuck gently to her cheek.

And still, somehow, she looked completely at peace.

Y/N’s chest tightened at the sight, not in panic, not in fear, no. Just recognition.

She didn’t move, didn’t clear her throat, didn’t try to extract herself from the tangle of limbs. Her hand was resting near the small of Rosé’s back, fingers splayed against the fabric of her dress. She could feel the slow rise and fall of her breathing, soft, rhythmic, real.

For a long time, she just stayed like that.

Listening and feeling.

Trying to hold onto the strange, quiet truth that had settled over them like fog. That this, whatever it was, felt safe. Too safe, maybe, for two people who barely knew each other’s middle names. It should have felt like borrowed time, like something fragile and temporary.

But it didn’t, it felt steady, it felt known.

Rosé shifted in her sleep, a small, unconscious movement. Her hand moved slightly, curling just a little against Y/N’s side, and her head pressed closer, a slow nuzzle, not quite intentional, but familiar in a way that made Y/N’s breath catch.

A soft sound escaped her lips, not words, just a sigh from somewhere deep in her chest. She adjusted again, only barely, and settled once more.

Her face was inches away now, if Y/N looked down, she could see every detail. The curve of her nose, the soft indentation of her bottom lip, the way her brow stayed relaxed, unbothered by whatever world she was dreaming in.

Y/N didn’t know what this was supposed to mean, she only knew that it meant something.

And that for once, in a career full of calculated risks and controlled outcomes, she had absolutely no desire to figure it out, not yet.

She blinked up at the ceiling, then let her head fall gently back onto the pillow, letting the soft, rhythmic weight of Rosé against her chest pull her back toward stillness.

Outside the window, the world began again.

Inside, neither of them had to.

Not yet.

[ciderjacks]

That dunmeshi x taskmaster post has me thinking about who would win. My bets are on Marcille but I think Laios is also an option. Izutsumi is coming dead last but only barely beat by Senshi and I think the teams would be

Chilchuck + Laios + Senshi vs Marcille + Izutsumi

OR

Chilchuck + Laios + Izutsumi vs Marcille + Senshi

I could see Chilchuck coming 3rd or 2nd in series but I couldnt see him winning. I think ranking wise generally the vibes would go:

Prize tasks-

1st- Senshi usually 5 points with what he brings in. I also think he’d be the designated “Greg 100% has a crush on him” contestant. I think Senshi would do terrible but I think they’d get along and he’d be a fan favourite.

2nd- Laios usually 4 points bc he’s crazy and would bring in weird shit. I think his scoring would vary wildly though.

3rd- Chilchuck usually 3 points. He’s practical but I think he’d bring in boring stuff most of the time. I think a few times he’d either get the full 5, and others he’d bring in something no one wants and get a 1.

4th- Marcille usually 2 points. I think she has a screwed idea of what other people are into, and would bring in things that appeal to her and her alone. Like Roisin’s Cardigan.

5th- Izutsumi would bring in trash from her house that girl doesnt give a shit. And then she’d get mad no one wants her trash despite knowing full well its trash.

(More under the cut this just got Long)

Creativity tasks-

1st- Senshi. Look at that one drawing Kui did of them all drawing together. Senshi is a talent and a creative guy, he’d win most of the time especially with any art based task. He’s also calm which I think gives him an edge here.

2nd- Marcille. She’s got the grit and iirc her skills were also decent.

3rd- Chilchuck I don’t know why I just feel it in my soul

4th- Laios.

5th- Izutsumi she’d do something intentionally terrible to troll everyone I think.

Sporty? tasks-

1st- Laios.. yeah.

2nd- Izutsumi and she’s often neck and neck w Laios for 1st.

3rd- Marcille, would do well but would probably be a weird nerd about it in a way that would hinder her more than it helps her.

4th- Chilchuck I think he would suck but I think he’d give it all he has and tbh it would probably be both really funny and also a little depressing to watch.

6th- Senshi, his calmness would Not benefit him here. And he’d try to cheat the system in ways that would frequently see him disqualified.

Those weird overcomplicated menial tasks Alex comes up with in his Jacuzzi-

1st- Chilchuck. He’s a lock pick and for whatever reason I think that would make him really skilled at this sort of task. Something about being used to complicated tedious situations idk.

2nd- Laios bc he’s strange and finds solutions no one else would ever have even thought of. Also lacks shame.

3rd- Marcille I think her commitment to the bit would outweigh her irritation. I think she’s also more “by the books” than people realize. Like even in regards to ancient magic she’s a nerd about it. Remember the mandrakes thing? I think that’s the energy she’d bring and that would sometimes help her but sometimes hurt her depending on the task.

4th- Senshi I think he’d get confused and annoyed fast

5th- Izutsumi would get irritated even faster and I see her as the kind of contestant who gives off the vibe that they have no idea what show theyre on and is taking themselves too seriously.

The “eat this entire watermelon in a minute” style of menial tasks that Alex probably comes up with at the grocery store-

1st- Laios. Come on.

2nd- Izutsumi, she’d get competitive about it.

3rd- Marcille. She’d leave the room to find a knife then get back with like one second to spare and eat a single microscopic bite.

4th- Chilchuck . Fighting for 3rd place with Marcille but I think would be slightly worse than her on average.

5th- Senshi. Takes his time. Too much self respect for this kind of task.

Live tasks-

1st- Marcille, the pressure would motivate her. She’d also celebrate way too hard anytime she won.

2nd- Laios. Would be intimidated by the pressure but would just get quiet and do the task as fast as possible, you wouldn’t even notice until he’s already completed it.

3rd- Chilchuck. I think it depends, sometimes does better than others. Neither intimidated nor motivated by the pressure, used to pressure so would generally do pretty well. I think his old man body would limit him more than anything.

4th- Izutsumi, the pressure would get to her bad and she’d start throwing things at people. Would be really really funny to watch.

5th- Senshi would I think go full David Baddiel during live tasks.

[all-for-the-game-confessions]

The upperclassmen not liking Andrew and loving Neil doesn’t make sense to me.

I can explain why. I know it’s because Andrew has a reputation and that they probably don’t get all of the context that the readers do and that he’s generally easier to get along with.

But like.. Neil verbally tearing Riko’s face off is not much different than Andrew threatening people. I’m not saying he should be violent, for the sake of those people who like trying to hold someone accountable in this nutball series, but he fully expresses his boundaries, not all of which are unreasonable, and repeatedly has them crossed; when he defends them, the upperclassmen act like he’s just nuked an innocent island completely full of orphans.

They get to know Neil as a person before they learn everything and I know Neil’s not a monster, but do they just straight up not see the similarities? Neil starts so many fights and can be just as aggressive as Andrew. Does it have to do with the fact that Andrew won’t actively reach for them/he doesn’t care much at practice? I know he’s quiet but he’s not nonverbal the entire series. He’s not hard to understand from an obligate standpoint.

Do they not see pieces of Andrew in Neil’s past? I can’t think of them being uncomfortable with Neil’s often callous and rude behavior aside from the MILD comment from Nicky when he asks who’s humanizing who. I know it’s not canon he ever killed anyone, even though it’s assumed by some of the fandom, but do they not hear ANYTHING from his backstory? I think it’s at least canon he shot at people right? He knows how to use a gun?? They don’t see that and feel anything but ‘oh no poor baby’? Not even a trace of the butcher anywhere?? Not a sharp glance that looks a little too much like Nathaniel? Do they never find out his orchestration of several people’s deaths? I’m not saying Neil and his father are on similar plains because I think it would make him vomit but still. Do they completely remove his stray-cat qualities in their brains? Neil’s a fucking jerk, and, beyond that, one of his best memories is of Riko being shot. Do they never make that connection? Hello? Do they miss the mastermind way he can manipulate people? Do they only see the bridge for their team and not all the bloodied knuckles and knives and gunshots under his skin? The base of that bridge?

I’m not saying they should hate or be afraid of Neil, and I know I kinda lost the plot when mentioning Andrew and not fully elaborating, but do the upperclassmen never see the ice in Neil’s smile like Jeremy mentions? I feel like they completely glide over it other than very very small comments. Am I just forgetting them? If I’m forgetting, are they really addressing it well enough?

Anyway, Scary Neil Rights

.

[yjdrabbles123]

Could you elaborate more on Gen announcing anything Mari does as a way to defend Mel. I think it’s so cute but also really funny. I can just see Gen looking kinda smug when she announces to everyone that Mari had an accident or something but still feels bad for embarrassing the poor girl but she DID do the same thing when Mel had a small accident a few days ago.

This has been sitting in my inbox for agesss and i know youve probably given up hope anon but i wanted to do it justice. So for you, part 1 :)

Loud/Quiet

Gen likes Mari.

 No, really, she does- she likes how Mari has such good ideas of games (Gen didn’t even know what Protection Money was, let alone that it could be exhorted, on pain of a severe spiking at the hands of her Sylvanian Family hedgehogs from countless innocent families), how she’ll beg for a cereal she doesn’t even like just because she wants the prize at the bottom of the box, how good she is at braiding Gen’s hair.

She likes how funny she is- sometimes when she’s trying to be but often when she isn’t, like when she was sitting beside Jackie in the car and yelled ‘Oh my god Shauna, what the hell!’ when Jackie spilt her strawberry milkshake and Shauna wasn’t even sitting in the same row as them.

She likes how Mari is kind- like how she coincidentally decided that pineapple on pizza was ‘super weird and gross’ after she noticed Gen trying to hide the fact that the smell of it was making her gag, or how she’s quick to tell everyone that if they don’t like what she’s made they can eat dirt for all she cares but also never cooks anything that anyone really hates, even when it’s something she likes herself.

Her kindness isn’t always obvious, but it’s there just the same, just quieter….which is funny because Gen would never, ever use the word quiet to describe Mari.

Sometimes this is what Gen envies most about Mari- its as if Mari has never ever considered that every single one of her thoughts don’t need to be spoken aloud, aren’t in fact a Gift To The World. Whether it’s her opinion that Scoody Do is a stupid show or that fake banana tastes horrible or that iced coffee is better than hot, everyone must know. To Gen, who has trouble imagining why anyone other than Mel would care what she thinks, this is astounding and incomprehensible.

Sometimes it’s a blessing: Mari isn’t the only one to notice Lottie’s eyes welling up with tears when they’re playing a game but she’s the only one to announce that Lottie is crying, which prompts Jackie to suddenly realise they accidentally skipped Lottie’s turn twice, something Lottie would never call out herself.

Mari isn’t the first one to notice that the order of plain-chicken-and-plain-potatoes is in fact not plain at all (Jackie is obviously the first one to notice because it’s her order of food) but she IS the first to call the waiter back and demand that he put it right, before Jackie has even had a chance to try to say it’s ok and she’s not hungry anyway and she doesn’t want to make a scene.

And she IS the first person to notice the lady trying to cut in line at the grocery store and also the first person to say something and Gen knows that really, it’s not JUST because Mari thinks she’s the only person who should be allowed to cut in lines. It’s also because of how pale and tired Nat looks and how she’s obviously struggling a bit to hold it together because there’s a guy yelling at his kid in the next aisle, and although Mari isn’t successful in getting the lady to move, it’s partly down to her that they get to leave the grocery store early, so that by the time Nat starts to tear up theyre in the car and that’s a good thing, right? Honestly, who cares if they’re nearly banned because Mari joined Shauna in forcibly moving the ladies stuff back into her cart and accidently smashed a gallon-jar of garlic pickles? It’s not even as garlic pickles are nice.

So yes. Sometimes it’s a blessing.

Sometimes it’s kind of funny-annoying, like when Mari trips over one of her own scattered barbies and makes it everyone’s problem because someone else  was meant to tidy up today, or when she speaks up out of nowhere to tell Shauna that mermaids are better than pirates, just for the fun of starting a fight.

And sometimes….it’s just annoying.

Melissa’s face was already flushed with embarrassment when her furtive wriggling suddenly stopped but she blushed even harder when Mari announced to the whole kitchen that ‘Mel just wet her pants.’

Everyone looked over at Mel who was too frozen even to cry although tears were welling up in her eyes, until Van got her up and out of her chair, slinging an arm around her trembling shoulders and murmuring that everything’s ok, don’t worry about it as she took Mel off to get cleaned up. 

Later, swollen-eyed and wearing fresh jeans and one of Van’s own sweaters (‘National Sarcasm Society: Like We Need Your Support’), Mel cries again curled up into Gen’s side on the hard dusty floor of the treehouse and although Gen knows Mel will be ok in a bit, that she just needs to get it out so she’ll be ready for a movie and hot cocoa and pillow nests and the sweet-salty popcorn that Shauna has already put in the microwave) and she will not forgive Mari for making it harder for Mel, someone so shy that they have to psych themselves up to give their name at Starbucks and so sweet that they’ll do it without fail every time Gen has a bad-texture day and can only stomach mango smoothies.

And that is when Gen decides that maybe she can become loud too.