#the barbie generator? get it away from me

[gimyung]

lookism himbo au

[somedaytakethetime]

He's literally obsessed with kicking the ball at this kid in this fashion lately... show off..

Bonus of my favourite, precious dansk rotte:

[skeltnwrites]

The Shape of Family ‧₊˚❀༉

As a single dad, Steve’s world revolves around school drop-offs, bedtime rituals, and tee-ball practices—and he's struggling to keep up. But you're always there, happily lending a hand when he needs it most. / part one masterlist

part two - at the rec center's fall festival, you and steve finally make plans to hang out 11k

a/n - how did this end up twice as long as the first chapter this was supposed to be a short one!! general warnings/tags here

── .✦

Utah’s pretty this time of year. Fall is in full swing. The maple and cottonwood mellow into rich shades of orange, there is a constant crush of leaves underfoot, and the crisp scent of pine needles mingle with the breeze. Your neighbors go all out to decorate. Pumpkins are for sale on every corner and the apple orchards buzz with families for the harvest. This kind of weather has every brush of sunlight feeling like a hug you didn’t know you needed. 

The rec center hosts an annual fall festival, bringing hayrides, corn mazes, and costume contests. And though you wouldn’t normally volunteer on a Sunday, Steve’s hard to say no to. It’s not like he begged you or anything, a half-shrug and simple “If you want to” was enough convincing. 

You’d volunteer with or without Steve. You have the time and the goodwill and thus it’s a cork on the end of your monotonous work-week. But there’s no denying that Steve makes it a hell of a lot more enjoyable. He’s the sunrise after a long night, guiding you into the days ahead. And yeah, maybe you’re romanticizing too much. Too caught up in the way his tongue sticks out when he’s concentrating or how he mumbles to himself when he forgets you’re near. But working with him is delightful, nonetheless. 

You and Steve are friends now. Well, work friends. You’ve never actually hung out outside of the rec center but there isn’t a Friday that one of you doesn’t mention it while you eat lunch in his office. You’ve learned trivial little things about him, like his favorite brand of pen, the store he buys his groceries from, and how he likes his coffee– hot enough to burn, with as much sugar as he can get away with without attracting strange looks. You ask about Penelope often and he’s very open; eager to rant and rave about the latest details of their lives. She visits every now and then, usually too sick or naughty to be at school. So you’ve come to know her just as much. That she loves Barbies and Salt-N-Pepa and insects but not the furry ones. 

Being in each other’s lives is routine at this point– parking beside his car, leaving sticky notes on his desk, setting your bag in his office. It would be crazy to say you love him, you don’t, obviously, but you feel like you could. And you know you’d be devastated if he left the center. Your shift assignments are arranged so they almost always thread with his.

He’s always hated asking for help, but then you came, puttering into his office with a lovely smile and open arms and suddenly it’s not so bad. He’ll ask for your assistance on more projects than not: your advice, your creative eye, your hands to hang something that he most certainly could do alone. 

Like now, you trail only a few paces behind Steve, cradling a wicker basket full of decorations. He billows a tablecloth over the nearest picnic table, considering your dispute over the best holiday. 

“I dunno, I’m more of a Christmas guy,” Steve shrugs, smoothing out a ripple in the fabric. “The music is just inarguably better. You get to open presents and eat delicious food. Not really a contest in my book.” 

You hum, centering a plastic pumpkin. 

“Penelope is like the queen of Halloween, though.” The corners of his eyes crinkle with mirth. “This morning, she told me she wished she was born on Halloween so she could go trick-or-treating on her birthday.” 

You wear a similar expression, gaze flicking over to Penelope. She’s not far, crouched in a strip of dirt, parting a pile of leaves to search for ladybugs and other creatures. “I bet she’s excited for all that candy.” 

“That’s all she’d eat if I let her. I’ve already scheduled a dentist appointment for her in November– But, I’m just as bad, she gets her sweet tooth from me,” he admits. 

“Figured. The amount of Reese's wrappers I find in your trash.” 

He squeezes your shoulder playfully, not hard enough that you should need to squirm away but you do. “Whatever. Why are you going through my trash anyway, weirdo.” 

You click your tongue, “I wasn’t going through your trash! They are on the top where anyone could see.” 

“Mhmm, whatever you say… dumpster diver.” 

Joan, the youth counselor, whisks over to interrupt with arms full of mason jars before you can retort. Steve smothers his smirk with an answer to her question. Your tongue prods the inside of your cheek to prevent your own. 

It’s like this with Steve, now. Teasing and taunting each other like schoolchildren. A game of tug-of-war, where every knowing glance and light-hearted jab pulls the rope just a little tighter between you. It’s as thrilling as it is nerve-wracking. 

It’s not much later when guests filter into the festival. The earliest glow of sunset mists the courtyard in gold. There’s cider stations and pumpkin carving and a whole bunch of apple bobbers fighting to win a pumpkin pie. Monster Mash bleeds from several speakers lining the trail to the tented area you find yourself in. People dance and laugh and drink. It’s a very successful event for the rec center. 

Steve plops down on the bench across from you, Penelope at his hip. A silent, self-invitation he knows you won’t decline— you enjoy their company more than people-watching. He seems to find you no matter which way you drift, even through a sea of townsfolk. 

A big scoop of chili is spooned from his paper bowl into a second. “Blow on it,” Steve reminds, planting it in front of Penelope. 

She does blow on it, a spray of more spit than air that merits her a shoulder nudge to knock it off. 

Penelope simpers over her steaming food as Steve offers you an apologetic look. Last you saw her, she was waving her way up the stairs to the costume contest. She’s since been bundled up– a tiara traded for a knit beanie and the gown from her dress-up bin crammed underneath a thick sweater and spilling out the hem. 

The string lights bathe their faces in a white glow. It highlights the beauty mark on the slope of Penelope’s cheek, like a half of Steve’s pair in the same spot. It’s not often you get to just enjoy their company. No scrambling about deadlines or standards. It’s a calm you could get used to. But Steve’s always ten steps ahead, already plotting which crew needs the most tending to when he’s finished eating. He’s selfless like that. Your feet ache from running around, but Steve’s probably worse. 

“Penelope, is that what you’re wearing on Halloween?” You ask.

Her chin presses into the neckline of her sweater. “No,” she recalls, mouth full of sauce. “I’m being Dorothy.” 

Steve swipes a napkin across her lips before anything drips. 

“From The Wizard of Oz?” 

“Mhmm,” she grins, popping the spoon out of her mouth. 

“Very cool. Did you get your costume yet?” 

She nods, glancing at Steve, “Daddy made it.” 

Steve’s in his own little world, slurping his belly full of warm food and basking in the second of peace he‘s been given. But he blinks back into reality at your questioning stare, leaning in to hear you over the boisterous laughs of nearby people. 

You try to reel in your surprise, soften your features. “You made her costume?”

“Oh,” he waves a dismissive hand, “I just sewed a shirt to a dress. Nothing fancy.” 

“Still– that’s really cool, Steve.” 

He stirs his food, voice torn with guilt. “I dunno. It’s cheap.” 

“Costumes are better homemade. The ones in the stores are tacky. I bet it looks amazing.” 

Fragments of a smile find his lips, more a peace offering than a true one. 

“I painted my shoes red and I put so much glitter on them so they sparkle,” Penelope adds cheerfully.  

“You did?” 

She nods, shining with pride. 

“It’s been two weeks and I’m still finding glitter everywhere,” Steve comments, more amused than he lets on. He can’t be that mad when they’re little reminders of his favorite person in the world. 

“Are you dressing up?” You ask him. 

He huffs, side-eyeing Penelope. “Yes.” 

A glint forms in her eyes, a sly little smirk beneath. “Daddy is going to be the lion because he’s hairy.”

You laugh and Penelope joins you because Steve has a funny pouty face. 

He rolls his eyes. “Tell ‘em who’s your Toto?” 

“Cinderella!”

“No way!” You match her level of excitement. “Does she have a costume?” 

“No, but I have a basket for her to sit in.” 

You coo, “I bet Cinderella will love that.” 

Steve snorts because he knows you know Cinderella will in fact not love that. 

Cinderella is supposedly the grumpiest animal he’s ever met. She was a quick, unfortunately painful, lesson on boundaries for Penelope– not to pet certain areas or animals as a whole. Steve described her as an old, scraggly thing with a temper flaring unpredictably from one moment to the next. He wasn’t a cat person to begin with, growing up in a house with no animals probably started his revulsion to having fur on his clothes; but at two and a half, Penelope begged to feed the stray on their porch and she just kept coming back. 

Steve wanted a dog when he moved out, if anything at all; but in four years he’s learned more about sacrifice than any speech his parents tried to drill into his head. And Cinderella is practically Penelope’s best friend now. She sets aside birthday money for new cat toys– the crinkly ones are her favorite– and sneaks the cat through her bedroom window from time to time. She even cradles her like a baby, not without protest and the occasional scratch, of course, but Penelope knows the risk. 

“I told her Cinderella probably won’t want to come trick or treating but she can still take a picture with her at home.” 

“I told you she will want to go because there’s candy.” 

“Yes, but I told you cats can’t have candy,” Steve jabs her side lightly. 

Penelope only pouts. “That’s sad. I think she would like candy.” 

“It is,” he agrees, slotting a rogue strand of hair behind her ear. “But it makes them sick, remember? So we can’t share with Cinderella.” 

Her cheek melds with his sleeve, begrudgingly agreeing with a sigh. “Can I get my face painted?” 

Steve traces her line of sight to the ring of kids swarming the face painter. It’s not far. He can see well enough to recognize most of the children. Many are younger than Penelope too. 

But Steve hesitates, “Can you wait until I’m done eating? I’ll go with you.”

“Daddy,” she whines, pinching his arm hair. “You take forever.”

Penelope’s got magical little eyes. You don’t know how Steve ever says no. 

“I can take her,” you offer, stacking trash on your plate. “I’m done anyway.” 

“No, it’s okay.” He deflates with a sigh, curling into his ribs so he can see her face. “You can go by yourself–”

Her frown washes away just as fast as she peels herself off of his arm. 

“But! You have to come straight back when you’re done and you have to stay where I can see you. ‘Kay?” 

“‘Kay!” She beams, nearly tripping on her dress as she swings her legs over the bench and breaks into a run. 

Steve can’t hide the wobble in his smile as hard as he tries to be strong. Most of the hardships he’s faced as a parent are foreign to you, but clearly, this isn’t easy for him. 

“She’ll be fine,” you reassure with a ginger squeeze to his wrist. “We aren’t far if she needs something.” 

He nods, still locked in on Penelope. “I know, I know. I’m trying really hard not to be a helicopter parent as she gets older. It sucks though, feeling like she doesn’t need me anymore.” 

“Steve,” you deadpan, prying his attention back. “That’s… silly. You’re her dad, of course she still needs you. Maybe not all the time or as much but she’ll always need you.” 

“I dunno. I feel like she grows an inch every time I turn around. I never thought I’d say this, but I actually miss when she was in diapers. She’s cute now, but God was she cute then.” He chuckles to himself, eyes swinging from Penelope to you and then back. 

“I believe it,” you grin, admiring his girl. Her cheeks are red from the cold, like two tomatoes framing her lips. She might like to wear your jacket, you consider, but she’s so small, perhaps she’ll overheat from too many layers.

Penelope scrambles into the chair when it’s her turn, talking a mile a minute to the face painter. A funny wave of emotion roves over you. There’s affection and joy and and then something heavier and harder to describe. 

“I’ll have to show you her baby pictures sometime.” You hear the parting of a true smile. “There’s this one– it was her first birthday– I gave her a whole cake and she just demolished it. Had it in her hair and her eyelashes and in between her toes. She was so damn happy.” 

You exhale a happy hum, turning back to Steve. He’s propped on his elbows now, close enough to discern each eyelash from the next. It doesn’t startle you as much as it just scrapes the words right off your tongue. 

He’s reading you, churning, and chasing the right words all in between the blink of an eye. “We should hang out, you know? Like actually– We always talk about it but…” He shakes his head, trailing off. 

He’d let the words be carried with the wind if you wanted. It’s hard to imagine you’d say no, but people have surprised him in worse ways. Just when he thinks he knows someone, truly knows them, they cut him off like he’s no more than a dying branch. The ghosts of past someones and somethings still haunt him. It makes being so forward with you all the more difficult. 

You wear a whimsical sort of grin that you hide behind the brush of your hand, fighting your own flood of emotions. “Yeah– I mean, yeah. When?” 

Excitement flares across his features. “What are you doing on Halloween? You could come trick-or-treating with us?”

“Probably just home handing out candy– but Steve, I don’t want to intrude on Halloween. It sounds really special to Penelope.”

“You wouldn’t! No way, Penelope would be thrilled if you came. She talks about you a lot, you know?” 

“No she doesn’t,” you grin madly into your palm, peering over to her. Her face is dressed in a bright shade of orange now. With her pudgy cheeks, she reminds you of a little pumpkin. 

“She does! Swear it– on my life.” He’s not lying. He can’t hold your eyes when he lies, even about silly things. 

You huff, feeling foolishly giddy. “I don’t have time to get a costume, Steve.” 

“Nonsense. We can find you one. I’ll make it if I have to. The Tin Man and The Scarecrow are still up for grabs.” 

You swallow, washing the sudden dryness from your throat. Why does Steve have to be so damn cute and sweet all at once? “I dunno. Would it be fine if I didn’t dress up?” 

He chuckles dryly. “Penelope won’t have that, I can tell you that much. Plus if I’m going to be tortured into some itchy lion onesie I expect you’ll do the same.” He’s teasing, which is typical for you both, but it’s like you’ve forgotten how. 

“Steve.”

“Come on. If not for me, for Penelope. She’ll love it.” 

“Okay,” you settle. But you aren’t really settling. He could ask you to dress up on any other day of the year and you’d do it. 

Penelope races over– a tabby cat with long whiskers and a pastel pink nose– yelling, “Daddy, look!”

Steve beams at her like he stuck a lightbulb in his mouth, somehow brighter than before. “I see! You look so pretty, princess.” 

“I’m like Cinderella.”

“You are!” He pats her former seat beside him until she sits. 

Her long lashes flutter questioningly. 

“Nell, don’t you think we need, I dunno, like a Tinman or a Scarecrow to go with our costumes on Halloween?” 

She tracks his gaze over to you, adopting your smirk. “Are you coming trick-or-treating with us?” Her voice is uneven and bubbly with anticipation. 

“Do you want me to?” You ask genuinely. 

Penelope’s tongue wriggles in her mouth like she can’t find the proper words to express what she feels. But she nods in this bashful way against Steve’s shoulder that surprises you. 

“Are we being shy now?” Steve remarks, pulling her into his arms effortlessly to peck her hairline. 

“No,” she whines against his sweater, overjoyed to be smothered in love. Dry paint creases with her scrunched face. It’s an adorable sight. You keep wishing you had a camera on you because this is the kind of thing Steve probably puts in his photo albums. 

The moon climbs the sky quickly, draping the party in a silver veil. Many stay for the campfire and the promise of smores. But the later it gets, the crankier kids become for their parents. Penelope’s no exception, whining and clinging to Steve until he agrees to hold her. And he tries to work still, but his arms are starting to burn and stamping hayride tickets isn’t easy one-handed so he makes the hard choice to leave before cleanup. 

He feels awful, apologizing to several of his coworkers on the way out but most are too drunk on cider or too high on festive cheer to care. Besides, he’s paid a salary, doing this out of the kindness of his heart. He has no obligation to be here– you’d reminded him of that multiple times. But the festival does feel empty when they leave, even with half the town still around. 

ᯓ★

Steve lives in a quiet pocket outside of town on a curvy, secluded stretch of road. The directions he’d scrawled out on a receipt weren’t as useful as you’d hoped as one of the street names you were intended to turn on was smudged beyond legibility. But you made it, parked in front of a white house with a similarly white picket fence. Steve’s beamer is idled to your right. It’s strange seeing it somewhere that’s not the rec center. But it’s a familiar comfort between so much new. 

There’s a tire swing knotted to the oak tree in the yard, a collection of painted rocks in the pebble-lined path up to the house, and two carved pumpkins set outside the door, caving in on themselves but not yet rotting. A lot of love is shared here.  

Penelope answers the door when you knock. She’s half dressed– stockings hugging a pair of fleece leggings and a flowy pajama tank top. Her eyes outline your costume and light up with approval. 

You sport a flannel and denim overalls stuffed with prickly straw straight from the local farm, courtesy of Steve. But Penelope ogles your face paint more than anything– a stitched grin and two circles for blush. You hope it’s not scary looking. 

She doesn’t know how to let you inside– she’s not supposed to answer the door after all– so she hangs clumsily off the door handle until you ask, “Can I come in?” 

“Yes,” she teeters out of the way, closing the door behind you with a sweeping grin— the mischievous kind that makes you wonder what she’s up to.

The foyer is situated between the living room and kitchen, both of which are missing Steve. 

“Where’s your dad?” 

“Umm. Cleaning?” 

“Oh. Are you getting ready to go?”

“Yes, but I can’t find my shoes,” she makes a strangled face and shrugs with her entire wingspan.

“Do you want me to help you look?” 

She nods, “I think they’re in my closet.”

Penelope sprints up the stairs easily, leaning over the railing at the top until you hesitantly follow. You hope he won’t mind. You were technically let in. 

It reeks of chemicals upstairs. You stifle a cough and hope it’s Steve, not some science experiment in Penelope’s room. But you don’t worry long. The culprit swings around the corner, juggling several bottles of solutions and sprays. Steve would’ve barreled straight into you had you not thrust your arms out in defense, but still, all his things scatter across the floor. 

“Christ, you scared me.” He kneels, tucking a roll of paper towels against his chest. “Nell, you can’t answer the door without me.” 

“I looked in the window.”

You hand him a sanitizer and shimmy your hat back into place. It’s too big and far too floppy, sagging over your brows no matter how you situate it. Amusement draws his cheeks up as he realizes. You look ready to plop yourself in the middle of someone’s crops and he’s in a tee and jeans you might find him in any other day. His smiley-staring only makes you feel sillier. 

“The straw’s really a nice touch, huh?” Steve teases, picking a sandy stem from your collar with his free hand. He’s got that smirk you so often find on Penelope’s lips. 

You yank the strand from his grasp and poke the column of his throat with it. “I’m definitely more itchy than you’ll be.” 

His fingers encase the entirety of your fist like a shell. They’re knobby and mannish, stout against your own. But there’s a tenderness to his hold as he eases your fist away. You don’t push back, though you contemplate it. He’s never touched you for so long; he’s basically holding your hand. 

“Could’ve been the Tinman,” he says, releasing your fingers at your thigh. 

You suck in, like fuel for a reply, and exhale a breathy, nervous laugh. “And paint my entire body gray? No thanks.” 

He chuckles, eyes darting behind you. “Well, you look great. You like it, Nell?” 

You’d almost forgotten she was there. She’s quiet as a mouse when she wants to be. 

Penelope bobs her head behind you, patiently watching from the doorway to her room. “I have oh-ralls like that.” 

“You do,” Steve confirms, fidgeting with the nozzle on the disinfectant bottle. It reminds you of the smell. 

“You kill someone?” 

He stiffens. “What?” 

You flick the bottle of Windex, serious facade fading. “Smells like you’re trying to cover it up.” 

“Oh! No,” his shoulders soften, “Just a little spring cleaning… in fall.” 

You hum gaily. “I like your house.” 

“You do?” His voice is light, buoyant with relief. “I can give you a tour. A proper one.” 

“I would but I’ve promised a patient little lady I’d help her find her shoes first.”

Penelope beams when you glimpse at her. “I think they’re in my closet,” she shares with Steve. 

“I think so too,” he says, eyeing past her. “What happened to cleaning?” 

“I was but I had to find my costume first.” 

“It’ll be easier to find when your room’s clean.” He sends you a look, “Don’t let her trick you into cleaning for her. She’s sneaky.” Steve whispers the last part, loud and teasing. 

“I’m not sneaky!” 

“Mhmm. I’ll go get ready and then come help you, Nell.” 

“Then trick-or-treat?” 

“Yes,” he starts down the stairs, “Yell if you need me.” 

Penelope tows you into her room by the arm, unphased by the clinking of toys crammed behind the door. Anything in her way gets kicked or shoved aside without a second thought. It’s like her toy chest exploded, a kaleidoscope of pink and purple across the carpet. And no wonder it’s a mess; she starts chucking things out of her closet, adding to the pile spilling out like an avalanche—books, stuffed animals, barbie dolls, baby dolls, and so so many clothes. 

You squeeze by a play tent, scanning the floor. 

“They’re red and sparkly, ‘member?” Penelope calls from behind her closet doors. 

You tip a beanbag over with your foot, “I remember.” 

She babbles to herself as she looks, just like Steve does– little hums and scraps of thought that are hard to catch. It’s a funny thing, to see it translated from one human to another. 

It doesn’t take long to find the shoes, wedged underneath her bed with numerous other things. You go prone against the floor to dig them out and hold them up by the straps. “These it, Pen?” 

She gasps vibrantly. You wish you got up in time to see her face. 

“How did you know they were under there!” She shrieks, snatching them from you. 

“Just had a feeling,” you sit up properly, happily watching her slip the flats on. 

She practically twinkles, clicking her heels together like Dorothy. 

“They look stunning! You painted these?” 

“Yes,” she skips over to her dresser, shuffling through drawer after drawer. Anything folded surely isn’t anymore. 

“You’re a talented artist.” 

“I know. Daddy says.” Penelope yanks out a blue line of fabric. “My dress is so pretty. I’m going to be the prettiest Dorothy for Halloween.” 

“I know you will! You should give your dad a big hug for making such a pretty dress.” 

She buckles into the costume as fast as she can, patting the skirt down with a satisfied grin when it’s on. 

After several compliments and much debate, you’re able to convince her Dorothy would have a clean room. Penelope puts a few things away, but she’s easily distracted. And it’s hard to blame her with so many toys about. So you do most of the cleaning, but you’re happy to. It’ll make Steve happy– lest he finds out it was you– which makes you happy. 

The floor’s mostly cleared when Penelope decides Steve’s taking too long; it’s time for your house tour, with or without him. And when he doesn’t answer her shout it’s decidedly without him. She shows you downstairs first– the living room, the kitchen, the half bath, her favorite hiding spot underneath the stairs. All the while she explains her very detailed and strategic trick-or-treating plan. Staying out until midnight is the priority, she doesn’t seem to care if it’s past her bedtime, and filling several bags with candy is also high on the list. 

“And this is Daddy’s room.” She jerks the door knob several times before yelling, “Daddy!” 

“What?” Steve calls, muffled. 

“Let us in!”

“I can’t hear you– hold on!” 

Steve unlocks the door donning the promised lion onesie and a pair of sneakers. It’s ridiculous how handsome he looks even with a stupid fur collar and tail. 

“Cute,” is all you manage to say. He takes it as teasing, rolling his eyes, though you really mean it. 

“Can you help me? I can’t get my whiskers right.” He taps the cap of an eyeliner pen against his cheek where he’s drawn two lines. 

“Sure.” You take the stick and follow him through his room to the master ensuite. 

“Wait!” Penelope shouts and waves vaguely at the room. “This is Daddy’s room.”

You pause to look it over, jovially commenting, “Wow! Very nice.” 

And it is nice. There’s a rustic set of furniture striped in blue and green accents; paired well with the framed floral prints above his dresser. And the bed’s made, only slightly surprising, topped with a Care Bear’s quilt you assume is Penelope’s. 

In the bathroom, Steve leans against the counter, arms braced behind him on the sink rim. You shuffle in front of his legs, skimming knees accidentally. He has no abhorrence for physical touch, you know that for certain. He’s touchy with not just you, but everyone in the office. An arm around the shoulder, a pat on the back, a gentle squeeze to the arm– he gives these out like candy on Halloween. But even so, touching him isn’t always easy. It’s vulnerable, runs the risk of rejection. 

Steve smiles at you, ever-patient and encouraging when you stall awkwardly. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. Talking any louder feels illegal when he’s so close. You cup his jaw and steady your opposite hand against his cheek, picturing the line how you want it. 

But just when you press into his skin and flick the pen, Penelope slams a drawer shut, startling you enough to flinch. The ink slants all the way behind his ear like a jagged nail. 

You gasp and recoil, “Shit.” 

Penelope gasps twice as loud and Steve crumples into laughter, even more so when he turns to view the damage in the mirror. 

“Oops,” you chuckle nervously, thumbing at the black streak. “This washes off right?” 

“Yeah, don’t worry. I’ve redone it like four times.” 

You douse your finger in water and work the pad across his happy cheek gently. 

He’s watching you. You don’t see, just feel it in the fringe of your peripherals. It’s not like he has many places to look when you’re a hair’s breadth from his nose. But he might as well press a magnifying glass against your face, point out every pore and blemish and hair you're insecure about. 

Your cheeks burn and the beginning prickles of sweat coat your upper lip. You brushed your teeth before you arrived, but how could you forget a mint? And what about an extra layer of deodorant? That wouldn’t have hurt. You glance at Steve anxiously and his eyes jump to Penelope. For once you’re grateful not to keep his attention. 

Penelope digs through his cabinet on a quest to find nothing in particular. 

You pull away to judge your first line as Steve opens his mouth. “Nell, go get your brush and hair ties.” 

The top half of her face pops up over the cupboard door like a puppet. “But I want my hair down.” 

“I still have to brush it. And I thought you wanted the bows?” 

She considers his words– her prior words– brows pinching before she shrugs, “Okay.” The cabinet door thuds against its hinges as it claps shut, and not a second later, Steve’s bedroom door slams as Penelope charges out. 

“You would not believe how often I tell this kid not to slam the doors,” he scoffs, though it’s devoid of any real anger. 

You take his chin again, packing away a grin. You have to focus. “Don’t move,” you prompt. 

He’s relaxed in your hold. Still as a stone, maybe apart from the slight tug of his lips when you resume drawing. 

“Tickles,” he murmurs when you lift the nib. 

You print another three to match the trio on his right. It’s not bad, but you wouldn’t say it’s good. The angles are skewed weird and one’s shorter than the rest. But if he wants them any better, you might not be the best person to ask. 

“How’s that?” You draw back, searching for any smudges. 

He spins, briefly inspecting his reflection before facing you again. “Perfect! Thank you!”

Perfect is definitely a stretch. 

Steve’s a perfectionist. You’ve seen it innumerably in the office. How he’ll spend hours revising something only to ruminate on an insignificant detail after. And with Penelope, every parenting decision is subject to endless second-guessing, as if her health and happiness hinges on the smallest nuances. 

But as much as he’s a perfectionist, Steve would never judge you in the same way he might himself. Your whiskers truly are perfect in his eyes, not for the shape or size, but because you drew them– wonky and all. 

The ink warps around his smile. You study his face under the guise of checking your work. Steve’s a handsome guy. An inviting kind of handsome, with shallow laugh lines and the start of stubble stippled across his jaw.  

“Wait,” you square his shoulders, brushing the nape of his neck to reach for his hood. The lion’s mane is laid gently over the top of his hair. 

“Now it’s perfect.” 

He smirks. “Sexy, huh?”

“Should leave this unzipped a little. The cougars will love that.” 

Steve laughs, harder than you think you’ve ever heard him. It’s so contagious even Penelope joins your hysterics when she returns, though she hasn’t a clue what you’re laughing about. 

“What’s so funny?” Penelope lurches into his legs with a handful of hair things. 

“We just think my costume’s kinda silly. Here, baby.” Steve heaves her onto the counter and props her right in between the sinks. 

Her dress pours over her crossed legs like a layered cake, baby blue and white gingham. Steve really did a great job with the stitching; you can’t even tell it was done by hand. And Penelope hasn’t complained about the fit once so it must be comfortable too. 

“Face forward please,” Steve reminds gently for a third time when Penelope twists her neck to speak. 

Penelope frowns at his reflection. “You’re pulling too tight.”

“Sorry. You have to stop moving though.” 

There’s a mild curve to his lips. He’s not aggravated with her fidgeting, in fact, quite the opposite. Maybe because you’re around, he’s in too good of a mood to spoil with something as trivial as his daughter's hair. But regardless, it’s endearing as it is entertaining to care for Penelope. He loves being a dad, even when it’s frustrating. And you can see the love as he braids her hair– how he cards through knots from the ends up and slowly sections off pieces to tackle one at a time. 

“I’m not moving.” Her chin droops as she scratches the polish from her nails. 

Steve cups her jaw, steering it back up. “You are, monkey.” 

“Monkey?” She chortles, seeking your gaze in the mirror to see if you also find the nickname funny. 

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs, seizing the rubber band from between his teeth. “Monkeys move a lot.” 

“Do they have tails?”

“Mhmm.”

“You have a tail 'cause you’re a lion.” 

Steve hums and bends back, evaluating his performance. “There. You look so gorgeous, Penelope.” 

And he really has done a great job, especially with all her wiggles. Steve takes a lot of pride in styling his hair– much of his confidence derives from it. And he tries to extend that care to Penelope; to teach her how gorgeous she is and that she deserves to be nurtured. 

Penelope shakes her head disapprovingly. “I’m Dorothy now, Dad.” 

“Oh, sorry.” Steve turns toward you instinctually, happy to catch your smile. 

“You look very very pretty, Miss Dorothy,” you correct. 

She slides off the counter, aided by Steve’s hand. “Can we go now?” 

Penelope waits patiently in the foyer for Steve to gather everything needed to leave. This lasts for all of about ten minutes before Penelope is halfway out the front door, too excited to wait any longer. 

“Wait, Nell!” Steve shouts from beside you in the kitchen. 

You’re choosing snacks and filling water bottles. Steve doesn’t really need to pack a bag for Penelope anymore, she’s a year and a half past diapers, but he likes to feel prepared. 

When Penelope doesn’t answer, he meets her on the porch to explain, “I’m almost done. And we still have to take pictures.” 

“I don’t wanna. I’m ready to leave.” 

“Well, we aren’t leaving until I get a picture of Dorothy.” 

She sighs, lugging herself back inside like she’s got bricks for shoes. “What about Cinderella?” 

“Go and look– get the treats.” 

She scrambles into the kitchen, snagging a jar of cat treats from the counter quickly. You shoulder the backpack and follow her out. Steve joins you not long after, two flashlights and several glowsticks in hand. 

“No Cinderella?” Steve asks, unzipping the bag pressed to your back to stock with more things. 

“No,” Penelope pouts, vigorously shaking the jar in the air. “How can I be Dorothy without Toto.” 

He yanks the zipper back up, then pats her head, “Keep calling. Where’s your jacket?”

“I don’t need it.”

“You will. It’s gonna get cold later. When it’s dark.” 

“It’ll mess up my costume. Dorothy doesn’t wear one.” 

“Let's bring it, just in case. I’ll carry it.” 

Steve jogs back inside, coming out this time with a camera around his neck, a jacket over his shoulder, and a plushie in hand. 

“Here,” he sets a blue stuffed dog on Penelope’s lap. “Backup Toto.” 

Penelope glares up at him, insulted. “This isn’t Toto.” 

“I know. But if we wait for Cinderella we might not have time for trick-or-treating. Why don’t we bring the treats? See if she’s started without us?” 

Penelope deflates, stuffing the dog in her wicker basket. 

“Can I take your picture now?”

“Why, Daddy?” 

“So I can remember how beautiful you look tonight.” 

A petulant bow creases her lips as she peers up. Round, sullen eyes connect with his. 

Steve squats in front of her, taking her much smaller free hand in his. “I know you’re sad about Cinderella but she’d still want you to have fun, right? And she might show up later. I just want to get a picture now so I don’t forget.” 

Penelope nods and Steve kisses her forehead, standing and backing up a few paces. 

“Smile, baby. Please?” He blinks at her through the viewfinder. 

She offers a strangled face– more of a toothy open mouth than a smile; not even close to wide enough to round her cheeks or crescent her eyes like the real deal. But it’s funny and just as cute. Steve snaps a photo and the expression drains from her face as fast as the camera’s flash.

You wander behind Steve and her eyes flick to you. You try funny faces first, frowning so deep your jaw aches, pulling the tip of your nose up like a pigs, winking terribly, but none of it works. Your fingers arch into bunny ears behind Steve’s hair and you stick your tongue out at the back of his head, but still, no dice. 

You have a really awful idea. You’re pretty sure you might die of embarrassment. But it’s worth it to get Penelope to smile. 

“Hey, Penelope? Remember when you told me dinosaurs are silly?” 

She nods. 

“Well, I have a really good dinosaur impression. Can I show you?” 

She nods again, equally jaded. 

You take a deep breath and shake your head, mentally preparing yourself and simultaneously erasing Steve from existence for the moment. A feral screech erupts from the back of your throat, the kind of sound you didn’t know for sure you could make. 

Steve buckles in his crouch, barely catching himself on the pavement with his free hand. A chorus of emotions ripple his features. He’s shocked and then amused and finally focused on capturing the picture, but what resonates the most is a fondness for you. 

You cup a hand over your mouth, rendering a string of different noises, inspired by several animals because what the hell does a dinosaur sound like anyway? You haven’t the faintest clue at the moment.   

Penelope fuses her lips together, unbreaking. 

“Come on Nell, I see that smile,” Steve rallies. 

But she doesn’t give up easy. She’s like Steve in that way. 

As a last resort, you press your lips to your mouth, blowing a raspberry and screwing your face in disgust. “Oh my God, Steve! Did you just fart?” 

He gapes at you, then Penelope, tickled and tongue-tied for comebacks. He can’t think straight, not when you’re making a delightful fool out of yourself, on his behalf, especially. As far as he’s concerned, Penelope’s smiling now or at least failing awfully at hiding it. So he takes several photos of her as she unravels into a giggly heap on the driveway. 

Certainly one of them is photo-album-worthy, but you continue your stunts anyway. “Goodness, what did you eat today?” You backpedal a few steps, fanning the surrounding air, partially to hide your own laugh. “Penelope do you smell that?” 

“Ew! Daddy!” 

You aren’t sure if Penelope actually believes you or if she just wants to join the fun but either way, she’s convincing. 

“I didn’t do it!” Steve defends, dropping the camera on its sling and raising his hands in surrender. “I think it was Penelope this whole time.” 

You gasp. “Penelope!” 

“I didn’t!” She cries, shaking her head aggressively. “I promise, I didn’t!” 

“I dunno. The closer I get the more stinky it smells.” Steve slinks up to her with outstretched hands that threaten tickles. 

She screams when he snatches her up, swearing up and down, “I didn’t, Daddy!” 

He’s well-practiced at being the tickle monster; knows every sensitive strip of skin to target. She was doomed from the start. Giggles spill out in jagged layers punctuated with gasps of air. Steve tickles her all the way down the driveway to the car, out of breath himself by the time he sets her on the trunk. 

Penelope deliriously eyes his hands where they rest on the beamer. 

“You ready to go trick-or-treating, Little Miss Dorothy?” You ask. 

She nods, dimples deepening with mirth.

“Here. Will you start it?” Steve fishes his keys out of his pocket and tosses them to you. “Come on, pretty girl.” 

She slides into her car seat happily, bouncing with excitement as he buckles her in. Steve’s told you before it’s not always so easy. 

“I really didn’t fart,” Penelope says. 

He chuckles, sewing a kiss to her cheek, “I know, baby. We’re just kidding.” 

Steve settles into the driver’s seat, depositing the stack of developed polaroids in your lap. You shuffle through as he backs out, flashing him your favorites; the best is one where she’s planted a hand on her hip and is rolling her eyes. You adore this little drama queen more and more every day. 

The drive’s only a few minutes, just to a denser part of the neighborhood to avoid long stretches with no houses. Steve parks against an empty grass lot behind another car. This area’s already bustling with kids which adds to Penelope’s anticipation. 

“Daddy, look– it’s Minnie Mouse!” 

Steve inspects the crowd through the window. “Yeah, you remember when you were Minnie Mouse?” 

“I was?” 

“Mhmm. You had ears and I painted your face. You were little.” He unbuckles, grabbing the backpack stashed at your feet. 

“Oh. Am I still little?” 

He pauses to melt, just to himself and only a bit. It’s too early to be sentimental– a long night of fun awaits. Steve cranes over his seat to see her face. “Yes, you’re still little. But you’re growing a lot. I think you might be as tall as me, one day.” 

“Nooo,” she giggles, waving her foot at him. 

“I dunno,” he sing-songs back, squeezing her shoe before turning back around. 

Steve distributes a handful of glowsticks, shoving a few extra in Penelope’s basket. You guys start down the block as the sun sinks below the treeline, more than enough time to complete Penelope’s plan which she reminds you of. She takes Steve’s hand, then yours, and it strikes you suddenly how much you appear as a family to outsiders. It’s not an unwelcome feeling, just a strange one. 

At the first house, Penelope knocks hard and declares to the elderly woman who answers, “Trick or treat!” She repeats it, insisting with wide eyes that she deserves two pieces of candy for her double effort. And the woman can’t resist her charm, obliging with a handful of pieces. Steve jokes it off, calls her a bargainer, but you gawk at the interaction. 

At the second house, she points to you and Steve, arguing you deserve candy too since you’re both in costume. And it works, scoring you each a piece that ends up in her tote anyway. By the third, you can’t keep a straight face, her antics are hilariously cute and you compliment Steve for raising such a little mastermind. 

You fall into a routine steadily, loafing along the road with Steve while Penelope trots up to each house. 

“Last year she was Snow White and the year before a cat,” Steve explains when you ask. 

“She likes princesses’.” 

“Less so now but yeah. She used to say she wanted to be a princess when she grew up.” 

“Can’t blame her.” You watch her fondly from afar. She picks a piece of candy off the ground and debates before tossing it in with the others. “What does she wanna be now?” 

“Changes all the time. Last it was a detective.” He beckons Penelope over. “Nell, what do you want to be when you grow up?” 

She fiddles with her basket handle. You’ve done two streets and it’s almost full. You're starting to think you’ll have to buy a pillowcase off of someone.

“Umm… Can I be a trick-or-treater?” 

“What!” Steve flips her braid over her shoulder, “That’s just for one day, goofball.” 

“Well… then,” she hums, squinting at the surrounding swarm of characters and creatures. “Maybe a pirate?” 

You and Steve share a look of amusement. You do that a lot now. It’s instinctual. Finding each other's eyes, even in a room full of people it’s easy. Sometimes there’s just too much joy not to share. 

“Daddy, how many houses are left?” 

“There’s quite a few on this street. You tired?” 

“No. Can I see? I want to count.” 

She doesn’t seem tired to you but Steve’s able to read her with the tiniest details. It’s like he’s got superpowers sometimes– dad superpowers. But maybe he’s just guessing, it’s getting closer to bedtime.

Steve boosts her onto his shoulders with a hefty groan about “getting old” which you bicker over because he’s only twenty-six. 

Penelope counts eleven houses, eight with lights on, but buzzes about a particular home illuminated with rainbow LEDs and a giant spider. And it’s even cooler than she described up close, mansion-like, decked out with spotlights and decorations taller than you and Steve combined.

A motionless clown holds a bloody bucket of candy outside. Their decorations are so extravagant, it’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s fake. But you’re pretty sure the clown just blinked and you make sure Steve’s aware of that, not that he was letting Penelope go alone anyway. 

Steve scoops Penelope up before she gets very far up the driveway despite her complaints. 

“I’m not scared, Daddy,” she assures. And there’s nothing that tells you she is– she’s just as cheery and bright-eyed as before. 

“I know, princess.” He rubs her arm, scanning for other statues with the potential to come alive. “I’m kinda scared, though.” 

She tips her head at him, puzzled because it’s always the other way around. But her arms coil around his neck, a loving press of affection that she learned from him. 

And whether he’s actually afraid to be jumpscared or just subconsciously ingraining in her that it’s okay if she is, you aren’t really sure. Probably both, and either way, it warms your insides. 

The clown cocks its head slowly when Penelope reaches in the bowl. 

She cocks her head back, innocently amused. “Trick-or-treat?” 

The clown nods, pushing the bowl toward her. 

Steve sags just a hair but remains very much on high alert. 

You mouth your appreciation— “Thanks.” Thanks for not scaring my coworker-friends-child who I’ve grown really fond of and would hate to see cry. 

“Daddy, can we go in there?” Penelope points to a tunnel opening, fringed with black streamers and flashing lights– some sort of haunted house walk-through that wraps around the home. 

“No, baby. That’s for big kids.” 

She spots a group of teenagers exit the other side, screaming, laughing, and doubling over each other into the grass. 

“I really wanna go– please, I’ll be so brave. I’m not even scared,” she pleads, flashing him a wobbly frown. 

But there’s no expression she could pull right now that would change his mind, not when he hears a chainsaw buzzing inside. She could throw herself on the ground and kick and cry and he’d still refuse. He knows enough kids that have been traumatized by horror-movie-type creatures and characters; he’ll be damned if his daughter becomes one of them. 

Penelope sulks for a few houses but she has loads more candy to collect and decides not to waste her time for too long. 

“Can you hold this?” She thrusts her basket toward Steve. It’s overflowing at this point; you’ve all started cramming candy in your pockets, hoping it’s cold enough outside that nothing melts. Steve’s been beating himself up for three blocks for forgetting the backpack in the car. 

“Sure,” he says, retracting his hand from his pocket.

But before he takes it, you joke, “Better keep an eye on him. He might eat some when you’re not lookin’.”

Penelope studies him for a long moment before shifting the bag toward you. 

“Penelope! You don’t really believe that do you?” He scoffs, breathily laughing.

You cackle as she shrugs and sprints to the next house. 

Steve bumps your shoulder, snaking a hand in the basket to steal a pack of M&Ms off the top. “Blowin’ my whole operation.” 

“Steve,” you scold and bump him back. “Don’t get me in trouble.” 

“She won’t notice.” He waves you off, tearing the wrapper with his teeth. “But if she does I’m saying it was you.” 

You whack his arm, glowing bright as the moon, “Asshole.” 

Penelope doesn’t complain about her feet aching once the whole night and you know they probably do because yours started hurting forever ago. Surely she gets some kid-sized Oscar for that. And Steve being the great dad he is offers to carry her on the way back to the car anyway. 

“Daddy?” 

Steve hums, hoisting her up where she slips. 

“Can we go trick or treating tomorrow?”

He glances at you, confirming you also hear this cuteness. “No, baby. Tomorrow’s not Halloween.”

“I know, but we should still go. I bet lots of people still have candy. Like, leftovers.” She yawns into his shoulder where his fur hood has been tugged down to warm his neck and double as a makeshift pillow. 

“Don’t you have enough candy?”

“No. I need more Reese’s for you.”

“You’re gonna give them to me?”

“Only some. I like them too.” 

“That’s kind of you.” 

Her eyes are half-lidded and struggling, but she’s still awake as Steve stows her into her car seat. She chatters sluggishly to keep herself up and you and Steve entertain it; it’ll make bedtime easier if she doesn’t fall asleep in the car. Perhaps handing her a pack of Smarties was overkill because apparently, it has enough sugar to wire her longer than the five-minute drive home. 

No slower than Steve can lock the front door, Penelope dumps the contents of her bag on the floor. A bouquet of candy wrappers, big and small, enough to last her months if she’s patient. 

“You can have five more pieces tonight.” 

Penelope smirks at Steve before he’s even finished. “Ten?” 

“Six. But you have to brush your teeth for twice as long.” Before she can rebuttal he shakes his head. “Final offer.” 

“Fine,” she huffs, combing through her pile. She sorts them into categories while Steve prepares her bath. It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown is already on– Steve has a bad habit of forgetting to turn the TV off when he leaves– but you find the remote when Penelope asks you to turn the volume up. 

“You can have these,” she announces, pushing a chunk of her goodies toward you. It’s mostly things she doesn’t like: twizzlers and dark chocolate and anything with peanuts. But she did sneak in one of your favorites you’d mentioned earlier that night. She really is a sweetheart. 

“Thank you, Penelope. That’s very nice of you.” 

“These are for Daddy,” she points to a second pile, smacking loudly on the gummy bear she just decapitated. “He loves chocolate but he got a cavity once because he ate too much.” 

“Are you talking about me?” Steve hollers, clambering down the stairs two at a time. 

“No?” Penelope giggles. 

His hands snap to his hips once he treks into the living room. “Alright, it’s bath time then bedtime Miss Dorothy.”

Penelope looks utterly betrayed. She’s only eaten three things and– “It’s not even late yet,” she whines. 

He pretends to check his watch, “It is.” 

It’s not but she can’t tell time yet. 

“Can we watch Oz, Daddy, please? There’s no school tomorrow, ‘member?”

“We watched it last night, peanut. Why don’t we watch a Halloween movie?” 

Peanut, pumpkin, princess, he calls her all sorts of cute things. Is it wrong to wish he called you cute things too? 

“I wanna watch Oz. I’m Dorothy so we have to.” She drags out the last syllable until she runs out of breath. 

Penelope’s over-tired. Delirious and whiny and easily hysterical when she doesn’t get her way. And it’s not that Steve thinks he should give in when she’s like this, he’s just tired too. And you’re here and it’s the weekend so what will one movie really do? He can guarantee she’ll fall asleep during it anyway. 

“Okay. Only if you’re super-duper fast in the bath.”

She shouts and whizzes upstairs. 

Steve diverts his attention to you, “You wanna stay? I can make popcorn.” 

Of course, you’d love to stay, and not just for the promise of popcorn, but you’re afraid if you do, you’ll never want to leave. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He makes a face– a ridiculously lovely one. “Go sit. We’ll be quick.” 

They aren’t quick but there are photo albums on the coffee table that you’re happy to look through in the meantime. You flick through beats of their life like stills of a movie. There are baby photos, school pictures, movie stubs, plane tickets, and several people you don’t know the names of. It’s weird– getting snippets of things about them you had no idea of. You’re filling the gaps as you go. 

Penelope returns first, frolicking her way to the entertainment center in fresh pajamas. She’s on a mission by the looks of it, making a mess of the VHS collection in the cabinet. By the time Steve arrives, most of the films are splayed across the carpet. 

“Oz is already in, silly goose. We watched it yesterday remember?” 

Penelope drops the tape in her hands, “Oh.” 

Steve hunches over her, slotting the films away one by one. She doesn’t help much, but he doesn’t seem to mind. 

Penelope clambers onto the couch beside you and Steve beside her. It’s a long sectional, enough room for several others. But Penelope scoots in right beside you so you're hip to hip. And Steve makes himself comfortable more in the middle cushion than the farthest. 

His onesie has been traded for sweats and his whiskers scrubbed away– though a faded, gray smear crosses his jawline. You consider telling him, or licking your thumb and scratching it away yourself, but it makes you feel less weird to be the only one still in costume so you let it stay. 

“I like these,” you tug the cotton pant leg of Penelope’s outfit. It’s a matching set, frilly and plaid with a black cat stamped to the torso.

She tucks her lower lip away sheepishly and pushes her crown into your shoulder. Her hair's damp, soaking your sleeve cold, but you fawn at the affection more than anything. 

“Did you find that picture? From her first birthday? I think it’s in there.” Steve gestures toward the closed album in your lap with the remote but remains glued to the TV. 

“No, I didn’t finish looking.”

“I wanna see,” Penelope arches over your legs, prying the book open. 

Steve rewinds the film to the start and pauses it so he can look too. 

You thumb the plastic sheet over a recent image of Penelope scrunching her nose at the camera, a riot of stickers across her face. 

“RoRo!” She taps the photo beside it. It’s a haphazard blur, most likely captured by Penelope; you make out the shape of Steve first, then the less angular, slightly shorter person– a woman, RoRo. You think Penelope’s mentioned her before but nothing about the picture rings any bells. 

“Mhmm. That’s Robin. Remember this was at the airport?” 

“Is that when we got pizza?” 

“Yeah!” Steve rubs her arm. “You have a good memory.”  

You turn the page, revealing a set of grainy, blue-tinted photos from the same roll of film. Steve looks young for his age now, but he looked like a baby then. Strangely though when there’s an actual infant in his arms. He was thinner then but even softer in the face. Not unhappy, per se, but maybe missing a lightness he has now.  

“This was on my twenty-third birthday,” he explains. “Look how little you were!”

“Did I eat cake?” 

“No, you were too young, baby.” He chuckles, pointing to another photo. “You tried a banana for the first time in this one.”

“I like bananas.”

“You didn’t used to.” 

Steve and Penelope share slices of their pasts fondly. You study the photos, compare these reflections to the people you find yourself next to. There’s an unexpected pinch in your chest– not getting the chance to know these versions of them, it makes you sad. But it’s a happy sort of sad. You’re grateful to know them now. 

Penelope begs to flip through another album but Steve decides it’ll be too late to finish The Wizard of Oz if they do. His true reluctance stems from how emotional the first one made him– though you’ll pretend not to notice for his sake. 

Steve bets Penelope an extra Reeses that she’ll fall asleep by the time Dorothy meets the scarecrow. It’s unfair, really. You tell Penelope not to pinky promise it but she does. And she loses awfully, yawning within five minutes and startling herself awake within ten. You scoff when Steve starts carding through her hair– her guaranteed snooze switch. It’s evil and you tell him so. So of course, that finishes her off long before Scarecrow makes an appearance; she curls into Steve’s side and digs a heel into yours. Poor girl never stood a chance. 

“She had a lot of fun tonight,” Steve utters. It’s alarming at first, how his voice eclipses the TV like there isn’t a child snoring against his stomach. But she doesn’t stir. He knows she won’t. 

“Did you?” You ask, skating between a whisper and not. 

“Very much. You?” 

“Mhmm. Loads,” you answer without hesitation. It’s possibly the easiest question anyone’s ever asked you. “I think Penelope’s right.”

He quirks an eyebrow against the front of the couch. His cheek is sinking further into the cotton like he might fall asleep. 

“We should go trick-or-treating tomorrow too.” 

His lips wane into a soft smile. If he wasn’t so drained he might laugh too. “What should we be? Penelope has a strict no-repeat costume rule.” 

You hum, scraping your memory for the best costumes you’d seen. There were Power Rangers and Ghostbusters and several Batmen with their Catwomen. But the image of one young family sticks out the most in your mind. A young pair of parents with their son and daughter decked in moody black and white. 

“Addams family?” 

“Who’s who?” 

“She’s Wednesday. Obviously.”

Steve chuckles, accidentally too loud and Penelope twitches against his thigh. He draws her against his chest readily and strokes her spine with the back of his hand. “Obviously,” he whispers. 

“You’re Morticia and I’m Gomez, though.” 

“Oh?”

“Yeah. She’s tall and pretty. Strong jawline, kinda sassy. I think you’ll make it work.” 

You’re flirting. You know you are as soon as you say it. And you don’t mean to, it just happens; the words come intuitively as blinking. Your brain does all sorts of crazy things around Steve. 

“You think I’m pretty?” He’s smiling hard. You can’t tell if he’s serious or not. 

“Pretty sassy, yeah,” you deflect. It’s a safer truth than admitting you do think he’s pretty. 

He rolls his eyes. “My mom says Nell gets her attitude from me. Says it’s payback for how I was as a child.” 

You gawk emphatically. “Were you a bad kid Steve Harrington?”

“I wasn’t bad– just needed attention I think.” 

You hum. It’s a little surprising since you know Steve’s an only child to wealthier parents. You’d pegged him to be spoiled in both money and attention.

“Are you close with your parents?”

He shakes his head, “Not really. Talk every now and then.”

“Sorry.” 

“Don’t be. I came to terms with it a while ago. Even more after she was born.” He skims his lips against Penelope’s head. “I can’t imagine not being in her life. You know, not really knowing her? Not knowing her favorite things or when she’s hurting or what she’s up to every second of the day. I don’t think that’ll ever change.”  

“She’ll be so grateful to have that kind of relationship when she’s older.” 

“Yeah, maybe. Like way older.” His shoulders droop as he sighs, “She already thinks I’m smothering her. Wouldn’t hold my hand yesterday because she’s ‘too big’ she said.” 

“Already?” You laugh.

“I know!” He groans. “I almost cried.” 

“She loves you. Kids just show it in strange ways.” 

“Yeah… She forced me to hold a slug last week.” 

“You held it?” 

“I had to! She was so excited to give it to me.”

“Aww. You’re a good dad.” 

Steve's eyes caper down and his cheeks pinken. “I’m trying to be.” 

Apart from the movie and an occasional sleep sigh from Penelope, silence swallows the room. It’s a comfortable silence; the kind you only get around people you’ve known forever; It feels like you’ve known Steve your entire life. You have to remind yourself it’s only been a few months. Remind yourself this is the first time you’ve ever even hung out. 

You find yourself drifting to the future. A future, with Steve and Penelope. Vacations and school events and hiking trips and movie nights and so much more. It’s silly. It makes your heart want to rip itself from your chest. 

Steve clears his throat. Your fantasy is only partially dissolved. “I’m gonna take her upstairs. Put her to bed.” 

You lean forward and press into your knees, gearing to stand. “Okay. I should get going. It’s late.” 

“Stay for a minute. I’ll walk you out.”

You have no reason to decline but even if you did, you aren’t sure you would be able to. Saying no to Steve is as hard as saying no to Penelope. They have the same puppy-dog eyes– brown and soft as sun-baked clay. That must be it. 

Steve strains to stand with the added weight. He’s strong but Penelope’s four now and having growth spurts like there’s a race to be the tallest kid in school. She clings to him instinctually, slotting her face into his neck like it was sculpted specifically to be her pillow. Her gangly legs sway against his thighs as he slowly climbs the stairs and disappears onto the landing.  

You don’t notice Steve’s return. He’s much quieter than before, taking softer steps and more calculated movements. He doesn’t have the buffer of his body heat to soothe Penelope back to sleep if she wakes. The palm on your shoulder startles you. 

He whispers an apology from behind the couch, voice sweet and buttery as caramel. You let him guide you the short distance to the front door– expecting it to end there– but he presses into a pair of laced sneakers thrown beside the entry table. 

The night’s chill is jolting, even in your coat. It’s easy to forget the months are slipping into winter when Steve’s around. He radiates warmth, not just in sun-kissed skin and honeyed eyes, but in his tone and his touches and every aspect of his spirit. And it bleeds like a fire. Brushes your cheeks like flames and stirs perpetually in your belly like magma. 

He walks you the entire length of his driveway to your car. Probably would’ve opened the door for you if you didn’t beat him to it. 

“Thank you for inviting me Steve,” you say, lingering in the threshold of your open door. 

“Thank you for coming. I’m really happy you came. So is Penelope.” 

“As much as I am looking forward to The Addams Family next year, we should plan something… maybe a little sooner?” 

“Mmm. Let me check my schedule first,” he teases, rapping his fingers against the roof of your car. 

“Whatever, boss-man.”

You still don’t get in. There’s a stretch of silence, not awkward, just a placeholder for when the right words come. And they don’t. Not tonight anyway. You could hug him? Peck his cheek? Pat his back as he might yours? 

You settle for a safe and simple tight-lipped smile. He appreciates it just the same. 

“See you Friday?” He asks. 

“See you then.” 

Steve guides the door closed after you settle in. He waits until your taillights have completely fizzled out in the shadows of his street to stroll back up to his house. 

He thinks of you as he locks the front door and again as he finds your hat on the sectional and a third time as he slips under his sheets. Steve isn’t sure what to do. He feels sick. His heart is hammering and his gut twists itself in knots like it does when he’s afraid. He hasn’t quite figured out what about you is so scary but how can he possibly wait until Friday to find out? 

[disneyprincemuke]

ღ this barbie has a baby

"wait a second," max blinks, hands in the air to stop the conversation from going any further than it could. the rest of the guys quiet down and slowly turn to him. "are we just going to glaze over the fact that she said she's bringing a baby to the paddocks tomorrow?"

lando furrows his eyebrows. "surely, she's not talking about an actual baby, right?" he looks around for approval. "i just assumed she was talking about a... partner... boyfriend, perhaps?"

mick shrugs, "i always just assumed she was talking about a grown person. she wouldn't bring an infant to the track."

"is no one even concerned that she's only turning 19 this year and you lot assume that she's got a baby?" alex asks, scowling at his friends as he scratches his head. "maybe she knows someone named baby?"

"she calls them 'my baby', though," mick points out as he presses his lips together. "it has to be a person, right?"

"who's betting what?" charles raises his eyebrows. "i think it's neither a partner nor an infant. a car she named baby, maybe."

max furrows his eyebrows, throwing charles a questioning stare. charles just shrugs before looking around the group to get their opinions as well.

"okay, i bet dinner that it's just a friend," alex says. "you're all going to be eating your shit when tomorrow comes."

lando shakes his head. "i still think it's a boyfriend."

"what if it's a girlfriend?"

"fine," lando scoffs, clenching his jaw as he glares at charles from the corner of his eyes, "then i think it's a partner. happy?"

mick scrunches his nose. "i am not participating in a bet about my teammate! and i've seen her car before – it's definitely not called baby."

"don't be such a party pooper," max frowns. "come on, mick, you have to have made some assumption about who or what this baby is. i still think it's an infant."

"she's 18!"

"potato, potato," max waves their concerns off. "so this is all for dinner, right? bet?"

"yeah, bet."

"mick!" she throws her arm into the air at the sight of the german entering the paddocks, waving him to approach her. "come here! i want you to meet baby!"

mick perks up, eyebrows shooting up that he's coincidentally the first face she's seen as their day starts. she's in the middle of a crowd, hands held out ahead of her as he approaches. as the crowd dissipates, he realises that she's got a stroller parked in front of her.

could it actually be an infant? oh, god, suddenly he's very concerned for her as a person in general. how could this have happened?

"this is baby!" she grins, unzipping its cover to reveal two ears and a brown sweater. "my cat!"

his blue eyes jump between the cat and the girl with a pink bow in her hair, unsure what to do with the revelation that baby is a cat. so who exactly is buying dinner tonight? "your cat? baby is a cat?"

"yes!" she beams, reaching down to scratch the feline's chin, who purrs and closes her eyes at the affection. "my dad got me baby two years ago when i finished in the top 10."

"wait," mick looks down at baby again, "is she wearing a louis vuitton sweater?"

"well, she's a sphynx," she frowns, fixing the sweater and pulling it down a little, "she gets cold sometimes." then she takes a step back with a grin, hands held out as she spins around. "and look! we match!"

"why are you spinning– oh, what's this?" lando grins, noticing the way they were conversing before he even passed through the gantry. "oh! what is that?"

"her cat," mick says through gritted teeth, eyes widening and hitting lando softly on the arm to urge him to just keep his opinions to himself. "baby. that's barbie's cat – baby."

"you named your c-" lando scowls softly, dropping his head low as the girl stops spinning. he turns to mick to hide his face away and blinks. "that's not a cat, mate. that's raw chicken."

mick simply shrugs in response. “i know.”

“she’s a sphynx! isn’t she cute?” the girl giggles, tapping lando on the shoulder. “and we’re matching clothes.”

lando stares at her. “this is baby… a cat? not even a person? not even an actual infant?”

she blinks at him. “infant? i’m 18.”

“what are you guys doing obstructing the paddock entrance and wh– hey, what’s this?” alex approaches with his hands grabbing the straps of his backpack.

“it’s baby,” lando grins, blinking hard at his friend. “a cat.”

“oh, how love– oh,” alex cuts himself off as he hunched over and looks into the carrier. he looks at lando and mick. “i imagined a more fluffy cat.”

“is that raw chicken wearing an lv sweater?” max pops up between mick and lando, furrowing his eyebrows.

“raw– she’s a cat,” she says again, pointing at baby with vindiction. “do you need to start wearing glasses?”

max grins with a small nod. he turns slightly to the men next to her. “why does her cat look something i’d find in the poultry section of the grocery store?”

“probably because it is part of the poultry section of the grocery store,” alex mutters, maintaining his grin to appease the young girl standing in front of them.

“oh, what a lovely looking cat!” charles beams, towering over the stroller wide eyed. “can i pet her?”

“yes! this is baby!” she shrieks excitedly, grabbing charles’s shoulder. she holds her arms out. “look — we’re matching clothes!”

charles’s eyes widen along with his smile. “oh! you have to get me some so i can match with you guys one day!”

“fun’s over,” max grumbles under his breath, waving his hands in the air to dismiss themselves. “i’ll see you and your chicken later.”

she furrows her eyebrows. “she’s a cat!”

— bonus

"a chicken?" oscar blinks, scowling slightly at the older men standing before him. "she has a pet chicken?"

"sphynx cat," mick points out with a tired sigh and a roll of his eyes. he turns to max, "you can't keep calling baby a chicken. you'll upset barbie."

max throws his hands in the air. "you should have seen baby! that's not a cat!"

logan tilts his head, eyebrows furrowed. "what's a sphynx cat?" he shrugs when he receives stares from them. "i'm not a cat person."

"those hairless cats," oscar explains. "have you got a picture of this said pet chicken?"

"pet chicken?" fernando had been walking by when he suddenly overhears something of a pet chicken which, in theory, is already such an absurd situation. he just has to know what is going on. "who has a pet chicken?"

"barbie."

he takes a step back. "that's some next-level rich people behaviour. not even lance owns a chicken?"

"sphynx cat," mick corrects again, looking around to ensure that she's not around to hear the guys making fun of her choice of best friend in the form of a pet. "it doesn't even look like a raw chicken, mate, it's a grey cat."

oscar grins. "so raw chicken that's expired?"

"a sphynx cat!" fernando cheers with a soft clap. "how nice! but isn't that a bit..."

"could be worse, really," mick mutters. "she told me earlier she originally wanted a tiger."

"really? what pulled her away from wanting a tiger?" logan asks.

mick sighs. "she read up that it's not very conducive for wild animals to be domesticated. she does, however, contribute tons of money to wildlife charities monthly."

taglist: @33-81 @darleneslane @namgification @happy-nico @nikfigueiredo @localwhoore @angsthology @renarots @elliegrey2803 @cha-hot @cosmoscoffeee @fanficweasley @sugarhoneylemons @aquangxl @omgsuperstarg @strawberryubin @lovecarsgoingvroom @mangotaitai @cherry-piee @ladyladybuggg @lethalvenus @gentlyweeps-world @spilled-coffee-cup @charizznorizz @wcnorris @storminacloud @minkyungseokie @viennakarma @leilanixx @daniellef89x @fezlvr @lavisenri @xcharlottemikaelsonx @ultraviolencesam @selsbackyard @ilove-tswizzle @riddle-me-im-sirius @kindestofkings

[threeacttragedy]

Entry 16: The One About That Time I Shot an Arrow into the Air

“…It fell to earth, I knew not where; for so swiftly it flew, the sight; could not follow it in its flight.”

Archery has always been one of my fortes in life. I have absolutely no idea why, but I’m strangely quite good at it. My father, of course, attributes it to my ancestors; something passed down to me in my genes. So, I’m not sure that any arrow I shot into the air wouldn’t naturally find itself in the direction of its intended target. Today, that target would almost certainly be in the jugular of a Cerberus-like creature. Ah, yes, that mythical hellhound with three heads that guards the entrance to the Underworld. Not only does it dictate who can enter the realm of Hades, but also who can leave. And I’m not fond of creatures that would rather devour you alive than let you leave of your own freewill. Plus, could you imagine having three heads with three different personalities? Ugh, that would get confusing quickly. And, even worse, could you imagine all the in-fighting? I mean, an arrow to the throat – if it didn’t dismantle the beast – would almost certainly silence it. Luckily, we don’t have any three-headed dogs in this fandom…

Where am I going with this? Well – besides down a long and winding path that draws attention to the fact I enjoy poetry and archery – actually, I chose today’s poem for a specific purpose. If you haven’t figured it out from my previous cracks about the Kraken, I also like Greek mythology. In fact, learning about Greek mythology at around the age of 11 – yes, that defiant age where we’re no longer interested in Barbie (not that I was ever interested in Barbie) but we’re also not cool enough to be considered teenagers – was the first time I remember finding myself “thinking outside of the box.” And by that, I mean asking the question that I probably should not have said out loud: “If Zeus is a myth, does that mean God is fake, too?” That went down like a lead balloon (and, I hope, no one takes offense to reading that now; it is not meant with any disrespect). My mother was, of course, telephoned by the school and, when I returned home, she greeted me with (something along the lines of) a simple: “Did they answer your question? No? Then I suggest you find it for yourself.”

We all have our own truth, don’t we? Even in this fandom, we are each tasked with choosing our own path. Weeding out facts from speculation and speculation from rumor. Choosing what we want to believe over what is being pushed on us. Overcoming our willingness to follow blindly versus our refusal to be backed into corner. I suppose that’s why I’ve always liked Greek mythology (and, perhaps, storytelling in general) – because it helps us navigate life’s challenges by better understanding human nature. It’s also one of the reasons why my favorite story has always been the trials and tribulations of Eros and Psyche.

Ah-ha! See, I told you I had a purpose for bringing up those damn arrows!

Yes, Eros was the Greek equivalent of the Roman Cupid; that weird little dude who fired love arrows like a bouquet of flowers at a wedding. But Eros wasn’t some creepy little cherub in a cloth diaper; he was the devastatingly handsome God of Love. And he fell in love with the equally beautiful human Psyche. That part about her being human, however,managed to get Psyche some major side-eye from Eros’s mother, Aphrodite. In retaliation for humans worshiping Psyche’s beauty over her own, Aphrodite sent Eros down to earth to pierce Psyche with one of his love arrows so she would fall madly in love with a hideous monster (unfortunately for the Cerberus, it wasn’t them). But Eros defied his mother and, unbeknownst to Aphrodite, kept Psyche for himself hidden away in a castle. There, Psyche lived – mostly happily – with Eros visiting her every night. Eros promised Psyche she could live there indefinitely so long as she never looked upon his face (hence why he only visited her in darkness). But humans have this uncanny knack for being curious and, of course, Psyche peeked. Well, fuck! Haha, I won’t ruin the rest of the story for you except to say, yes, Eros was royally peeved at Psyche’s betrayal, fled their home, and sought refuge with his bitchy mother (because, of course, he did). Devastated, Psyche went clambering up to her pseudo-mother-in-law’s shrine to beg for forgiveness and Aphrodite, being a bit of a bitchy goddess, gave Psyche a series of impossible tasks to complete to prove her worthiness. Amazingly Psyche did in fact complete each of these four tasks but only because she managed to get a little help from some fantastical friends. Well, except for that final task for which Psyche was warned – don’t look in the fucking box. Damn humans.

Like all stories passed down from generation to generation, there are multiple versions of this myth, particularly when it comes to who helped Psyche complete her four tasks. Sometimes it’s one god(dess), other times it’s multiple; sometimes it’s earth’s creatures (the ants, the plants, and the flying things). But my favorite version is the one where Eros was the one pulling those invisible strings – or, at the very least, keeping an eye on Psyche from the shadows – because no matter how angry he was with her, Eros still loved Psyche and wanted to protect her.

Why do I bring this story up? Well, for starters, if you didn’t notice (because you were too focused on carriages and mirrors), Bridgerton Season 3 made quite a few parallels between Colin and Penelope and Eros and Psyche, even referring to the latter by name at the end of the fourth episode. The show also brushed on the importance of trust, the consequences of betrayal, and the idea that love can conquer all. Funny thing is I never thought Colin to be much of an Eros; he made a better Psyche, in my opinion. I mean, he was the one to peek into Penelope’s secret life!

But Colin’s real-life counterpart, Luke, makes a rather entertaining Eros.

On December 16, when Luke reposted to his Instagram stories a link to Nicola’s “Part 1” of her 2024 Year, the fandom went wild. And I’m not talking about just the Lukolas going insane with excitement; the Jakolas were having a field day, too – but not in a good way. The unease they’d almost certainly felt with those coordinated airplane and “Polin” posts from October returned with a vengeance when Luke resurfaced in support of Nicola – the woman for whom he consistently comes out hiding. I realized then that the one person who could simultaneously make the Lukolas’ hearts flutter and the Adjacents’ blood boil was Luke (i.e., our Eros could make Psyche rejoice while making Aphrodite lash out in anger).

If you really think about it, Luke has pulled us out of the black waters of the River Styx multiple times, making him the perfect Eros to our Psyche. Yes, our Psyche. The fandom is absolutely the Psyche of this story. After all, the fandom was the one who betrayed Luke with our collective reaction to Papsmear (but, in the fandom’s defense, that was a shitty fucking day). And, of course, that wench Aphrodite is collectively all the side story bullshit, from the Adjacent narratives to rag-mags sticking their ever-growing noses into places they don't belong.

As we finish out the year, I thought it would be fun to give Luke some credit where credit is due. In other words, I thought I’d highlight four times Luke “Eros-ed” (i.e., “rescued”) us from some mucky ass shit. This is not every moment Luke came out of hiding to do something wonderful; these are simply my top four moments where I believe Luke single-handedly resuscitated the fandom. You’re welcome to share your best Luke moments in the comments.

No. 1 - That Post-Papsmear Thing That Everyone Ignored:

Fuck, yes.

I am starting with the most overlooked event in the Lukola-verse – Luke’s post-Papsmear Cressida story. This is the taproot that keeps my faith in Lukola from falling over during a storm – Luke taking one for Team Lukola by promoting Season 3 using the scene from Ep. 6 where Cressida entered the Mondrich Ball and Colin pulled Penelope aside and told her he wouldn’t let Cressida ruin their evening. Yeah, yeah, Luke totally missed the target with that post but – again, in the fandom’s defense – everyone was still reeling from the sudden-but-not-so-sudden materialization of Antonia at the London premiere. In hindsight, though, you know you want to give him an “atta boy” for basically throwing shade at the Lutonia narrative while using a massive social media platform to do so. It was jaw-dropping, brilliant, and ballsy as fuck.

If you’re totally lost about how entertaining this Cressida story was, go read Entry 1 to be my blog. But, seriously, how have you not read it already?

No. 2 – Delivering the Cake:

Alright, fast forward three months (yes, three goddamn months!) to September 7 when Luke posted pictures from his stay at the Puente Romano resort.

No big deal, right?

Wrong!

It was a big fucking deal because, for starters, Antonia creeped in and posted random pictures of herself at roughly the same time Luke posted his resort pictures. And, of course, Luke had to like Antonia’s Instagram post. To make matters worse (gasp!) Luke’s had palm trees in his pictures which were oh, so reminiscent (but, not really) of palm trees posted by Antonia the previous day to her Instagram stories. Oh my God! And, then the real kicker? Luke’s slide deck included him eating a picture of himself from the London premiere sans Nicola! The horror! I mean, what probably started out as a cute post by Luke turned into a full-on Lukola heart attack within 30 minutes or less!

But then Luke pulled out a defibrillator and revived the fandom. Almost immediately.

After presumably hearing the cries from the Lukola fandom that he’d cut Nicola from the London premiere image, Luke demonstrated through his Instagram stories that (a) he was eating part of a cake (he was even darling enough to put the cake emoji with a smiley face), and (b) that the cake never had Nicola’s image on it to begin with (meaning, he didn’t remove her from it). Thank you for that clarification, Luke. Seriously, the fandom appreciated it.

After they recovered from their near-death experience, the Lukolas finally took the time to look at the images Luke posted. A not-so-random chaise lounge; a random white shirt; a restaurant called El Pimpi (which is a word used for the people who delivered messages to a ship’s crew and passengers); Luke throwing up the peace sign with his now infamous digits in – what appeared to be – the reflection of a glass table; and a reference to cake. It was Lukola- and/or Polin-coded shit. And, to make it just a smidge better, there was no visible reference to Antonia anywhere.

And, yes, I will cut in here to acknowledge that Antonia would, on October 25, include a lone picture of a balcony which was identical to the one Luke posted in his – what I like to call – “clarification stories” from September 7. Do I care about Antonia’s balcony? Not in the least. Could she have been at the resort? Sure. In fact, I’ve always found the idea of Antonia being present quite comical since Luke made it fairly obvious he omitted something (ahem, someone) from his Instagram post and instead filled it with random shit that seemed Lukola- and/or Polin-coded. Plus, if you want me to be perfectly honest, “insinuation” posts from Antonia stopped doing it for me months ago.

Back to what I saying… We must give Luke a round of applause for placating an entire fandom with something as simple as a cake emoji. Bravo, bravo!

No. 3 – Shutting Down the Mean Girls:

We closed out September with Antonia riling up the fandom by posting Instagram story after Instagram story, none of which were worth a second glance from a Lukola except for the “phone screen” one (see “Entry 7: The One Where the Queen Asked, ‘Did That Go the Way You Thought It Was Gonna Go?’” for reference). Oh, wait, there is another story – just for my own amusement – on October 1, Antonia reshared a story where she was labeled “Aphroditi.” Rather convenient for my story today, isn't it? Any ways, the Lukolas were a bit high-strung by October 2 when Nicola announced via Instagram that she had been named as part of the Time 100. Luke liked the post – but apparently to the haters on X he didn’t do it motherfucking fast enough. These weird-ass people do actually exist – the ones that genuinely believe Instagram likes (and the speed thereof) equate to true love.

Any ways, Luke apparently decided he was having none of that bullshit and stepped in on October 3 with his Polin-themed “Mean Girls” story. It was a throwback to a conversation he and Nicola had had in, I believe, 2022 on, haha, X.

“On October 3rd, he asked me what day it was.”

“It’s October 3rd.”

Luke captioned the story, “Xx.”

Not only did the fandom rejoice that Luke had returned to post something after nearly a month away, but the post included a throwback to Nicola, and it came on the heels of Halley Brisker’s now legendary “Nicola lately” post. Yeah, the one with Luke in the background (seriously, convince me it was someone else). Luke’s story also seemed to be one hell of a clapback to a rabid pack animal on X who faulted Luke for not leaving a comment on Nicola’s Time 100 post.

“Xx.”

No. 4 – The Littlest Things:

I debated over choosing Luke’s People magazine interview for the fourth moment, but that interview – although it made the fandom incredibly happy – didn’t pull our heads out of our own asses. So, I decided instead to go with the little things Luke has done over the past few months, namely, joining in on the Like Wars but in his own oh, so subtle way.

Let’s start with Antonia’s September 21 post of – honestly, who the hell cares? She posted and we knew Luke’s obligatory like was coming. It just took 10 ½ hours for Luke to get to it and it was only given after Nicola posted to her Instagram stories pictures from a concert she had attended. Was the fandom a bit deflated Luke liked Antonia’s post? Of course! But it was also fun to see the like come hours after Luke had already been online and on the heels of Nicola popping up online.

On October 11, we had a similar event happen. Antonia posted to her grid and Luke seemingly ignored it for roughly five hours. But, while Luke was ignoring her post, Antonia was going hard at it with Instagram stories and TikTok videos (Nicola, for her part, seemed to be playing her own game on social media during this time). Luke finally liked Antonia’s post and Antonia went silent thereafter. Then, on October 12, Luke officially made it back from his October 4 “Brb” moment and posted “Somewhere in Mayfair” to his Instagram stories. Let the fandom rejoice!

But I’m not stopping there. Let’s not forget about Luke and Nicola’s coordinated “Polin” pictures on October 21 or that, while Antonia was “rolling pasta” on November 17, Luke made it a point to go back and like Nicola’s Dr. Who post from November 15. On December 6, when Luke coughed up a like to Antonia’s grid post, he also handed a like out to Nicola at the same time (and a few others). Do you see a pattern starting to form?

Honestly, I believe Luke is owed a standing ovation for the way he has taken control of his own narrative and managed to deflect from the so-called “importance” of these bullshit Instagram likes. Although Nicola has historically attempted to distract the fandom from Antonia, in my opinion, it was always Luke’s responsibility to diminish the importance of Antonia’s role in his story. And, for the past several months, he has been doing just that – in the quietest way possible.

I’ve decided Luke is a bit like a shadow. Inconspicuous – sometimes even completely invisible – but when the light hits just right, it’s impossible to ignore his immense presence.

When Luke posts, or when he coyly plays around with the Instagram likes – even when he likes Nicola’s posts – it somehow resonates differently with the fandom. Nicola could post her year-end stuff and the fandom would be, like, “Oh, that’s cool.” But, when Luke reshares her post to his stories? “Holy fuck, that’s awesome!” It's a "different energy on set." Somewhere in the middle of all the bullshit that goes on within the fandom, Luke found his own truth. The “Bad Guy” who was “on a break” during Hot Boy Summer somehow became our hero; the shadowy figure that pulls us out of the water and sets our heads back on straight. Over and over again. It's been so subtle, we've barely even noticed.

I’m going to end this entry with the Longfellow poem I quoted at the beginning, mainly because I like it, but also because it’s about something that cannot be easily seen once released into the world but, if found, can have an everlasting effect on us.

“I shot an arrow into the air; it fell to earth, I knew not where; for so swiftly it flew, the sight; could not follow it in its flight;

“I breathed a song into the air; it fell to earth, I knew not where; for who has sight so keen and strong; that it can follow the flight of song?

“Long, long afterward, in an oak; I found the arrow, still unbroke; and the song, from beginning to end; I found again in the heart of a friend.”

P.S. In the story, Psyche is rescued by Eros (hurray!) and is made the Goddess of the Soul.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Checking His List

Warnings: stalker behaviour and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Summary: Your shopping trip turns hectic.

Character: Curtis Everett

Day Twenty-Eight of the��December Daze Challenge.

Prompt - the mall is packed and we keep running into each other.

Note: As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

While it’s below zero outside, inside the mall, the air is sweltering. The flurry of maddened shoppers searching for gifts churns the air with body heat and a wall of noise. You want to cover your airs and shrink down to nothing. You hate crowds but you have a list and you made a promise. 

You laid it all out meticulously. You have a strategy but you’re not sure how much that will help given the furor all around. You set off to the first store on your list. The toys will be a lovely surprise at the community lunch. You know the kids won’t be getting much at home. 

You squint at the paper. You made notes of Diana’s every specification. She’s very particular but you imagine that’s why she runs the children’s centre. 

You look up as you approach the east entrance of the department store, just in time to avoid another shopper. You stutter step and back up as you wait for the man to pass. You only realise then that he isn’t moving. He’s standing entirely still amidst the crowds, though it might only be because he saw you about to crash into him. 

“Oh, sorry,” you murmur, not sure he can hear you above the Christmas carols and rowdy shoppers. 

He doesn’t reply, doesn’t react. You hesitate and step around him, issuing another apology as your stress burns even hotter. You’re really no good with the general public, worse in peak hours, and you’ve only just gotten started. 

You don’t come here often. It takes you some time to get situated and find the right aisle. Oh, those are the art sets she wanted, and the Barbies. Hum, they don’t have many within budget. Oh, and the little cars. Those are cute. 

You push your cart, only an inch before you rear back, only then seeing the man standing further down the aisle. You’re not sure you need anything else there, still you might like to check if you can limit how many stores you need to run around to.  

The man doesn’t look at you, he doesn’t even really seem to be looking at the shelves. He’s just sort of there. Then, before you can muster an ‘excuse me’ or anything, he turns and marches off. The way he walks is stiff and straight and staunch. 

As you slowly roll forward and refocus on your list, he sticks in your head. Do you know him? There was something familiar about him? Could he be one of the parents from the children’s centre? Would he be here if he was? 

You peruse and find the selection lacking. You head for the checkout and wait patiently. The line zigzags around shelves of more merchandise, shoppers continuing their spending even as they wait to get their grand total. You peer around dully, unseeingly, until a dark spec catches your eye. 

It’s that man again. The same one from the aisle. His face is unreadable. He wears a beanie and a grey jacket that should help him blend in but for whatever reason, he sticks out. 

He’s look at you? Is he? 

You crane to see behind you. The sign calls out the next available till. It’s your turn. You peek back again but the man is gone. You’re paranoid. That's all. 

You go up and unload your cartful and unfold a reuseable bag. You grabbed only your biggest bags for today. You expect it will be an awkward journey home with all this. You pay with the company card Diana lent you and neatly fold away the receipt. 

You’re certain to leave your cart in the pen meant for them and head out the west exit. It’s closer to your next stop. The bath and body store is fragrant, the air so dense with aroma that it makes your head foggy. 

You buy the cute little bottles for kids; the bubble baths and seasonal candy cane scents. A mini scrubbie for each too. As you put it all in the small basket offered to you by an associate, you look up to the tight corner ahead of you. 

A mother and daughter browse the floral assortment of candles and behind them, a man stands, undistracted by the shelves and tables of product. He watches you. Your eyes meet and you wince. It’s him! That’s so strange.  

It’s one thing to keep running into the same person. It happens in a mall, but you haven’t seen him buy one thing. You haven’t even seen him look at a single purchase. 

You turn and curl around the other side of the table of 3 for $15 candles. The checkout line is twice as long as the previous one. As hike up the bags from the department store. Why did you, the only person without a car, offer to do this? Well, for once, you wanted to feel useful. 

You sense movement. A group of girls flutter up behind you, gabbing about if they should get coffee or just go look at shoes next as they get in line behind you. Then another shadow. Darker. Taller. 

The man passes closely and stops right by you. Your heart is racing. It’s not him, it’s the crowd, the smothering press of people looking for soaps and lotions and candle melts. 

He bends and reaches for something on the floor. He brings up the soap bottle with the reindeer antlers and holds it out. It must have slipped out. You accept it from him with a thanks. These baskets aren’t great for the smaller items. 

He’s already walking away before you can get a look at his face. His grey blue eyes are stamped in your mind but the rest of him remains obscure. You shake away the odd encounter and shuffle forward with the line. 

You tuck the smaller bag of soaps and such into one of your bigger bags and continue on once free of the shop. You don’t expect the dollar store to be an easy task, but a necessary one. You need wrap and few smaller stocking stuffers. It won’t be your last stop but it’s closeby and you don’t want to double back if you can help it. 

You pause to check your list as you sidle out of the way of the dollar store entrance. Alright, that, that, that... You lift your head and push the small cart through the first row. It’s nice to have the weight off your arms, but you’ll have to pick all that up again. And more. 

As you come to end of the first aisle, the foot of the cart rams to a halt. You squeak and look up. That man! His hands clamp onto the end of the cart and you blink. 

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to.” 

He just stares and looks past you. He steps around the cart and as he comes along the side, you shrink down, shying away as you expect the worst. Instead, he inserts himself between you and the cart you hear rolling down after you. He stays there, a barrier between you and the unseen shopper. That’s... strange. 

You scurry on frantically. You’re jittering from it all. The man, the hordes, the assault of lights and noise. You need to get out of her soon. 

You get as much gift wrap and bags as you need and use the self-checkout. You’re grateful for that modern convenience. Your social wick is burning short. 

You park your cart, take your bags, and go. As you emerge into the mall, a man walks full force into you, his wife narrowly missing you with her baby stroller. Neither of them apologise as you struggle not to topple. You lift the bags higher with all your strength and forge forward. 

You go to the end of the bench where a few teen boys sit with their skateboards. You turn your back to them and face the mall map. You take a deep breath and hold it in. You’re about to crack. This was a big mistake. You’re barely strong enough to go get groceries on a given week. You just wanted to help! That’s why you volunteer with the kids, even if you mostly hide in the background. 

Your eyes are glassy as you fight back tears. You release your breath slowly. It hurts. The panic attack needles hotly in your forehead and ears. 

“Scram,” the deep voice cuts through the hubbub and the snap of dry fingers adds the punctuation. 

The boys behind you quiet and you turn your head to watch over your shoulder as they grab their boards and hurry away. The man in the beanie sits, knees wide, and leans his elbows on his legs. He curls his shoulders and looks around like a guard dog. 

Your skin tingles as you sit only a few feet from him. You should go too, before you lose all your nerve. Your bags crinkle as you hook the handles around your hands. 

“You don’t gotta go,” he says. 

You wince and turn to him. He keeps his gaze aimed at the closest store. You peer around. 

“Busy,” he comments. 

“Um, yes it is,” you agree. “Thanks, er, I got more to get.” 

You gulp and turn away. Your bags hit the bench as you flee. That was weird too. Or maybe you’re just unbearably clueless. It seems like he was trying to give you space. That he chased away those boys deliberately. But why? 

Flavoured lip glosses, sparkly nail polishes, socks themed for the most popular kids’ shows... you check the marks off your list in your final haul. Just one more thing. A few of the boys like to play knights but the foam swords are all whittling away from play. 

You go down the next aisle, your cart doing little to part the sea of people. You can see what you need. The toy blades and even a few shields. You try to inch forward as an older man turns to the other shelf, but another woman fills the space before you can. 

You wheel back and wait. You just need to get in and out. The woman finally moves and as you go to roll ahead, another cart noses into yours and squeezes into the space. You sniff and pull back again. 

You stare helplessly. That wasn’t very polite but she doesn’t seem to notice. She takes out her phone and ignores you and the shelves. Is she even looking? 

“Hey,” the gritty voice chills you as a large hand rests on the front of your cart. The man in the beanie steps between you and that woman, “you should apologise.” 

“Huh? What?” She keeps her phone up but you can’t see much else. 

“You hit her with your cart. Say sorry.” 

“Who? What are you talking about?” 

“Apologise,” he peels his hand form the cart and jabs his thumb toward you without looking. 

The woman huffs then leans to see you. You give a hapless shrug. Her eyes scan up the man’s dark jacket and she shifts. 

“I-- I didn’t realise,” she clears her throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” 

“Maybe if you cared more about what’s going on than your phone,” the man snarls, looming over her until she backs away. She turns and grabs her cart, nearly hitting another as she rushes away. 

He lets go and turns back, marching past you without a word. You can’t speak either. You’re burnt out. You’re going to get the last of it and go. 

You finally get your turn and grab a couple of swords, each with a different colour handle, and some shields. You put it in your cart and circle the perimeter of the store to avoid the claustrophobic aisles. The checkout line however cannot be avoided. 

You step into the narrow snaking lane where you are to wait your turn. As you lean on your cart, there’s a brush against your back, and another, and another. The garble of voices behind you drone with the rest of the overwhelming noises all around. You sink your head down and cover your ears. You can’t take it anymore. 

You’re jostled again as a man laughs loudly and his elbow jabs your back. You gasp and turn to see what’s going on. A black shape moves decisively from the back of the line, cutting along the edge without falter.  

The man in the beanie steps up and extends his arm between you and the man after you, the one who keeps knocking into you. He pushes him calmly away and inserts himself there, back to you as he crosses his arms and plants his feet wide. 

“Hey, dude, you’re butting--” 

“Pay attention,” the man growls. “You’re being a nuisance.” 

“Dude, I’m waiting--” 

“You’re bothering people. Too loud.” 

“Whatever. You a cop or some shit?” 

The man doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move either. Even as the line ahead of you does. You roll with it and he keeps his barrier in place. You can’t help but be thankful for the unrequested buffer. 

You pay, get your receipt, fill up your last bag, and push your cart into the corral by the door. You’re not going back through the mall.

Before you can back up, another shopper shoulders by and snatches the cart you just disposed. You stagger back and watch, dumbfounded. What is wrong with people? 

Your ears are ringing and your eyes watering, and you didn’t factor in being physically battered by a shopping trip. This time of year is horrid. It’s chaos. People are animals. Just like you always knew. 

Your arms strain as you clutch your bags and make a slow progress through the automatic doors. You just need to get to the bus. You stop just to the left of the doors and try to adjust your grasp. 

Before you can, the weight is lifted and something rough brushes around your fingers. You are too stunned to resist as the bags are unhooked from your hands. You reel around and face the thief. You’re an easy target. 

“Where’s your car?” It’s that man in his beanie, with the grey eyes and the dark stubble. 

“I-- I don’t--- Who are you?” 

“A good samaritan,” he rasps.  

“You don’t have to--” You reach for the bags and he steps out of your reach. “I don’t have a car.” 

He stares at you, “I can walk you.” 

“It’s fine, the bus stop---” you nod towards the street. 

“Bus...” he mutters. “Dangerous. With all this.” 

“It’s fine,” you insist. 

“I have a truck. I’ll drive you.” 

“You don’t-- why?” You sputter. 

He looks around. He’s quiet as his eyes scan the area. “Merry Christmas.” It’s not a very cheery tiding. 

“Oh, but--” 

“Curtis,” he says. 

“What?” 

“So we’re not strangers. I’m Curtis, and you?” 

You heave and give your name. “I really can’t let you do all that--” 

“But I’m going to,” he says and turns away. You have no choice but to follow him. 

“Wait--” 

“I don’t like crowds either,” he intones as you scurry to keep up with him. 

You want to say you don’t think anyone does but you’re still reeling, as much from the hectic experience in the mall as from his sudden act of... kindness? 

He stops behind a slate gray truckbed and slips the bags onto his wrist. He fishes in his pocket and there’s a loud click as it unlocks. He pulls open the back and loads your shopping under the heavy cover. 

“You have a lot of kids?” He wonders. 

You shake your head, “I work at the community centre. Volunteer, actually...” 

He nods and shuts the back of the truck. You wring your hands shakily and stare at the silver lock. You frown and look up at him, finding him staring at you already. 

“You don’t trust me,” he reaches into his jacket and takes out a canister. “Well, if I make a wrong move, press down.” 

He holds out the long black spray can. You shake your head. What is it? 

“Bear mace. You can keep it.” 

You furrow your brow and continue to gape at the inexplicable offer. Why does he have this? 

“Can never be too safe,” he takes your hand and places the can in it. “Make sure those toys get back safe for those kids.” 

You wrap your fingers around the metal and he lets you go. You look down at it then at him again. You’re so confused but too tired to argue. You suppose it is the season for giving, even if he doesn’t seem the festive type. 

“Anywhere else you need to go?” He asks as he takes his keys out. 

You shake your head and back away. He watches you for a moment before he moves himself. He walks up on side of the truck and you the other. The door locks thunk loudly. 

Well, whoever Curtis is, can he be any worse than the general holiday shopper? 

[callooopie]

The campus trio as study buddies (gone sexual) not clickbait?

Study Buddies (GONE SEXUAL?? NOTTT CLICKBAIT. WATCH TILL END) // HOTD men

“This my playpen. Borderline thinking like Barbie, can you play Ken?” — (Unreleased) // Billie Eilish

Okay chat what if I went a little crazy and did like student versions and professor (or TA) versions… lol. (And that’s exactly what I did) Think of it like an apology for leaving y’all high and dry. This isn’t my best work so sorry if it’s a little bad in general. I feel like my writing was cringe for this so I might edit later. Man… homework is so tufffffff. But my prof. said I’m at the point where my latin doesn’t need to be corrected as much >:333 we truly do take those. And my study is so fun.

[Unedited] BTW this is all fiction. Plz do not come after me for thinking abt the teacher student trope T-T It’s all just silly silly T-T

Davos Blackwood // Student

For his somewhat known reputation as a party guy. Davos is very smart. A good note taker, helpful to his other classmates. Your luck he’s your friend and you both are already taking the same course. And if you’re not already friends? It’s very easy to get on his good side. Just be chill, conversational, laidback. He’s a very easy guy to talk to. So when you’re having issues with understanding this latest lesson from class, you go to Davos for assistance. And so you two decide to set up a study session in the library. Sometime on the weekend and late at night when no one would bother you or try to steal the study room from you guys.

You both are sitting beside one another. Davos is leaning slightly against you as he points to something in your notebook, hands waving around a bit as he explains what’s been confusing you. His eyes shift between looking down at your notes and looking into your eyes. Your legs underneath the table lazily swing back and forth. You’ve kicked your shoes off, a socked foot poking his ankle. It was just a way to annoy him, and Davos does scold you lightly for not paying attention. But as your pointed foot faintly prods against his pant leg and the way you’re giving him a side glance..

The late night study session divulges into something else for the time. Davos sliding off his chair as he drops to his knees in front of you. His hands wrap around your ankles as he pulls you forward to the edge of your chair, making you let out a tiny yelp of surprise as you slide down in a slumped position. Davos hopes you like the thrill of what you’re both about to do as he slowly pulls down your pants and then your underwear, letting the clothes dangle off of one foot over his shoulder before he buries his face in between your legs. Davos is a very eager eater. And you’ve both been working so hard, he’s starving y’know?

There’s a sense of urgency, but also Davos takes his time with you. Technically no one should bother you two. The door is locked and the window blinds are closed. I believe I’ve said it before and so I’ll say it again. Messy eater. Spit and your own wetness drips down his chin onto the chair. As embarrassed as you feel about leaving behind that.. it is quite a sight to see as your eyes lock and you watch Davos as he licks a long strip up your pussy. He swirls his tongue around your clit, leaving little nips as he moves his tongue up and down, going from playing with your sensitive bud to simply pushing his tongue into your wet entrance and tasting around. Loud slurping sounds can be heard from him as he moans into you or against your inner thigh as he pulls you closer to him, wanting to drown in you.

Davos likes looking up at you from this position. Even more so when he drags his tongue around your clit, his other hand returning from where it was in his pants as he pushes a finger slowly into you. He pulls away to watch just this one moment, eyes lighting up even in his half-lidded gaze as he watches you sigh; your head falling back against the back of the chair. Davos adds another finger and then another as he pumps them in and out of you, his lips and tongue returning to your clit as he latches onto it.

This was a study session at the beginning, and Davos wouldn’t be a good tutor if he didn’t at least make sure you looked over or read out your notes and his notes. Which is exactly what he does. Your hands gripping your notebook tightly as you explain your thoughts or reasonings behind the lesson. He doesn’t let up as he hums in agreement or understanding, muffled from how he’s pressing his mouth and nose against your pussy. His fingers speeding up as they pump in and out of you, your slick starting to run down his wrist. Maybe like how it’s easier to remember information when you write it down, maybe you’ll remember your notes as he eats you out and fingers you to cumming all over his face?

Davos Blackwood // Teaching Assistant

Okay. Not professor, although there are young ones. I don’t see him taking up the mantle of educating our youths like that. More so TA. A young TA Davos who’s only excited because he gets paid while talking about something he’s coherent at as a graduate student. He’s tasked with running the recitations, small lectures, a part of the grading. He’s the teaching assistant who shouldn’t be a teaching assistant. The beginning of class is him talking about something unrelated (I.e “Did you guys go to that frat party last weekend? No? ..okay good because you would’ve seen me do something mad illegal—“). You sit at the front of the classroom, and all it takes is you two locking eyes just once and he’s hooked.

He’ll start to crack jokes, always looking at you with a wide grin. If he gestures around with a chalk piece or a dry-erase marker; he points at you absently. A wave or a flourish in your direction. He has one student he always looks at, and it’s you. You’ll be the student he uses as examples or serve as a way to break up the different parts of the lecture. And in return you smile at him, listening diligently, enthusiastically. Davos is cute after all, and maybe it’s been a bit of a fantasy—a thought. But who hasn’t dealt with thoughts about a cute teacher. “Everyone got it? You got it? I know you got it. You’re smart like that aren’t you?”

He tells you after class. Y’know if you ever find the material hard.. it’s okay to pay him a visit. Even just to chat. Davos loves to talk. And you do take him up on that offer. After all, its good to go review things. Reviewing consists of you sitting on his desk in his tiny allotted office, Davos standing between your legs as he presses sloppy and desperate kisses to your lips. Saliva connecting you two as you pull away for air before your lips smash together once more. To be fair it did start out as a serious question pertaining to the course material. But he kept giving you that look, and you just looked so cute today. Almost like you dressed your best just for this moment.

It’s a quickie. It’s dirty, it’s desperate, and it feels so good. His hands know where to remain, when to slide up underneath your shirt like so. His thumbs briefly feel over your nipples—a hard flick from his fingers making you jump. If you’re wearing a skirt or dress; it’s now hiked up around your midriff. Your shirt pushed up around your chest. For the sake of time, your underwear is pulled to the side. Your own hands reaching forward to undo the button and zipper of his pants. Davos likes biting along your shoulder or neck. His tongue drags along the side of your neck, a hum of amusement as he feels your breath hitch right tin your throat as he passes by. His lips running up to bite your ear, whispering things of what he will do, what he can do, what he wants to do.

Obviously you gotta keep at least a little quiet. You can do that right? Be quiet and good as he slides his cock into you. He lets out something like a strangled grumble, a breathy string of incoherent uttering as his eyelids flutter. His hands on either side of you, pushing into the wood of the desk as his lips collide with yours. The best way to keep you both silent. The only sound in the tiny cluttered office being the sound of the table creaking just a bit. Sometimes the sound of skin slapping against skin can be heard but Davos slows down so as not to make it…obvious. Gasps and breathy sounds come from both of you. Your lips or open mouths always remaining near one another, against one another, foreheads pressed together. Saliva drips down your chin and a trail of it can be seen glistening around your mouth and sides of your face. All along your neck and shoulders reddened bite marks and hickeys start to appear more apparent.

Davos could be mean and quiz you right then and there, even going as far as to say that it will be a graded. Just a knowledge check. His lips brush against your ear as he whispers sultry things and exam questions. If you answer wrong, he slows his pace down—almost pulling out entirely as he barely keeps his tip inside you. When you finally answer correctly he praises you and drives his cock back into you hard enough that the table pushes back, an empty coffee mug tipping over as he pounds into you again and again as the tip of his dick hits that spot in you that has you seeing stars and making guttural whines. You’re certain the papers your sitting on top of are ruined from your activities, crumpled and wet as he slides in and out of you—squelching sounds following with each movement and drag of his hips. The rule of being quiet is forgotten about. It’s around 6 pm, really no one should be around in the office to hear anyways…

Jacaerys Velaryon // Student

There was no one else you’d rather have tutoring from than Jacaerys. He was so smart! Top of his class and everything. Although he was defensive over lending his notes. He said he would help you and improve your own if you came over to his dorm. Which is exactly what you did after class on a random Friday. The both of you making light conversation and you thanking him again and again for helping you. Even if you thought you were a lost cause over this subject material, Jace had told you not to fret about it. After all, everyone learns at some point.

You both sit on the floor, your notebook open and a few sheets of paperwork spread around on the carpet. You’re sitting in Jace’s lap as he explains a concept to you. You however are writhing in his lap, a breathy moan escaping you as he presses the vibrator more against your clit. It’s lowly buzzing and thrumming, on the lowest setting possible as Jace watches you closely. Was this what you had in mind when he said he had a “good” way for you to finally learn the material? No. But you weren’t really complaining either as he spreads your legs with his. His other hand squeezing your breast as he talks on and on as if nothing were happening. Sometimes if it looks like you’re starting to lose it; Jace will move his hand up from your boob to your hair as he gently tugs on it, pulling your ear to his lips as he asks you to repeat what he just said back to him. If you can do that (or if you can’t), that’ll change how he goes about tutoring you.

If you get it right? Congratulations, you’re still not out of the woods yet. But ti you get it wrong, Jacaerys will tut as he shakes his head. Slowly he pulls the vibrator away despite your pleas and begging. He goes over the material once more, painfully slowly. His eyes never leaving yours as he talks in a languid manner. Remember, this’ll all be on the test next week. What’ll happen if you fail? You’ll be all upset about it, and Jace hates seeing you upset. So this is for your own good as he talks against your ear, encouraging (and mean) words and remarks coming from him as he asks if you understand. And when you finally get it right? The vibrator returns to your pussy, earning a squeal from you as you slouch in his arms.

Jacaerys has a mean grin on his face as he moves onto a different topic, increasing the speed and intensity of the vibrator against your pussy as you whine loudly. He holds you tightly with one arm so you can’t squirm away. You’re so close to getting it! You just gotta.. put your mind to it. And no you can’t mumble or slur together a barely coherent sentence to appease him. Jacaerys wants you to loud and clear explain the concept as he rubs the vibrator around your clit slowly. And when you finally do, he smiles with a sigh as he presses a kiss to your cheek. Praise falls from his lips as he whispers into your ear about how smart, how hard working you are to finally understand. Perseverance. And he tells you good girls get rewarded as he lets the vibrator run on its highest setting as he holds you tightly with just one arm. Your legs spread as far as they can go. And if you show him a good grade on your exam? He’ll be sure to reward you very well.

Jacaerys Velaryon // Teaching Assistant

Like Davos. Jacaerys is a TA. They’re even in the same cohort of people. But instead of the more chill personality that is Davos, Jace is a little more serious and uptight. This is a high level course he’s helping to teach after all. And it’s a very tiny class, consisting of only 10 or more students. So it’s very easy to share his attention between you all. Although.. you seem to be getting more assistance. While Jace does go around the class when he lets you all work on the homework or latest assignments by yourself; he seems to hover around you just a bit. Asking if you need help, if you understand everything perfectly. He has a habit of bracing his hands against your desk, leaning down slightly as he looks over your work. He’s leaned over enough that you can smell his cologne and feel his breath against your hair. But just as the proximity becomes nothing, he pulls away before going around the class again.

It’s your last class of the day, and everyone’s already leaving to enjoy the Friday night on campus. But you stay behind to help Jace clean up the classroom. And he appreciates your help, a lazy conversation ensuing as you both do your own tasks. Soon it comes up that you didn’t really understand the lesson today and that you’re a little worried about it appearing on a test or something. Of course Jace is concerned; the best student in the class having issues? He certainly can’t let that continue as he says not to worry and that since you’re both here already, he can explain it on the board.

You’re braced against the table up front, your notebook open to the problems you had copied down. A pencil in your trembling hand as your forearms rest on the desk. Jacaerys is right behind you, both of your pants around your ankles as he holds onto your hips. His cock already buried into your warmth as he looks over your shoulder at your work like he usually does. His hips rhythmically rutting in and out of you as he points out where you went wrong with your problem solving. Jacaerys has laid out his conditions, for every problem you get wrong he’ll slow down, pull out—or even leave you to deal with your own mess as he doesn’t let you cum. His eyes watch your work like a hawk. He’s lazy with his thrusts, taking the time to enjoy how it looks when he pulls all the way out before slowly sliding back in all the way to his base. The movement drags out quiet whimpers and moans from your lips as you hastily work on each problem.

Once you finish your work, with a moan you slide the notebook to the side so Jace can read over your shoulder. His pace slows despite your quiet pleas. A worried look crossing your already breathless face as you wait with bated breath. After a few tense moments, your TA smiles at you as he picks up his pace again. Words of praise hitting your ears as he starts to ram his cock into you more harshly. This is what you were begging for after all, right? And your hard work is being rewarded. So don’t start complaining about possible bruises when he slaps your ass or thighs with a firm hand or how the table is squeaking against the floor. And if you have nowhere to be on this Friday evening, Jacaerys has a few tips on how you can study better.

Cregan Stark // Graduate Student

Cregan is the only other student at your table. Which therefore makes you partners for any project or group assignment the professor assigns. It’s not a bad gig, Cregan is nice even if he’s a little quiet and stoic. He’s here to learn after all, this is money being spent. And he’s not the type to be wasteful with his courses. So in class you both cut the conversation to a minimum, working hard and talking to each other only when it pertains to the class or something else academic. A little cold shoulder maybe but you’re both work oriented like that. So when a big exam is expected to come up, you and Cregan decide to block out a certain time to study all the material. Printed study guides, old notes, the whole nine yards.

Some people study better when writing it down again and again, others like flash cards, memorization. The best way you two learn best? Well, your study guide is held in your hands as you read out a section. And Cregan below you nods in return as he lets out a shaky breath. It’s a little hard to follow along with the guide, his eyes shifting between reading and watching you as you ride him. You can see the conflict right there, eyes darting from the paper to your breasts and how they bounce and look, to your own eyes as you read with a lidded look. Now, not only does this get the whole ordeal of studying out of the way, but it’s also quite a fun time for you both. Two birds with one stone.

You are a very distracting picture. Cregan would draw you if he could. But for now he settles on remembering exactly how you look as you slowly sit down on his dick over and over. How your head falls back momentarily as he stretches your walls out. The faint whine you make as he juts up into you for fun. He hasn’t been much help, you’ve been doing all the work. And the room is heating up nicely as the bed slowly creaks underneath you, neither of your eyes leaving the other as you regard one another with a soft and gentle gaze. You really are beautiful. And smart.

Your voice shakes, throat going a little dry due to how long you’ve been droning on about a certain topic from the guide. Your legs and thighs burn slightly as well as you straddle Cregan on his bed. His cock buried nicely into you as you bounce up and down. You have to pause every now and then, a roll of your hips making his eyes close for a moment with a breathy sigh. You both think you manage to divide your attention between studying and well fucking. But soon the restraint in both of you starts to break down as you ride him. And it’s not long before study guides and exams are long forgotten as he flips you over onto your back, his hands finding your hips as he fucks you into the mattress. If you both fail the test? Well.. you can always fuck the anger out of one another.

Cregan Stark // Young Professor

The new professor is young. Which is the talk of the entire campus. Professor Stark, lecturer of arctic biology and ecosystems. Very intelligent, very handsome. All that jazz. It’s a little clear that most people taking his course are.. there for other reasons (Which can be said about the others too). But you are actually interested in what Cregan has to say. You’re the one who raises their hand, visits office hours, talks to him outside of the class about the subject and his experience with the subjects in the coursework. You’re a very endearing person, and you make Cregan feel seen academically. And you are… quite attractive. A thought he has desperately tried to get out of his head.

He is no better with how he treats you. Always speaking to you with nothing but praise and respect. When he first compliments your work, a project you had done for the class. Cregan is almost taken aback by how you light up with glee, a smile on your face as you tilt your head. It’s something he wants to see again. And again. Lingering gazes, his hand brushing against your arm as he walks past your desk. Cregan always seems to have a compliment for you on whatever you do. Comments left on your assignments.

You visit his office hours as stated before. It’s a more relaxed setting where you both just talk to one another. Perhaps it’s overstepping but you sit on his desk, legs crossed as he leans back in his chair. Maybe by accident, maybe not, his hand grazes your calf as he lifts his hand to fix his hair. Your shoe rests right against his leg as you lean forward. You are a very lovely student, perhaps the best one he’s ever had. And he tells you so; you are a very good student. So good about how you slide off of the table, sinking to your knees.

Cregan will admit this is a lapse in judgment, simply leaning back and watching as your hands reach up to his belt. Your tongue flicking out for the tiniest moment, wetting your lips in anticipation. Eyes batting up at him; your expression, knowing, confident, upsettingly faultless. You know what you are doing, he knows what you are doing. You know he knows. He helps you take off his slacks, a groan or a grumble resounding in his throat. Guttural and breathy. Low in volume as his eyes regard you with a lusty glint. Like a haze, a mist of anticipation and electricity dancing along his body. Dangerous, definitely. There are rules, codes of conduct, norms of society being broken. But that doesn’t seem to matter as your lisp wrap around his tip, your tongue swirling around the very top as your hand strokes up and down his length. Morals go out the window entirely when your mouth engulfs him, as far as he can go—down your throat practically. Cregan wonders if that image has been burned into his mind as he breathes out a string of strangled groans and incoherent sentences. If not, then you two can always do this again. You gag and slurp, your eyes looking up at him from where you sit on your knees. They’re certainly going to be a beautiful shade of red by the time you’re done. And you seem to be taking your sweet time as you languidly lick up and down. You’re lucky everyone’s already left the building.

Just remember you’re not getting extra credit points for this…

[mizgnomer]

Behind the Scenes of The Giggle - Part Twelve

Excerpt from Benjamin Cook’s article in DWM 599:

Full disclosure: the drop to London far below would make me giddy if the helipad weren’t, in fact, on terra firma (well, almost – it’s five feet off the ground) and tucked away on Wolf Studios’ backlot, where mavity is on our side. The weather less so. Cardiff is experiencing a heatwave this week. It’s uncomfortably hot. “That’s why I didn’t wear any trousers?” Ncuti will joke tomorrow. “Now it all makes sense!” It’s tomorrow’s bi-generation that’s the talk of the set. In the Make-Up tent, David Tennant’s hair stylist, Steve Smith, is giving us the skinny. “It’s a hell of an introduction, having the new Doctor Who spend half the episode in his underpants,” he says, cheekily. “Bi-generation gives me the heebie-jeebies,” confesses make-up designer Claire Williams. “The costume is halved! Each have bits of it. Ncuti has a shirt and tie, and socks and shoes, but he’s in his boxers.” “Oh, we’ve had many conversations about how long his shirt is,” Russell tells me later. “While absolutely checking Ncuti’s happy – we’d have doubled the suit if he wanted.” “And then David,” continues Claire, “has an under-shirt, a waistcoat, and trousers, but he’s barefoot.” “We do see David’s feet,” confirms Steve. “Tonight we’re giving him a pedicure.” Meanwhile, might Ncuti be getting his legs waxed for the occasion? “I’ve just spent six weeks on Barbie,” he’ll tell me tomorrow. “I’m used to being waxed.” Is that a… yes, then? “He’s dying his buzz-cut back to black today,” adds Claire. It’s been a bleach-blonde do for the past 12 weeks.

For other posts in this set, please see the #whoBtsGiggle tag. The full episode list is [ here ]

[buckys-little-belle]

Im scared to but my first Barbie, but I really want one! Sooooo bad. Can you maybe write Steve and Bucky meeting a she/her reader in the Barbie spot in a store and being nice to her? Maybe buying her a Barbie and some clothes? And they are just nice?

Barbie Aisle Buddies

Stucky x Shy!Little!Reader (She/Her Pronouns Used)

Warnings - The reader is generally a worry wart so she has a bit of 'panic' and worry during this fic, it gets resolved by the end and fluff ensues after her worry.

Notes - I honestly pulled inspiration from a fic I had written a while ago about a shy reader in a toy aisle, so I hope it's okay that I made the ready shy. This is also pretty short! But also so cute!!! Also I know it can be scary going to a store and buying toys but I promise you it's okay! I have bought so many Barbies and Barbie toys like clothes, and I described a Barbie I own in this story! Don't let worry eat you up, go buy the Barbie! Trust me when I tell you it's worth the worry, having fun dolls that I get to play with and dress up is so fun and I don't regret getting them! You only live once bubba, don't let the worry get you down for too long! I hope you get a Barbie soon!!! <3

SFW - Keep all interactions with the post, and this blog, SFW!

. ☾ . ☆ . ☽ . ☆ . ☾ . ☆ . ☽ . ☆ . ☾ . ☆ . ☽ .

Y/n had been hyping herself up for a month now. Twenty dollars in her pocket, and a determined state of mind were all she had as she walked up and down the Barbie aisle of her local grocery store. It was a small selection of dolls, yet so overwhelming at the same time.

Some dolls had different jobs, chef, doctor, fashion designer. Others had fancy outfits or animal sidekicks. It was hard to pick just one doll, but seeing as she only had enough money for one doll, she knew she had to pick just one.

"Hello." A man's voice broke through her overthinking, a man stood just a few feet away, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, some worn out sneakers on his feet. He looked familiar, though Y/n couldn't place just where she had seen him before. "I'm Steve." He smiled, turning to look at the same shelf she had her eyes on previously. "It's hard to pick one, isn't it?"

"Um." Y/n panicked, trying to remember the excuse she had made up regarding why she was in this aisle. Did she land on 'getting a toy for a friend's kid' or 'I have a birthday party to attend'?

"Steve!" Another man's voice called out. This time a man dressed all in black, combat boots and gloves included, planted himself a few feet away. "Hi there, Doll." He smiled, Y/n couldn't help but smile back, the man's charm winning her over. "Which one do you have your eye on?" He asked as he scanned the shelves, hands crossed over his chest, looking at the plethora of choices like he too was thinking about getting one.

"Oh, I'm not, I'm just, you know, a, I don't, I." Y/n began stuttering, trying to get out an excuse, any excuse, to make them believe she wasn't buying a Barbie doll for herself.

"Dolls don't have an age, Doll." The man without a name chuckled. "If you're looking for a Barbie to play with I would suggest one that comes with a few items." He began pointing to a few sets she had looked at, but sets that were over her budget.

"I like this one." Y/n quickly grabbed a doll she had her eye on. She was a chef and came with a pan and what looked to be a fried egg. She had a chefs hat and coat, and looked fun enough, but the biggest pull was it was the only doll with accessories that was in her price range.

"She'll need some everyday clothes." Steve squatted down to a lower shelf, rummaging through some small containers for a set of clothes.

"I can't, I just. This is all I can get." Y/n smiled with a hint of self conciseness. Admitting you didn't have a lot of Barbie money to strangers wasn't the end all be all, but at the same time it still felt extremely venerable.

"Well, Doll." The unnamed man with a smile full of charm spoke again. "It's your lucky day then." He pulled the cart Steve must have brought closer to the shelf. "Pick whatever you want."

"What?" Y/n shook her head taking a step back, confused as to what he meant.

Steve was the one to speak up this time. "You don't know who we are, I'm guessing." His smile was softer, more gentle. "I was formally known as Captain America." The truth felt like a weight had been lifted off Y/n's shoulders, her happy to know that she wasn't crazy for thinking he looked familiar.

"And I'm his sidekick, Bucky Barnes, formally known as The Winter Soldier." Mr Unnamed added on.

"Oh." Y/n nodded her head, taking in the two men, even more confused as to why they were wasting their time in a local stores Barbie aisle with her. "Sorry for bothering you."

Y/n was ready to dash with her doll, worried that the super soldiers she just met would grow tired of her quiet demeanor. "Doll." Bucky called out, his voice commanding yet it still had a joking tone to it. "Come back here and pick at least four things."

"Buck." Steve whispered loudly.

"Steve." Bucky said back, his tone condescending. "Doll, please let us but you some dolls. It would make our day." She still hadn't turned around and had half a heart to run, yet for some reason she turned around and took a good look at the shelf.

There really were some sets she'd love to have, like the farmers market stand and a little dog set, and Steve was right, her doll needed everyday clothes. "You won't make fun of me?" She asked, worry surrounding each word.

"Wouldn't dream of it." Steve put his hand over his heart, an action that made her giggle.

"I'm Y/n." She finally gave them her name, a small smile breaking past her worried expression.

"It's nice to meet you, Y/n." Bucky and Steve said at the same time, the three of them laughing.

"Which outfit do you think your doll would look best in?" Steve held out a few options, letting Y/n ponder over them as Bucky tried to convince her to pick the Barbie camper as one of her choices, as if she had a spot for such a big play set.

"I like this one." She pointed to a package that help a blue dress, pick shirt, and jean skirt. The shoes were cute too, and she got excited at the idea of dressing her doll in the outfit.

So there they all stood, Steve and Bucky trying to convince Y/n to get super expensive things, and Y/n trying to figure out how she got so lucky to have two super soldiers worrying over her new doll collection.

[cottonconnielvr]

okayyy, another idea inspired by tt !

now this one, i can say maybe connie had the boys over even though he promised spoiled!reader they were gonna have a date day! no drops, no games, no boys, just her and con! so when she’s met with a group of men circled around the tv she rebuttals by walking around without any panties 🫣 you may continue my lady🫶🏾

I LOVE THISS

✩

“I know I know, i’m sorry princesa. we can just do it tomorrow,kay?” Connie’s thumbs move rapidly on his ps5 controller, his eyes not leaving the tv. You could hear a few laughs coming from his homeboys that were sitting too comfortably on your couch.

You did nothing but roll your eyes, his “boys” eyeing you up and down, staring at your ass a little too long. You stomped out of the living room, going into your room and closing the door.

You were genuinely upset with Connie. You were looking forward to your date night, you guys planned something simple; do a little shopping, have dinner, smoke n fuck, then have a barbie movie marathon.

But as you were preparing to get ready, Connie blessed you with the news “Some of the guys r gonna come over for a bit, just chill a lil bit” You immediately grew upset.

There were times where you felt as if Connie would always choose the streets, drugs, and money before you. He handles his business everyday, is one night away from it so bad?

Hours later, you could still hear the sounds of him doing stupid shit with his friends. You scrolled through instagram, feeling annoyed. Just then you came up with a very very smart idea! You knew the consequence you were gonna have to face after doing this but it was worth it, this would most definitely catch Connie’s attention.

You walked out of your shared room in an oversized graphic tee. You walked to the kitchen, grabbing a pack of gushers out of the pantry.

“SO YOU MEAN TO TELL ME YOU CAN’T STACK WITH THE SAME COLOR?” Jean yells from his spot on the floor.

“NOOOOO YOU STACK BY NUMBER!!” Ony yells back, slapping the side of his head.

You rolled your eyes, loud ass mfs in my house

You walked over to Connie who was smoking a blunt, his hand immediately curving around your waist when you sat on his lap. Your shirt covered your bare glistening cunt, Connie’s muscular thigh pressing against you.

You held up a gusher to his mouth, him mindlessly eating it, passing the blunt to Eren.

“Pay attention to meee” You whispered to Connie, kissing up and down his neck. “I promise I gotchu right after they leave okay?” Your face went straight. You sat on his lap in defeat, you’ve never had to experience someone practically dismissing you.

Suddenly you dropped the package on the floor on purpose. You’d told up before bending down, flashing Connie your wet slit. You mentally smiled when you heard Connie stop talking. You stood up, walking to the trash can as if you were innocent.

You could feel Connie’s eyes on you, staring holes into the side of your face. “Y/N go in the room” He spoke out loud, causing you to look up.

At this point all his homeboys were staring. You could hear Eren snickering. Everyone in the room knew he was about to fuck your shit up, but they didn’t know why.

“Why?” You replied with the most sass and attitude you could generate. Connie didn’t say anything, just staring at you even harder if it was possible.

You sighed before rolling your eyes, walking into your room. Once your back was turned you couldn’t help but smile. I’m about to get dicked down, you sang in your head.

You could hear Connie dismissing all of his friends, finally

Your nerves began to rise just a bit when you heard the door close and lock. You hear Connie’s footsteps approaching your room.

“Fuck is your problem?” Connie closes the door behind it, locking that as well. You weren’t gonna run anywhere

“Connie you cancelled our fucking date night and then you act like you can’t even speak to me just because your “boys” are here” You snap at him, rolling your eyes before plopping back on the bed with your phone in hand, scrolling through instagram.

Before you can blink, Connie snatches your phone out of your hand. “Watch your mouth. I get that you’re upset but that doesn’t mean you walk around with no fucking panties on!” You roll your eyes once again. “Stop rolling your fucking eyes before I get ‘em stuck” Connie’s tattooed hand wraps around your throat, daring you.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as Connie harshly thrusts up into you. You can’t feel your legs and your arms are shaking, tired from holding up all your weight.

You found yourself in this position often but nothing could explain how exhausting it was. Connie stood in front of the bed, his hands on your waist as he dragged you back on him.

“I..i-m..mhm.. i’m so s-sorry” Your voice whined out, arms going limp as you fall face down on the bed. You can hardly breathe, your cunt tightening around Connie. “I’m sorry too…fuck! s-shit” Connie whines as he follows you down, his body practically on top of you.

He flips you over with one hand, his dick staying stuffed inside you. He looks at your dazed expression, your eyes glossy and lips pouty. “Gonna be good for me hmm?” Connie hums, his thumb rubbing at your clit.

“Y-yes!! I’m sorry…s-slow please” Your hand presses at his lower stomach. Connie only shakes his head, grabbing both of your hands and pining them above your head. His head finds home in the crook for your neck, licking and sucking all over your exposed skin.

His thrusts became more fluid, his hips moving harder against yours. You could feel him everywhere.

In the blink of an eye, you unexpectedly came around him. Connie winced as you squirted around him, triggering his orgasm.

He only fucked into you harder, your mind going blank.

“S-so good mami! F-fuck…” His voice trailed off, whiny and desperate. His thrust slowed to a halt, he looked at you. Your eyes were closed and your lips were parted.

“Always falling asleep” Connie thought to himself before kissing you awake.

[mypoisonedvine]

#2 "where are you going dressed like that?" with Emmett! I miss your writing with Emmett and I miss your writing in general. Dinner Party is fantastic.

oh yeah that makes so much sense for him!!

warnings: smut (18+ only!!!), rough sex, d/s dynamics, established relationship, roleplay, dirty talk, daddy kink, implied age gap, hair pulling, spanking, kinda dumbification kink, no relationship to the movie/pre-apocalypse, no plot just filth!

You bit your lip with excitement as you saw yourself in the mirror, surprised by how well the look fit you. Who knew something Emmett picked out could end up being fashionable? Or maybe you just 'look good in anything' like he said, but that was surely just flattery.

You tried to act nonchalant as you walked past him towards the door, your heels clicking on the hardwood floor. He looked up from his newspaper at you, and you smirked to yourself when you heard the loud crinkle of him setting it down suddenly.

"Where the hell do you think you're goin' dressed like that?" he asked roughly, standing up as you turned around to face him.

"Like what?" you asked innocently.

"Look how short your skirt is," he growled, stalking closer to you, his heavy boots making a much more intimidating sound when they hit the floor. "You're hardly even wearing a shirt--"

"This is trendy!" you defended.

"How come I can see through it?!" he snapped. "What do you think people are gonna think when they see you like this? What do you think men are gonna think?"

"I don't know... that I'm fashionable?" you shrugged.

He stepped right up to you, making you blink up at him as you tried not to show your nervousness, or excitement, or arousal. "You look like a slut, babydoll," he explained lowly. You loved the way that word sounded in his voice: slut. Just the right amount of insulting and sexy all together.

"I'm sorry, daddy," you batted your eyes at him. "But I'm grown, I can wear whatever I want. See ya later!"

You didn't even make it one step away before he grabbed you by the hair and pulled you back, making you gasp and whimper. "Think just 'cause you're grown, you can act like a brat?"

You tried to shake your head, but he was holding it too tightly-- and then a second later, he was shoving you down and bending you over the couch, delivering a harsh smack to your ass (which was barely covered by the tight skirt). "Daddy!" you yelped in faux shock-- well, it wasn't entirely acting. Sure, you knew where this was going, but you didn't expect him to be quite this rough... not that you were complaining.

"If you wanna act like a big girl, you're gonna get treated like one," he warned, spanking you roughly again as your knees pressed together. "And if you wanna look like a whore, you're gonna get treated like one'a those, too."

He pushed the skirt up over your ass to reveal the lacy, Barbie-pink thong, and you heard him growl through his teeth.

"Knew this was what you wanted," he growled, rubbing his hand over your ass and groping it in that way that just made you tense up in anticipation of your spanking. "Only one reason a girl gets dressed up like this-- wanted somebody to put you in your place. You don't need to leave the house for that, honey, daddy's right here to teach you some manners."

He hit you again, and again, and again-- three hard slaps right to the curve of your ass that made your legs wobble and your hands grip weakly at the couch under you. "Fuck," you moaned, fluttering your eyes shut as the sting dissipated and your skin started to feel hot.

"Look't this pretty ass," he cooed, "think I should hit it 'til you've got a nice big handprint right here?"

"No, daddy, please," you begged, "I'll be good-- you don't need to hit me that much..."

"So then what do you need, princess?" he asked sweetly, grabbing a rougher handful of your ass. "What do you need to learn your lesson?"

"U-um..." you stalled, not sure what to say.

"See, daddy knows what you need," he explained. "So just shut up and take it."

He hit you until your legs were giving out, and you were crumpling down onto the couch under you with weak little sobs. You were crying out like it hurt you, which it did, but you were arching your back deeper, too.

When he stopped suddenly, you heard him opening his belt and you really didn't know if he was just taking his cock out or if he was going to hit you with that, too. All you did was try to straighten your legs again to take whatever he would give you-- like a good girl.

He hooked a finger into your barely-there panties and pulled them to the side, chuckling lowly at how wet you were.

"Soaked through this cheap lace, baby," he noticed proudly. "You like when daddy gives you some discipline?"

You nodded and bit your lip, but it fell wide open in a gasp when he roughly shoved his cock inside you, all the way. "Ow! Fuck, Em, s'too deep," you yelped, reaching behind you and trying to push his hips back, but he grabbed your wrist and held it down in front of you, only rutting into you faster and deeper in response.

"Nuh uh, babydoll," he scolded, "you're gonna take it all. S'what you fuckin' deserve-- you're gonna take all of this fuckin' dick."

You whined and tried to arch your back away, but there was no escape from how deep he was inside you, nor how hard he was fucking you.

Even though it did hurt, in a certain way, you knew it was what you needed. Each thrust made you whine and choke, until you finally went limp and accepted it; your eyes rolled back and your whimpers turned into needy moans. "There she is," he growled, "there's my little cockwhore."

You hated how much you loved when he talked like that. And he knew it, too, because he smiled as he felt you get even wetter where he drove himself into you.

"So fuckin' stupid for dick," he noticed with a purr. "Head's all empty now, huh? Just wanna get fucked, don't wanna think? Don't worry, baby, you don't need to. I don't give a fuck what you think. I just like the way you take my cock inside you, that's all that matters."

"Daddy," you panted desperately, legs shaking with the effort to try to hold yourself up. These heels certainly didn't make it any more comfortable.

"You look so fuckin' cute like this," he praised darkly. "Dressed like a bimbo, drooling for cock... I could just come in you right now and leave, then would you learn your lesson? Learn that all a cheap slut deserves is to get used and filled and left with come running down her legs?"

"Nooo, daddy, please," you pouted, barely able to string words together with how he was pounding you into the couch.

"Okay, princess," he offered sweetly, "I'll make you come first. But when I'm rubbing your poor little clit until you can't take anymore, and making you come until you pass out, you're gonna wish you'd taken me up on my offer when you had the chance..."

[fantaatix]

"i have no home now"

i remember a while back when this episode was still being highly anticipated people were debating whether or not stolas would be stripped of his title and powers, maybe even hired by blitz, and why that might be a bad thing

i'll just rip this straight from the post i found in my likes:

"Saying that Stolas needs to abdicate so their relationship can be healthy implies that a commoner really CAN'T be with royalty"

the thing is that i don't think that's necessarily what the show is trying to imply. i'll give them some credit, they posted this in august, i forget when exactly apology tour came out but i think there was a general acceptance that they'd be back together by the end of the season

i don't think that's the case either and here's why;

i think one of the overarching themes of this season is how blitz simultaneously ruins and saves people--whether or not these are his intentions varies from person to person

for example, those he believes he's ruined are his sister, fizz, his mom, and verosika

verosika is an outlier because of the fact that a) the three prior were close enough to be considered family, b) the three prior can all be pinned down to the same event, and c) i feel like he definitely meant to at least piss her off, as a means to push her away

you don't "steal their car, run three rings to wrath and max my credit on shitty horse-riding lessons" because you think it'll brighten someone's day

those he's ruined mostly want nothing to do with him, or keep themselves at a distance; barbie wants nothing to do with him, verosika hates his guts (used to, rather), and while they definitely care about each still, his friendship with fizz is not what it used to be

but now, with IMP, he seems to be on a trend of making a life for himself and giving others a new chance

these images are always paired together as like, "before and after" and i'm sure it's been mentioned dozens of times, but again--there is an outlier, and i think in this case it's moxxie

with millie and loona blitz identifies their struggles himself

with loona, he sees how rough she acts on the outside but sees the soft interior and recognises himself--he wants to give her a real chance at a life, free of judgement

with millie, it's essentially the same deal, except millie straight up tells him about her struggle to make a living and he offers her a job

but with moxxie, there is no "identification", at least not to the specifics. he's in jail, moxxie's in jail, things suck regardless. if anything, maybe blitz figured that being incarcerated was "the struggle", which is probably fair; i don't think you're gonna get "my dad is a sociopath, my mom left/died and my boyfriend left me for dead" first try

moxxie was not special to him in this moment; blitz didn't recognise some divine struggle or empathic connection, they've known each other for 30 seconds and know literally nothing about each other. blitz is looking to break out and see his daughter, that is his goal here. the question was not, "what is this guy's struggle?" the question was "can this guy work a gun?" and the answer may or may not have been yes

and you can tell, like...just by the way blitz looks at him after. it is so possible that he just planned to ditch him after they both got out but ended up not doing so for whatever reason. like, "oh wow, that definitely meant more to him than it meant to me"

that seems to be the case with all of the people he's helped in one way or another; he can't even see that he helps. it's confirmation bias, all he sees is the bad. he needs people to reel him back into reality, people like millie or fizz or maybe possibly stolas later on cough cough

but now back to the point i'm trying to make (and what brought this post to life);

first off, the face blitz makes once he is confronted with the idea that people would actually miss him if he was gone:

and secondly, these two lines:

blitz: you need a ride home

stolas: i...have no home now. everything i have is gone.

this is stolas at his most vulnerable. he has no powers, no home, his daughter is in custody of his Bitch Wife, and he has no lover.

you could argue a few of those things in western energy but in this moment he has absolutely nothing to fall back on, he is alone.

and then blitz invites him to stay with him because that's what he does, he helps people at their most vulnerable moments. he gives them a home.

that is the point here--this isn't about their relationship right now, this about blitz having an irresistible urge to protect people he cares about and acting on it, because like it or not that's his job for the time being. he's not a bodyguard but he'll be playing that role until he dies or stolas gets his powers back.

he can finally actually protect stolas now, maybe even feel fulfillment in doing so, not having to fall back on things like "i didn't think you could get hurt" and seemingly forgetting to mention the fact that "oh yeah someone's plotting to kill you you should maybe look into that"

this is where they learn trust in each other. trust and devotion.

[derangedsynthpop]

because barbie

written for @bucktommywinterfest Halloween warm up round

prompt: couples costumes

rated: T

tags: halloween costumes, horny buck, smitten tommy, banter

word count: 824

[read below or on AO3]

Summary:

Buck and Tommy try to figure out what to wear to a 118 Halloween party.

***

"I am not wearing that."

"What? Aw, c'mon, Tommy. Please?" Buck tilts his chin down to look at Tommy through his lashes with a pout.

"Absolutely not. And put those sad puppy eyes away, Evan, they won't change my mind."

"Okay, fine," Buck huffs. Taking one more look at the picture on his phone, he frowns, silently mourning what could have been, and shuts the screen off. "Then what would you suggest?"

They're sitting cross-legged on his bed, facing each other, and trying to decide what to wear to the Halloween party Bobby and Athena are throwing at their new house. Buck feels like they've been going back and forth over it for hours, when in actuality, it's only been about ten minutes.

"Okay," Tommy grins wickedly, doing that little excited wiggle he does that Buck adores. "You already know I have the whole get-up to do Han Solo..."

Buck raises an eyebrow at that, instantly intrigued. "And who would I be?"

"Well, I think you would look really hot in a slave Leia costume."

The images that Buck's mind conjures has blood rushing to his face and his heartrate skyrocketing. "I, um-- Uh, wow," he says a bit breathlessly. "I... wow."

Tommy laughs, cupping Buck's face in his hands. He gives Buck a quick peck on the lips. "Did I break your brain?"

"Mhm."

"You know I wouldn't actually ask you to wear that in front of your friends and family, right? Unless you really wanted to."

Buck breaks out of his daze to say, "Hey, they're your friends and family, too, Tommy."

Tommy gives him another quick kiss. "I know. I just also knew phrasing it like that would get your brain back to the present."

Buck rolls his eyes affectionately. "Okay. So, I'm definitely not wearing a slave Leia costume. Outside of sexy time, that is. And, I don't know... Princess Leia, or even General Leia, just isn't sparking anything."

"Bee and bee keeper?"

"Too soon."

"Milk and cookies?"

"Too cliche."

"Shaggy and Scooby?"

"Too many invasive questions about our sex life."

"Ghostbusters?"

"Ehhh..."

Tommy sighs. "Evan, we have to pick something in the next few days or we'll be the only ones without costumes."

"Ughhhh," Buck groans, dropping his head back. "Why is this so haaarrd?" His head shoots back up. "Oh! Hard! Maybe sex will help me think."

Buck reaches for Tommy's pants, but Tommy grabs his wrist. "No. No sex until we figure something out."

"Oh, you are evil."

Tommy grins big, his eyes crinkling and nose scrunching up all adorable, taking Buck's hand and bringing it to his lips. Buck is helpless against that smile, blushing as he returns a small smile of his own. "Angel and devil?" Tommy asks, and kisses Buck's knuckles.

"May...be...? It's a solid contender, at the very least."

"Alright!" Tommy claps his hands together. "Finally, we're getting somewhere."

"Ooh, one of us could be the Rubber Man from American Horror Story." Buck waggles his eyebrows, biting his lip as he looks Tommy up and down.

Tommy gives him a look. "What was that about too many question about our sex life?"

"Relax, Babe, I was kidding." Buck pats Tommy's leg. Then he grins, and adds, "Mostly."

"Brat."

Buck sticks his tongue out, like the mature adult he is. Tommy flicks the tip of his nose, then kisses it to soothe the slight sting.

"Okay, well what about pirates? Cowboys?" Tommy asks.

"Hmm, I was a cowboy for the Haunt Fest. I don't want to just repeat that. But you in assless chaps? Yes, please."

"Evan."

"What?"

"You're picturing me in assless chaps, a cowboy hat, and nothing else, aren't you?"

"Absolutely," Buck says like it would be ridiculous to think otherwise.

Tommy shakes his head, a fond look on his face.

"Cop and robber?" Buck suggests. "I'll let you cuff me."

Tommy quirks a brow. "Like you don't already?"

Buck snickers. "Okay, okay. For real this time. Um, what about... Oh! Barbie and Ken. In their cowgirl and cowboy oufits."

"I thought you didn't want to be a cowboy again? What makes this any different?"

"Because Barbie."

"Alright," Tommy raises his hands in surrender. "But why not Ken and Ken?"

"Why would be both be Ken?"

"Because... we're both men?"

"Tommy," Buck looks at him like he's grown a second head. "It's Barbie and Ken, not Ken and-- Wow. Nope. No. That came out all wrong. I sound like a homophobe."

Tommy laughs. "We could be Alan and Ken."

"So you don't want to see me in a sparkly hot pink cowgirl outfit?"

"I--" Tommy starts, stopping abruptly, his cheeks heating. "I don't not want to see you in a sparkly hot pink cowgirl outfit."

"So... Barbie and Ken?" Buck gives a sly smile.

Tommy nods in agreement. "Barbie and Ken it is."

"And... sex now?"

Tommy bursts out laughing, grabbing Buck's face to kiss him. "Yes, baby, sex now."

"Yeehaw!"

[devilfic]

Just an idea, but this is something I often do with my own grannies. So sometimes when I come visit, we'll chat and gossip about random things like what parties happened the night b4 in the community and how I got called into work b'cuzz I'm a matron at the station (I never give names I only call em by their prisoner #'s) and I just give em a general synopsis of what I had to deal with b'cuzz they were screaming, or banging on the door or flipping oit etc, or I show them some true crime podcasts or some interesting documentary about how barbies were made or something other. And then there's visits where we don't even talk, we just sit down in silence while the tv's on or the radio, while having some tea and snacks or supper if I come by at dinner time, and we just enjoy each other's company, it's honestly the best visits when we do that. So just imagine doing that with Battinson Bruce, no talking, just peaceful silence while he works and enjoying each other's presence while also enjoying Alfred's tea and snacks. That'd be so wholesome, and then he walks you home, or you just crash on his couch. That'd be so nice, just something platonic and sweet.

❝I want us both to eat well❞

plot: "It’s so complicated staying alive sometimes." — your friendship with the elusive vigilante is a special one in many ways. pairing: platonic!battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: partially inspired by the poem "our beautiful life when it’s filled with shrieks" by christopher citro, fluff, reader used to live on the street, reader knows batman's identity, bruce being bad at managing his meal times bc justice never sleeps, platonic but you can read it any way you want to. words: 1.5k. a/n: this is such a sweet anecdote, and I have had some not so great writer's block, so I really appreciated having a simple idea to work with! there is quite a bit of talking but it's not an devilfic fic if they don't yap a bit

It is a verifiable fact that Bruce will not eat at a reasonable time unless you make him.

I mean, he does eat. There are meal preps in the fridge that he unfreezes at sunrise, and there are pre-workout protein shakes and bowls of fruit Alfred leaves for him to graze on, and every once in a while he’ll come upstairs to the dinner table—Bruce and Alfred both know these particular dinners are as much case debriefs as they are eating together, but they’re together and there’s food on the table, and that’s something. Isn’t it?

But for all his effort, Alfred has never been as efficient as you.

You bump Bruce’s shoulder with dinner, a greasy paper bag full of what you promised would make up for the calories, and he inches his book away before you can get anything on it. He feels the residue on his skin, though. “Alright, up and at ‘em. Eat this before it gets any colder than it already is.”

“What is it? Exactly?”

You set the bag on his desk and hand him one paper-wrapped burger and a set of (admittedly) delicious looking fries. “That, my good man, is a delicacy on my side of town. Bizzby’s Burgers. I even splurged and got you a large ‘cause I know you’ll like it.”

Bruce can’t remember the last time he had either of these. As he plucks a fry out of its container, he wonders if it’ll taste good enough to jog his memory. You swear by it, and it feels like he’s more willing to just take your word for it these days. “You didn’t have to.”

“It’s alright. It’s your money anyway.”

“That’s not how a job works.” Bruce watches you drag a stool over to his side and take a seat, catching only a whiff of the rain clinging to the very ends of your sleeves. It was good to know the money he spent on your new jacket was worth it. “You earned it, it’s yours.”

“You gonna finger that fry all night or you gonna tell me I’m amazing?” Bruce grimaces at your choice of words. He takes a bite and, yeah, he sees where all the grease came from, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t taste good. “Well?”

“It’s good.”

“I’m amazing, right?”

“This is a delicacy?”

“Don’t be a smartass, rich boy.”

“I’m just asking a question.”

You take out your own food and he realizes you’ve got onion rings instead of fries. You stuff one into your mouth, savoring the taste for a little longer than necessary, and really—they can’t be that good. “When gramps ran the place, he’d usually sneak me something at the end of the night. Whatever the others didn’t take home. But it’s been ten years since his son took over and he’s a real hardass about that stuff. I would’ve sworn off the place for good if it wasn’t for the fact that he cooks just like his fucking dad.”

Bruce used to follow you when this all started—a precaution he took to ensure there was no conflict of interest on your part—and this Bizzby’s Burgers sat smack dab between your favorite alley and the shelter. He used to wonder why you never really went in, always lingering outside like it used to be your home, once. Now he knows.

You bring out the sodas next, except he didn’t want a soda, and the next best thing to a fountain drink at Bizzby’s is a milkshake. It’s strawberry and more milk than ice cream at this point, but Bruce dutifully reviews it for you all the same. His desk is slowly becoming a mess from dinner, but it’s been a slow road getting you to take up space like this again. He can be bothered not to be bothered.

“I thought you were just shy, or maybe didn’t trust me, but you really don’t talk much. Do you?” Your question sounds like it’s already been answered in the tone you use.

“I talk when I have something to say.”

“Yeah. You don’t just fill in the silences like some people.” Bruce thinks that’s all you have to say on the matter, but he should know better. You like talking to him. “People pretend you don’t exist when you live on the street. I think they feel guilty, but you sort of get it into your head that maybe you really don’t exist after all. That you stop existing the second you end up here- or… there. I guess. I’m not there anymore.” You look far away in that moment. Bruce watches your eyes flicker, stuck on some unknown memory of a life much harder lived, but then you come back to yourself eventually, “You scared the shit out of me back when we first met.”

Most people remembered him for the fear. You had shrunk in on yourself when he appeared, shivering from the shock or the wind chill or the lack of sleep that clung to your drooping eyes.

Bruce keeps eye contact with you, biting into his burger so slowly that the paper doesn’t even crinkle.

“Like that,” you grumble. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Help what?”

“Look, that’s not the point. My point was that, like, you were so scary when you first found me in that alley. I thought… I thought you were going to beat me to a pulp over something I didn’t do… or worse, something I did do. You started talking and it felt like all the sound dropped out around me. Like tunnel vision. Like I was the only thing in front of you, and it scared me. Even when you were silent, it felt like… I existed too much. I was too seen. It was overwhelming. But now that I know you…” Bruce’s eyebrow rises. He spares no energy for any other reaction. “It’s kind of nice.”

He wasn’t expecting that. He doesn’t know how to take it; he knows it’s a good thing but in the way a compliment sandwich is mostly a good thing. “Kind of nice” was mostly a good thing.

You must see the uncertainty in his face—a rare occasion he doesn’t hide it—because you rectify your wording, “It is nice. You see me and I exist and I know I exist because you treat me like a person. It was jarring back then but now it feels pretty good. So thanks for scaring the shit out of me, I guess.”

You squirm in your seat, taking a long drag from your straw as you wait for him to say something. Bruce leans further back into his chair, gazing sidelong at you.

In reality, he didn’t quite understand how anyone could miss you.

He’d seen plenty of people just like you on Gotham’s streets, turned away from shelters and scared out of gang territory, and yet you had stuck out to him. When he’d found you curled up in the dark, rain drenching through your clothes, it had been just his luck that you had been witness to exactly what he needed to know, and it was even more his luck that—after the catatonia wore off—you told him everything.

And you caught his eye again, and again, and again. Always on some street corner, shrinking away from the crowds but always on the outskirts, hanging onto the coattails of the bigger bads he stalked after. He supposed you just had something about you. It was hard to trust gut feelings about people in this city (sweetness turned rotten all too suddenly), but so far, he’d been right about you. “You’re welcome.”

You still at his voice. You catch his eyes and something softens in you. Then you sniffle, and Bruce kicks on the heater beneath his desk.

The two of you continue to eat and Bruce waits for you to share something else, but nothing comes up. When dinner’s trashed, you watch from the couch as he works away on a case you have nothing to do with, Bruce waiting for questions that never come.

It’s two in the morning when he hears your first snore. Then six when you come down from the bathroom with a tray of coffee. He thinks it’s Alfred’s, but one sip and he knows it has to be yours; it’s different, not as clear as he's used to, but not unpleasant. Did you ask Alfred to show you how to make it? Or did you just know, and this was how you liked it? You don’t say anything as you sit with him again, eyes crusted over with sleep as you huddle closer for warmth.

It’s Bruce who speaks first, eventually, “I'll call you a cab.”

“Nah, it’s fine. It's a subway kind of morning.” You hoist your bag onto your shoulders, a pound heavier with all the snacks Alfred slipped you in the kitchen. “I can meet you in Chinatown tomorrow night. I know a place with spring rolls to die for.”

Bruce hums, holding the front door open for you, “If you’re willing to wait for me.”

You punch his arm and it catches up to him that he hadn't expected it, that you could've done something much worse and he'd have missed it because... well, because he knew you wouldn't. He feels safe with you.

You’re all smiles, none the wiser. "Who else am I gonna gossip with?"

[lets-break-free-from-our-chains]

Ryan Gosling!Ken x Fashion Designer!Barbie!Reader—General HCs

(A/N): I’m obsessed with the Barbie movie. Margot is so stunning as always and she’s one of my favorite actresses. I absolutely adored Ken in the movie. He’s such an icon! Let me know if you guys want more! Sorry if this isn’t the best. This is my first head cannon and I’m using to writing stories and not this format. So beware with me and enjoy!

Ryan Gosling!Ken x Fashion Designer!Barbie!Reader

The ultimate Golden Retriever (Sunshine) x Black Cat (Grumpy) trope

Fashion Designer!Barbie!reader is honestly very similar to Cruella de Vil from the 2021 Film—minus being evil part. More so, your creativity and chaos vibes are on the same level as Cruella’s.

Ken thought he was in love with Stereotypical Barbie until he locked eyes on you.

You were absolutely perfect. Your style was one of a kind and the hottest in-style in Barbieland—everyone wanted to commission outfits from you— and you seemed so elegant and confident.

Non Evil!Cruella de Vil vibes 1,000,000,000%

He literally tripped right in front of you in his haste to make it over to you, but he pulled himself up and gave you a killer golden smile.

You wanted to say you weren’t amused in the slightest, but even you couldn’t help but give a slight smirk at his goofball antics.

You’d never given him much thought beyond the facts that he was super loud, always freakishly happy, acted like a shaken up soda bottle you accidentally opened up.

You thought you might be able to scared him away with your sharp wit, sarcastic and mocking smart remarks. You were sure that your over all jaded and blunt personality would do the trick.

NOPE!

He falls even harder for you. Finding your honestly, transparency, and overall confidence to be so endearing but so unbelievably HOT. Not even Stereotypical Barbie could touch your level.

Imagine his surprise when he finds out you and stereotypical Barbie are very close friends who go way back. TOTAL Pikachu face!

He loves watching you work. You’re so in your element and hyper focused on what your doing. He’s left in awe while watching you tear apart and shred different fabrics. It’s total chaos but he’d never question you. He trusts your masterpiece process almost religiously.

He asks you a zillion and one questions about what you’re doing but lowkey you kind of love it. Someone taking a genuine interest in your art? Everyone else is either too afraid of the consequences of interrupting you or is uninterested in gerenal.

This is one of the many small things that soften your resolve towards him. 

He insisted totally begged you to let him help you carry your bolts of fabrics, material for accessories, and supplies as you went from shop to shop. He refused to let you carry anything.

He talks the whole time and doesn’t really think you’re listening, until you ask him a question about whatever it is he’s babbling about at that point in time.

He could feel the tears of joy welling up in his eyes at the notion that you were actually listening. That could only mean one thing—you respected him.

Don’t even get me started on how Ken acts when you ask for his opinion on a decision or if he likes what you’ve made! He LOVES everything you make btw.

This only sets Ken’s love for you in stone.

Totally asks to be your date to the Barbies parties.

If you thought he was nervous asking out Stereotypical Barbie then oh boy! Fingers crossed, eyes squeezed shut, lip biting—the whole nine yards!

High-key wants to cry when you say yes.

Everyone is always so excited to see the new unveiling of your outfits at any and all parties.

Barbies and Kens never really know what to expect but they all know they’ll be guaranteed the best appearance from you.

Ken is totally smug af that he holds your affections and so he completely and unapologetically rubs it in the other Kens’ faces. 

The first time you genuinely smile at him, he really thought he might die! Your smile is so stunning, perfect, opulent, gorgeous, goddess like, and—

He could go on forever. The point is, you smiled at him! HIM. You never smile at anyone! You smirk plenty, but never smile.

Even on the rare occasion that you do, it’s very small—almost none existent.

You always thought he was very funny. He never had to try hard seeing as he was just a naturally silly fella, but the first time you couldn’t hold back and you laughed loudly at something he said, he was in absolute awestruck.

What he said wasn’t even that funny, it was the way he said it.

All the Barbies and Kens ship the two of you. The definition of opposites attract.

Stereotypical Barbie is totally the official president of the OTP ship fan club for you two.

1000% you look at Ken like this 🥺🥹 and you look at everyone else like this 😒🖕 pretty much!

The patience and softness you exercise with Ken makes others feel like they’ve fallen through the looking glass.

You go from being a ferocious she-lion like this to a total mushy docile kitten with him Like this

Seriously, it so easy for you to snap on someone’s case and put them in their places, but with Ken you have a seemingly bottomless pool of patience.

Legit tho. This was you and him at the beginning of your budding relationship in general…you were over it at first. You really weren’t tho

Someone or something please help the person that hurts Ken—accident or not—whether it be emotionally, physically, or mentally. It’s gonna be a dark day in Barbieland.

It warms Ken all over to have a girlfriend who cares about him and his wellbeing so much. He feels so important, loved, and cherished.

And that’s all baby boy really wants!!!

He loves holding hands and linking arms together.

He’d say it’s his favorite but let’s face it, cuddles are his kryptonite.

Your embrace is so warm and soothing, and surprisingly to him, you secretly adore cuddling.

Though you did tell him if he ever told anyone else that tidbit of information you would never cuddle him again! 

Honey…He sticks to those words like the gospel!

He cannot and will not lose cuddling privileges💯

Now listen. If Ken’s going to date you then his outfits got to be on point, and you make sure of it. You know what he loves outfit-wise and set to work for making him a one of a kind wardrobe.

He actually does cry when he sees the final product of all your hard work for him.

You hate seeing him cry in anyway, it hurts you to see him cry, but at least these are tears of happiness.

You suppose you can live with happy tears…

You guys become the IT couple in Barbieland. You’re the highest standard for couple goals.

Speaking of boyfriend/girlfriend goals.

He has so many adorable nicknames for you but he will never grow tired of hearing you call him by the term of endearment you chose for him.

You call him Baby Darling…

He. Is. OBSESSED!!!

He just about melts into a puddle whenever you call him Baby Darling.

He’s never heard any other Barbie call their Ken that and it makes him feel so special.

Who else loves and ships Ryan Gosling!Ken x Fashion Designer!Barbie!reader?

[lovebvni]

intuitive messages pac !!

THIS IS FROM 2023!! BE FOREWARNED

┈

│ᵒᵖᵉⁿⁱⁿᵍ ᵐᵉˢˢᵃᵍᵉ...

╰─────────────────

[ 🖊 ] created ⋮ 7.31.23

[  ] published ⋮  7.31.23

˚₊·͟͟͟͟͟͟͞͞͞͞͞͞➳❥ ꒰ ⌨ ✰ Arsyn   ⋆  ⁱˢ ᵗʸᵖⁱⁿᵍ··· ꒱ | ೃ࿔₊•

┊       ⋆     welcome to my blog !

┊     °

hello earthlings, its been a while since i've done a pac, mainly because of MANY personal issues - but thats not important. i thought for a while and went back to my old pac's and i found an older one i made and i remembered, my intuition is just as powerful as ever - so why do i need tarot cards now?

today i'm just going to have 10 messages/sentences the universe wants you to hear. they can be specific or general.  remember, take everything can be taken with a grain of salt, and your future can be changed. you are in control.

now please, find your inner peace, connect to your soul.

understand these messages were meant to find you, and see what is left for you.

inhale, exhale, and pick a pile

Pile 1 - Watching

confirmation :

procrastinating, pushing things off, turning the other cheek, tumblr, the colour purple (show or the actual colour), spacing out, spirits, double meaning, two faced, gemini, hidden meanings/words, red eyes (tired, puffy), burnt out, music, 'good night, sleep tight, don't let the demons fight.', the letter s, sharks, 'the grass is greener'.

side note : the month of august (summer in general) be significant for your shifting/spiritual journey.

Your messages

1. Why would you wait when you could just grab at it? It's right there. Don't let it rot.

2. "Hello? Are you there, listening? Listen to me. I'm here to help. I promise." (this could be an inner voice or a spirit guide)

3. Be your own boss. Keep going.

4. Pass on to the next step (Death to life)

5. You know what's there, talk to it. "I wont hurt you."

6. Listen, don't speak.

7. Let it go. Be like Elsa, don't let it bother you anymore.

8. Mind, Body and Soul. You're in harmony. Use it to your advantage.

9. Advise and criticize. And use the same techniques on yourself.

10. Peace and love. You deserve it. You know you do. And you will find it, soon.

Pile 2 - Renew

conformation :

saiki k, giving up, letting go, leaving things behind, mental overload, 'Jesus fucking Christ', jealous, letting go of that person, shadow work, yellow, outlook, aries, the moon, big lips, 333, the number 3.

Your messages

1. Bite down. Let it flow into your veins, your soul, your spirit. Its part of you now.

2. Is it a real worry, or just something from your past you don't want to let go of?

3. Jail. Time to rest. Now.

4. Eat and care for your physical body. You can't idolize shifting. You're not getting anywhere doing that.

5. Look in the mirror - no. Not at the past. At who you are now. Who you've become.

6. You have the balls. Go fucking do it.

7. Don't accept the truth from other people, find and make your own. That's what they see, not what you know.

8. Her claws. Her teeth. She's manipulating you. Let her go. Rip away from her. She's wasting your time, energy and draining your soul.

9. "I  DO love you. That doesn't mean I'll let you hurt yourself."

10. I am watching. Always. In your good times and bad. I'm here for you. Just ask for help.

Pile 3 - Love

confirmation :

wrist and elbow, jumpscares/ being scared, saturn, planets, fnaf, cycles, broken cycles, love watch, soulmate reuniting, mha (lmao bro idek at this point), drawing, heartache, feeling lonely, barbie, hip dips, trios.

1. Wake up from that dream and make it a reality, you know what you have to do, so go do it.

2. "Beg for my mercy." - This had a VERY sexual undertone... Obviously from a dominant partner or something

3. 'Hello again, my friend! What do you have to tell me now?"

4. You know that thing you asked for? Yeah. It's coming. Keep your eyes pealed (for some I heard it's even coming tomorrow!)

5. Sit in silence, you know what it is. You hear the voices.

6. Pack your bags and go.

7. Grab on, I'll lead you to where you need to be.

8. Don't chase what you're attracting, that will only lead to disaster. (A manifestation you wanted is coming, this is basically saying don't overwork and beat yourself up over it. It's coming and nothing will stop it.)

9. Nature is your friend. Go out and ground yourself. Lay in the grass, smell the rain.

10. If you want to learn, you need the knowledge. Search for what you want to find. You can see it. Ask around. You'll find it. Look, look, look, search, look look, search, find.

I hope this pac resonated for everyone! remember, this will find you when you need it, take what relates, leave what doesnt. remember you are in charge of your future.

i love you. new things are coming.

dont give up.

1111