#the cadence she says it is incredible

[geminitayclips]

gem gets asked about whether she “likes girl in red”

ps please don’t go in streamers’ chats and ask their sexuality

[ereborne]

Song of the Day: March 17

"I Like It" by Cardi B, Bad Bunny, J Balvin

[remyfire]

In old roleplaying circles, I used to have people get really angry at me because they found a lot of catharsis in taking their characters those agonizing angst without necessarily giving them an end point of healing whereas my characters would always try to prompt that moment of healing—would be an end point they could come to whenever they were ready, would love them through the pain instead of drive it higher—and I don't think I've really changed at all in that regard, and I hope that ends up being all right.

[endieinwonderland]

Let The Light In: Part 3

Part 1 Part 2

Words: 4k

Pairing: Paige Bueckers/Media Manager! Reader

Warnings: Angst, Friends to enemies (but the reader doesn’t know why they’re enemies), reader is actually so incredibly in the wrong, mention of an injury, the girls are fighting

It's her—actually her—, standing right in front of you, and for a brief moment you almost wonder if your mind had conjured up a hallucination to retaliate against the sheer force of your yearning. 

You've spent more time than you’ll ever admit imagining this moment, playing it out in various scenarios in your mind, but the reality has a sharpness that no rehearsal could have prepared you for. Her presence is a tangible, overwhelming, a reminder of what you had, of what you had lost.

“Hey, you good?” She repeats, her voice cutting through your racing thoughts, pulling you back down to earth. 

Blinking away the tears that are, embarrassingly, still brimming in your eyes, you take a deep breath before allowing yourself to reply. "Yeah, I'm good," the words feel hollow, a betrayal of the whirlwind of the emotion inside you. 

Paige doesn't respond; instead, she stands in front of you, rocking back and forth on her heels. Her hands nervously fidget as an all too familiar silence envelops the two of you. Wordlessly still, she reaches for the chair in front of you and pulls it out, the both of you wincing at the loud screech it makes as it drags across the wooden floor.

You don’t bother to hide the shock on your face as the blonde sits down across from you, her knees briefly brushing against yours before she swiftly tucks her legs to the side, avoiding your touch.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," her tone unusually light—almost friendly, which would be confusing if you had the ability to take note of it. The only thing you can focus on is the familiar cadence of her voice, bringing back a flood of memories, each one sharp, sweet, and painful.

“I feel like I have.”

____

“I hope we’re still doing this when we’re 80.” You say, grabbing another spoonful of her strawberry ice cream and plopping the pink desert into your bowl of cherry, mixing the two together before putting the spoon back into your mouth, letting out a satisfied hum when you confirm you’ve finally gotten the perfect mix. Paige chooses to ignore how much you’ve taken out of her bowl, knowing that when you get full in a few minutes the remainder of yours will be scraped back into hers. 

“Doing what?” 

"Ice cream Thursdays, dummy," you clarify, abandoning your spoon just in time to catch a melting drop threatening to fall from her chin onto her shirt with the pad of your thumb before pressing the finger against your lips to lick it clean.

She watches you, gaze shifting to the table when your eyes dart up to look at her again. “When we’re 80 you’ll probably be taking pictures of your husband and grandkids playing in your garden or something all cutesy and shit, you won’t be thinking about me.”

You lightly kick her shin under the table, ignoring the confusing pang in your chest when you hear her dismissal, “Oh come on, we’ll still be best friends when we’re 80, if anything I’ll be taking pictures of the grandkids playing basketball and you’ll be trying to keep up with them in your walker.” 

This gets a chuckle out of her, “hopefully by then I’ll know better than to do anything but coach.”

You smile, pushing the now half empty dessert towards her for her to finish before leaning towards her, “okay then, I’ll be taking pictures of the grandkids with coach P.”

She digs into the remainder of your cherry strawberry mixture, bringing the spoon to her mouth before shaking her head and adding another spoonful of strawberry, “fine, but if we’re 80 and you still haven’t figured out how to get the right cherry to strawberry ratio I’m canceling ice cream Thursday’s.” 

____

Her smile fades a bit, replaced by a more cautious expression as she changes the subject, the friendly façade faltering a bit as she speaks. “You know, you’re still sharing your location with me.” 

"What?” 

“I wanted to find you and I realized you still share your location with me.”

"You wanted to find me?” you echo. The part of you that's been hoping for this moment at war with the part that's been dreading it.

"Yeah, I needed to see you.” You hear her sigh, debating whether to continue, “thought we could talk."

The sincerity in her tone is disarming, and despite the hurt, a part of you wants to lean into the familiarity of her presence, to the shared history you’re still desperately clinging too. 

"Talk?" 

She nods, swallowing hard. “About the pictures you took the other day…” She begins, her voice trailing off briefly as she looks away from you, her hands fidgeting slightly, “Charlie sent me copies of them.” 

“Oh, she’s not supposed to do that, you guys only get the final edits,” the words slipping out before you can think better of it. 

"I know, but I asked her too.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

Paige continues, “-I wanted to see the ones Leo told you to stop taking.” 

You sit there in stunned silence. And, after a moment that stretches on for longer than you would have liked, she exhales, shoulders sagging. “I don’t know why I reacted like that, with the first shots I mean. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble with Leo. I know how much his opinion means to you and I had been thinking that if you got me lectured by Geno I’d want an apology, so… yeah.” She finishes.

An un-familiar coldness washes over you as you digest her words. This isn't what you thought was happening, she was deviating from the script you had imagined, and essentially memorized by now with how often you replayed it in your head. “That’s what you want to apologize for?” You’re unable to keep the shock and anger from seeping into your tone. You lean back in your chair, arms crossing, subconsciously trying to protect yourself from the hurt you know she’s about to make you feel again.  

“That’s all I have to apologize for.”

The tension between you crackles, a palpable energy that draws an invisible wall, furthering the separation between the two of you. "You think that's it?" Disbelief coloring your tone. "After ghosting me and making Azzi come tell me not to talk to you anymore, that's what you think you need to apologize for? Getting me in trouble with Leo?"

She looks taken aback, perhaps not expecting your reaction to be so intense. For a moment, she is silent, her eyes darting away before meeting yours again, this time with a mixture of frustration and pain. 

"Come on, we were never even really friends.” She speaks softly, tone bordering on patronizing.

You can’t blink back the tears as they form in your eyes now, 'this isn't going to end well'.

“Don’t lie to me Bueckers.”

Paige recoils slightly at the sound of her last name leaving your mouth, as if your words are physical blows. For a moment, she seems to be struggling with something, then her posture stiffens, an accusing finger reaching out to point at you and she doubles down on her statement as everything seems to begin to escalate quicker than you're able to process it.

Paige’s words are muddled in your ears. “We both know that I was just your muse or whatever the hell you want to call it. You did not treat me like a friend, you used me to get praise from Leo and whoever the hell else you thought you needed approval from. You took me for your art when I was at my lowest, again and again, just because my face got your work attention.” 

The accusation stings, not just because of its intensity, but because part of you knows there's some truth in it. You've always known how compelling she was in front of the camera, how her expressions could turn simple photos into art, and you loved it. 

Before everything fell apart, the two of you had become something of a dynamic duo. Everywhere Paige went, often for basketball, you followed, and everywhere you went, a camera was almost always hanging around your neck. 

The passion Paige had for her sport and the passion you had for your art is what originally brought the two of you together, bonding over the drive each of you had to constantly be your at your best, for better or for worse. 

____

It was your freshman year. You had just been offered a coveted spot on the UConn sports media team after your photojournalism professor, Leo Howard, had apparently spent the entire semester showing your work to his collogues who had unanimously agreed, you were going to be something special.  Being the only freshman to ever have been allowed to serve as the lead photographer at the school’s games was a big deal. The pressure not fully weighing down on you until the night before the UConn, Notre Dame women’s basketball game. 

They had started you out small, tennis, water polo, even a soccer match as your superiors had gained more confidence in you. But this would be the first big event you’d shoot, your first chance to really prove yourself, to prove that Leo was right about you. 

The clock had just struck midnight when you made your way across campus, having given up on trying to get any sleep earlier in the night. Opting instead to head to the athletics department gym where they had allowed you to stash away your things in a small, abandoned office room. Assuming that'd be better than staying cooped up in your dorm all night. 

When you arrived, instead of being greeted by the silent gym you’d anticipated, a woman was stood at the half court line, a basketball bouncing up to meet her outstretched palm before being pushed down, again, again, again. 

“The gym’s closed.” Her voice calls out to you, finally noticing you as you made your way across the court, heading for the office door. 

You had lifted your UConn Staff lanyard up to show to her, “I could tell you the same thing.” 

She approached you, your height difference becoming more apparent the closer she gets until she’s fully towering over you, “I don’t remember seeing you around here.” 

“I’m the new photographer, I just started last month.”

This explanation apparently does little to clarify your sudden appearance in her court, “okay, but you’re not supposed to be here, it’s late.” She points out, her tone mixing curiosity with a hint of concern.

“I know but I’m shooting my first big event tomorrow and I couldn’t sleep so I figured I’d just come here and look at some old shots and stuff, prepare you know?” you rambled, hoping to justify your presence in the gym at such an unusual hour.

You’ve gotten her attention now, “Oh, I have a game tomorrow, is that what you’re here for?” 

You had of course, assumed she was on the basketball team when you saw her dribbling the ball earlier. But as when she had moved to stand in front of you, you immediately recognized her as the infamous Paige Bueckers, the star player you’d been specifically ordered to get good shots of during this game. 

"Yes, that's exactly it. I’ll be covering the game," you confirmed, feeling a slight relief as she seemed to recognize your role and accept the reason behind your late-night visit.

“Oh, cool, I guess I’ll be seeing you tomorrow then?” 

You nod in response, “yeah, I guess you will.” 

She gives you a small smile before beginning to walk back to her original position on the court, “I’m Paige by the way!” She calls out as you reach the door, you turn back, shouting your name out, already anticipating the next time you’d get to see her.

As it turns out, you don’t have to wait long. Barely 30 minutes have passed when you’re interrupted by a knock on your door, “hey,” she lets herself into the small office space, taking a seat on your desk. 

“Hey?” 

This girl has guts you can’t help but think. You’d just met and now she’s propping herself up on your furniture, uninvited. And you’d probably be a lot more bothered by her behavior if you weren’t so distracted by how pretty she looked, even under the glow of the notoriously unflattering florescent office lights.  

“I was thinking, you need to practice shooting basketball games, and I’m just practicing shooting so if you wanted you could take pictures of me, you know, to get the hang of it.” She offers. 

“Oh, yeah that actually sounds great!” You're unable to keep your excitement about getting to spend more time with her entirely out of your voice when you reply; grabbing your camera bag as she moves off your desk to stand back up, holding the door open before following you back out to the court. 

“Honestly I’m kinda tired so I’m only doing free throws but feel free to take whatever pictures you want.” 

You nod, taking her words to heart, the clicks of your camera mingling with the pounding of the ball on the floor as you take picture after picture after picture. 

It doesn’t take long for the two of you to fall into a steady rhythm, occasionally daring to interrupt the other’s focus with questions, jokes, or quick quips about the others work. 

The next day whenever she gets a basket, her eyes turn to you first, pointing at your camera for you to get a shot, and every time she does, you take it. 

You’ve never seen Leo smile so big as he does when he gets your contact sheet.

The “You did good, kid. I hope to keep seeing more stuff like this.” echoing in your mind when you leave his office, calling Paige, “when’s the next time you can shoot?”

She had left practice the second she heard your voice over the phone, “I can be free now.” 

____

You’re abruptly pulled from your memory by the chime of the café door. A group of girls enters, their laughter and chatter filling the air. One girl stands out, wearing a stark white jersey with the number 5 displayed prominently across her chest. The sight of it jolts you back to the present, a reminder of where you are and what’s at stake.

'Fuck this is bad.'

“Paige we can’t do this here” you say keeping your voice low, sensing that this may not end well, and as Paige had just mentioned, any pictures taken of her end up everywhere, and if captured, this probably wouldn’t end up being a pretty one. 

She exhales sharply, her lips parting to argue, but then she pauses, her gaze shifting to follow yours, brows raising when she sees her lucky number 5 on the chest of a brunette who is now whispering with her friends, looking Paige's way. With a reluctant nod, she chooses silence, perhaps unable to concede that you might be right.

The two of you don’t make it far, your new location being her parked car that had been right outside. You assume the two of you will drive somewhere more private but the second the doors lock she’s turned back to you, brows raised in anticipation of your still pending rebuttal. 

You take a deep breath, struggling to find the right words to express the mix of anger and hurt that's been simmering inside you since you first heard her pathetic attempt at an apology 10 minutes ago. “Let’s get one thing straight, if I wasn’t your best friend, you most certainly were not my ‘muse’.”

The sharp sound of her laughter interrupts you, “okay then, you were just using my face to further your career and you didn’t give a single fuck about me.” 

Your anger only pulses hotter at her laughter. If you had thought the silence between you two was bad, then this must be hell. Everything she says, every expression she makes sends you spiraling deeper and deeper down. You don’t even want to look at her anymore, scared that if you catch her gaze again, the once warm and loving looks you remember her by will be permanently tainted by the pure and utter distain that seems to be consuming her now.

You want to reach out, to say something that will mend the rift, but fear and doubt hold you back. In this moment, you realize just how fragile your connection has become, teetering on the edge of collapse.

"I wasn't using you," you assert firmly, struggling to keep your voice level. "Yes, you've helped my career—that's undeniable. But that was never the only thing you were for me. Our friendship, what I thought was our friendship, meant more to me than any photo ever could."

Paige's laughter fades, and she looks at you, her expression hardening as she processes your words. 

"It didn't feel that way to me," she shoots back, her voice tight. "Every time you needed something for your portfolio or an exhibit, who did you turn to, not any of your other friends, me. Don’t you think that’s a little strange.” 

The accusation stings, God she really knew nothing about you, did she? 

“I reached out to you because I thought you liked it. Every time I took something you posted it, on media days you always requested me specifically, even when we were freshman and there were people who knew much more than I did, so don’t try to delude yourself, we both benefited from this. But at least I was under the impression that we liked spending time together, that it wasn't all just so I could get more praise for my pictures.” 

She stares at you, her expression blank, as if your words are too much for her to process.

"You actually need to just leave now," her hand reaching to unlock the car doors while she motions for you to exit.

'She's scared, back down, stop this while you still can.' You think, but emotion takes over before you can stop yourself.

“No," you reply appalled, "you can't just kick me out because I made a good point.” 

She lets out a dismissive scoff, her hands moving to grip the steering wheel tightly, knuckles white with tension. "This is my car and I’m asking you to leave.” 

Your eyes narrow feeling a sudden surge of familiar desperation. “You’ve walked away from me once, I’m not about to let you do it again.” You take a deep breath, “if you really thought I was using you, you wouldn’t have agreed to shoot with me constantly for the last 2 years. So why are you really shutting me out Paige?” You press, watching her closely. Your heart pounds in your chest, each beat echoing your fear of losing her for good.

She just stares at you, her gaze cold and unwavering, each of you refusing to be the one to break eye contact with the other. 

She diverts her gaze, her eyes finally falling away from yours. Staying silent for a full minute before she straightens up, seemingly gathering her composure, and shifts the conversation topic away from her wrongdoings and back to yours.

“Intentions don’t matter anymore. Actions do. And your actions have shown me exactly where I stand in your life. Tell me again, what's your most famous photo, huh?"

It's a low blow, and it doesn’t take long for you to catch onto what she’s talking about. The two of you have had quite a few viral moments but one far surpassed the other.

There was only one picture that had landed a coveted cover spot on the headlined article on ESPN, a place in CNN’s ‘This Week in Pictures’ and internship offers from all the way in New York to L.A. 

____

She had crumpled to the ground, clutching her knee in agony, silencing the crowd in an instant. Her teammates had quickly formed a barrier around her, protecting her. Through a narrow gap between them, her eyes, wide and brimming with pain and vulnerability, darted around frantically until they finally locked onto yours. 

It was a look of pure, raw emotion—a silent plea for comfort, for reassurance, for the familiar presence that had always been her anchor. 

Her hand reached out, trembling, as if by some miracle, your touch could erase the pain. And in that moment, as she reached desperately towards you, almost mechanically, you lifted your camera. 

The weight of it felt heavier than ever before. Looking through the viewfinder, you saw her in perfect focus, every detail of her suffering magnified. Her eyes, filled with a mixture of hope and despair, seemed to question your every move.

As you pressed the shutter, capturing the raw, gut-wrenching moment, a pang of guilt surged through you. The image was powerful, a testament to her strength and vulnerability, but it came at a cost.

Lowering the camera, you were left standing there, the echo of the shutter still ringing in your ears. You wanted to drop everything and run to her, but the moment had passed. The damage was done. Her eyes, now filled with a sense of betrayal, lingered on you before she turned away, her teammates closing ranks around her once more.

____

You gape at her, a million thoughts running through your mind, none of them coherent enough to form a sentence. You thought about this picture frequently; its creation was instinctive, driven by a reflex that you hadn't fully understood even as you pressed the shutter.  You’d always (foolishly) assumed that she had known that you never meant for the photo to get out. It was a mistake, a lapse in judgment, a moment of weakness where your professional instincts overpowered your personal loyalty.

'This is it, this is why she's not talking to you, this whole time it's been your fault.'

It was never meant to be published—but Leo had discovered it, and from there, it spiraled out of your control, gaining a life of its own in the public eye. 

The image, once released, spread like wildfire. It became the defining shot of your career and the defining wound of hers.

“Paige, I-“

She shakes her head no, her expression eerily similar to the one in the picture that ruined the two of you.  

“Please just leave,” she repeats, her normally deep voice an octave lower with the intensity of the emotion coursing through her words. 

Realizing you have no ground left to stand on, the least you figure you can do is abide by her request. You reach for the door handle, but her voice stops you. 

"And for the record," she begins, answering your earlier question, "I always agreed to those photos because I loved you and I thought maybe, just maybe, if I helped you get what you wanted, it might make you love me back.”

Her confession wrenches a sudden and uncontrollable sob from your throat, you want nothing more than to shut the door, wrap your arms around her, and beg for the forgiveness you know deep down you’ll never deserve until your heart gives out. 

But instead you stand, exiting the car and turning to her one last time, speaking up through tears, "I can't justify taking that picture, and I know that if I spent every moment of my life trying to make it up to you, I'd still fall short," you say, your voice choked with regret. 

Taking a deep breath, you looking up before meeting her gaze again. "And I know I didn’t show it well, but I would only spend so much time trying to make art if it was for someone I loved, and I loved you too, so much."

She looks away, blinking back tears, her shoulders trembling, she whispers, her voice barely audible, repeating the words you’d uttered just a few minutes before, “don’t lie to me.”

[tsumtsumrry]

Doctor's Orders

before i say anything else, huge thank you to @victoria-styles for the idea and inspiration, i really hope you enjoy.

WC: 2.8k

warning(s): afab descriptions and she/her pronouns, language, sexual content (fingering), extremely inappropriate relationship with gynecologist (just a work of fiction if your gyno starts to finger you please call the cops lol)

Your eyes and ears are completely tuned in to the sound of the clock ticking on the wall next to the big flat-screen TV. You obsessively check the time every couple of minutes in anxiety that your appointment will come sooner than you thought. 

As soon as you made the appointment you regretted it. You’re an incredibly shy person, you keep to yourself and your two friends that you made in college who never strayed. And you know that it’s so dumb and so childish and irresponsible, but the mere idea of having to go to a place where a person sticks something up your parts is just too much for you. 

Your fingers are starting to feel raw from picking at them and you tilt your head up to the ceiling and blow out a frustrated breath. You wish your anxiety didn’t make doing everyday, human things so difficult for you. It’s even worse that the only time you’ve come to the gynecologist, it’s for something you deem kind of embarrassing. 

One day, you got home from work, exhausted and irritated, you got under the covers, imagined your favorite sexy scenario, waited for the sparks, and…nothing. Just nothing. It felt like you were trying to finish for hours and hours and you got nothing. And since then, nothing’s been able to do it for you. And for some anxiety-boggotten reason, you absolutely refuse to buy a sexy toy online or anything like that. Some crazy part of your mind thinks that the Amazon driver knows exactly what you would have in there and you can’t bear to see their face when they hand you your package. 

So after a grueling couple of months, you finally caved, and here you are, at the gynecologist. 

The sound of a door opening tears your attention away from the clock, and your heart immediately drops, a pit forming deep in your stomach. You almost want to squeeze your eyes shut and cross your fingers in hopes that your name isn’t called, but you’re in public, so you don’t. Instead, you hold your breath and look at the lady who just came out, praying that it isn’t you. 

She calls your name. You release a breath. 

“That’s me.” Your voice comes out shaky. She’s looking down at her tablet as you walk up to her but when she looks up, it’s like she notices your nervousness and gives you a sympathetic but encouraging smile. 

She takes you back and sits you down in a chair, “just gonna take your vitals, honey.” Her voice is soothing, like a mother, and you’re glad she’s the person you’re interacting with before the doctor that you’re so scared about. You look around the room as she does her work and you notice, the place is decorated really nicely. As if it had a woman’s touch. You know that more than one doctor works here, but you wonder if yours is going to be a woman, honestly that would make you feel a little better. 

She finishes rather quickly after asking you some questions about your medical history and things of the sort, and then her cadence changes, “Is it okay if I touch you?” She asks. You frown in confusion but nod. She places her hand on your arm and squeezes, “I know that this is your first time and I can tell that you’re really nervous, but trust me, Dr. Styles is the best we’ve got. He’s incredibly professional and kind, he’ll make you feel comfortable. And it’s better for you if you relax anyway.” She smiles gently, giving your arm one last squeeze before she picks up her stuff and walks towards the door.

Before she leaves, she turns around, leaning against the slightly ajar door, and shoots you a teasing smirk, “I’ll make sure to tell him to be extra gentle with you, dear.” And with that, she leaves. She’s sweet. And she definitely made you feel much better about the whole thing. 

It’s only a couple minutes of just a little internal freaking out before the door opens and your senses are automatically overtaken with a waft of strong cologne. 

“Alright…what do we have here…ah!” Your name falls perfectly from his lips, and an involuntary smile graces your face at his apparent goofy nature and the smile only grows when he grins back at you, dimples poking in his stubbly cheeks. 

“How are you feeling today? Hannah told me you were looking a bit nervous before. Has any of that subsided or do I need to do some breathing exercises with you?” He quips brilliantly. I guess being a doctor he’s well aware that laughter is the best medicine.

“I’m doing okay, actually. Much better.” Your voice comes out soft, unable to get it any louder than that. He gives you an approving smile and then offers his hand out for you to shake it. 

“M’name is Dr. Harry Styles. You can call me Harry, Dr. Styles, or Doc. Whatever you’re comfortable with. I’m personally fine with it all. I know your name already and…” he blows out a breath with his eyes comically wide “...basically your entire medical history so I think it’s safe to say we’re well acquainted!” You take his hand and shake it softly, a small giggle leaving your lips. You don’t miss the way he glances down at the contact. His hand feels nice. And you know it’s weird to be thinking that about your doctor, especially when that same hand will probably be somewhere near your genitals in the next couple of minutes, but his hand feels really nice against yours. Calloused and sturdy, yet gentle and soft.

You appreciate how he immediately got in tune with how cracking jokes made you more comfortable. It feels like extra effort to you and a warm feeling blooms in your chest at how attentive he is. You can tell that he cares about his patients and takes pride in his job, and it makes you feel so much more comfortable. 

“Okay m’darling. Says you’re here for a regular check up. Are you sure there’s no concerns? Nothing we should be worryin’ about? S’more helpful if you tell me now so I know what to look for.” His hand goes out to motion you to lie down on the examination table. You oblige and he grins at you again, waiting for your response. 

“Oh um…it’s nothing really just a very minor issue…” his eyes flick down to the movement of you fidgeting with your fingers and he presses his lips together and sighs, he looks up at you for permission before he takes your hands in his and starts to press them out with his.

 “This is okay, yeah?” he questions softly, nodding along with you when you nod, “I absolutely need you to relax, darling. This’ll be so much easier if you’re relaxed and calm. Need you to loosen up. Do that for me?”

You nod and try your best to follow his instructions. Something about his hands on yours and his gentle voice filling your ears only makes it that much easier. And you have a feeling he knows that. 

“There you go, honey. Now tell me what’s wrong so I can make it better.” 

“I just…ever since like a month ago, I haven’t really been able to um…finish. And ever since then I’ve barely been able to get turned on… or wet. Is that normal? Because I was fine before but all of a sudden I just…couldn’t anymore. It just feels like something might be wrong with me.” You let out a huge breath after you’ve finally revealed your problem. And as much as it feels like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders, it also terrifies you what his reaction is going to be. 

He doesn’t even blink. You imagine he’s dealt with things like this before, and you’re not surprised that he has little to no reaction. It’s literally his job. You figure you shouldn’t have been this nervous to begin with.

“Don’t worry m’darling. We’ll figure it out.” he coos, his thumbs rubbing softly on your knuckles, “alright. Let’s get started shall we?” 

You had already put your surgical gown on before he got here so all he has to do is lift the bottom up and get to business. And that’s exactly what he does. He puts his gloves on and lifts your gown on, his brows furrowed in concentration and his lips pursed in a cute pout.

He feels around, brushing his fingers through your folds. You jerk when his fingers brush your clit in a feather-light touch. He rolls his lips into his mouth briefly and you suddenly wish a hole would open right now and swallow you into the floor. You try not to, but you can’t stop ogling his concentrated face. He bites the inside of his cheek and squints his eyes slightly as he takes a closer look, “s’perfect, honey. Everything looks fine.” 

“Gotta figure out what’s going on with you though, hm?” He looks you right in the eyes as he says it, his hand resting on your thigh dangerously close to your cunt and you nod quickly, taking deep breaths in as quietly as you can. Something about the way he’s looking at you, handling you, talking to you, it’s got your stomach warming, and your core tingling in a way that you’ve sorely missed. He’s touching you like he wants you.

He gently talks you through the speculum, using his hand rubbing softly on your thigh and his voice to calm you down. After he’s done he praises you softly and heat blooms in your chest.

“Still shy on me?” he teases, turning around. He starts to fiddle with his things on the desk, picking a bottle of lube and squeezing it on his finger. You immediately hold a breath. This is the part where he’ll actually be inside you. All words that you could have said in response to his teasing are immediately stolen from your lips, all you can do is wait there in anticipation as he gets himself ready for you. 

“M’kay, darling”, he returns to you, placing his free hand on your thigh, “just gonna check on you. That okay?” 

“Mhm.” You feel like an idiot, unable to speak to your literal doctor because for some reason he’s got you feeling things you haven’t felt in months. 

“I’d prefer it if you used your words.” 

“Yes, Dr. Styles.” You manage to get the words out and he offers you a proud grin. When he pulls your gown up again, he sucks in a breath, his pupils dilating. He looks back up at you and it’s like you can feel the condescension in his gaze before he even opens his mouth. 

“Oh honey…nothing’s wrong with you.” He strokes his finger through your folds, eyes honed in on your cunt and a far-away look in his eyes as if he’s mesmerized by it. He presses his fingers at your entrance and you suck in a breath, “you’re okay, honey. S’okay.” He soothes you as he slowly slides his finger in. Both of your mouths part from the tight stretch. A soft puff of breath leaves his lips and a soft moan leaves yours. 

The second the sound leaves your mouth, your cheeks flame in embarrassment, you whisper out a slew of apologies and he only shushes you. His thumb on his free hand stroking your thigh soothingly. His finger leaves you until it reaches the knuckle, then it pushes right back into you, ripping a sharp gasp from your throat. 

“Shh shh. Just takin’ care of you like I’m supposed to.” He curls his finger up inside of you and a shaky moan leaves your throat. As soon as he hits that sensitive spot inside you, it’s like all of the orgasms you could’ve been having in the past few months come back to consume you tenfold. Your jaw hangs open as he starts to move his fingers faster, playing with you like a damn fiddle. 

“How’s that feel, honey? Feels like you’re better already. Made such a mess and you’re already squeezing me so tight.” Every word that leaves his lips goes straight to your cunt, his husky deep voice releases a cage of butterflies in your stomach, and when he coaxes a second finger inside of you and adjusts his hand so his thumb rubs against your clit, it immediately feels as if you’re about to burst. 

“Oh god—Dr. Styles.” You shriek out. 

“Harry, honey. Say Harry. Say m’name while I’m making you cum.” He demands, his fingers fucking you harder and robbing the breath from your lungs. You manage to stutter out his name and an approving groan leaves his lips, “look at you, honey, following the doctor’s orders. Such a good girl.” 

The warm feeling brews in your tummy before it starts to spread and bloom in your whole body. Your body tenses up to brace yourself for the intense amounts of pleasure you know you’re about to feel and a staccato of moans leaves your bitten lips. 

“Don’t fight it, honey. Let yourself have it. You deserve this.” It’s amazing how he can expertly coax you through an expressively powerful climax with his words, he knows exactly what to say to you and what tone to say it in to make you putty in his hands, “know you’ve needed this for so long. S’been so hard, hm? Bet this pussy was aching without someone to take care of it. Let me take care of it, darling. Cum all over my fingers like I know you can.” 

You can almost taste it, it climbs and it climbs, your stomach tensing and your thighs shaking, each firm rub against your g-spot makes you crumble and it swirls and sparks in your tummy. Light tremors turn into full-body shudders when the build-up of pleasure finally explodes like an earthquake. You moan brokenly, your voice cracking as you gasp for air and let yourself feel the pleasure you’ve been missing.  

He talks you through it, leading you through the most powerful orgasm you think you’ve ever had. You instantly feel the tension leave your body with it. He takes away all the pent-up frustration and dissatisfaction with every word and movement of his hand. 

It’s when he keeps going that it begins to border on the painful side of painful pleasure. That sexy concentrated look is back on his face as he pulses his fingers faster inside you with a second wind of determination. 

A pained whine leaves your throat and your hand shoots out to grab his arm. You attempt to tug him away and squirm away from his touch, but he doesn’t relent. He uses his other hand to pin you down and your other hand shoots up to your mouth so the scream that you let out isn’t heard throughout the whole office. 

“Take it. We’ve got to make sure you’re better. Cum again for me.” Your legs shake uncontrollably. You’ve never felt pleasure so intense that it hurts before, and it’s making you feel like your brain has liquified. You fully give in to him, your body submits and you let him play with your body exactly how he wants. 

Before you know it, he’s driven you over the peak again. Your head falls back onto the exam table, thoroughly exhausted. He smiles gently at you, so innocent and nonchalant, as if he didn’t just completely ruin you on his fingers a minute before. His pointer finger brushes against your cheek before his hand cradles your face. 

“You’re all better then, yeah?” His voice is soft and comforting, it fills your tummy with warmth, and you suddenly have the urge to let him talk to you sleep as he holds you right here on the exam table, “think you’re my new favorite patient.” He whispers with a smirk.

He lets you get up and shakily put back on your clothes. And in all honesty, you’re surprised you can walk right now.

He took such good care of you. You naturally feel indebted to him and you start to thank him but he just holds up his hand and stops you with an incredulous look on his face. 

“No need to thank me, darling. Just doing my job.” He assures. “The only thanks I need is you coming back here next time you need my help.” 

After all your stuff is packed and you’re walking towards the door of the exam room, his voice stops you. You turn around to face him and you’re met with his gorgeous face. He wears a gentle smile but teasing eyes. When he speaks you immediately know that his words have promise written between the lines.

“Drive safe, honey. M’looking forward to your next appointment.”

[rafeyscurtainbangs]

Sorry, Top - Rafe Cameron Blurb

+18 Minor DNI

CollegeStudent!Rafe x Topper'sGF!Reader

⭐ republished ⭐

+18 Minor DNI

1k Lightly Edited

🪄 warnings: fingering, dry-humping, name-calling, mutual masturbation, manipulation, Rafe doesn’t ask or wait for permission, reader wants to go farther

📖 Topper’s GF (reader) has always had a thing for his roommate, Rafe. When she catches him jerking off she can’t help but join.

✨“Go ahead, baby. Wake him up. Say his name. Let me deal with him. Yeah? Or, I could just deal with you…”✨

Reader’s POV:

You lower your eyelids a little more, trying your best to look like you’re sleeping as you watch Topper’s best friend palm himself over his white Calvin Kleins.

Your heart starts to pick up pace, anticipation building as his roommate hooks his fingers around the elastic band. The blonde draws them down nice and slow, making butterflies flood your stomach as he releases his cock. Holy shit…

You can feel your body pulse head to toe, a foreign feeling between your thighs, wet against the fabric of your panties. What the fuck?

Your hand roams slowly down your own body, doing your best to keep up your facade of sleep. Your thighs widen on the dorm mattress as your fingers slip under your little satin shorts.

Rafe reaches over to the nightstand, snagging some lube from the drawer. You never thought once about why he would rummage around there in the middle of the night, but now you can’t stop.

How many times has he jerked off like this? With us here?

Your fingers meet your slit, making your stomach sink as you feel how absolutely soaked you are. For Rafe? You run your fingers through your wet folds, feeling the slightest bit of relief.

Rafe wraps his hand around his thick dick, eyes batting to a close as he starts to stroke. Fuck. I’ve only seen a cock before in porn… I didn’t want to be completely untaught when Topper finally made his move.

Rafe’s big… Shit. He’s so fucking huge. His swollen head glistens with lube, somehow even harder after the touch of his own hand.

Your body aches; your gliding hand no longer doing the trick. Your fingers find their way down to your entrance, pressing inside, making you bite back a moan.

You start to match his pace, stuffing your fingers into your cunt at the same cadence. Rafe throws his head back on the pillow, making your heart skip as your name falls from his pretty lips.

My name? Me?

You feel your adrenaline course through your veins. Baffled that he would be choosing you from the roster of women he usually has in his bed, sometimes one, sometimes two.

Say it again…

“Bounce on my cock, Princess,” he grunts. It’s not my name… but it’s what Top calls me. Your wrist bumps against your clit. Ugh. That felt good. More.

You slip your other hand down your body, pressing against your nub, a feeling so good you can’t help but release a breathy whine.

Topper moves out of the corner of your eye, making you stop dead in your tracks. He lets out a little snore. Guilt starts to creep in as you see him sleeping so peacefully, so sweetly, his messy blonde hair piled on his pillow.

But I can’t fucking stop.

Your eyes quickly shift back to Rafe, making you jump slightly as you see him standing right in front of you, incredibly close. You take a little breath, eyes working higher on his body. His eyes lock on yours; his stare is dark and deep.

He grabs the comforter, peeling it off your body. You feel the chill of the wetness between your thighs, making your eyes fall low.

“M’gonna help you with that, princess. Don’t worry,” he breathes; you can hear his cockiness through his hushed tone still.

“What do you mean? W-What are you doing?” You ask softly as he lowers his body on top of yours. You expel a breath as he presses himself against you.

Rafe buries himself in the crook of your neck, lips pressing against your hot skin. You take in his smell, his rich cologne clouding all your senses. “Let me help you,” he whispers, nipping at your earlobe. “Don’t worry, Angel. Put my boxers on… Would hate to get that sweet pussy before Top does. Couldn’t control myself otherwise.”

“Rafe… I-” You’re cut off by his lips, pressing roughly against yours, swallowing your gasp as he grinds his clothed cock against you.

He bumps your clit with his rock-hard bulge, swallowing your moan. “That’s it, huh? Feels good. Yeah?”

“Yeah. Y-Yeah,” you whimper.

“Wanna make you feel good,” he pants against your kiss.

It does… It feels good. So fucking good. Heatburns behind your eyes because of it, eyes glassing over the thought of doing this to Topper, so close to Topper.

“B-But Topper?”

If I wanted this to stop, all I’d have to do is say the word. All I’d have to do is call for Top, but all I want to do is scream for Rafe.

“Go ahead, baby. Wake him up. Say his name. Let me deal with him. Yeah? Or, I could just deal with you…”

“I don’t know, Rafe.”

“Good friends share, sweetheart.”

“Rafe…”

“Stop actin’ so innocent. Like you weren’t watching me stroke my cock. Like I couldn’t hear that wet little pussy from over there,” he hisses as he grinds harder into you. “Caught’cha, didn’t I?” He smiles against your lips, making heat spread across your body.

Rafe releases a moan, then another, getting off on you and you on him. You reach around his body, tugging slightly at the elastic of his boxers.

“You trying to take ‘em off, Princess?” He taunts. “Nah… Not today. Gonna get you just like this. But, tonight… You gonna let me taste you tonight, baby?”

“Yeah…”

He chuckles darkly, making chills fall down your body straight to your aching core.

“Naughty little thing. Aren’t you?”

Rafe rolls his hips again and again, grinding his clothed cock against your sex as you whimper in sensitivity. “Can feel how wet you are through my boxers. Bet your panties are soaked, you little slut.”

Your back arches at the sounds of his devilish words. The tears in your eyes tumble down your cheeks as you feel your climax about to overtake you. Rafe’s blue jean eyes soften on yours. “Hey… Hey. It’s gonna be okay,” he soothes. “You gonna cum?” He asks between gentle kisses.

Your teeth sink into your plump bottom lip, eyes rolling back in your skull. “Cum for me, angel,” he whispers as he draws up your shirt higher.

He grips his cock. His ruddy head leaking at the tip. Rafe lowers himself to your ear as he continues to rut.

“I’m gonna… Fuck, Rafe,” you whisper, digging your heels into the mattress as you hold back your blissful cries. You moan his name as your pussy flutters around nothing.

Rafe answers with your name on his lips, hot wet ropes of cum landing on your bare skin. Rafe reaches down, running two ringed fingers through his spent.

“Open.” You open your mouth, Rafe’s digits making their way in between. “Suck.” You suck on his fingers all the way to his gold rings, tasting cum for the first time. “Good fuckin’ girl.”

Please follow and turn on notifications for @curtainbangs-updates for fic drops

my masterlist 🔮

Part 2

[bakedbakermom]

@onlineproblems asked me this while workshopping some fic and I don't want to go to the grocery store so I'm gonna procrastinate by answering!

So to understand where I'm coming from, we first have to go back to the pilot.

When Scully goes down to the basement office for the first time, she introduces herself as Dana Scully, and the next words out of Mulder's mouth are, "Who'd you piss off to get stuck with this detail, Scully?" The way he says it is so fascinating to me. The emphasis. The hint of teasing. The deliberate dismissal of her first name, as if he's certain she's not going to stick around long enough for him to care, and moreover that he doesn't WANT her to stick around, doesn't WANT to care. He's all alone in the basement, the FBI's most unwanted, and he likes it that way (or at least he thinks he does).

In that scene, "Scully" itself becomes a nickname. Like she's his annoying little sister (🥺) tagging long on his adventures but she's NOT welcome.

Little does he know that Dana Scully is not just a little sister, but the THIRD child, and therefore has taken Little Sistering to a professional level. She gives it right back to him without missing a beat, sassing and challenging and not flinching away from his questions or his graphic (for 90s TV) slideshow. She teases him right back every step of the way, countering his "Scully" with her own "Mulder" in precisely the voice you know she used to use when Bill was being a little shit about "no girls allowed."

Thus "Mulder," too, becomes a nickname. Like he's her jerk older brother trying to exclude her from his Very Serious Work, but he doesn't know what a tenacious little pomeranian she is and she won't let him get away with it.

From then on, that's what they are to each other. Scully and Mulder. Mulder and Scully. A team, but not always on the same side. A pair, but able to split toward their own purposes. A unit of two individuals.

I came across this post this morning, about how they are CONSTANTLY saying each other's names. Like, every other line of dialogue, if not more. I swear Mulder starts and ends his sentences with "Scully" sometimes. It really is A LOT.

But also, when they do this, it's so incredibly intimate. They assign so many different meanings to their names with just the tiniest lilt and tremor and shift in cadence. (This is a testament to both GA and DD's acting skills, that they can pack whole paragraphs of emotion into just two syllables.) They say it with fear, with fascination, with tenderness and curiosity and challenge and anger and frustration and humor and disbelief. As prayer and plea and profanity. With promise and passion. And eventually, with love. So much love.

They say "Scully" and "Mulder" the same way I call my husband "honey." It's not just a name. It's who they ARE to each other. Their names are just a shorthand. An anchor. A question and an answer in one. She's his Scully. He's her Mulder.

It's not the syllables that matter. It's the feeling behind them.

Which brings me to pet names. When I write MSR, I tend to leave the pet-naming to Mulder for the most part, because he seems like a pet-namey kind of guy. And Scully, who has never struck me as a pet-namey kind of gal, lets him get away with it because he calls her "baby" the exact same way he calls her "Scully," and he calls her "Scully" the exact same way he calls her "baby." They have spent so much time calling each other by nicknames that aren't nicknames, that the actual sounds coming out don't matter anywhere near as much as the emotion inside them. He could call her "sasquatch" or "football" and she'd know exactly what he meant. (HC that she gets some Chewbaca-inspired lingerie at some point, and he calls her a sexy little sasquatch, and she's stunned by how turned on she gets.)

Scully only uses pet-names sparingly, in times of great emotion or overwhelm. He told her once (just once) that he doesn't like being called Fox, and so "Mulder" is her baseline name for him in nearly all circumstances. She'll call him "honey" when he kisses her neck just so, or "baby" when he's hurt and needs comfort, but the truth is he loves hearing every last shade of "Mulder" from her lips. Every possible way she could ever say his name, he hoards those syllables like a dragon hoards gems. He's never loved the sound of his own name, except when she's the one who says it. When she does use a pet-name, on those rare occasions, it resonates with him in a very deep way. Sparkling diamond "sweethearts" amid the troves of emerald and ruby "Mulder"s. A glowing opal "honey," slow and sweet as a sigh. "Baby" like a sapphire, like her eyes when she kisses him as if he's the only other person in the world.

If they ever did marry--even if it's just them in their unremarkable kitchen with a pair of second-hand rings and nothing but stale cereal as witness--their vows would be simple. Four syllables, evenly divided.

[beforeimdeceased]

🌴 YOU CAN WHISTLE FOR IT 🍦

content: nsfw content, mdni. guys i do NOT condone cheating this is a fanfic pls don’t beat me up 😔 i’ll delete it if you want…felt like giving abby a little love & was listening to my fav unreleased lana and my brain started braining so! enjoy i swear i’ll shut up now. feedback, likes, reblogs, comments, and asks greatly appreciated!

🏩 ‧₊˚✩彡

maybe it was her raspy laugh or the cadence in her voice. perhaps it was the way her eyes always focused on you amidst a crowded room. you could even say you were using her for her mechanic skills, but you couldn’t shake being with abagail anderson.

cigarette between her teeth, braid hanging low, and her muscles glistening in the sun was all you could think about for days after she’d moved in. she was very very hot, and very very married.

her and her lady had found themselves with a preference for the simple suburban life after eloping. packed everything up and moved to the outskirts, right next door to you.

before your sultry nights of passion at a hush hush hotel down the road and out of town, you’d gotten along well with the family in a neighborly manner.

a hello every morning and a smile while taking the garbage out, coupled with a “this weather, right?” had rendered you acquaintances. at least in your head. unfortunately, everything went belly up one rainy friday night.

abby, drenched from head to toe had found herself at your door. it had rained down on her so hard that the water was pooling inside her shoes. everytime she blinked her eyes became wet and salty and her only asylum was found on your porch.

you anwser the door in a rush after hearing three loud and heavy handed knocks. who could’ve possibly wanted anything at this time with the weather like this?

well, it was none other than abby who’d looked like a wounded dog. the prettiest puppy eyes you’d ever seen flashed at you once and she was ushered to your bathroom for a warm shower.

when she got out, you gave her some clothes your brother had left on one of his visits. unfortunately, all of your shirts and pants were too small for her muscles. she was more than happy with anything you gave her, though.

“thanks hun.” is a toothy smile. and “what are you cooking?” is full of innuendo and “i think you’re pretty too.” leads you to your doom. sat on the counter with the blonde’s head between your thighs and a pussy drunk laugh vibrating against your core making her tongue hurt so good in all the right places.

maybe her hands and her voice and all of her sweet words was what made you meet her at a motel on a rainy saturday night, reminiscent of your first time. matching set scattered across the floor, her mouth tattooing hickies down your neck, and her hands grappling at you like you’ll run away. there will be a bruise in the morning that your manager is going to ask about but you don’t care. you can’t care right now.

she is everything but escapable. lustrous, confident, and incredibly easy on the eyes. she knows how to show a woman a good time. you were yet to be sure if you were fortunate that the woman is you. oh, and her wife.

[mr-president]

I think one of my favorite Funtermina things is how it uses characters as narrative foils, specifically in how those characters interact with each other and everyone else.

Karin and Daan’s is the most discussed as it’s probably the most apparent within the text: their volatile opposing viewpoints on life via their upbringings (despite being extremely similar otherwise). When Karin and Daan interact, it’s like a person arguing with themself. They clash like ammonia and bleach, unable to reconcile how similar they are (haha cleaning chemical analogy) yet toxic in their association.

Marina and Levi represent the different realities of Prehevil, what with Marina’s privileged upbringing versus Levi’s absolute shitshow of an existence. And yet, they get along incredibly well and form a cadence with one another because through each other, they can reconcile their upbringings in Prehevil. Levi is the Prehevil Marina tried to escape—Marina is the Prehevil Levi hoped to return to.

Marcoh and Olivia are interesting because—and I will argue this to the death—their relationship is wholly as siblings. And they’re also deeply connected by their relationships with their sisters, specifically how those sisters formulated and defined how they see themselves. Marcoh has done nothing but live to protect his sister, while Olivia has forever lived in her sister’s shadow. Their identities revolve completely around their sisters, and this also colors their relationship with each other as siblings.

I wish it was explored more, but I think there’s a level of disenfranchisement when Marcoh fervently tries to protect Olivia the same way he protected his younger sister (edit: rb for amendment). He clearly sees her in that role, and Olivia’s already got guilt written into her about her disability making her a “charity case.” I say this also because of their different opinions on guns, power, and death: Marcoh has no bloodlust and seems exhausted when he has to hurt others, while Olivia becomes almost jubilant when she receives a gun. And those reactions to enacting violence are directly informed by their relationships with their sisters: a begrudging responsibility vs empowerment.

My favorite is probably Abella and O’saa as foils. As characters they’re probably my favorites, and their foil makes it even better.

Abella easily connects with everyone around her, ensuring that they’re all getting along (or not killing each other) and she tries desperately to help everyone, even at her own detriment. She cares, so much, even too much.

O’saa on the other hand, is the exact opposite. He actively chooses to connect with everyone as little as possible, to the point where you can kill someone in front of him and he won’t give a shit. This is, obviously, to his detriment in terms of his goal towards enlightenment. He cares too little, even if at all.

They perfectly represent the dichotomy between altruism vs selfishness, the mundane vs the macro, democracy vs individualism. Fundamentally, both Abella and O’saa get shit done, and what makes them so compelling as foils is how similar the results of their different processes are.

Both of them are the only two that are capable of saving everyone. Abella does so by interacting with many of the other contestants, while O’saa does this by ignoring everyone and just occam’s razoring that shit. They both get shit done and to the greatest net success, but in both cases, because they operate on extremes, it’s to the detriment of themselves. The game shows this literally because, well, they sacrifice themselves to Logic for the greater good, but the game also implies this detriment via their moonscorches.

Chaugnaur represents how others have reduced Abella to a sexual object for their pleasure or a mindless brute for labor. It is a physical manifestation of how interacting and connecting with others can be to one’s detriment because Abella often cannot control how people see and define her. Mastermind, on the other hand, is O’saa’s brain swelling and overtaking everything else on his head to the point where he is blind (save for the eye) and mute, only able to speak in mumbles. Mastermind is how O’saa values logic, knowledge, comprehension over anything else, becoming blind to other viewpoints save for his own. Additionally, it’s unable to communicate or connect with anyone else, only able to ruminate get never share its thoughts.

Abella is one of the first to Moonscorch; O’saa is one of the last. I love them as foils because even though they’re the most different in terms of anything, they don’t hinder one another at much all. They’re just kinda chill. And this makes sense because their dichotomies aren’t volatile like Karin and Daan’s, nor complementary like the others. Rather, they operate in balance—you cannot be too altruistic without some selfishness. To help everyone and to achieve enlightenment, you must consider both the mundane and the greater picture. Society operates on a shared democracy and on empowering individuals.

Still, the fact that even operating on the extremes has the greatest positive effect (in terms of utilitarianism) really says smth abt whether these values even matter. But I’d argue that they do matter, cause it’s that question of whether it’s worth it to suffer or even sacrifice for the greater good.

As a whole, each foil represents a central theme/motif of Fear & Hunger: internal vs external locus of control (Karin and Daan), environment dictating identity (Marina and Levi), relationships and their impact (Marcoh and Olivia), and the thematic shitshow that is Abella and O’saa.

Tldr; the game is about some girls and their boy best friends.

[virescent-v]

French Kiss

A/N: This is a combination of two requests I got: a fluffy fic of Emily telling you she has a crush on you and asking you out and a fluffy fic of Emily teaching you another language. Combining them seemed perfect!

Summary: Emily teaches you a little French ;P (Translations for the French is at the bottom!) Word count: 950 Warnings: nada, this is tooth-rotting fluff. :) Well, the only warning might be that I got the translations from Google, so if they're wrong don't yell at me lol Ps: If you haven't seen the tiktok of Paget speaking French....go do that first. 🫠😩🥵😵‍💫

You hated the fact that you never took a foreign language in middle or high school, when it was easier to learn. Now, it felt like grasping the semantics of another language was nearly impossible. 

You let out an exasperated whine, rubbing your temples. “Why does French have to have so many rules?” 

Emily chuckled, rolling her eyes at your antics. “It’s not that bad once you get the hang of them,” she said, rubbing your shoulders. “Quoi qu'il en soit, c'est une belle langue.” 

You squinted your eyes, glaring at her. While teaching you, Emily would consistently throw out random French sentences, hoping the constant exposure would help you. It only further irritated you. “Says the one who’s been fluent in French for most of her life, and who has lived in Paris.” Another eye roll. 

Emily’s smile grew. “J'aime parler une langue que vous ne pouvez pas. Tu es très mignon quand tu es irrité.” 

Another second of glaring might make your face permanently stick like that, so you decided to ignore her. “Moving on,” you said, looking intensely at the notes before you. “Possessive adjectives. Mon, ma, mes for the masculine, feminine, and plural my.” Your face scrunched up, your eyebrows furrowed a little. “Easy. M’s for the my’s.” You felt your tongue peek out in concentration. “Ton, ta, and tes for you.” 

You tapped your finger along the paper, the rhythmic cadence a tactic you hoped would help you remember everything. A loud sigh. “Why do these languages have to have gendered descriptors for everything?” 

Another giggle came from beside you. “Parce que, oie idiote, ce sont les langues romanes!” Emily exclaimed, forcing a more dramatic French accent. 

A loud pause. “Did you just call me an idiot?” 

You’ve never heard Emily laugh so candidly, loud and carefree. It made butterflies erupt in your belly, a deep blush heating up your face – not out of embarrassment, but because you made her laugh, made her nose crinkle and her eyes shine. It was one of your favorite sounds. 

You’ve had a crush on Emily for months, ever since you started working closely to her at Quantico. A shared case between your two units brought you together and you quickly became friends, bonding over similar interests and upbringings. 

You thought of the idea of having her teach you one of the many languages she knows as a way to spend more time together. It was an added bonus that you got to hear her speak another language; something about the way French rolled off her tongue was hypnotizing and…incredibly hot.  She had jumped at the idea and you became hopeful that she might have shared feelings for you. But after weeks of constant texting and a few study sessions, she’s never hinted at feeling anything other than friendship. 

“Absolument pas! Cependant, je pense que vous êtes incroyable. J'adorerais t'emmener dehors un jour.” Emily paused, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. Hey eyes traveled across your face, taking in everything, like she was trying to profile you. “Comme rendez-vous?” 

You felt the air shift even though you couldn’t understand what she was saying to you. It was in the way that she looked at you, how her dark eyes had grown fond, intimate almost, as if she was trying to stare into your soul. You had an inkling of what she had said, rendezvous being an easy translated word.  

“Ask me in English,” you whispered. 

Emily turned more to you, grasped your hands in hers and looked you in the eye. “Would you like to go out with me? As a date?” 

Your smile was timid, growing as you watched her start to fiddle with your fingers in nerves. “Oui, Emily.” One of your hands came up and brushed hair behind her ear, watching her grin spread. “But I have a question for you first.” 

Emily’s smile turned a little more serious, a hint of nerves creeping back into her expression. You watched as she took a deep breath, steeling herself for whatever you might ask of her. “Ask away.” 

You paused, schooling your features into something you hoped was more serious, letting her sit in her nerves for a second just to mess with her. “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?” 

You watched as Emily’s brain stuttered, her mouth opening for a second before she burst into another fit of laughter, her hand coming up to cover her eyes for a second out of shocked awe. “I’m glad Lady Marmalade taught you something in French, my god.”  

You two laughed together, the tension of finally admitting your shared feelings broken. As you calmed down, Emily gazed at you, all of her feelings for you finally shining through. You felt your entire being warm to the look she was giving you, finally overjoyed in being able to relish in the attention you craved from her. 

As your gazes locked and held, you decided to break out the one other sentence you had been practicing in French. The one sentence you were wishing you would get to use on her. Your hand cupped her jaw, another timid smile gracing your lips. “Puis-je t'embrasser?” 

Emily smirked, inching her face towards you, pulling you closer by your hips, before whispering, “Oui, s'il vous plait.” 

Your lips met in a soft, tender embrace, tongues lightly gliding over one another. It was the first kiss of what you both hoped was many.  

As you broke apart, a quiet giggle traveled up your throat, making you softly shake your head in exhilarated bliss. “I love French lessons.” 

Emily waggled her eyebrows, a mischievous smirk growing. “I can’t wait to teach you more French things.” 

___________________ 

Translations: 

- “Quoi qu'il en soit, c'est une belle langue.”  - Regardless, it’s a beautiful language. - “J'aime parler une langue que vous ne pouvez pas. Tu es très mignon quand tu es irrité.” - I like speaking a language you can’t. You’re very cute when you’re irritated. - “Parce que, oie idiote, ce sont les langues romanes!” - Because, silly goose, it’s the romance languages! -”Absolument pas! Cependant, je pense que vous êtes incroyable. J'adorerais t'emmener dehors un jour.” - Absolutely not! However, I do think you’re amazing. I’d love to take you out sometime. -“Comme rendez-vous?” - As a date? -Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?” - Do you want to sleep with me tonight? -”Puis-je t'embrasser?” - Can I kiss you? -”Oui, s'il vous plait.” - Yes, please. 

[mylittleponyauprompts]

An AU where Shining Armor and Sombra swap places in history but not roles.

Sombra is a Prince from a Neighboring Kingdom who is to be married to Cadence in an arranged marriage, both kingdoms hoping that it would patch up old wounds and form a hopefully peaceful bond between them. Cadence does not like this Prince Sombra, she would rather find someone she truly loves, but can’t really say no to her aunt Celestia. Sombra has wicked plans he hopes to carry out, he just needs to gain this pink princesses trust.

Shining Armor is an imprisoned King of a lost Empire in the north. He used the crystal heart to keep his kingdom safe from an outside threat that threatened to destroy them all, using his love for his kingdom he turned them all into impenetrable crystal to keep them safe. Only one who can defeat the outside threat and show the crystal king the same love he showed his kingdom can thaw out the ancient Empire.

The outside threat can be anything, I’m currently thinking the umbra from the comics or maybe the changelings to be thematic. The changelings (mainly chrysalis) wanting to use the empire, it’s magic, and it’s people to have an infinite source of food and power. And Shining Armors only option being to put his entire kingdom under a stasis so that the changelings get nothing. Shining armor, the crystal heart, and his kingdoms people becoming a sick trophy chrysalis claims even if she can’t use their love to her advantage. Claiming the kingdoms grounds as her own. Shining Armor lived his people and his kingdom dearly, enough to use all he had to freeze them all in a possible eternal stasis so that they couldn’t be turned into an infinite power supply. Perhaps one day they will be free. And do to Shining Armors close proximity to the also in stasis crystal heart, he can somewhat see and hear things around him. He’s holding it, he’s basically become one with it. And he doesn’t intend on thawing anytime soon unless he knows it’s safe. And one day a Alicorn with a very particular cutie mark appears.

Optional additions-

Due to the sacrifice Shining Armor made, he has became the crystal heart. It’s lodged in his chest even after he’s thawed, and he’s permanently partially made of crystal now. The crystal heart became very fond of him over his rule as king. Perhaps it’s because of a particular Alicorns connection to the crystal heart?

The crystal empire are religious about the crystal heart. They were very fond of their king because of his connection to the heart to begin with. But he has literally fused with the crystal heart to save their lives. Needless to say Shining Armor is adjusting still to this new attachment his subjects have to him. They are incredibly fond of Cadence, look at her cutie mark!! She is considered a high priestess.

[carolmunson]

you keep me without chains | em.

this is a re-post of a ramble fic of me processing some stuff i've been through and am struggling with in my own healing. if you're familiar with my 'bad at feelings' series, it's in a similar vein of writing except eddie is incredibly soft and sweet to reader who is going through her own stuff. eddie sucks here, i don't think it's a correct characterization of him but it's just me using him as a placeholder.

originally, i didn't want to put this story in the tags because it's sad and explores the mindset of someone in a non-physically abusive relationship. however, since it is DV awareness month, i wanted to make sure to express that if there are people reading this who are struggling that they aren't alone and there are people there that understand and support them. and also that if there are younger readers reading (still eighteen plus!) who aren't sure if they are in an abusive relationship they are maybe able to get some context via fiction. my inbox is always open. DV Hotline US: 800-799-7233 DV Hotline UK: 0808 2000 247 tw: 18+ mindors dni, references to emotional and psychological abuse, minor threats of physical violence.

he left this morning with a kiss on your cheek and your lips, a nuzzle against your temple when you gave him two thermos's, one with hot black coffee and the other with the beef stew you made last night. hot hot hot. the way he likes it.

you made bread, so crisp on the outside, pillowy soft on the inside. he groaned when he popped it in his mouth at the dinner table, soaked in broth and butter. you warmed some in the oven when you put his lunch together, wrapping it in foil to trap the heat -- maybe it'll keep until his lunch hour. he might eat it all before his lunch hour. he never eats breakfast really.

you clean the counters and do the laundry while he's away. no kids to take care of, not yet at least. you mend his spare coveralls, treating the grease and oils stains, resewing his name tag stiched in red thread. you shine your mary janes and stilettos, shine his doc's just to be nice. you fix his patches on his vest from the last show he went to. you clean the stubble out of the sink in the bathroom.

he has the car so there's nowhere to go.

you shower, you do your hair, put make up on, go through the motions while he's not home. he hates to wait for you to do it but you hate looking tired when you're out and about. better to do it when he's busy doing something else.

next door neighbor is heading to the library, knocks on your door to see if you wanna come with. she just wants you to get out of the house for once, stop playing wife to a man who hasn't married you yet.

you hesistate, wanting to be home in time to make dinner, but you can't imagine the library taking too long so you go. she looks at you with a strained pity that you can't stand. he doesn't hit you, so why does she even look at you like that? he'd never do that. he just got back from all that shit with a few screws loose. he never knows what he means when he says it.

he's always sorry. y'know? he's always sorry. sorta.

doesn't hit you but you know how the day will go by the way he says good morning. by the way he wakes up with you -- or without you. know how the night will go by the way he breathes when he comes in through the storm door. by the cadence of his steps on the metal stairs. by the way the van pulls in.

sometimes things break and that's fine cause he just replaces them. he knows he shouldn't have thrown it, he knows he shouldn't have tossed it, he knows. he knows. that's why he gets it the very next day. new plates, new house phone, new coffee pot, new records, new casettes, new picture frames, new flower pots. he doesn't throw them at you. he's only punched the wall twice. he slams his head against it all the time. cause he knows he's not good. he knows. you go to the library and check out some books, laugh at your neighbors jokes, tell her about your weekend in the city visiting his friends. he held your hand in front of everyone and pulled you onto his lap, he joked with you and you laughed the whole time. you went to see a band play that you'd never heard of and he got you a t-shirt and the next morning you all went out for hot chocolate and breakfast and he kissed the whipped cream off your lips and ran his thumb over your engagement ring over and over. he never stopped calling you baby. so charming. so perfect. you don't know what you did to earn it, but you've been chasing it ever since. modeling that week's behavior into this one. tip toes through the tulips of the trailer. jagged. shell like.

you get home from the library and lunch, she even stops with you when you mention you have to go to the grocery store. out of eggs for meatloaf, needed some canned string beans for one of the sides.

it's the best dinner you've made in a while and the mashed potatoes are double whipped and extra buttery because he can never get enough of them. you know that it's little things like that. you love the smile he gets when you tell him you do some things just for him, so blushy and boyish.

'that's so nice, baby,' he gushes, 'thinkin'a me.' and god he gushes. cries when he can't contain it. saw you in a new dress and wiped his eyes. new hair cut sent him into orbit.

so pretty.

you're so beautiful, i don't deserve you.

you're gorgeous i -- i can't even like, think.

presents on your birthday. handwritten notes with tear drops washing over the ink in a wave, blurry letters blue and black, black and blue. he'd never hit you. too in love. too bursting with affection when he looks at you. too nervous when you look at him when he takes you out. when he plays a show. when he sees you get dressed into your pjs at night. you're so good to me. especially when you hold him through those nightmares. when you calm his anxiety, those deep breath panic attacks. the ones that the meds miss when he misses them. you're patient through the mood swings and he always says thank you. he always says it -- you're the only one that understands him. that sees him. sometimes you don't get it. that's what he says at least. you don't get it and that makes him upset. but you're not sure what there is to get. and you try not to get sad about it -- 'bout anything really 'cause you're not the one who got a few screws knocked loose. nothing bad like that happened to you. i mean, sure, maybe some bad things happened to you but not like the way bad things happened to him, right? you wouldn't get it. but he gets you, he tells you all the time. he gets you so well. symbiotic. the only person who knows you, the only person whose been in your skin -- right? at least that's what he says, and he's said it so long you can't help but believe it.

your eyes fall on the newly vased roses he bought you two days ago from the florist near the shop. bright red petals opened and fat, contrasting against the pea green of the walls. you smile at them while you pour gravy over each plate, extra on his mashed potatoes. he kissed you this morning, he was almost late leaving the house -- couldn't stop kissing you. couldn't stop looking at you with those brown eyes, sparkling with a mischief saved for tonight.

the van rolls in as you set the table, still in your outfit from earlier, the books you checked out on the counter need the flowers. the storm door opens off kilter, your throat constricts. you know by the way he doesn't say anything when he comes in the house. work boots kicked off with loud thumps. his jacket swishing with a thwap when he throws it with a grunt to the ground. something bad must've happened at work. 'hey honey,' you say quietly, 'got dinner for you.'

you know better, watching him turn the corner into the dinette, looking down at you from where he stands and you sit. you hold a mug full of orange juice on the table, fingers tapping on it silently while he holds his gaze. 'you goin' somewhere, dressed up like that?' he asks, there's nothing behind those sparkling eyes now. dulled out to hollow brown.

'no,' you shrug, you know how to coreograph your responses now -- still stepping on his toes sometimes, 'went to the library with gina, she just wanted a friend for some errands.'

'you know gina doesn't like me,' he nods, walking to the fridge to grab a beer, 'she doesn't like us together. she hates me.'

'she doesn't hate you, ed,' you assure, voice still calm, mediating, 'no one hates you.'

'your folks hate me, your sister hates me,' he nods, curls bouncing while he takes a swig, like it's normal conversation. so steady, 'you think they like that i got you ever here in this trailer park?'

'my parents don't ha--'

'they do.' and that's final. you don't argue. and he's right. your parents don't like him and that's why you don't call anymore, and they stopped calling you too. so did all your friends from back home.

'so what'd gina tell you about me today, then?' he presses.

'nothin'," you shrug, 'we didn't talk about you.'

'of course not,' he laughs but it's one that sends a chill under your skin, a laugh to not seem so mean when you know he's about to be, 'she was prob'ly tryna set you up with someone. that's why you got all dressed up right? anything to look good for other guys out there.'

's'cuse me?' 'you heard me,' he nods, voice still steady like nothing's wrong, 'that's why you wore all those tight jeans in the city last weekend, right? those dresses? tryna show off to harrington and the guys. don't act like i didn't notice.'

'what are you talking about? why didn't you say anything when we were there?' you heart rate quickens, you try not to get mad.

'i shouldn't have to. but that's how you are, y'know?' he shrugs, another swig, another chuckle, 'makin' dinner and everything, you must've been out there makin' eyes at everyone if you made my favorite.'

'i wasn't doing that,' you urge, voice raising, tears threatening to pool, 'i just made it cause you like it, cause it makes you happy.'

'so you just do anything to make sure i don't get mad? do you even know why you do stuff like this for me?' he asks.

'what are you even saying?' your voice raises again, a mild yell. you're frazzled now, heart racing, head already scrambled.

'don't yell, what're you -- fuck babe, see! this is why gina doesn't like me,' he grits through his teeth, 'cause you're always making a scene over nothing. you're over fuckin' reacting.'

'i --' your voice catches in your throat, quieting, 'i'm sorry? i'm sorry.'

'd'you even know what you're sorry for?' he nearly sneers, 'always sayin' your sorry over nothing. y'know somethin' babe, sorry loses it's meaning when you're sayin' it all the time. it doesn't mean anything from you anymore.'

you nod, losing your resilience, too confused about how quickly you got here -- and he's right. you're always apologizing but half the time you don't even know what you're apologizing for. just that you feel like you need to be sorry. like you need to say sorry.

he holds that stare on you like he's waiting for you to speak again. daring you to say something. you stare down at the wood grain of the table, blank and empty -- numb, even. the mug between your hands is warm from how hard you were gripping the ceramic to keep you grounded.

's'what i thought,' he nods, voice a low rumble while he makes his way to the bathroom.

he'd never hit you.

the slam of the bathroom door makes you flinch.

sometimes you wish he would. maybe it would hurt less than this. at least that physical pain fades, right? at least it wasn't the same dull ache on a bruise that won't go away. are you hemmorhaging? do you just not feel it yet? will it be too late when you do?

he slides into bed with you at night after spending the rest of the evening out back with the other couples and families that were smoking ribs, having a little fire out in the brush. he smells like cigarettes. you could hear his grizzly laugh through the windows while you laid in the dark of your bedroom. too tired after the way he spoke to you to do anything else. everyone's favorite mechanic loverboy in the park.

you feel his fingertips on your shoulder, one of them gliding down the slope of your arm. he presses his lips to your shoulder blade, your eyes shut -- blearing with tears from that dull ache.

'dinner was really good, baby,' he says softly, a whisper.

you try to get out a thank you but it becomes a choke, a sniffle, a gasp. then a cry and then a harder one, remembering how he rolled his eyes at you two weeks ago when you cried after he threw out the love letter you wrote him for your four year anniversary because 'you didn't mean any of that shit anyway'.

he sits up, shushing you softly while his hand smooths over your bicep.

'what is it, sweetheart?' he asks, 'are you mad at me?'

you shake your head no. looking up at him, lying flat on your back. he looks so handsome in the moonlight, concerned eyes and tilted head peering down at you. 'n-no, ed. m'not mad at y-you,' you push out, head still scrambled. you feel guilty about last weekend, about going out today. what if guys really were looking? you know you weren't looking at them but what if they got the wrong idea? gina doesn't know what she's talking about, she's always hated ed. ever since they were kids.

'you just havin' one of your moments?' he asks, soothing voice, 'yeah?' one of your moments. always just one of your moments. couldn't be him, you're just -- maybe you're over thinking it.

'yeah,' you nod, 'm'sorry i went out with gina, baby i -- she didn't say anything bad about you.'

'it's okay,' he smiles, 'm'not mad at you. never mad at my girl.'

'no?' you ask, swallowing hard -- your heart leaps. he's not mad. maybe he just had a rough day.

'no doll, m'never mad at you. you always think i'm mad at you,' he says, thumb brushing away the tears that threatened to roll down the sides of your face to your hair line, 'you need me to kiss it better?'

another sob rips through you, nodding, because you do. you need it. and you sort of hate that you need it. you hate yourself for needing it. but he kisses you and it does feel better. he knows how to kiss you just right, he always has. he knows just where to put his hands. just how to pull away and brush his nose against yours. how to kiss your forehead between affirmations. smooth and understanding, like a movie scene. his kisses are his apologies. his sorry. you accept it every time.

because he doesn't hit you and he never would. in the morning, when the bathroom door slams so hard the walls vibrate, you flinch.

[tae-rhymeswithslay]

TMNT: COLOR CODED Casey Jones

colorcoded au by @camilieroart

im so sorry, it doesn’t really look like him, but I tried 😭. I chose a skating pose, but it took me wayy too long to realize that none of the official drawings of Casey have him in skates, so i just followed those. I also tried to combine his normal clothes with his battle outfit bc i just couldn’t decide which one to draw him in

I literally have SO much to say about this Casey! this little rant is probably gonna go on for way too long lol (feel free not to read)

props to @camilieroart for writing this amazing au bc ive been obsessed ever since i saw it in passing on instagram.

Casey has always been my favorite tmnt character. Ever. Hands down. There was something about him that I just adored. As a kid and even now. That being said, finding a version of Casey that was so much like me was like an early Christmas. I was already sucked in to the AU since like, last year when I found it for the first time. But I only recently read through Casey’s backstory and found out that he was korean, which only made me double down on how much I loved his character in Colorcoded.

(I really hope this next part doesn’t come off as narcissistic, its really just me full of admiration for this character and AU)

It was incredible to see a version of my favorite character like EVER (not even joking) that looked a lot like me and came from a background a lot like mine. Beyond just his skin tone being dark and matching mine (which I think I commented about already) this Casey seriously feels like looking into a mirror of myself from a few years ago. Both visually and mentally. It’s refreshing to see Korean characters that aren’t reduced to the asian standards of beauty, but still look like their ethnicity, because we absolutely DO exist. From my darker skin color to even my wide nose shape which I share with this Casey, I was told constantly as a kid (by other koreans mind you) that I didn’t ‘look korean enough’. So it’s nice to see those features that made me so insecure growing up presented in someone I admired during that same period of time. Even Casey’s hair looks so much like the cut I had/was forced to get (lol) growing up, down to the M shaped bangs. Though I wasn’t allowed to grow out my hair like Casey has in the back, it was something I always wanted to do as a kid. I even got into ice skating BECAUSE of Casey, like, I adore him so so much.

Though I’m lucky enough to have a family much healthier than Casey’s, I still found myself relating a lot to him in terms of his Korean-American identity. Growing up, my parents wanted me to learn as much English as possible as opposed to Korean, but they switched mindsets when it came to my younger sister (Yeah! i’ve also got a younger sister too, and by just EXTREME coincidence, she also has a similar sounding name Hae-in 해인) so she speaks a lot more Korean than I do. I still struggle a little bit when speaking conversational Korean, even though it’s technically my ‘first’ language lol. My family even calls me by my english name and my sister by her Korean name. I’m not sharing my legal name online, but i’ve got the same deal as Casey where I’ve got an English legal name, but also an unofficial korean name which was REALLY surprising to read, because literally none of my korean friends have the same name situation. Beyond little nit-picky things (that don’t even count as mistakes, really) in his conversations with his sister, you got the Korean conversations down really well (like, the cadence and grammar and stuff, idk how to explain it, but it really sounds like a conversation i might’ve had with my little cousins, just translated)

TLDR: i absolutely ADORE this Casey and I see just SO much of myself in him. He is wonderfully written as a character and you nailed his korean-american identity to a T (according to me and my personal experiences at least)

SORRY FOR THE RANT

:)

[flymmsy]

do you think that gort used to like karlach at some point? or was he just always faking it to get what he wants? curious about your interpretation of their relationship

I actually wrote about that here! (TLDR: He very much admired her, but Gortash has a fucked up way of showing admiration.)

Karlach and Gortash’s relationship is fascinating. I feel strongly that it was platonic, with perhaps some wiggle room on Karlach's part only because she is really quick to say "it wasn't like that." But I do think that Karlach became one of only a handful of people that Gortash (thought he) cared about.

Gortash on a very base level would never put his security into the hands of someone he didn't trust. A lot of people really wonder "Why Karlach?" - and that's a great question to ask, what is this ~19 y/o (roughly) going to do for you? But it is because it is a bizarre pick that we should look deeper - on the one hand, she's young and impressionable and he can mold her - thats an obvious motivator. But on the other, I strongly believe Gortash saw himself in young Karlach. I also love Karlach and don't want to diminish anything that Gortash did to her, but I am a little skeptical of her "I didn't recognize evil when I saw it" line. I think that's not entirely true - I do think Karlach knew more about what he was (not a Banite, but an Arms Dealer), but she was young enough that she didn't quite understand the true ramifications of that. I think she knew her boss was bad, but didn't think too deeply into just how bad he was and the consequences of his actions. Plus, he gave her financial security she literally never had. As a person who grew up in poverty, yea I'd be willing to overlook a certain degree of shit too for that security.

[And to those who might be unhappy with that take - you're not giving Karlach enough credit. Someone who did bad things/was around bad people and ended up developing into an insanely incredible person in spite of it (and in opposition to it) is a testament to her character AND way more impressive than someone who was just blind and ignorant. She's so much more than that.]

Even more interesting is how genuinely happy Gortash is to see Karlach if you play her origin. It only comes out in this very quick origin-specific interaction - but he actually laughs and sounds different than the entire rest of the game.

"By the Black Hand, I'd recognize that voice anywhere."

Now, I'm insane and overanalyze voice actor's performances all the time, but his voice is immediately rougher and his cadence is different before it shifts back into the regular Gortash voice immediately in the next sentence - "Karlach - it's been an eternity" - as if he's caught himself slipping into something he shouldn't have. Will the real Enver Gortash please stand up?

I've also written about how I think Gortash is genuinely surprised that Karlach is angry with him/blames him for the Hells. It reveals so much about how he's so delusional about his own trauma.

So - in short - I feel that Gortash would say Karlach was one of the closest people to him ever and fully mean it. It's just that she happened to be close to someone who was a terrible, terrible person.

[randomwriting-misc]

See How It Shines

Astarion has a plan, a practical, life-saving scheme. He doesn't need the realization that the druid traveling with him is unlike anyone he has met before. In which Astarion has feelings for the first time Inspired by Hozier's Abstract (Psychopomp) Astarion x Drow Druid!Tav 935 words I headcanon her as a circle of stars even though that is not available in BG3

TW: Animal Death, slight, tiny tiny Act I spoilers

“What are you doing?” Gale shouts as they watch their party Druid gasp and run towards the sound of an animal yipping. She doesn’t answer as she moves with a speed Astarion has only seen in the heat of battle. They all pick up the pace to follow behind but are stopped in their tracks by the troubling image in front of them.

Astarion watches her lean down over the creature, the scent of blood and gore thick in the heated air. It’s overwhelming to his senses as he holds back a gag at the putrid scene, but it doesn’t seem to even register to the Drow. The hyena was panting, eyes wide and frantic looking at her in confusion. She shushes the animal, and with a calming voice, begins to speak.

What is she doing? Is she crazy? He knew teaming up with a Druid would come back to bite him, no matter how easy it was to work his charms on nature lovers with their heads in the cloud.

“It’s okay darling, it’s okay, you’re going to be okay,” she coos, slowly petting its head. The tell-tale tingle of magic surrounds him as he sees a soft glow emitting from her palm, and the tension in the animal's body releases as it leans its snout into her hand. It finally hits Astarion, the realization of what is occurring here, the smell, the blood, and the carnage. Gnolls had savaged their way through what looked to be a caravan of merchants.

“We need to leave! Gnolls could be around any corner,” he hisses, his fellow companions sucking in a sharp breath of air, but the little Druid makes no move to leave. Instead, she holds her hand up, as if to signal them all to stop. He doesn’t know when she became such a force within the group, but her presence was commanding, and everyone froze.

Never in a thousand lifetimes could Astarion predict the actions of the odd elf next. She sat on the blood-soaked ground, unfazed, as she rests the creatures head in her lap. It’s gentle, so gentle that Astarion can’t remember a time he’s seen something cared for so delicately. Then, the Druid starts to hum. It’s an unfamiliar tune, probably something from the Underdark. It’s whimsical and a little haunting in its cadence.

Astarion realizes he has been holding his breath, a lump forming in his throat. He would have killed the creature. A gnoll ripping out from its body would have been a gruesome nuisance. It would have been a mercy. He’s never seen mercy like this, comforting, safe, and so incredibly sad. Why is he suddenly so overwhelmed with his own sadness? Why is she treating such a disturbing creature with such… compassion?

She continues to pet the wounded animal, its fate sealed long before the party stumbled upon the scene. Its eyes are closed, breathing soft and even as she continues to hum. He notices her eyes are closed now too, with a furrowed brow and slightly scrunched nose as she sways back and forth, rocking the animal to its final sleep.

All the companions are still, watching something so intimate feels like an intrusion. It’s as if the Druid is saying goodbye to her familiar, not a random hyena found on the side of the road moments before.

Astarion notices things about her he’s only noticed in passing before, but it’s as if he is really seeing her for the first time. Her hair, he thought it was black, but he can see where the sun hits her that it’s a deep blue. It’s falls down her back in loose waves, swaying back and forth with her movement. She has freckles forming on her shoulders and across her nose and cheekbones, unusual for a Drow, but emphasizing the time she has spent in the sun, potentially hurting herself in her goal of helping others. Her skin, pale and scarred, looks soft and smooth under his gaze. He thought it was strange a Drow could be as white as him, but she’s not. Her skin is a pale purple.

She is graceful. She’s beautiful.

Astarion hasn’t found anything beautiful in quite a long time. He doesn’t know what to do with these emotions, how to keep playing this flirtatious game of manipulation. Was it even working? Were the soft smiles he read as bashful really just her placating his advances? Druids are wise, despite their carefree lifestyle, he had forgotten that it seems.

A tear falls down her face as the hyena takes its final breath, slow and soft, before going limp in her arms.

“May Eilistraee guide you to peace,” she whispers, a tear falling off her cheek to the animal. Taking a moment, she lays its head down, and flowers appear around the body. Standing, she sniffs, before rolling her shoulders back and standing straight. Her gaze hardens as she reaches for the weapon her side.

“Let’s go deal with these creatures before they take any more lives.”

Her demeanor has shifted completely, her once kind eyes now set on vengeance. Revenge. Standing up to fix the unbalance created here, to bring justice to these animals who cannot do it themselves.

Astarion thinks he would follow her anywhere.

The thought is quickly shaken away with a feeling of dread in his gut, no. He has too much going on, avoid Cazador, avoid growing tentacles, and gain unprecedented power. There’s no room for a kindhearted druid with stars in her shining purple eyes to distract him.

When did he notice the color of her eyes?

[onestormeynight]

Nellie Meets A Client

For the first time, Nellie was allowing a client to come over to her house. She had ghost-written several biographies for him before and had a great working relationship. There was a new project he wanted to start that he wanted to discuss in person. Initially he had offered to discuss it over coffee. Nellie countered by offering to have him come over to her house instead.

Yousef Grouber was incredibly polite. Nellie had been all nerves at the idea of him coming over without someone else in the house she knew. She briefly considered asking Ida or Fatima to pop over before getting grip on her courage. However, once he was there, Nellie could feel immediately how unnecessary that would have been.

He maintained a respectful distance from her. He didn't try to touch her, even to shake her hand upon meeting her face to face for the first time. His cadence was even and slow. Nellie felt as if time would have slowed itself just to listen to Yousef explain a concept.

"Gothic novels aren't your usual project," Nellie said. "Straying away from the biographies?"

"I believe it is time for a new challenge. The Sundial by Shirley Jackson was the book that got me into reading. I read Wuthering Heights every Autumn. It is a genre that holds a great deal of sentimental value to me. I wish to do it justice. Together I think we could pull it off."

Nellie thought about it. "I've never tried, honestly. I mean, there are my poems that are heavily Poe and Lovecraft inspired, but I don't share those with anyone."

"Oh? Why not?"

"I didn't write them for others. I wrote them for me. I still write them for me."

"So, you are saying that you hold back in the writing you do for others and withhold your true voice from the public?"

"Well...I suppose I never thought of it that way. But yes. Someone reading my poems feels a lot like them seeing me naked."

"But it is more intimate than even that, is it not?"

Nellie raised an eyebrow at him.

"You are not just exposing your body, you are exposing your soul. Your authenticity. It is scary to stand in one's own raw truth in front of others and be seen for everything you are inside."

"I...yes. Exactly."

"Because it is not perfect. It is messy and sad. It is fear. Vulnerable. Because you are used to wearing a mask that makes your pain easier for others to bear. If they saw raw and imperfect, you fear they would turn from you. That they would reject the truth of you."

"Stop."

Yousef nodded. "Of course. Do not worry, Ms. Harper, that is why I asked you and no one else. I trust you have it in you to create this story with me."

Yousef collected his things shortly after that. Before he left, he looked at Nellie and said, "I hope, one day, you trust me enough to share a poem with me. Have a good day, Ms. Harper."

"Nellie. You can call me Nellie."

Yousef's lips turned up in the most microscopic and expressive of ways. "Have a good day, Nellie."

((prev)) ((next))