#the way this actually like made me sit up straight

[beloveds-embrace]

(even more designationless!reader…)

The idea had clung to you like a ghost, silent and persistent. A whisper of possibility, a gnawing what if that refused to let go, lurking in the quiet spaces between your thoughts.

It started as an offhanded remark- just a passing suggestion from an Omega medic flipping through your file, his frown deepening at the blank space where a designation should be. He’d leaned in closer, like he was sharing a deep secret even though you’d heard of it before.

“You know, there’s a new procedure. A way to synthesize a scent, balance your hormones. Might help you fit in better.”

At the time, you’d laughed it off, a dry, hollow sound. You were fine. You had learned to live without instincts, without scent cues. You had a pack now- wasn’t that such a wonderful thought? You, of all people, with a pack- and they never made you feel lesser for it.

But still…

Still, you would never stop noticing the way strangers hesitated when they got too close, noses twitching as they tried to find something that wasn’t there. The way some looked at you like you were an anomaly, a hollow space where something vital should be.

The pack never made you feel wrong. But the rest of the world did before and after them.

So, you started actually looking into it. Quietly; and what you found was terrifying.

The procedure wasn’t just some simple injection or pill, wasn’t like the time you got yourself a pheromone perfume. It was invasive- gene therapy, hormone treatments, scent gland augmentation. Synthetic pheromones would be forced into your system, rewriting the very foundation of your body’s chemistry. The risks of rejection and infections were high. The list of potential side effects was even higher- neurological damage, sensory overload, organ stress. Death.

It wasn’t just expensive. It wasn’t just painful. It was dangerous.

And yet, the thought had taken a root far too deep to be simply pulled out.

What would it be like to walk into a room and be known? To have a scent that soothed your pack, something that would mark them the way they marked you with touches and borrowed clothes and lingering words? The pheromone perfume had been temporary, but this- it could be permanent. A cure.

It took weeks before you built up the courage to bring it up to your pack; weeks of staring at catalogues and brochures, google searches all on the costs, the risks, the very, very few who had tried it.

Sitting in the nest one evening, curled between them, you hesitated before you gathered enough courage and spoke. “I found a way to get a scent.”

The reaction was immediate, though you weren’t surprised. They’ve likely heard of the procedure before.

Johnny turned his head sharply from where he had been sprawled beside you, brow furrowing. Kyle, who had been playing absently with your fingers, froze. John, seated at the edge of the nest with a book in his lap, went still. And Simon- Simon growled. A low, rumbling thing that vibrated through your ribs, curling up inside your chest like a warning.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Your throat went dry. “You know about that procedure, right?” your words were careful, hesitant. “It’s… expensive. But it can create a scent for me. A real one.”

Silence. Then-

“No.”

John’s voice was sharp, absolute. Not angry, not yet. But firm in a way that brooked no argument. A command all on its own.

Your stomach twisted, and a deep frown etched itself onto your face. “I just thought-”

“No,” Simon repeated, harsher this time, sitting up straight. His eyes burned into yours, dark and furious. “Who the fuck put that idea in your head?”

You faltered, the hesitant hope in your chest slowly fanning out. “It’s not- I wasn’t—”

“You dinnae need fixing, hen.”

“It’s not about fixing,” you argued, pulse quickening. Why weren’t they giving you a chance to explain? “It’s about- I don’t know, being normal? Being able to-”

“You are normal,” Kyle interrupted, his voice thick, pain threaded around each word. “Christ, love, what made you think you weren’t?”

Frustration bubbled up, clogging your thoughts. “You don’t get it,” you snapped, and the words poured out, raw and aching. “None of you do. You’ve never had to live without it. Never had to wonder if you belonged because you don’t have the one thing that ties you to everyone else!”

John’s exhale was sharp, scrubbing a hand over his face and beard. He looked at you- really looked at you, and his face tensed even further. “And you think putting yourself through hell to force a scent into your system is the answer?”

You hesitated, exposed under their scrutiny, laid bare even in spite of the layers you were wearing.

“You’d risk your life for this?”

“People go through hormone therapy all the time-”

“Not like this,” Kyle shook his head, immediately cutting that line of thought off. “This isn’t just hormone theraph. This is gene-altering shit. You read the side effects, love? The risks?”

You had. And now, under their gazes, the weight of it pressed heavy on your chest.

Ghost shifted closer, holding your arm, face tight. “You’re not doing this.”

“You can’t just tell me what I can and can’t do with my own body!”

Price’s jaw tightened, eyes dark with something unreadable, something heavy. When he finally spoke, it was rough, edged with the kind of steel that only came from deep, unwavering conviction.

“You’re right.”

For a second, your breath caught, because you hadn’t expected him to say that. Did you-?

“We can’t tell you what to do with your body,” he continued, low but firm. “But we can stop you from hurting yourself. I will not allow you to go through that damn procedure.”

The words hit like a fist to the gut.

Simon exhaled sharply, tilting his head like he couldn’t believe you had even considered it. “You’d put yourself through that- all that danger, all that risk- just to what? Smell a little different?”

You swallowed, and then, after a heavy moment, nodded.

Kyle leaned in, wrapping himself around you, protective. “You,” he hissed. “You think some synthetic, lab-made scent could ever be worth you getting hurt?”

Your throat felt tight, and you looked away, only for Johnny to let out a rough, disbelieving laugh. “Jesus, lass. You think we’d ever want some artificial shite over you?”

You opened your mouth, but no words came. “I just thought… maybe it would make things easier.” You admitted eventually, voice small and weak, avoiding their eyes. You’d thought… it might even make your family care.

Gaz inhaled sharply, like your words had hurt. “Easier for who?”

The question left you hollow, because you knew the answer.

Not for them.

Never for them.

John sighed, rubbing his temples before reaching out, cupping your cheek with one calloused hand and forcing you to look at him. “Love,” he murmured, and his voice had softened now, rough edges worn down to something gentler, something aching. “We don’t need you to smell like us to know you’re ours. We don’t need a scent to claim you, or to carry your scent.” His thumb brushed against your cheek, touch warm. “You’re already part of this pack.”

The weight of his words settled deep in your chest, curling around your ribs, something painful and good all at once.

For so long, you had felt other. Like something was missing. But here, surrounded by them, their warmth pressing into you, their hands grounding you-

You could almost convince yourself you were whole.

Simon let out a slow breath and reached for you, pulling you into his lap with a kind of desperate, hungry care, his arms curling around you like he could somehow shield you from your own thoughts. Johnny pressed against your side, warm and solid, his grip firm where he held onto your wrist. Kyle leaned in, his forehead pressing against your shoulder, and Price wrapped an arm around all of you, anchoring you to them.

And you let yourself believe them.

Omegaverse masterlist

[fairqves]

୨୧ PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

───── IN WHICH your ex boyfriend attempts to win you back with multiple case scenarios!

(🐰) ⟡ 𝗖𝗔𝗧𝗔𝗟𝗢𝗚𝗨𝗘 — ex! 𝓈unghoon & 𝑓! reader .. fluff exes 2 lovers ♡ ◞ wc 1.4K 𓂅 warnings : profanities, kissing.

𝖱𝖤𝖡𝖫𝖮𝖦𝖲 𝖠𝖯𝖯𝖱𝖤𝖢𝖨𝖠𝖳𝖤𝖣 ૮₍ ˃ ⤙ ˂ ₎ა

BREAKING UP WITH PARK SUNGHOON WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A POWER MOVE.

you were the girl everyone wanted to be—class president, head cheerleader, the girl who never seemed to have a bad hair day.

dating sunghoon, the captain of the school’s ice hockey team, had been the ultimate match.

you were quite literally the golden couple, with his icy, cold demeanor balanced by your warm, bubbly personality. on the outside, you two were perfect.

but on the inside? that was another story.

the breakup took place two weeks ago, and the sheer memory of it still made you grit your teeth. ── 𝖱𝖤𝖲𝖳 𝖡𝖤𝖫𝖮��!

“why do you even want to be with me, hoon?” you’d finally snapped after one of his annoyed, cold and distant replies during an argument. you were frustrated to say the least, tired of feeling like your relationship was more about image than anything real.

“do you actually care about me? or do you just care about being the ‘perfect couple’? or the way we look together?”

sunghoon had stood there, frozen as if he were one of the ice sculptures at his hockey matches, completely silent. that had been the last and final straw for you.

“you know what?” you said grabbing your bag aggressively, holding back tears. “forget it. i don’t want to be in a relationship with someone who doesn’t care enough to fight for me.”

and that was that—you left.

you expected sunghoon to move on quickly, thinking the longest he’d mourn your relationship for would be a few weeks maximum.

he didn’t seem like the type to get hung up on anything, let alone an ex girlfriend. but much to your surprise, that’s not what happened.

ACT 01:

the first time you realized park sunghoon wasn’t going to let you go so easily was during a typical school week hockey game.

it was a friday night, and the rink was packed with everyone on campus—and the rival teams supporters.

you had gone to support your best friend yujins’ boyfriend, one of the players on the same team as sunghoon, and you were trying your best to ignore the way your heart clenched every time you caught a glimpse of sunghoon skating oh-so ethereally across the ice.

he looked as composed as ever—as if the breakup didn’t phase him in any way whatsoever.

his jaw was clenched in determination, his movements were calculated and precise—but when the puck slid toward him in the third period of the game, he completely missed it.

“whoa, that’s not normal..is sunghoon okay?” yujin whispered, leaning closer to you.

you frowned. “i don’t know. that’s not like him.”

what happened next made your jaw drop. instead of chasing after the puck, sunghoon skated straight to where you were sitting in the stands.

“what is he—”

before you could finish, he stopped in front of you, his helmet tucked under his arm, and called out:

“y/n!”

the crowd fell silent, all eyes darting onto you. your cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“what?” you hissed.

“can we talk?” he said, his voice echoing through the rink.

you stood up, shocked to the core and glaring at him with bewilderment. “are you serious right now? you’re literally in the middle of a game!”

“of course i’m serious—i’m serious about you,” he shot back, his face completely straight and blank as if his words held no weight whatsoever.

someone in the crowd whistled, and in this very moment you wish the ground would swallow you whole.

“you’re fucking insane,” you muttered before storming off with embarrassment.

ACT 02:

sunghoon’s next attempt came the following monday during lunch break—you were sitting at your usual table with yujin and a few of the other cheerleaders when he walked in, his hockey bag slung over his shoulder.

“uh oh…” yujin whispered, elbowing you. “ice boy at six o’clock.”

you turned just as sunghoon approached your table.

“y/n,” he said, his tone as pleading as ever, “can we talk please?”

“i’m eating,” you replied, not looking up from your tray—although most of it was gone already. “no problem. then i’ll talk,” he said, pulling a chair over to sit next to you.

“can’t he take a hint…” yujin mumbled beside you in amusement.

your friends were staring, barely concealing their grins and squeals as sunghoon reached into his bag and pulled out a carefully folded piece of lined paper. he cleared his throat, unfolding it.

you raised an eyebrow. “what’s that?”

“a list,” he said, holding it up with a proud and confident grin. “of reasons why we’re the perfect match.”

you groaned, burying your face in your hands with a whine. “sunghoon, no.”

“reason one,” he began, shushing you. “you love iced americanos. i hate iced americanos. opposites attract.”

your friends started giggling, and you shot them a warning look.

“reason two,” he continued, “you’re loud, and i’m quiet. we balance.”

“sunghoon—”

“reason three,” he said, his voice softening as he shyly rubbed the nape of his neck, “you’re the only person who’s ever made me feel like… i don’t know—like i’m more than just the hockey guy.”

well—that caught you off guard. for a moment, you couldn’t think of a reply.

but of course, he then he ruined it by adding: “reason four, we look really good in pictures together.”

you glared at him, standing up and grabbing your tray. “yeah, no. i can’t do this right now.”

ACT 03: THE FINAL ATTEMPT

you had gone up to the schools rooftop during your free period, expecting to have a quiet break to yourself.

instead to your dismay, you found sunghoon sitting on the edge of the railing, holding a thermos and looking out at the freshly coated snowy campus.

“what are you doing here, sunghoon?” you asked, crossing your arms in exhaustion at the similar game of cat and mouse.

he turned, his expression unreadable to you. “i’m sorry..i just— i wanted to see you.”

you sighed, sitting down a few feet away from him. “you’ve seen me plenty. what do you want this time?”

“i want you to know that i’m truly sorry,” he said, his voice quiet as he played with his fingers nervously.

you looked at him, shocked and pleasantly surprised by the vulnerability in his tone.

“i’m know i’m not good at… talking about my feelings,” he admitted, fidgeting with the thermos. “but that doesn’t mean i don’t feel them.”

your chest tightened. “sunghoon—”

“i know i made you feel like you didn’t matter, and didn’t show you love,” he said, cutting you off.

“like i cared more about how we looked than how we felt. but that’s not true. you’ve always been more to me than..than the ‘perfect couple’ thing.”

you stared at him, the frustration and hurt you’d been grasping onto so tightly beginning to melt away.

“i don’t care if we’re a perfect couple,” you said softly. “i just need to know you care—i need to know if you truly care for me.”

he hesitated for a moment, then held out the thermos.

“i made hot chocolate,” he said. “because you always said you wanted someone to bring you hot chocolate on a cold day.”

you blinked, startled by the gesture. to a strangers eye—it was small. but to you, it was sunghoon telling you that he did in fact care.

“okay,” you said, taking the thermos.

“okay?” he repeated, hope flickering in his eyes.

you nodded, smiling and feeling a heavy weight off your shoulders for the first time in weeks. “okay.”

NO MORE ACTS.

by the next hockey game, the joy around school was back.

everyone was talking about how the ‘it’ couple was “official” again, and while you normally hated the childish gossip, you couldn’t help but feel a flutter in your chest every time someone mentioned it.

after the game, sunghoon skated over to your section, his helmet under his arm.

“hot chocolate after this?” he asked, a teasing grin tugging at his lips.

“sure,” you said, grinning.

as he turned to leave, he stopped and glanced back at you, his expression softer as his cheeks flushed pink. “can i get a kiss?”

you snorted. “no.”

“pleaseee?” he said, dragging out the word dramatically.

“no.”

“babe,” he whined, stepping closer to the railing. “please, please, please?”

you rolled your eyes, fighting off the grin making its way onto your face as you leaned over slightly. “fine, just one.”

the kiss was short and quick, barely more than a brush of your lips against his—but when you pulled back, the sight of his smile was so bright that you couldn’t help but laugh in adoration.

“you’re so stupid,” you said, shaking your head.

“and you love it,” he replied, skating away with a hand blown kiss.

you couldn’t deny that.

© FAIRQVES 2025 do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

NOTE. new layout WOOHOO !! semester two has been violently kicking my ass and it’s only been 2 days… idk anymore guys i’m severely unhappy and have 818282 mental breakdowns a day but oh well 😞✊

୨୧ TAGLIST ‹𝟹 @mioons @nshmuras @suneng @pnghoon @shawnyle @laylasbunbunny @privareum @briefsaladfun @cyjzzl @sol3chu @txtlyn @d-dilemma @deezbin @iluvnikism @rikibwn @wonsprincess @niawonn @pockyyasii @kiss4noo @nineooooo @loves0ft @ancnymcnzjy @dazzlingjaeyun : COMMENT OR SEND AN ASK TBA.

[infiniteglitterfall]

Incorrect.

Happy 50th anniversary to the first article that came up when I googled "'transsexual lesbian' 1974."

(I picked a year at random, and searched for transsexual instead of trans because nobody was using trans as shorthand back then.)

Gay Community News.

February 22, 1975

"The Lesbian/Transsexual Misunderstanding."

By Margo. (Illustrated by a large grayscale photo of a long-haired lesbian doing a sort of show-offy squat pose in a pleated floor-length maxi skirt. actually she might be sitting on a stool we can't see, idk my image processing skills are crap. The photo is captioned, "This is Margo!" I'm going to bold things here and there for emphasis and easier reading; the original just bolded the beginnings of some paragraphs for easier reading.)

Being both a radical Lesbian and a male-to-female transsexual, I find myself at a vortex of conflict between the Lesbian and transsexual communities. In my more pessimistic moments, I sometimes feel as if the whole Lesbian community is down on me for being transsexual, and vice versa; in my more optimistic moments, I feel like writing articles like this one.

Although a few people have made Lesbian/transsexual controversies an arena for sheer hatred and bigotry, my hope is that honest misunderstandings between the overlapping Lesbian and transsexual communities are at the root of most problems.

To begin with, I myself as a Lesbian feminist have observed a great deal of sexism and heterosexual chauvinism among male-to-female transsexuals which must be upsetting to any Lesbian or even any straight feminist.

For example, Jan Morris (on the Dick Cavett Show) spoke about the "tragic" case of a male-to-female transsexual who desired Lesbian relationships after surgery: Cavett commented that the idea of a transsexual choosing Lesbianism was just too confusing to discuss further. As a Lesbian who considers love between women to be simple and very natural, I was depressed and angry.

Yet often transsexuals on television and other media make Ms. Morris seem feminist. They extol home and family as the essence of femaleness, reject gayness as immoral or unnatural, and define themselves in relationship men. When I hear such interviews, I find myself virtually crawling up a wall; it does not surprise me that other Lesbian women react in the same way.

At the same time, I have experienced a great deal of pain from the conduct of some Lesbians toward me as a transsexual. The dilemmas I face are almost identical to those faced by Lesbians in the feminist movement a few years ago. If I proclaim my transsexualism, I will be perceived as separating myself from my natively female Lesbian sisters; if I say nothing unless and until I am asked, I will be judged as hiding some vile secret.

Last year I became involved with a group of Lesbian anarchists; I was immediately accepted as myself, a very freaky Lesbian. Then, at the beginning of the next meeting, everyone froze toward me; I had become a "problem" to them, as Lesbians were a problem for straight feminists not so long ago. "Was it true?", they asked in so many words, as if this were the Fifties and I was rumored to be a former Communist. In the end I won at least temporary acceptance; but I did so by apologizing for rather than celebrating my struggle of 22 years to become the woman I felt was me.

On another occasion I was at a feminist bar, where I met a woman who did not know me but who had put down Lesbian transsexuals in general. We got along well; she related to me simply as a Lesbian woman (which I am), and I discovered that she also was a sensitive human being. Yet I was haunted by the feeling that if she knew my past she would probably have rejected me, even at the same time as felt that my past should be irrelevant.

It is like being Gay in a job situation where the boss does not know. You are not hiding it, you are just being your natural self; but you wonder how the boss would react if she/he knew. There is a strange closety tension about it all. Can I feel comfortable among other Lesbians who accept me as the real person I am, but would reject me if they knew how I got there?

At this point in time there are many transsexuals who would throw Lesbians to the patriarchal wolves as long as they could live in their desired submissive "feminine" roles; there are some Lesbians who would ignore or even trample over transsexuals if this served their neat and rigid "revolutionary" plans. I would like to explore why it is that transsexuals ignore or even ridicule Lesbians and vice versa, but first we must deal with some aspects of human sexuality which are often confused.

In discussions of both gayness and transsexualism, there are three concepts which often get tangled or confused. First, there is one's overall feeling of being female or male, which I will refer to as gender identity. Secondly, there is one's preference in forming intense love relationships for one or both sexes (or even for a compatible human being regardless of sex), which I will call sexual preference, although I might prefer the term "amatory" preference in order to stress the element of love whether or not it is genitally expressed (more on this later). Finally, there is one's conformity or defiance (or simple ignoring) of sex roles, the arbitrary sexist definitions of what is supposed to be "feminine" or "masculine."

To begin with, many confuse gender identity with sex roles; and such confusion makes it impossible to understand transsexualisin. Perhaps I can make the distinction clear by considering a situation which many natively female Lesbians experience.

A radical feminist may challenge all sex roles: she may joyously celebrate her "masculine" strengths: she may repudiate all patriarchal definitions of what it means to be a woman; yet she still feels that she is female, and that all women are her sisters. Let us refer to this total affirmative feeling as femaleness.

In contrast, the patriarchal system speaks of femininity; this means being submissive, being a sex object, and above all being attractive to men rather than to oneself or one's sisters. Thus radical feminism means celebrating femaleness (sisterhood, women's culture, etc.) in our own terms while rejecting all sex role barriers (e.g. accepting both sensitivity and strength while rejecting both submission and domination).

I have found that living as a woman full-time for the past 16 months, celebrating my femaleness, has made me much stronger and more "masculine" in many ways. Musically, I find myself belting out some very gutsy Blues which border on screaming; I find this one of the heaviest expressions of my femaleness and Lesbianism. Recently a gay male at a coffeehouse called me a diesel dyke; I thanked him for letting me know that I have character!

In other words, as radical feminists we feel a deep sense of being women and sisters, but this feeling is beyond any definition or stereotype. This is true of us whether we are natively female or transsexual. We all face the same paradoxes and dilemmas. Once this is understood, a lot of Lesbian/transsexual tension may suddenly vanish.

Sometimes feminists have asked me why, if I consider sex roles both unjust and ridiculous, do I not just live as a man and express both my "feminine" and my "masculine" qualities in that way? In doing this they are assuming that somehow I have chosen to be a woman so that I can be "feminine."

In fact, I have chosen to live as a woman simply because that is what I am, and because only by affirming my femaleness and sisterhood with all women can I be myself, strong and filled with energy as well as sensitive. How would these feminists feel about living as men? Obviously they would consider it a masquerade, and would demand their right to celebrate their femaleness. So do I.

Moving to another confusion which many Gay people have battled against, gender identity must not be confused with sexual preference. Lesbians (as opposed to female-to-male transsexuals) are not biological females who have a male gender identity: they are simply women who love other women. Gay men (as opposed to male-to-female transsexuals) are not biological males who have female gender identities, but are men who love men.

People who are trapped in the het trip often find it contradictory for me to be transsexual and Lesbian, because they assume that to be a woman is to love men and vice versa. Thus my parents alternately would suggest that the main reason I wanted the change was to relate in straight ways to men; or, they would argue that if I were going to relate to women, why do I need to be a woman myself. My parents are two of the best meaning straights I have met, but I guess that they are still a bit confused.

However, there is no reason that my situation need be confusing to Gay people. Regardless of my native genitals, I feel myself to be a woman who loves women, or simply a Lesbian. As I wrote above, I consider love between women to be a natural thing, whether the women are native or transsexual. The problem is that sometimes even Gay people apply het logic to transsexuals: and I would say that a great majority of male-to-female transsexuals apply het logic to themselves and everyone else. For example, I read an interview in which a transsexual defined Lesbians as "women who want to be men. If I had been at that interview. I would have had some interesting comments to make!

Finally, of course, sexual preference is different from any stereotyped adherence to sex roles. We all know that gay and straight people cannot be separated in general on the basis of sex role behavior: even more importantly, we are struggling to get totally away from the butch/femme trip. For me, being a Lesbian woman means being both strong and sensitive, for love requires both qualities.

Unfortunately, my sister Lesbians sometimes hold anti-transsexual attitudes. By anti-transsexual attitudes, I mean prejudices which would exclude from the Lesbian movement those transsexuals who are living full-time as women, and would exclude them for any reason which would not equally exclude their native sisters. Opposition to sexism in any people, including both transsexuals and Lesbians, is of course necessary! Anti-transsexualism does not refer to this kind of opposition. Rather it refers to prejudice and exclusion directed against transsexuals as a category.

Before analyzing the reasons for anti-transsexualism among Lesbians, I feel it necessary to challenge one argument against even raising this issue: unfortunately, it is an argument which has gained currency in the Gay/feminist press in Boston.

According to this argument, the discussion of transsexualism causes disagreement in the Lesbian movement; and, after all, how many Lesbian transsexuals are there? The conclusion is that the suffering of a few strange people can and should be put safely aside until "after the revolution.

Further, it is sometimes even argued that transsexuals must take the responsibility for this dissension among their native Lesbian sisters; to use the favorite macho-radical phrase, transsexuals "are objectively counter-revolutionary" because they are distracting their native sisters from much more important things. I have been given this argument not only in print but in person.

In the year 1862, a number of Blacks met with President Lincoln to demand emancipation of the slaves. Lincoln replied that the important thing was preserving the Union, with or without slavery. Further, he argued that the slaves and Black people generally, were responsible for the Civil War, since without them there would be nothing for white people to fight about!

In the early 1960's, during a peace march in the American South, it was argued that segregation should not be raised as an issue, since that would alienate the white population of the region from joining in the struggle against nuclear war. After the world was saved, some people argued, then Jim Crow could be tackled.

Later in that decade, when women first demanded their rights in the male-dominated Left movements, they were put down: after all, women did not constitute a class or oppressed group, according to the going macho ideological definitions.

Little things like feminism could be dealt with after the working class (or Third World or whatever) was liberated. Further, women who demanded their own freedom were accused of being counter-revolutionary, since they were causing division and conflict among their male comrades.

At about the same time, Gay people were also accused of being "bourgeois decadents;" furthermore, they were obviously capitalist agents who would even stoop so low as to challenge the revolutionary government of Cuba for a few minor imprisonments of homosexual perverts.

Last but not least, around 1969 and 1970 straight feminists attacked Lesbians for "dividing the movement" and for raising issues "irrelevant to the majority of women, irrelevant to the main focus of our movement." Betty Friedan went so far as to call Lesbians "the Lavender Menace," and to suggest that Lesbians were CIA agents sent to disrupt the respectable feminist movement.

Thus it is not surprising that transsexuals should be treated in the same way that Blacks, women, gay people, and Lesbians specifically have been treated, and all in the name of "revolution." We also note that whites, men, and straights find it easier to postpone other people's liberation in the name of radicalism than to confront their own prejudices now. All Lesbians (transsexual and native) should reject this logic of slavery and hypocrisy, and all transsexuals who respect themselves should challenge it aggressively and without hesitation or apology.

At the Congress to Unite Women in 1970, the straight feminists in charge blocked a workshop on Lesbianism. About 20 Lesbians staged a nonviolent takeover of the Congress, in which they humorously and effectively presented the justice of their cause. They demanded that women be united by supporting Lesbian liberation rather than by ignoring or denouncing it. The time has come to unite women regardless of native genitals, and to unite them by all nonviolent means necessary.

Now we come to the specific reasons for anti-transsexualism in the Lesbian community. Of course, one reason is the very genuine mood of anti-Lesbianism among many transsexuals. It is important that we as Lesbians, avoid the classic prejudicial practice of judging all the members of a group by the actions of some.

However, coming to the other reasons. we find that misinformation and outdated sexist attitudes are crucial. The causes are basically: 1. Misinformation about transsexualism; 2. Overly narrow concepts of Lesbianism; 3. Misguided notions of polarization in the Lesbian/feminist struggle; and 4. Clinging to patriarchal definitions of sex and gender.

(This is not the end. Look for more of Margo in future issues.)

And here's a close-up of the sidebar, transcribed in alt text:

[im-so-normal-iswear]

HELLO!

May I request a Yandere Sonic, Shadow and Silver (seperate) with a fem reader where comes from a different reality where they are fictional and somehow the hedgehogs became attached and obsessed with reader, reader is very much aware of their behavior and is also one of the reasons why she wants to go home to her own reality fast.

Sending loves to youu!!🫶🏻🤍

A/n: poll on, so now I'm putting images, I couldn't find any good ones

Yandere triple s x reader

Sonic:

At first, you couldnct believe it, you were in Sonics world.

The rolling green hills, the endless loops, the vibrant colors of the world, it was surreal. And meeting Sonic? That was the best part.

He was exactly like you imagined. Charismatic, funny, energetic. You geeked out about meeting him, and he was amused by how much you already knew about him. Sonic took an immediate liking to you, eager to show you around and let you experience the world firsthand.

The first few days were a dream come true. Running through Green Hill Zone, meeting Tails, going toe-to-toe with Eggman (it was actually more like watching Sonic handle it while you stood on the sidelines). Everything felt like a perfect adventure, straight out of a game.

Then, things started getting... off.

It began subtly. Sonic insisted on staying close to you all the time. You figured it was just him being protective. After all, you were just a human, and this world was full of dangers. But the more time passed, the more suffocating it became.

He started pulling you away from the others, cutting conversations short when you were with Tails or Amy. At first, he made excuses, "Hey, let’s get outta here! I've got something way cooler to show ya!" but you quickly realized he was isolating you.you started getting weird dreams.

You dreamed of your real home, your reality, the place you desperately wanted to return to. But every time you woke up, Sonic was already there, sitting beside you with an unreadable expression.

"Another bad dream?" he asked, his voice casual.

When you admitted what it was about, his expression darkened.

"You really wanna go back, huh?" He leaned closer, his smile strained. "I don't get it. You've got me here. What's better than that?"

The moment you realized something was deeply wrong was when you tried asking Tails about ways to return home.

Sonic snapped.

One second, he was his usual self, the next, he had grabbed your wrist, his grip too tight.

"Why do you keep talking about that?" His voice wavered, his usual confident tone slipping into something more desperate. "Aren't you happy here? With me?"

You tried to reason with him, but his grip only tightened. His eyes, usually bright and full of life, had a wildness to them.

"You belong here now" he murmured, more to himself than to you.

From then on, he never left your side. Your freedom was a distant memory. Anytime you tried sneaking off to talk to Tails, Sonic was there. If you attempted to run, he caught you within seconds, always smiling, always acting like it was a game.

"Aw, c'mon, Y/N, you know you can't outrun me."

Every time you tried to bring up leaving, his mood shifted. His smiles became forced, his voice strained.

"Look." he eventually said one night, his voice eerily soft as he trapped you in his arms. "I don't care what reality you came from. This is where you stay."

No matter how fast you tried to run, Sonic would always be faster.

And he wasn't letting you go.

Shadow:

Unlike Sonic, Shadow wasn't immediately friendly.

He kept his distance when you first arrived in the world, observing you with narrowed, calculating eyes. He didn't trust you, not at first. You were an anomaly, something that shouldn't exist in his reality.

But as time passed, Shadow became curious about you. How did you know so much about him? Why did you seem so comfortable around him when most people feared him?

You intrigued him.

Slowly, he started spending more time around you. He was never openly affectionate, but he showed his care in small ways, keeping you close when woth others, ensuring you never strayed too far, glaring at anyone who got too friendly with you.

And then, one day, you mentioned wanting to go home.

Shadow froze.

"You want to leave?" His voice was cold, unreadable.

You explained everything, the fact that he and his world were fictional in your reality, that you had a life to return to. You expected him to be logical about it.

Instead, his expression darkened.

"No."

You turned back to him. "...No?"

Shadow stepped closer, his eyes burning into yours.

"You belong here. With me."

It wasn't a request. It was a statement.

That was when your nightmare truly began.

Shadow started following you everywhere, wether you were aware or not. Always watching, always near. If you ever tried to leave his sight, he'd appear within seconds, his expression always unreadable.

He sabotaged any attempt you made to leave. If you tried to seek help from Tails or Eggman, their machines mysteriously malfunctioned. If you ran, Shadow found you instantly, his Chaos Control ensuring you never got far.

He never hurt you, but his presence was suffocating. Every conversation ended the same way.

"You can't leave."

There was no reasoning with him.

Shadow wasn't keeping you here out of malice.

He was keeping you here because, to him, you were the only thing left worth protecting.

Even if it meant stealing your freedom.

Silver:

Silver was the sweetest at first.

He was kind, gentle, and eager to help you. When you arrived in his world, he was fascinated, your knowledge, your personality, your very existence intrigued him.

And for a while, everything was perfect.

Silver went out of his way to make you comfortable, ensuring you had everything you needed. He was protective, but not overbearing, at least, not at first.

But then, you mentioned going home.

Silver's expression fell, his ears flattening. "What...? You want to leave?"

You tried to explain, but his hands trembled as he grasped your shoulders.

"You can't leave." His voice wavered, his usual optimism crumbling. "I need you here."

From that moment on, Silver changed.

He became more desperate, always clinging to you one way or another, never being more than three feet from you.

Whenever you tried to argue, he just shook his head, pleading. "Please don't talk like that. I love you, Y/N."

He would do anything to keep you.

And if that meant trapping you in his world forever...

Then so be it.

[captain-huggy-bear]

Ain't That a Kick in the Head

Pairing: Clayton Keller x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Nudity but in a totally non-sexual way (you share a bath)

Summary: You watch Clayton take a puck to the face, suffice to say you are very much worried for your boyfriend at the end of the game.

Notes: Y'know someone needs to psychoanalyse why I thought it was so hot that he took a puck to the face, got 12 stitches, came out, played and still scored? Someone want to explain that one to me?

I've not written Clayton before but @wannabehockeygf has me hooked so...I hope this is okay?

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)

Writing Masterlist

"...that one up high caught Keller, let's hope Clayton is okay...he took that one right up in the face and he's headed to the room for some stitches I would imagine..."

"Keller's girlfriend has stood straight up from her seat, clearly not happy with what she's seen."

"Can you blame her? Keller's just taken a puck straight to the face and I imagine he's going to have more than a couple of stitches to fix that..."

It's an instinctive reaction really, to jump out of your seat at the way the puck soars into Clayton's face, the way he spins and falls to the ice. The blood that you can see pooling underneath his hand as he holds it tight to his eye and brow.

You've seen him get hurt before, seen him take hits to the boards, hits from other players, pucks to the ribs, sticks to the legs, but this...fuck, this was dangerous, this was scary. You're thankful for your seat overlooking the tunnel, thankful that you can reach a hand down as he makes his way off the ice, that even as he clutches a towel to his face to mop up the blood and try to stem the bleeding, he sees you, and reaches out briefly to touch your fingers, an attempt to reassure you that he's okay. That he'll be fine because fuck he knows you're probably freaking out about it.

Then all you can do is sit back down in your seat and wait. Waiting for him to come back out made you feel sick, stomach tied in knots, leg bouncing up and down in anxious impatience. Was he concussed? Was he in need of hospital? Or would it just be a few stitches to stop the bleeding? Had it done any serious damage to his skull? Was he actually okay? Was it just a flesh wound or something deeper?

It was taking too long, far too long, your eyes not even on the game, but on the tunnel waiting for him to reappear, watching people come and go back and forth each one not Clayton. Still you waited for that reappearance.

And reappear he did. Brow coated in blood, 12 stitches holding his face together, swollen, bruising planning it's spots as he stops at your section, looking up at you from the tunnel as you look down.

Your hand reaches out again and this time he holds it properly, fingers intertwining with yours to give your palm a tight squeeze, his ring digging into your skin slightly from how firmly he grips you. Like he needs to reassure you he's still strong, still good even as a blood drip starts to slide from the fresh stitches towards his eye.

"I'm okay, sweet girl," His voice is rough from overuse on the ice and he doesn't linger long, but it's enough to reassure you that he's at least fine, even if his face looks like he's been through the wars.

It's enough for you in that moment, enough for you to let his hand go, to watch him make his way to the bench even as that sick feeling still permeates your gut.

You spend the entirety of the second period watching him like a hawk, assessing to see if he should actually be out on the ice or not, relieved to see him skating well, stable, sturdy. Despite the physical wound he doesn't seem unwell and that is enough to settle you down a little, enough for you to start to enjoy the third period.

An enjoyment that is made 10 times better by Clay's empty net goal firmly confirming Utah's victory over the Winnipeg Jets. The moment the period is over and the players have left the ice you don't waste much time before making your way down to the locker rooms, leaning against the wall and waiting for Clayton to clean up and change.

He's out last, Kess stops to tell you he's just getting some of his stitches redone, and while you appreciate the heads up from the taller man it actually only serves to make you more anxious to see your boyfriend.

When he walks out he looks like he's been through the wars or been mugged badly or had a bad boxing match. New stitches means no quick shower, no water on them for at least a day and he still looks bloody, sweaty and definitely not okay. You can't imagine how uncomfortable he was putting his suit back on when he couldn't even have a proper wash, sweat causing his clothes to stick to his skin. Clayton's always been a stickler for cleanliness and you know he probably feels disgusting, probably hates it almost as much as the injury itself.

"Shit, Clay..." You gasp at seeing his face up close, his eye is bruising into a proper shiner, closing a little from all the swelling that's happening. The skin around starting to go a deep purple. There's an array of angry stitches holding his skin together, 12 to be exact, lined up neatly but clearly the only thing stopping more blood from falling down his face. They've clearly tried to clean as much of the old blood up as possible, but there's still enough left over that he looks rough around the edges.

"Right in the money maker, huh? It's okay if you think I'm ugly now, baby.." He's joking around as he steps into your space, trying to take that god awful look off your face. You look like you've seen a ghost, like you might be sick.

"Clay..." You reach for him as he leans over you, one arm leaning against the wall by your head, while your own hands cup his cheeks tilting his head so you can get a better look at his stitches.

"Sorry, sorry, just tryin' to get my girl to smile s'all..."

"I know..." He lets you get your fill, moving his head in whatever direction you tilt it while his free hand grips your hip. He wants you to believe he's fine but he knows you won't believe him, and in truth it fucking hurts taking a puck to the face. He's surprised he doesn't have a concussion. He feels a little sick, very gross and his face aches like nothing else.

"Clay...What do you need?" You, he thinks, just this. Just the soft way your thumbs brush his cheeks and tenderness with which you cradle his face, like he's not 170lbs of hockey player. He's not delicate and he knows that, you know that, but sometimes you treat him that way and it's nice sometimes. Nice to feel cared for.

He doesn't say any of that though, instead lets out a big sigh, "I need to go home, wash at least my body because I actually feel fucking gross..." He's still sweaty and he knows he needs help washing his hair without getting water on his stitches.

"Okay, I'm driving." You're reaching for his keys in pocket as quick as a whip, but he's quicker. Clayton's hand wrapping entirely around your wrist and stopping it from delving further into his pocket.

"You're not driving my car, baby. No." There's no amount of injury that could bring him to let you drive when that's his job and the grin he gives you is the sort you give a child who thinks they know better. It makes your eyes narrow.

"Clay, you took a puck going like 80 miles per hour to the face..."

"And I can still drive, and you are still and forever my passenger princess." It's not that he doesn't trust you to drive. You're a pretty decent driver, but that's not the dynamic you have. He drives you around. Always. If he can't then you drive yourself, but if both of you are in a car together? He's driving and you get to sit, relax and look pretty.

"You're impossible." You roll your eyes but concede defeat, pulling your hand from his pocket even as he continues to grip your wrist like now that he's got it the thought of letting go is preposterous.

"Impossibly handsome." Clay's hand moves from your wrist to slip into your own, fingers twisting together as he pulls away from the wall with you. His other hand tossing his car keys about with a jingling sound.

"Impossible hard headed."

"Ouch, that hurts, sweet girl." He finally gets a smile from you at that and that's all he wants as the two of you walk hand in hand to his car. If he's got to deal with stitches, bruising, swelling, then at least he gets to see you smile.

"Did it hurt more than the puck you took to the face tonight?"

"You're determined to not let me forget this aren't you?" He asks as he opens the passenger side door, watching you slip into the pristine seats because he'd be damned if he ever let his car fall into disarray.

You're quiet for a few moments as he leans over you to pull the seatbelt over your chest and click it into place. It's the proximity of him to you that's probably the only reason he actually hears your next whispered words as you look at your hands in your lap.

"...I was really worried, Clay..."

Clayton sighs heavily, large hand cupping your cheek until you look at him. You grip his wrist, fingers playing with the array of bracelets he always has there.

"I know, baby, but I'm okay. I promise. Got some stitches, no concussion, I'll be a little ugly for a bit but..." All Clay ever wants is for you to be happy, the worst part about getting hurt is that he knows you're stressing about. He's fine, but he knows he looks like he's gone 10 rounds with Mike Tyson and he'll probably look like that for awhile. He also knows you worry, and you'll worry over him until he looks completely back to normal.

"You could never be ugly," He smiles at the way you frown at him, like it's the worst thing he could do right now to insult himself, "You're just fishing for compliments." Your eyes soften under his smile and the frown loses some of its bite.

"You're the one biting, sweet girl."

"Shut up and drive us home."

"As you wish." Clayton presses a quick kiss to your lips, pulling out of the passenger side and closing the door on you. He's quick to make his way round to the driver's side and even quicker to get the car started so he can start driving back to the house.

You watch him the whole time, eyes fliting from the stitches in his eyebrow to the way his left eye is swelling to the point you don't know if he'll be able to see out of it in a minute if you don't get ice on it. Clayton chooses to ignore the staring, hand reaching out to rest on your thigh, rubbing warm strokes across it as he drives, like always.

When you pull up you wait, like always, in your seat because Clay complains if he can't open the door for you and unbuckle your seatbelt. So you wait and let him do it, just as you let him wrap an arm around your shoulders and led you inside as if you're the one that needs the TLC and not him.

You only briefly watch him struggle out of the suit he'd worn to the game before stepping in to help. The medical team not letting him wash had meant his shirt and trousers stuck to him from all the sweat left on his skin, and the extra pair of hands was helpful as he shrugged off the button up he'd been wearing.

He lets you lead him into the bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet seat and watching as you fuss around the bath tub. You're running him a bath even though you know he prefers showers because there's no way those stitches are staying dry in the shower, not with his ridiculous need for the most intense waterfall shower on earth.

Still, Clayton watches as you try to make the bath more enticing. Copious amounts of bubble bath, the sort that's designed for sore muscles, being thrown in, water running warm, but not too hot because he doesn't like his bath water to be as hot as the fires of hell. Unlike you. But, he draws the line at you helping him into water, it's his face that hurts not his legs, shrugging your hands away with an eyeroll when you go to reach to help him.

"I can get in on my own, baby."

He doesn't let the fussing annoying him because he knows you fuss out of concern and that any amount of fussing is still your attention on him. Fussing means you love him and if you took a puck to the face he knows he'd be fussing over you too.

You watch as Clayton eases himself into the water, a sigh rippling out from him as he slides into the warmth. His chains hitting the water because he'd never wear anything that wasn't solid enough not to tarnish over time, expensive taste as always. You watch the way he closes his eyes and just relaxes for a minute, skin turning slightly flush under the warmth of the water, neck pulled taut as his head tips back.

"You want me to help wash your hair?"

"Please, baby." It's sighed out, eyes still closed and you kneel next to the tub without a second thought, urging him to move forward and lean back until his hair touches the water.

You're careful about it, slowly wetting his hair, trying to avoid getting water on his stitches and while he might not want to be fussed over, this though? This Clayton can't help but love. The way your fingers thread through his brunet strands, how you stop occasionally to scratch at his scalp, the feeling of sweat and grime falling away? This is pretty much heaven.

You huff a laugh when Clayton groans a little while you massage shampoo into his roots. The pressure you apply making him sigh and groan like you're relieving knots in his back and it's sweet, how he can relax into this, into you, when he's normally the one giving and doesn't necessarily prefer to receive the care.

"You good, Clay?"

"Mmmm...." He hums and you smile down at him, the way he leans back into your hands, how his eyes remain closed, the content little smile on his face that just slightly shows his teeth.

You take extra care as you rinse the shampoo from his hair thoroughly, avoiding his stitches and his eyes as you do so, before getting him to sit up a little so you can place some conditioner on the ends.

"Get in with me..." His eyes are heavy lidded, like he doesn't quite have the energy to open them the entire way, a wet hand reaching out to grip your fingers, tugging lightly.

"Clay, there's barely any room left." His legs take up half the tub, you're a little concerned that you plus water displacement will result in water all over the floor of the bathroom. Another injury waiting to happen when one of you inevitably slips on wet tile.

"Please, just want to hold you for a bit, no funny business, sweet girl, promise." His cheeky little smirk that shows the dimples on one side of his mouth doesn't exactly fill you with confidence in his words, but the water is still warm and there's something always enticing about Clay, he has a way of convincing you to do something even if you shouldn't.

"Mmm, sounds likely..."

"Seriously, just want to hold you...I'm an injured man..." He pulls the guilt trip card, biting on his bottom lip. Something which would have looked sexier if half his face wasn't swollen up like a balloon. Still, you've never been good at saying no to Clayton even if you probably should from time to time.

"Fine..." You sigh, pretending to be reluctant even as you strip your clothes off, ignoring the way his eyes light up like a kid in a candy store, and step into the bath water with him.

It's a little tight, the water rising to levels that are mildly concerning before the overflow drain does the job of removing the excess water. Your legs twine with Clayton's and his arms slide around your waist until he can pull you comfortably back to lay against him, your back to his chest. It's funny, how you can be completely naked and feel completely comfortable like this with someone, every little touch is comforting rather than sexual, every kiss to your shoulder an attempt to be connect to you rather than start something intimate.

"Clay?" You wince out, the sensation of metal digging into your back causing you to squirm slightly in his lap, water sloshing nearer to the sides of the tub.

"Mmm...?"

"Can...can you move your chains? They're digging into my shoulder."

"Shit, sorry, baby." He's quick to do so, the chains being thrown over his shoulder and out of the way until settling against him is more comfortable, the rise and fall of his chest meeting your back in a rhythm that helps any residual anxiety from the events of the day melt away.

"You comfy, sweet girl?" He presses a kiss to your temple and you smile into it, humming as you lean as much of your weight back into him as you can.

"Yeah, you?"

"Mmm, might have to stay here..." He's tracing circles on you tummy, a series of circles that meet in a variety of patterns that remind you of crop circles from all those conspiracy theory and unsolved mystery shows Clay likes to watch when he can't sleep. Every few seconds a kiss lands somewhere else, whether your temple, your cheek, your neck or your shoulder. Each is quick and soft, but no less delightful. It's all so soft, the world feels like its humming a little.

"The water'll get cold."

"Good thing I run warm..." He tries to argue with you, like always, a sassy little remark to entice you to stay in the moment even if neither of you can.

"Clay, we're not staying in here all night, we'll die of pneumonia or something."

"Would be worth it." He grins into your shoulder, eyes relaxing when you reach a hand back to scratch his scalp and play with his hair. He's tired, so fucking tired and his face still aches like a bitch but this is nice, this so nice.

"We should really get some ice on your face, try and take some of the swelling down."

"Do we have to?" The idea of putting ice on his face right now is anything but appealing, but he knows you're right. His face is already pretty swollen and bruised and it's only going to get worse if he doesn't look after it.

"Do you want to be able to see from your left eye in the morning?"

"Good point, just...5 more minutes, baby?"

"5 more minutes." You let him have his 5 more minutes and then some, using the time to get clean yourself and rinse conditioner from his hair before the two of you stand from the bath after the water has cooled significantly.

He's sat crossed legged on the bed in a cosy hoodie and boxers by the time you've put together a makeshift icepack, ice piled up into a ratty old tea towel you got when you first moved out.

The look he gives the icepack is nothing short of disdainful, a glare that's combined with a pout of his top lip like the icepack has personally offended him already when it hasn't even touched him. If anyone should glare it's you because your hands are getting cold.

"The only way that is touching my face is if you're sat in my lap, sweet girl." He pats his thighs like its a given, like you'll just go over and plonk yourself down without question.

"You already agreed to ice your face, Clayton John Keller." Your hands find your hips, a stance Clayton calls your mom stance and it's extra apt when you're using his full name like that. Not that that deters him from his goal of having you wrapped up on his lap because that's the only thing that might make ice to the face semi-bearable.

"Only if you sit in my lap."

"That is not the original agreement."

"Yeah, well, trade talks, deals get renegotiated all the time." He shrugs with a smirk, pulling out the dimples because he knows you struggle to be stubborn when he does that and as much as you hate it...he's fucking charming and it works. You're sighing and stomping over like you're not totally endeared by him, letting him pull you up and onto his lap without any real protest until your legs are wrapped around his waist, your butt sat perfectly in the hollow created by him sitting crisscrossed.

"You are incredibly difficult to care for, Mr Keller." You grumble as you cup his face with one hand and raise the makeshift icepack to his eye with the other.

"Can you really deny an injured man small comforts like his girlfriend in his lap?" His smirk only widens until it doesn't, a hiss leaving his lips at the way it pulls on his stitches as his eyebrow moves.

"Mmm, you're ridiculous." You're smiling when you say it and that alone lets Clayton know that you're enjoying this as much as him.

He hisses again when the cold finally touches his skin, almost jerking back but your hand on his cheek stops him from going very far. The icepack is cold, so fucking cold, and he knows you're going to force it to stay there until you're satisfied that some of the swelling has gone down. You're cruel like that.

Clayton's hands fall to your hips, fingers clenching and gripping onto you, not painfully, but firmly enough that you know he hates this, hates the sensation of ice on his skin even if there's a tea towel in between.

You try to make it as bearable as possible, pressing kisses to the right side of his face even as the left faces the terrible ordeal of icing. The kisses have Clayton humming, hands stroking from your hips to your waist and back down again in a rhythmic motion that brings back memories of every make out session you've ever had with the man, and that you wouldn't be having until you were certain his face wasn't swollen and bruised.

When you finally pull the icepack away his face is less swollen, eye still partially closed, but no less bruised, you know the purple is going to eventually fade to a horrible yellow. You throw the damp tea towel into the laundry basket from where you're sat, excellent aim that has you letting out a little cheer that gets Clayton smiling up at you.

"Thank you, sweet girl, always taking care of me..." He presses a kiss to your lips, short and sweet, only because you refuse to let him stay there too long, determined to let the man rest.

"Yeah, well, you're always taking care of me too."

[fungateshortcakes]

Munch Munch

OMG I FORGOT I HAD THIS IN MY DRAFTS FORGIVE ME

Just a lil old man Logan drabble bc UGHHH he can crush my head with those juicy arms AHHH

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Logan never understood why you looked at him the way you did.

He was old. He was tired. His body was breaking down from the inside, poisoned by the very thing that once made him invincible. His hands shook more than they used to and no matter how hard he tried to hide it, you saw. You saw everything.

And yet there you were, leaning against the doorframe with your arms crossed, giving him that look again. Like he was something worth staring at. Logan wasn’t used to being wanted. Not like this.

He could feel your gaze tracing over his arms as he sat in his white wifebeater at the kitchen table. This was by far not the first time he caught you staring at him like that. He noticed it every time. The way you would watch the flex of his biceps beneath his shirt, the way his forearms tensed whenever he clenched his fists. He wasn’t blind. And if he had any doubts, well, the way you were looking at him right now? Like you wanted to sink your teeth into him? Yeah. That cleared things up really fast.

"You’re staring again" he muttered, though he didn’t cover up, just took another sip of his drink. "Mhm" you hummed completely unapologetic in how you were goggling his arms. You pushed yourself away from the doorframe and stepped in closer, fingers reaching out to lightly drag over his arm, just enough to make his skin prickle.

Logan exhaled sharply through his nose, setting the beer can in his hand down on the table "You got a problem?"

"Yeah, actually" you said, tilting your head. "These arms? They’re just sitting there. Not being held. Not being bitten. Wasted potential, really."

Logan choked on a laugh, a rare sound from him "Bitten? What do you-?" before he could finish his sentence, you leaned in and without hesitation you pressed your teeth lightly against his bicep. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make him feel it. A playful little bite that was gone as fast as it came.

Logan went completely still. The only sound was the sharp breath he sucked in through his teeth. You pulled back again and watched his reaction, your lips curling into a satisfied smirk. "Huh, that shut you up really quick."

Logan finally blinked, looking up at you like he wasn’t quite sure what the hell just happened. He opened his mouth but closed it before any words came out, rubbing a hand over his beard and sighing deeply.

"You just bit me" he said, like he was still trying to process it.

You grinned "Yeah. You act like you can just sit here with these babies out and expect me not to."

Logan huffed, shaking his head at your words, but the corner of his mouth twitched. He almost a smiled. Almost. But you counted it as a win nonetheless "You’re goddamn ridiculous" he muttered.

"Maybe" you mused with a pout, poking at his arm again. "Now flex for me, old man. Let me see the goods." you demanded, already munching on your bottom lip in anticipation. You just couldn't help it. You knew he was starting to feel his age, to look it, too. But damn, his arms were still plumb 'n thick. Just how you liked them.

Logan let out a low groan and for a second you thought he would just ignore you, but to your absolute delight, he sat up a little more straight, rolled his shoulders back and flexed- just a little, as if to tease. Just enough to make the veins in his forearms pop, to make the muscles in his biceps shift under his skin.

And goddamn, you swore you felt lightheaded...and how your panties were getting wet. You bit your lip at the sight "Shit" you breathed, your eyes fighting from rolling back because good god "You are so hot."

Logan narrowed his eyes at your praise, grumbling something under his breath, but you caught the way his ears burned just a little bit pink. He could act all gruff and broody, but you knew the truth now.

You were disappointed as he lowered his arm again. You stepped closer, placing your hands on his arms, fingers tracing the muscle slowly, deliberately. A shudder ran up his spine at your touch. He tried to play it down, but he couldn't hide the obvious goosebumps explodig over his scarred skin "Do it again, baby. " you murmured, smoothing over his shoulder and arms.

Logan arched a brow "Again?"

"Again" you stated firmly, it sounded like a command to him. And maybe he would follow it. He rolled his eyes, but you were able to catch the slightest smile on his lips that seemed a little proud, flattered even. It was balm for the soul, your words. You actually wanted to see him, worship something he thought no one cared for anymore. But here you were.

Acting as if he was annoyed by your persistance, he lifted his arm and flexed, this time for real. The muscle in his biceps tensed, thick and solid beneath your hands that wandered over the firm muscle. His forearms flexed, veins running up his skin like a goddamn work of art. The old scars, the roughness, the strength, it was all so perfect. Your forearm next to his biceps looked so small, it made your mouth water.

And you couldn’t help it. You made a sound. A tiny, helpless whimper that you couldn’t stop even if you tried.

Logan froze and his arm lowered slightly "Did you just-?"

"Shut up" you giggled, pressing your face against his shoulder to hide the absolute mess he was making of you "Nah, sweetheart" he said, his voice downright smug and a grin spreading across his face while he stood up, towering over you, wrapping his strong arms around your neck, making you groan as pure, firm muscle surrounded your flushed face "What was that sound?" he teased, his voice low and raspy against your ear

You whined annoyed against his broad chest, wanting him to drop it "Logan"

But he wasn't letting up "You whimpered" he stated matter of factly, clearly enjoying himself "Over my arms."

Your hands slid up his sides, squeezing him. You looked up through your eyelashes, a suggestive grin on your lips "Well, you could just shut me up with these big, strong arms of yours" you purred, leaning up to kiss him. And Logan could already picture the way your teeth would sink into his flesh as he held you in a headlock while pounding his cock into you from behind, leaving deep bite marks on his arms that wouldn’t start to fade until the next morning. He grinned back down at you, capturing your lips in a kiss.

"Let's give you a reason to bite, bub"

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Fuck me he is so hot the best he ever looked and I will DIE on that hill. One chance, ONE FUCKING CHANCE!!!! I am not rlly the girly to randomly bite my partner but istg I would munch and nibble and gnaw on his arms FOREVER they are so big and manly and mhmm and yummy and BARK BARK

I have two more old man Logan drafts I completely forgot about- should I post them too?

[arislary]

Foggy - Han Jisung x f!reader Drabble

Synopsis: You see Han Jisung wearing his glasses during class and can't help yourself.

Pairing: nerd!Han Jisung x f!reader

Genre: Suggestive 18+

Warnings: fc takes her panties off.... A FREAK

WC: <1k

A/N: I feel evil for not writing more smut, I just like to tease 😉 but tell me if you want a part 2 with an actual smut scene. Also kind of want to keep this nerd!Jisung and reader going, I don't know I like their vibe, tell me if you want to see more drabbles of them! UNEDITED

Taglist: @inlovewithstraykids

Masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jisung sat hunched over his table, pen rapidly moving across his notebook, gaze snapping between his professor and the notes he was currently jotting down. His black sweater having kept him warm in the usually cold classroom; however, today he felt a itching sensation on his neck. His skin felt smoldering and the cold metal of his watch did nothing as it became even more intense. 

His pen stopped and he glanced to his left, freezing once he saw what resided next to him. Your eyes dark and hooded gazed at him, head resting on your hand, arm propped up on your side of the table. The skirt you wore riding high on your smooth thighs, legs crossed and your shoe grazing the seat of his chair and leg. 

Jisung could feel the flush rise up his face immediately, leaving him gulping and coughing on his spit. His arm raised in front of his face to cover his mouth, causing the smallest bit of hot air to fog his glasses. He felt the air in his lungs leave as you reached over, pulling his glasses from his face, reaching into your own purse to pull out your glasses case. 

Jisung’s eyes bugged out at the sight of the large frames, glossing over the fact that you were currently cleaning his glasses for him, until they were once again sitting on his face. Your fingers ghosting over his nose leaving his eyes to flutter shut at the smallest touch, before your case was snapped shut and gone from sight. 

Your foot now rested on the back of his leg completely, gliding up and down slowly, bottom lip tugged in between your teeth as you continued to stare at him in the dimmed auditorium. Jisung took a second to glance around if anyone else could see or even noticed the seductress in the room, but to his sick pleasure no one even looked in their direction. He returned his stare back to you, finding you even closer, the sweater you wore, hanging dangerously low on your chest. 

He started when you suddenly stood to your feet, skirt swinging as you stepped behind his chair, your nails sliding across his neck. Jisung felt like he was suffocating, your touch electrified him and the smell of you surrounded him, clogging into his pores. He sat straight, listening as the door to the auditorium opened and shut quietly with you gone. He looked back at your area and almost breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of your belongings still. You’re coming back. 

You always carried his attention if he were honest with himself, but he never thought of actually talking with you. You carried an air of indifference and almost standoffish. He admired the way you were in the few courses you’ve shared, both having minors in philosophy. You always spoke your opinion clearly and concisely. Jisung remembers during one spirited class debate that your speech left him sweating and sporting a half hard-on. Which he was currently having to cover in this moment, his leg still tingling from where you had slid yours. His toes curling in his shoes and the beads of sweat that made themselves known on his temple, he knew he was fucked. 

He watched his professor continue to speak, but found himself unable to listen as his ears remained glued to the door behind him, waiting to here the click of the handle to signify your return. 

What did this mean? Did you….

Did you like him?

Fuck, Jisung shoved his arm down his lap, crossing one leg over the other as the thought alone brought him standing at full attention. His hand provided little relief, pressing firmly down through his sweater. He stiffened once he heard the door click open and once again the flutter of fingers gliding across his neck. 

You sat once more in your spot, your chair practically on top of Jisung’s. You crossed your legs once again, chin perched on your left hand, your right currently creeping inside of Jisung’s front pant pocket. Jisung’s chest began to heave up and down, glasses sliding further on his nose, his own hand fisted against his mouth. He felt the pressure of your fingers pushing something further into his pocket before slowly retreating. Your nails racked at his jeans and pulled away just as the professor wrapped his lecture, discussing the paper we had due at the end of the month. 

Jisung could barely make out the words leaving the teacher’s mouth, the blood rushing in his ears. You stood from your chair and Jisung’s head whipped around to stare as you placed your tote over your shoulder, gaze settling back on him. Eyes still dark, bending forward, cleavage showing, as you lifted a finger to push Jisung’s glasses back up his nose. 

“You have my number right?” 

Jisung sucked in a breath, nodding his head slowly as you continued to stare, your smirk deepening even more. 

“You’re gonna text me, right?” 

Jisung continued to nod, gulping as your finger slid down his cheek, rubbing at the chubbiness of it. Your hand slid down the expanse of his chest, pressing into where his hand still covered the tent in his pants. You leaned in closer, lips brushing against Jisung’s ear as you whispered. 

“You’re such a good boy, Jisung, I can’t wait.”

And you were gone, the door of the auditorium slamming shut, leaving Jisung in the cloud of your perfume and lotion. His hand inched into his pocket, eyes going wide at the silky texture, pulling out the fabric and gasping at thong that were now housed in his jeans. His fingers rubbed at the fabric, the wet patch glistening, glancing around and bringing his fingers to his nose and inhaling deeply. He let out a small whimper, tongue poking through his lips for the faintest taste. He knew he would become addicted to the scent, the taste, to you.

He scrambled to stuff them back in his pocket, hand remaining tightly grasping at them, as he slung his bag over his shoulder. Free hand quickly pulling up your contact from the class group-chat that they all had. He clicked on your name, switching to a private message quickly. 

Where are you?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Let me know if you want a part 2 👀

Totally voluntary, but if you enjoy my writing and want to support me further, please consider here, I'd greatly appreciate it and thank you so much <3

I want to make it clear that I do not condone plagiarism in any form. All of the work I create is original. Please do not copy or reproduce my work without proper permission or attribution.

[silent-stories]

𝐖𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x reader

Summary: taking care of Noah's hair.

Noah had a love-hate relationship with his hair. He liked how it looked, liked the way it framed his face and fell over his shoulders when he performed. But when it came to actually taking care of it? That was another story. Brushing it was a nightmare, washing it was a chore, and styling it? He barely put in the effort.

You had long since taken it upon yourself to help, whether he wanted you to or not. And most of the time, he acted like a stubborn kid about it—complaining, resisting, insisting he could do it himself even when it was clear he had no idea what he was doing. But the truth was, and you knew it, he secretly liked when you helped. He just had too much pride to admit it.

Like right now.

Noah sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders tense, one hand gripping his hairbrush while the other tried—unsuccessfully—to work through the tangled strands of his long, brown locks. Every few seconds, he let out an irritated sigh, yanking the brush through his hair with little patience. The strands snagged, pulling at his scalp, and he groaned dramatically, holding up the few stray hairs that had fallen loose.

“That’s it,” he muttered. “I’m going bald.”

You, watching from the doorway, crossed your arms and leaned against the frame with an amused smile. “You’re not going bald.”

He turned to you with a serious expression, holding up the evidence between his fingers. “Oh yeah? Then what do you call this?”

“I call it brushing your hair like you’re fighting for your life,” you teased, stepping into the room. “You’re being too rough.”

He let out another frustrated sigh, dropping his hands into his lap. “I'm trying.”

You shook your head, walking over to where he sat. “Move up.”

He eyed you suspiciously. “Why?”

“So I can fix this mess.”

Noah hesitated for a moment but eventually scooted forward, leaving enough space behind him on the bed. You climbed up, settling yourself behind him with your legs on either side of his hips. Reaching forward, you gently gathered his hair over his shoulder, your fingertips brushing against the back of his neck.

“Give me that,” you said, plucking the brush from his hand before he could protest.

He sighed again, but this time, it wasn’t frustration—it was surrender.

You started at the very ends, carefully working your way up instead of forcing the brush straight through the knots like he had been doing. The first few strokes made him tense out of habit, but as the tangles smoothed out, you felt him relax against you.

“You’re too impatient with it,” you murmured, dragging the brush through again, this time with even slower, more deliberate movements.

“Feels different when you do it,” he admitted, voice quieter now.

You smiled softly, running your fingers through the sections you had already brushed. His hair was thin, slightly wavy, and softer than he gave it credit for. You took your time, smoothing down stray strands, making sure to be gentle with every motion.

The room was quiet except for the soft sound of the brush gliding through his hair and the occasional deep sigh from Noah, his body gradually melting into yours.

At some point, he shifted just a little, resting his arms over his knees and letting his weight fully relax against your body.

“This is nice,” he murmured, almost as if he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

You smiled, setting the brush aside as you ran your fingers through his now-detangled locks. “Told you.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, his voice laced with drowsiness. “Yeah, yeah. You love being right, don’t you?”

You leaned forward, letting your lips brush against the side of his neck before pressing a slow, lingering kiss just below his ear.

"What was that for?"

You nuzzled against him, “Just rewarding you for sitting still.”

Noah let out a low chuckle, tilting his head slightly to give you better access. “Mmm, I could get used to this.”

You pressed another soft kiss to his skin, letting your fingers trail down the length of his hair before resting your hands on his shoulders. He reached up, fingers lightly grazing over yours, his touch warm and absentminded.

“You gonna let me brush your hair more often now?” you asked, smirking against his neck.

He sighed dramatically, but the small smile tugging at his lips gave him away. “Guess I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Not really.”

He chuckled, squeezing your hand before finally turning his head slightly to look at you. “Didn’t think so.”

And then, there were the times when he showed up with something so weird on his head that it would be too polite to call it a "bun."

You walked into the kitchen, ready to start the day, only to be greeted by Noah standing there with a ridiculous, lopsided bun on top of his head. A few stray pieces of hair were sticking out at odd angles, making him look like he’d tried to put his hair in a bun while half-asleep and then just gave up halfway through.

You stared at him, trying to keep your face neutral, but the sight of his botched attempt was too much.

“What is that?” you asked, unable to hide your amusement.

Noah glanced up at you, his expression a mix of pride and defiance. “It’s a bun.”

“A bun?” You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms as you eyed the mess on his head. “I don’t know, Noah. That looks more like a bird’s nest after a storm.”

He scowled. “It’s fine. It gets the hair out of my face.”

You laughed. “Out of your face? It looks like it’s about to fall out of your head at any moment. Come here.”

“No, seriously, it’s fine—”

But before he could finish, you grabbed his sleeve and make him sit on the couch next to you, redoing his bun with careful precision, your fingers running through his hair and untangling the mess.

You worked quietly, fixing it just the way you knew he liked it. You made sure no stray strands stuck out and that the bun wasn’t too tight but still held.

When you were finished, you stepped back and eyed the results with satisfaction. “There we go. Now that’s a bun.”

Noah reached up, feeling the newly styled hair. Then, he looked at you with a sly grin, “So, where’s my kiss?”

You blinked, confused. “What?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Every time you help me with my hair, I get a kiss. I want my kiss now.”

You blinked at him in disbelief before you started laughing, unable to hold it in. He watched you with a satisfied expression, clearly enjoying the effect his request had.

He leaned in even closer, the playful glint in his eyes never fading, and suddenly, before you could catch your breath, he was completely over you, supporting himself with his arms so he wouldn’t crush you. He kissed you, his lips soft and warm, teasing and sweet, as you laughed against him.

You pulled away, breathless, still giggling, when you heard a voice from the doorway.

“Please don’t have sex on the couch,” Ruffilo said, his tone deadpan, but the disgusted grin on his face made it clear he was joking.

Noah hid his face in the crook of your neck, muffling his laughter as he tried to keep the situation light, his shoulders shaking with barely contained giggles. You couldn’t stop laughing either, feeling his chest rumble with each chuckle.

Ruffilo, standing in the doorway, rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I sit there all the time, c’mon, be decent,” he said as he walked away.

Once he was gone, Noah pulled back just enough to look at you. “I guess I’ll have to keep needing help with my hair, huh?”

You grinned, your fingers brushing the hair at the nape of his neck. “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll make sure your buns are always perfect.”

Noah’s grin widened, clearly pleased with both the hair and the attention, his laughter still lingering in the air as he lowered himself on you a second time to kiss you again.

And there were the nights spent doing nothing and just cuddling.

Nights like these were your favorite—just you and Noah curled up in bed, the soft glow of the TV casting a dim light over the room as some anime played in the background.

The blankets were piled over both of you, and Noah was sprawled out with his head resting on your stomach, completely at ease. His long hair fanned out over your shirt, strands slipping between your fingers as you absentmindedly played with them.

You scratched his scalp lightly, running your nails over his skin in slow, soothing motions. He hummed, a deep, contented sound vibrating through him, his eyes half-lidded as he let himself melt into your touch. His body was completely relaxed, one of his arms draped lazily across your waist as he focused on the TV.

You took a loose strand of his hair and twirled it around your finger, watching as it coiled and then slipped free again.

The soft, silky texture was familiar now. You loved it. You loved the way it suited him, the way it made him look like some sort of dark fairytale prince but also your own personal 6'3'' teddy bear.

Then, out of nowhere, he spoke. “I was thinking about cutting it.”

Your fingers paused in his hair, and your eyes flickered down to look at him. “Cutting it?”

Noah let out a small sigh, staring at the screen but not really watching anymore. “Yeah. Just… I dunno. It’s a pain to take care of sometimes.” He hesitated for a second, then added, “But I feel like I’d look so fucking ugly with short hair.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes playfully as you flicked the strand of hair you’d been twirling. “That’s dumb.”

He snorted. “Wow. Thanks.”

You smiled, your fingers resuming their gentle movements in his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. “I just mean… you’re always going to be handsome, Noah. That’s not even a question.” Your voice softened a little. “But… I do love your hair like this.”

His expression shifted, and though he didn’t lift his head, you could tell he was smirking. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you murmured, twirling another strand around your finger.

Noah hummed again, considering your words, but he didn’t say anything else. He just let himself relax, his body sinking further into you as his breathing slowed. You didn’t speak either—you just kept running your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, twisting soft strands between your fingers.

The room was quiet except for the soft sounds of the anime playing in the background, the occasional flicker of light from the screen casting over his face.

And then, slowly, the tension in his body faded entirely. His breathing evened out, and without even realizing it, he had drifted into sleep.

And then there was the more intimate moments. Like when you and Noah showered together. The steam from the water fogging up the mirrors and the sound of running water filling the bathroom was calming as you stood together under the warm spray of the shower, the hot water cascading down around you both, washing away the stresses of the day.

Noah’s tall frame was a little too much for the space, and his head, even slightly bowed, was still a bit out of reach for you when it came to washing his hair. But you loved doing it anyway.

“Can I wash your hair?” you asked softly, your hands already reaching for the shampoo bottle, hopeful.

Noah turned toward you, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he smirked. “I can do it. I’m perfectly capable.”

You pouted, crossing your arms over your chest. “But I wanna do it.”

He chuckled, ruffling your wet hair with his big hand. “You really wanna wash my hair that badly?”

“Yeah,” you said, a hint of playfulness in your voice. “I like it and I know you like it too. So c’mon, let me do it.”

With a sigh that was more out of amusement than reluctance, Noah sat down on the shower floor. His tall frame had no choice but to sink down so you could reach his head.

You smiled at his obedience, loving the way he let you take care of him sometimes. He sat on the cool tiles, legs crossed, looking at you with that soft, trusting expression of his.

“Comfortable?” you asked, your voice soft, already working the shampoo into your hands.

“Yeah,” he replied, his voice warm and amused as you carefully massaged the shampoo into his scalp and worked your fingers gently through his hair.

It was intimate andsimple, and you took your time, savoring the way his body seemed to relax under your touch, his head tilting back slightly as you massaged his scalp. The smell of the shampoo filled the air, mixing with the steam and the scent of his skin.

You rinsed the shampoo out slowly, making sure to get every last bit. Then, you applied the conditioner, working it through his hair as carefully as you had the shampoo.

The way his hair felt between your fingers was so familiar now, comforting. It wasn’t just about the act of washing his hair—it was about being this close to him, being able to care for him in such a simple, loving way.

Once you’d thoroughly rinsed the conditioner out, you helped Noah back to his feet even if he didn't need your hand. He stood tall again, water cascading down his body, droplets glistening on his skin. You smiled up at him, heart swelling at how much you loved this man. Without thinking, you reached up, cupping his face in your hands, and covered him in soft, lingering kisses.

His eyes widened, but a laugh escaped him as you kissed him over and over, on his cheek, on his lips, on the corner of his mouth, each one sweeter than the last. His hands moved to your waist, steadying you as he smiled through your affection.

“That’s because I let you wash my hair, huh?” he teased, his voice full of that playful tone you loved.

You paused, looking up at him with a smile, your fingers brushing along his jaw. “No,” you whispered, leaning in to kiss his lips once more, “just because I love you.”

His expression softened, the teasing replaced with something softer. “I love you too,” he said quietly, his lips brushing against your forehead in a gentle kiss. “I love you too."

Tags: @anything-more-than-human @ladyveronikawrites @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard @fadingangelwisp @xmads-omensx @iwasntstable @thisbicc @pathion @flowery-mess @into-the-grey @lacy1986 @tosoundlessdarkistare @stardustsirenmelody @thewrstinme @hurricanesfollowyou @ichoosetenderomens @chey-h @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @missduffsblog

[peapodbond]

that was us part eight

aka fuck it friday

tagged by @leashybebes

skipping ahead a few parts because i can and i want to. aka 7x05 as seen through the lens of the former fiancee/current besties abbysaltommy text thread

abby texting, tommy texting, sal texting

so, how was the first date?

turns out evan is not out to anyone.

it was his first 'date with a dude', but he's an ally.

sounds like a train wreck. (sorry, abby)

that part was oddly okay? it was adorable.

his best friend showed up at the same restaurant on a date with his girlfriend. evan said that we were 'going to pick up hot chicks later'.

i ducked out of going to the movie and just went straight home after dinner.

sal, cue us up a grindr best of lineup.

wait, i want to know what tommy said about the hot chicks.

not proud of it but i made a closet joke. the friend's girlfriend is moving in so it wasn't out of nowhere. i don't think any of them caught it, actually. but it made me feel a little better.

that's my boy!

you're a menace, sal. at least it was on the first date, tommy? it could have been worse.

mm. this feels like a sign that i should take a break from dating.

as opposed to the absolute bevy of dates you've been on recently?

sal, don't be mean. when was the last time you went on a date?

all right you two, no infighting. as fun as it is to watch you argue, i'm here for some moral support.

we can do that. hey, at least you can use the helicopter rescue to land dudes.

helicopter rescue? what helicopter rescue?

it's not a big deal.

tommy flew into a fucking hurricane and found a capsized cruise ship.

oh my god. days like this i miss la. nothing like this ever happens in phoenix.

i'm lucky i didn't get fired, okay? and we are not doing a grindr lineup. one bad date is not going to get me back on the apps.

you get one week to mope and then we're going for drinks and you're flirting with someone at the bar.

that's not a bad plan, sal. i approve.

at what point do i get a say in this?

you don't.

you don't.

their text thread sits quiet for a few days and abby debates asking tommy for more details. between jordan and marcus he hasn't had much to smile about, and even though he'd only met evan two weeks ago, the way that he'd talked about him… she'd really thought that tommy's luck was about to turn around.

they're driving tess to tucson for a college tour when she finally has enough time to text tommy separately.

it was one bad date abby, i'm fine.

yeah, but you liked him. like, really liked him.

i've really liked a few guys. and i've survived. we didn't even know each other for a full month. he'll just be a great kiss and a fun evening and that's the end of it.

a great kiss, huh?

i already told you that.

let's talk once we're back from the college tour? it's been a while.

sure, but you're signing up for a party viewing of love, actually.

double feature with die hard?

…evan just texted me.

what did he say?

do you want me to go fight him.

he wants to meet for coffee.

you should do it!

hm. at least you get a free cup of coffee. he is buying, right?

sal. yes, he's buying. i really liked him, you know? up until the hot chicks it was the best date i'd been on in… a while.

definitely go, tommy. you haven't said you had the best anything in a long time. abby thinks the last time she heard tommy say something was the best he'd ever had it was when she still lived in la (but after they broke up). if it's not great, it's just coffee. it's only going to be an hour or so.

i feel like someone should play devil's advocate but abby's got a point.

sal, how about i text you if i need you to fake an emergency and leave?

no, don't approach this like it's going to go badly!

works for me. i've always got you on speed dial, buddy.

you can hide any pitchforks the two of you might have found.

so it went well?

the question is how well it went.

sal.

sal.

what? just because he's not out doesn't mean they couldn't have some fun.

he actually did come out? to his best friend and his sister. we're going to try again and go on another date.

where's he taking you?

better be somewhere fancy.

i am not telling either one of you where it is. one of the delucas would try and pop up to spy on us.

i'm in pheonix, you can tell me separately.

it would be gina. definitely. she's small and sneaky.

they're not even denying it. you can find out where we're going after he's actually out to everyone.

sal, don't ruin this for us.

what? i'm being supportive.

so where's the date?

i'm not telling you.

why not?

because you'll tell gina and gina will tell sal and someone's going to pop up like a demented jack in the box.

i resent that implication.

because it's true?

see if i watch another romcom with you, tommy kinard.

that's a dirty lie, abby clark. listen, if we survive the second date then maybe i'll tell you two snoops more about him.

i'll let gina know ;)

i always regret introducing you two.

me and gina or me and sal?

all three of you.

here's hoping date number two is better than date one.

your lips, god's ears, etc etc.

[naebaetwsog]

omg hcs of jihoon asking out someone? im so down bad for him ong ><

。「told you this was our date・＊

genre.fluff

warning.non

pairing.tws!jihoon x fem!reader

a/n. I hope it is the way you wanted…Jihoon be looking way too cute (like he always did)

You and Jihoon have known each other since kindergarten, and somehow, he’s always been a part of your life.

He’s been teasing you since you were kids, always finding ways to annoy you just enough to get a reaction—but never enough to actually make you mad.

What you didn’t know? He’s had a crush on you for years.

It was so obvious to everyone but you. The way he’d lowkey always stick by your side, get weirdly defensive when someone flirted with you, or just how soft his teasing got whenever it was just the two of you.

You guys had actually kissed before he even asked you out. It was one of those moments where the tension was too strong to ignore, but neither of you talked about it after.

Until that weekend.

You were chilling at home, in your most comfortable (and probably ugliest) lounge clothes, just watching TV, completely unaware of what was about to happen.

Then suddenly, you heard your front door open.

Jihoon had a spare key. Of course, he did.

He strolled straight into your room like he owned the place, barely even acknowledging your confused expression.

But the weirdest part? He was actually dressed up. Not overly formal, but definitely put together.

“Uh… what’s with the fit?” you asked, sitting up.

He didn’t answer. Just walked straight to your closet, flipping through your clothes.

“Jihoon—HELLO?”

Finally, he pulled out something and tossed it onto your bed. “Put this on.” His voice was weirdly serious.

You blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

“Just do it.” And with that, he left the room.

You were so confused. But something about his energy made you listen.

A few minutes later, he came back holding a bouquet and a plushie. His usual smirk was there, but there was something different about the way he looked at you.

“Alright,” he said, handing you the gifts. “I’m asking you out. You and me? We’re going on a date.”

You just stood there, processing. “Wait. What?”

He rolled his eyes, but his grin softened. “Come on. I’ve made it so obvious that I like you. And I know you like me back.”

Your brain short-circuited. “I—”

“Nope, no excuses,” he cut you off, grabbing your hand. “You’re already dressed. Let’s go.”

The date? Pure chaos—but in the best way.

Jihoon took you to all your favorite places, made you laugh until your stomach hurt, and somehow turned everything into an inside joke.

“This is our spot now,” he declared randomly at a café, sipping his drink dramatically.

“Jihoon, this is literally just a coffee shop.”

“OUR coffee shop”

He was extra flirty, too. Like, noticeably more than usual.

“You look cute today.”

“You made me wear this.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I knew you’d look cute in it.”

Annoying. But also? Kinda adorable.

By the end of the night, you realized you’d basically been in a relationship with him this whole time—he just finally made it official.

When he walked you home, he pulled you into a hug but didn’t let go right away.

“Took you long enough to ask me out,” you mumbled against his shoulder.

He pulled back slightly, smirking. “Yeah? You gonna do something about it?”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could say anything, he leaned in and kissed you again—this time, officially as his partner.

“See?” he teased when he pulled away. “Told you this was a date.”

[dizzybevvie]

HELLO?????

[lunar-wandering]

head hurty

[youremyonlyhope]

why won't my brain shut up why won't my brain shut up why won't my brain shut up why won't my brain shut up

[here-there-were-dragons]

my mother is absolutely convinced of some nonsense conspiracy theory that (in her words) "originally humanity lived in peaceful all-woman societies of goddess worshippers who took care of eachother and lived in harmony, while males were roving loners that had no society and never cooperated. that changed when the men banded together and overthrew the peaceful woman-dominated societies, and enslaved us all." and, according to her, this is proof that a woman-dominated world would be innately more peaceful, and that men are innately violent and evil and should be either barred from holding any legal power or leadership roles or at least should be (again in her words) "gelded like bulls" to remove their testosterone before even being considered for such a thing.

she also evidently believes that the problem with all religions today is primarily that they aren't "goddess worshippers", because she seems to think goddess religions are inherently peaceful and pure too and seems to be especially obsessed with "Isis" in particular. the very very few times she's openly considered it unambiguously bad for some population or another to have been exterminated (she's got a bad case of devil's advocating genocide brain), she's gone out of her way to make up some crap about how said people were a peaceful society of goddess-worshippers, almost always of isis. delusions of isis-worship seem to be the only thing that ever causes her to consider any arab or middle-eastern culture, society, or ethnicity to be relatively uncomplicatedly undeserving of extermination, in fact, because every fucking time she doesn't immediately start devils-advocating it and making remarks about how "the rest of the world should box them in and let them blow eachother up" it's when she's whinging on about how whatever specific micro-ethnicity she's thinking about are or were traditional persecuted isis-worshippers.

the sole major exception to her weird fixation on isis worship justifying worthiness of life is the whole israel thing going on, in which she has consistently made very obvious that literally the only reason she's against the genocide of palestine is because it gives her an excuse to even more openly hate jewish people than she already did. and honestly i'm not sure even that's true because i think she's made some offhand remarks about palestinians having probably been peaceful isis worshipers before the jews infected them with christianity or something anyway.

so for the last, however fucking long it's been i've been constantly having to listen to her go off about how this behavior is in the jew's blood or whatever and that they literally invented all genocide because somehow the concept didn't exist before them and wouldn't have ever been invented by the rest of humanity without those jewish aliens dropping it in i fucking guess apparently and she furthermore goes on about how every single genocide and mass-oppression movement in history is directly inspired by them, ESPECIALLY the nazis, and THEN i have to listen to her rant about how, basically, wwii was something they entirely brought on themselves by "dominating the economy and treating everyone not them like shit" and the nazis were just "using their own tactics back at them". and then she goes on a rant about how the people the original jews exterminated back in the day (aka the first ever genocide, which they invented, because jews invented genocide and hate according to her) in the middle east region were peaceful matriarchal isis-worshipers.

and then she starts making comments about arabs being backwards and palestinians either being mysogynist muslims that should be boxed in to blow eachother up with everyone else or secret peaceful isis worshippers corrupted by men's cruel hand, sometimes in the same sentence, entirely dependent on which group she's more in the mood to hate at the time.

it's exhausting. beyond exhausting. her sole purpose in existence seems to be to have the singularly most exhausting set of politics physically possible to fit into one person.

just, sometimes i think, if there really is anything at all to the incredibly stupid and inexplicably popular idea that anyone or anything has a Purpose tm to exist for, i feel like my mother's purpose is to be walking proof to me of a Type Of Guy That Is Real, cause i sure as fuck would have trouble inventing this mess if it wasn't standing right in front of me spewing confusingly bipartisan hate. all of her thoughts and opinions are these long winding nonsense chains that feel like if that man carrying thing sketch about the friend with confusing politics was a person. on meth.

[phagodyke]

weekend melancholy is starting to kick in >~<

[martyrbat]

shaking some of you by the shoulders and forcing you to confront if your self proclaimed pretentiousness is just an excuse to be casually classist or ableist