#which can mean that there's no way to escape that implication

[mostbelovedqueer]

They should have been queer Tournament - Round 2

Disclaimer: This tournament is based on submissions! Please respect all identities, characters and fandoms! Hate will get you blocked instantly!

Why Steve should have been queer: Bisexual because he has female and male love interests

Additional submission message:

I have written a counterpart to this with Bucky Barnes, but Steve should have been bisexual. (Gay is fine too, this is just my take.) As I said in the other one, the first two movies are centered around their relationship. None of the story works or means anything without their love and loyalty. I'll copy some of that below, and then expand on the Steve side of things:

Bucky plays the role of his love interest in both TFA and TWS: The person Steve enlists for, the person Steve actually gets off his ass and becomes a superhero for, the person whose death reveals a darkness and need for vengeance in Steve, and the person whose loss cuts him so deeply he decides not to try to escape the crashing plane even though he's borderline indestructible and can probably swim in the icy water. Let me reiterate: Steve's girlfriend is begging him to stay alive any way he can, and he doesn't even try. Because his beloved Bucky is dead.

In The Winter Soldier, Bucky's role as love interest is even clearer: Steve tells Natasha directly at the beginning of the movie that he doesn't want to date because he doesn't know how to find anyone with shared life experience. Then, almost immediately, while a LOVE SONG ABOUT YOUR BEAU RETURNING FROM WW2 IS PLAYING, he encounters Bucky. Bucky, who, like Steve, has gone from a normal young man to a weapon, who has lost everything that mattered to him, who has found himself in a new world decades later, who has lost time due to being frozen.

Bucky, with whom Steven spent most of his childhood and young adult life, who has been through nearly everything with Steve, including all the things he doesn't feel he can share with his new friends. Okay, this is becoming a queer Steve manifesto too (and I'll give him one), but I can't explain how the movie presents Bucky as Steve's lover without that.

Then the tropes begin! Amnesia! Fighting on opposite sides! Bucky as abuse victim, needing to be rescued. A fight to the death, Steve dying for Bucky, and breaking him out of the amnesia spell by reminding him of a tender moment they shared, a promise they made that sounds like a wedding vow. "'Til the end of the line." 'Til death do us part.

And it would have been beautiful for Steve to die in 1945 and wake up to a world where he could marry a man in five states and DC. Put it on his little notebook list. "Berlin Wall, JFK, Trouble Man, Stonewall, gay marriage?!!"

Steve is a bigger character than Bucky, so they do more with him. He has two women love interests, who are unfortunately related to each other. It feels like they were trying to replace his affection for Peggy with Sharon, her NIECE, but neither of them are compatible with the Steve we know, values-wise.

Peggy is a pragmatic secret agent. She is shown to be willing to work with Arnim Zola, whom she knows tortured Bucky and murdered a number of, at the least, American soldiers. Operation Paperclip was a real program, and Americans did indeed work with former Nazi scientists, so this could be a complex topic to tackle, if they didn't shy away from the full implications. That's a compelling thing to do with Peggy: a woman agent who has to fight for respect…is still working with shady government agencies. A shady government agency that Steve Rogers KNOWS will very easily be convinced to support a program that will attempt to slaughter twenty million people at once. Steve immediately clocked the spy program as evil when Nick Fury called it protective. The Steve of TWS wouldn't tolerate for a second Peggy's grey moral zone.

Sharon may not knowingly work with Nazis, but she spied on Steve for months while pretending to be a friendly neighbor. That's her job, that's interesting, but Steve didn't like it and the movies offered no reason for me to believe he was interested in her after that until they randomly sucked face while Sam and Bucky smiled painfully.

I don't say this to suggest Steve shouldn't have any relationships with them, or women at all. That's fine. What I do mean by it is that the character of Steve, who has a very intense moral code, might break it for Bucky, but usually he doesn't even have to. Whereas, they don't even suggest he would have to contort himself to be with these women he hasn't even spent much time with, BUT HE WOULD. Heterosexuality infects these movies so deeply that it makes more sense to the writers (or execs, or whoever) for Steve to go back in time to a decade he DOESN'T EVEN LIKE to marry a woman he SAW working with his BEST FRIEND'S NAZI TORTURER than for him to, I don't know, get a house with Bucky? Who really needs him right now?

I don't think most people got really queerbaited by the MCU. They weren't gonna make their second flagship character gay or bi officially like that. But after spending 3+ movies saying that this relationship is the most important thing in the world, splitting them up by seventy years was a rug pull. It made the story worse, it aggressively retconned multiple arcs, and it felt like someone at Disney got nervous about how popular the ship was in the mainstream. I don't know, probably we'll never know what exactly happened, but it sure felt like a middle finger. Steve should have been bisexual.

Why Sidon should have been queer: Gay, or at least Bi; let's be honest the only reason they put him with Yona in totk is to spite the sidlink shippers, but even then they heavily imply the '''friendship''" he has with Link lol

[hephaestuscrew]

“This has both our names on it”: Viewing Fleet and Clara’s relationship in Victoriocity through a queerplatonic lens

TL;DR: By Season 3 of Victoriocity, Fleet and Clara have developed a committed emotional partnership that certainly moves beyond the purely professional. Whilst very much operating as a duo, they can be interpreted as often rejecting or subverting romance-coded elements in their relationship, instead embracing a unique dynamic that can be read as resonating with the concept of a queerplatonic relationship (QPR).

Buckle up because this is over 2,500 words long! If you'd rather read it as a document, you can access it here: Fleet & Clara QPR Google Doc

Disclaimer: I'm not making any claims about creator intent, nor about how anyone else ought to interpret Fleet and Clara's dynamic. It's also worth acknowledging that queerplatonic relationships are inherently defined by the people in them and any attempt to apply such terminology to a story set in 1887 is obviously anachronistic (although whether that should matter when said story also contains a cyborg Queen Victoria is up for debate). 

With that said, if we define a QPR as a committed personal partnership which is not entirely captured by the typical expectations of either friendship or romance but may contain some elements typically associated with either (other definitions of QPRs are available), I enjoy viewing Fleet and Clara's relationship through a QPR lens, and I want to talk about some of the reasons why I think this reading works.

***Spoilers for all three seasons of Victoriocity and the novel High Vaultage***

Detective duos

Even before we actually get into Fleet and Clara's particular bond, detective / crime-solving duos as a general concept have QPR energy to me (which probably predisposed me to this interpretation). It's the Holmes-and-Watson legacy. It's the use of the word 'partner' in a non-romantic context (‘associate’ or ‘companion’ can also serve a similar purpose). It's the intense trust and reliance on each other. It's the sense of being a recognisable pair, always appearing together, known as a duo, with skills and attributes that complement each other. 

Romantic assumptions

Moving on to Fleet and Clara specifically, one aspect of their relationship that can be read through a QPR lens is how they are often in situations where other people believe or imply that there is a romantic relationship between them. Sometimes this is a deliberate strategy of theirs, and sometimes it’s imposed upon them by others. But I’d argue that there’s never a point where they both simultaneously seem entirely comfortable with that romantic narrative for their relationship. Usually one of them will actively deny the assumption or react negatively to the implication:

When Mrs Hampshire interprets Clara and Fleet as a couple experiencing “young love”, Clara might be happy to adopt this as an effective cover story, but Fleet seems unsettled and keen for them not to be perceived this way: “No. No. You’ve misunderstood, we are not, that is to say I am…” (S1E2)

When Warden Hughes assumes Fleet is the new Warden and Clara is the new Warden’s wife, Clara says “I am certainly not”, with emphasis on the ‘certainly’. (S2E2)

Fleet definitely doesn’t sound enthused when he realises Clara has gone for a married couple as their cover story at the Grand Salcombe: “I am sure I’ll regret asking, but by any chance am I [Mr. Theasby?]” (S2E2)

When Titus Byrne tells the pair “I take it you're happy sharing [a room]”, Clara responds with a horrified “What?” (S3E4) (Obviously sleeping in the same room isn’t inherently romantic, but it is often perceived that way.)

Of course, fake dating and external assumptions of romance are very common tropes in romantic will-they-won't-they dynamics, and these moments could definitely be interpreted that way for Fleet and Clara. But I prefer to read these instances as reflecting a different kind of closeness between these two characters. They have a sense of emotional partnership that allows a marriage cover story to seem plausible to others and that other people sometimes automatically assume to be romantic (obviously with some period-typical heteronormativity at play). But to me, it doesn't seem like either of them are fully comfortable with their relationship being perceived in a directly romantic way. Perhaps they are a couple in a different sense…

Proposal via door plate 

The way that Fleet asks Clara to be his business partner has always seemed to me like a platonic version of when people find personal ways to surprise their romantic partner with a proposal:

CLARA: You bought me a door plate for your office? [...] This has both our names on it. FLEET: What do you think? CLARA: I like it. (S2E7)

Fleet could have just asked Clara outright, without going to the trouble of buying a sign that would have been useless if she’d said no. If it was purely a professional business proposition with no emotional meaning behind it, I think he would have just asked verbally. But instead, he gifts her a sign with their two names paired together: Fleet-Entwhistle Investigations. There's something so intimate about that to me: about Fleet asking Clara whether she would like to be a duo with him in a more formally-defined but still non-romantic way; about him choosing to present this offer in the form of a gift; about the way he presents her with their two names joined together etched into metal and asks what she thinks; about the significance that this gesture attaches to their partnership; about him having enough trust that she'll say yes that the effort and vulnerability of presenting her with that sign seem worth it for him. And the gesture means an awful lot to Clara:

She thought about the door plaque he’d had engraved with both their names on it as his way of inviting her to be his business partner – typical Fleet, refusing to tell her so much as his favourite breakfast food and then to go and do something like that. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for her. (High Vaultage, p187). 

Anniversaries

In the special episode ‘Murder in the Pharaoh's Tomb', Clara says “And you know what else is a big occasion Fleet? It's our one-month anniversary.” She wants to celebrate the anniversary of Fleet-Entwhistle Investigations. Their partnership holds a significance for her that means key dates associated with it are worth remembering and remarking upon. 

When Clara first mentions their anniversary, Fleet nearly chokes on his drink, which seems like an instinctive reaction to the usually romantic connotations of an anniversary (see my point above about Fleet not being comfortable with their dynamic being perceived as romantic). But when Clara clarifies what she means, Fleet seems much more cheerful about the notion of their anniversary: “Ah, so it has.”

“Miss Clara Entwhistle, my partner”

I get extremely strong QPR vibes from this moment, when Fleet introduces Clara to the sailors at Grave End:

FLEET: This is Miss Clara Entwhistle, my partner - in business, my business partner. CLARA: I'm also his friend, but he doesn't like to say it. (S3 E3)

Fleet and Clara are partners, but not in the way the average person might assume from that word, which Fleet realises mid-sentence here. This is another instance of Fleet reacting negatively to the idea that their relationship might be interpreted romantically (see above). And yet, 'partner' (rather than, say, ‘colleague’) is the word that comes naturally to him in this moment to describe who Clara is to him. He then frantically emphasises the professional element of their relationship so as to avoid the romantic implication, but Clara is keen to proudly assert that there is a personal, emotional aspect to their dynamic too. They are first-and-foremost partners, and they are friends, and they do not want to be seen in a romantic light - this post basically writes itself... 

“Her ridiculous detective.”

When Clara fears for her life at the display of the Lanterns, the narration tells us:

“she thought of her brother, her sister, her parents... Her ridiculous detective.” (High Vaultage, p172) 

The fact that Clara thinks of Fleet in this moment of fear clearly indicates his importance to her, but I think the phrasing of this quote is particularly interesting. The narration lists Clara's immediate family: two of whom are dead (her sister and father), one of whom is publically mourning Clara's life choices (her mother), and only one of whom we have any real evidence of her having a positive relationship with (her brother). And then, separated from these complicated familial relationships by an ellipsis, the narration tells Clara also thinks of Fleet, “her ridiculous detective”. 

Parents and siblings are familial relationships that tend to come with established expectations, in which the use of a possessive pronoun (i.e. her brother) to indicate the relationship is a norm. ‘Detective’ does not fall into this category; unlike ‘brother’, ‘sister’, ‘parent’, ‘friend’, ‘partner’ etc., ‘detective’ is not a word that inherently implies a relationship or that we'd usually expect to see preceded by a possessive pronoun. The idea of ‘her detective’ therefore stands out, giving the sense that there is a unique relationship being indicated here. The way in which Fleet is ‘hers’ is something that Clara has chosen for herself, something that they have shaped together. Who they are to each other can't necessarily be fully expressed using standard phrases that traditionally describe relationships between people. But Fleet is Clara's detective, of which she only has one, and who she'll think of in the midst of “the screaming of the heavens at the end of the world”.

Fleet is also the only one in this list of Clara's loved ones who gets an adjective - her love for him has detail. And while “ridiculous” might often be perceived as negative (it's certainly not a classic romantic endearment), it seems to me like there's such fondness in it in this context: the recognition of and affection for eccentricities, the idea that his importance to her is not (purely) based on his professional strengths but on Fleet as a whole - perhaps at times ridiculous - person.

“Settled”

When Clara and Fleet talk about Clara's mother’s expectations for her, they have this exchange:

"She's still living in hope that one day I'll settle down."  "You're not settled?" asked Fleet. "I am." (High Vaultage, p259) 

By ‘settle down’, Clara's mother of course means ‘marry’, ideally into “at least a minor baronetcy”. But Clara already considers herself "settled", just not in a way her mother would understand or appreciate. She's not looking to "settle down" into a lifestyle other than her current one. She is settled in a situation where Fleet is certainly her closest personal connection in London (and perhaps anywhere), and where the two of them work closely together, operate as a duo, and then go back to their separate homes. And this partnership with Fleet is a comfortable set-up that feels right for Clara exactly as it is, rather than being a precursor to, or a distraction from, the marriage ambitions that her mother wants for her.

I think this exchange also contains an implicit sense of the commitment between the two of them. Fleet wants to check that Clara is ‘settled’ in her current situation, of which working closely - and platonically - with Fleet is obviously a major element; Clara confirms she is. There's a subtle indication of their shared intention to be in this for the long haul.

As a sidenote, Fleet and Clara’s implicit assumption that their partnership is a long-term one can manifest itself in joking contexts as well as serious ones. Look at this exchange from S3E5: 

FLEET: We're not bandits, we're just going to flag it down. CLARA: We'd be terrific bandits! FLEET: Let's just see how our current line of work goes.

I think it’s notable that, in this joking speculation, both Fleet and Clara use ‘we’ and ‘our’. The joke could have been phrased just as effectively if they were imagining only Clara becoming a bandit. But the suggestion is that, if either of them was a bandit, they’d be bandits together. Even if they changed their lives entirely, they'd still approach life together.

Inseparable 

Fleet and Clara have become a nearly inseparable duo in a way which is noticed by others. For example, after Clara and Fleet fall out in High Vaultage, Fleet meets with Keller, who says: 

"You're here with me instead of barrelling across town with her, so I'm just assuming there is some thickheaded puffinry for which you need to apologise to Miss Entwhistle" (p335)

Keller, hardly the most emotionally perceptive man in Even Greater London, automatically infers from the fact that Fleet is on his own that he has had a falling out with Clara, rather than that they just happen to be in different places. When all is well, Keller expects to see the two of them together, whether or not they are in a position to be actively working a case.

Going back earlier in their partnership, Keller makes a similar assumption about Fleet and Clara being inseparable in S2E6. When Clara shouts her name amidst Keller's anti-Vidoc booby traps, Keller asks "Entwhistle? Which means… Fleet?" Again, there's this idea that if one of them is there, the other is likely to be there too - they come as a pair. (It's worth noting that this scene takes place less than two weeks after they first met.)

“Like a friend might?”

At the end of S3E7, Fleet suggests that he and Clara go to the theatre together. It would have been easy for this invitation to have been explicitly framed as a romantic proposition, or even for the nature of the offer to have been left more ambiguous. But Clara says "Archibald Fleet, are you inviting me to a social activity? Like a friend might?" The use of the word 'friend' directly labels this as a platonic interaction. And it's with that platonic lens on it that Clara is extremely excited to spend non-work-related social time with Fleet.

“Maybe it'll just be my good luck charm.”

CLARA: My grandmother's ring, I don't suppose you managed to hold on to it? [...] FLEET: Oh, it's been crushed.. I'm sorry Clara [...] CLARA: No, you keep it. FLEET: What? No... CLARA: Keep it. Maybe it'll remind you not to run towards trains. FLEET: Maybe. Maybe it'll just be my good luck charm.

In S3E7, Clara gives Fleet a ring, which - as a gift from one person to another - is traditionally a symbol of a particular, legally recognised, kind of personal commitment. But when Clara tells Fleet to keep the damaged ring, down in the Underground tunnels after the destruction of the beast and Fleet's latest brush with death, it is quite a different situation to a wedding or a proposal. A married man would traditionally wear his wedding ring on his finger for all to see, but Fleet won't ever wear this ring like that. The ring itself has been bent into a different shape between the wheels of their misadventures, subverting the usual associations of a ring given from one person to another. (In a heteronormative world, those associations are particularly strong when the two people in question are a woman and a man.) 

That ring is not an engagement ring, but it is Clara’s grandmother's ring, an inheritance from the blood family she never really felt she belonged in, now given to the man who might be a very different kind of family for her in London. That ring - with which Clara saved Fleet's life - is a symbol of their bond. And it therefore serves as a reminder for Fleet “not to run towards trains" and as a “good luck charm”. I like to think he'll carry that ring with him, perhaps in his jacket pocket - a little piece of his partner, kept close to his ticking heart…

Thank you for reading all of this!

If you’ve read all of this, I'm assuming you also enjoy the concept of Fleet and Clara as a QPR (unless you're really a glutton for punishment) and that makes me very happy! This was long because there's so much to say about them… And I wrote all of the above without even getting into: the potential to headcanon Fleet and/or Clara as aspec (which I don't think is necessary for QPR headcanons, but which is also fun); Clara's baggage around and discomfort with marriage in general; the speed with which Fleet and Clara become a ride-or-die duo; and the many other demonstrations of care, understanding, trust, respect, and affection between them that didn't feel as directly QPR-coded to me but are nonetheless wonderful. Please do feel free to share your own thoughts!

[rxttenfish]

actually i am going to be sad and mourn the loss of any chance for aaravi to actually be fucking scary, showing off how heartlessly, easily, thoughtlessly she could kill someone who, by all accounts, is just a normal ass person in this world, and take great joy in it as doing something good and appropriate and not ever seeing them as a person, let along anyone of any worth — partially, yes, because of how deeply this compliments her arc as a slayer and provides some sincere understanding of what her life has been like thus far, how she has been groomed for this, what was expected to her from the moment of her birth, and how hard it is to even begin to escape because then she has to immediately confront what she has done to so many people, but mostly because it's hot as fuck.

[pucksandpower]

A Royal Surprise

Max Verstappen x Princess of Wales!Reader

Summary: in which Max 1) forgot to tell his team that he has a girlfriend and 2) forgot to tell his team that the girlfriend in question is the future Queen of England … oops?

One of Red Bull Racing’s PR officers, Leslie, sits in the back of the conference room, her pen poised over her notepad as she listens to the team debrief. It’s a typical Thursday morning, with engineers and drivers discussing the upcoming race weekend. Leslie’s eyes flit between Max Verstappen and his teammate as they offer their insights on car performance and track conditions.

“The balance felt off in turn three during the sim,” Max says, leaning back in his chair. “We might need to adjust the downforce.”

Leslie jots this down, already planning how to phrase it for the press conference later that afternoon. Just another normal day at Red Bull Racing, she thinks.

But then, Max casually adds, “Oh, and by the way, you might see some extra security around this weekend. My girlfriend’s coming to watch the race.”

Leslie’s pen stills. There’s something in Max’s tone that makes her look up sharply.

“Girlfriend?” Christian Horner raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone seriously.”

Max shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips. “Yeah, it’s been a few months now. We’ve been keeping it quiet.”

Leslie leans forward, her PR senses tingling. “Anyone we know?” She asks, trying to keep her voice casual.

Max’s grin widens. “You could say that. It’s Y/N.”

The room falls silent. Leslie blinks, sure she must have misheard. “I’m sorry, did you say Y/N? As in ...”

“The Princess of Wales, yeah,” Max confirms, as if he’s just mentioned dating a local girl from down the street.

Leslie’s notepad slips from her fingers, clattering to the floor. The sound seems to break the spell of silence that’s fallen over the room.

“Max,” Christian says slowly, “are you telling us that you���re dating the future Queen of England?”

Max nods, still looking far too relaxed for someone who’s just dropped a bombshell of international proportions. “That’s right.”

Leslie’s mind is spinning. Images of tabloid headlines and diplomatic incidents flash before her eyes. She stands up abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “I need to make some calls,” she says weakly.

But before she can escape, Christian holds up a hand. “Wait, Leslie. We need to handle this carefully. Max, how long has this been going on?”

“About six months,” Max replies. “We met at a charity event in London. Hit it off right away.”

Leslie sinks back into her chair, her head in her hands. “Six months,” she mutters. “You’ve been dating the Princess of Wales for six months, and we’re just finding out now?”

Max has the grace to look a bit sheepish. “We wanted to keep it private for as long as possible. You know how it is with the media.”

Oh, Leslie knows. She knows all too well. “Max,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady, “do you realize what this means? The security implications alone ...”

“It’s all been taken care of,” Max assures her. “The palace has been very discreet.”

Leslie laughs, a slightly hysterical edge to it. “The palace. Of course. Because now we’re dealing with actual palaces.”

Christian clears his throat. “Right. Well, this certainly changes things. Leslie, I think we’re going to need to reschedule the rest of this meeting. Can you get started on a press strategy?”

Leslie nods numbly, her mind already racing with potential scenarios and damage control plans.

As the room begins to clear, Max approaches her. “Leslie? Are you okay? You look a bit pale.”

Leslie takes a deep breath. “Max, I appreciate you telling us. But next time you decide to date royalty, maybe give us a heads up a bit sooner?”

Max chuckles. “Sorry about that. If it helps, you’re handling it better than your counterpart at the palace did when you found out.”

“Oh God,” Leslie groans. “I’m going to have to coordinate with the royal PR team, aren’t I?”

“They’re actually pretty cool,” Max says. “A bit stuffy at first, but they loosen up after a while.”

Leslie shakes her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe this is my life now. Okay, Max, I need you to tell me everything. How did you meet? How have you kept this secret? What are the security arrangements?”

For the next hour, Leslie grills Max on every detail of his relationship with you. She learns about secret rendezvous in Monaco, carefully orchestrated “chance” meetings at public events, and the challenges of dating someone whose every move is scrutinized by the world.

“And you’re sure about this?” Leslie asks finally. “Dating her ... it’s not exactly going to be easy for you.”

Max’s expression softens. “I know. But she’s worth it. We’re worth it.”

Despite her stress, Leslie feels a twinge of sympathy. It can’t be easy, trying to nurture a relationship under such intense pressure.

“Alright,” she sighs. “I’ll do everything I can to make this as smooth as possible. But Max, promise me one thing?”

“What’s that?”

“No more bombshells, okay? My heart can’t take it.”

Max grins. “Well, actually ...”

Leslie’s eyes widen in alarm. “What? What is it now?”

“Her father ... he’s a big F1 fan. He’s been hinting that he’d like to attend a race.”

The room starts to spin. The last thing Leslie hears before everything goes black is Max’s concerned voice saying, “Leslie? Leslie, are you okay?”

When Leslie comes to, she’s lying on the conference room couch, with Max and Christian hovering over her anxiously.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Christian says, relief evident in his voice. “You gave us quite a scare there, Leslie.”

Leslie sits up slowly, her head still spinning. “Please tell me I dreamed all of that,” she mutters.

Max shakes his head, looking apologetic. “Sorry, it’s all real. Are you okay? Should we call a doctor?”

Leslie waves him off. “No, no, I’m fine. Just ... processing.” She takes a deep breath, her PR training kicking in despite her shock. “Okay. Let’s take this one step at a time. First, we need to draft a statement.”

Christian nods. “Good idea. What are you thinking?”

Leslie stands up, pacing as she thinks out loud. “We need to confirm the relationship without making too big a deal of it. Something like ... ‘Red Bull Racing confirms that driver Max Verstappen is in a relationship with Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Wales. We ask for privacy as they navigate this new chapter.’”

Max frowns. “Isn’t that a bit ... formal?”

Leslie sighs. “Max, you’re dating the future Queen of England. Everything’s going to be a bit formal from now on.”

“She hates that, you know,” Max says softly. “All the formality. It’s why she likes being with me. I treat her like a normal person.”

Leslie pauses in her pacing, struck by the vulnerability in Max’s voice. “You really care about her, don’t you?”

Max nods. “More than I’ve ever cared about anyone. She’s ... she’s amazing. Smart, funny, kind. When I’m with her, I forget about all the titles and protocol. She’s just ... her.”

Christian clears his throat, looking uncomfortable with the display of emotion. “That’s all well and good, but we need to think about the bigger picture here. This relationship could have major implications for the team, for Formula 1 as a whole.”

Leslie nods, her mind already racing ahead. “We’ll need to coordinate with the palace on all public appearances. Security will need to be completely overhauled. And the media ... oh God, the media is going to have a field day with this.”

“Hey,” Max says, placing a hand on Leslie’s shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. You’re the best in the business, Leslie. If anyone can handle this, it’s you.”

Despite her stress, Leslie feels a rush of affection for the young driver. “Thanks. I appreciate that. Now, let’s get back to work. We have a lot to do before this news breaks.”

As they settle back into planning mode, Leslie can’t help but shake her head in disbelief. A Formula 1 driver and a princess. It sounds like something out of a fairy tale or a cheesy romance novel. But as she watches Max’s face light up when he talks about you, she realizes that sometimes, reality is stranger — and more romantic — than fiction.

“Oh, and Leslie?” Max adds as they’re wrapping up. “About the King wanting to attend a race ...”

Leslie holds up a hand. “One crisis at a time, Max. Let’s get through announcing your relationship before we start planning any more royal visits to the paddock, okay?”

Max grins. “Fair enough. But just so you know, he’s particularly interested in the British Grand Prix. Says it would be ‘jolly good fun’ to present the trophies.”

Leslie closes her eyes, already imagining the logistical nightmare. “Max, I swear, if you’re joking ...”

“Would I joke about something like this?” Max asks innocently.

Leslie looks at him for a long moment, then turns to Christian. “I’m going to need a raise. And possibly a personal team of therapists.”

Christian chuckles. “I think that can be arranged. Welcome to the new era of Red Bull Racing. It’s going to be an interesting ride.”

As Leslie gathers her notes and prepares to face the whirlwind that’s about to engulf them all, she can’t help but smile slightly. It’s going to be challenging, stressful, and probably more than a little crazy. But as she watches Max’s eyes light up at the mention of your name, she realizes that maybe, just maybe, it might all be worth it in the end.

After all, who doesn’t love a good fairy tale?

[retrosabers]

𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐔𝐌𝐄’𝐒 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐄 𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐌.

logan howlett x fem!reader

summary: the scent of you is driving logan crazy.

contains: mild 18+ content. MINORS DNI. mentions of masturbation (m&f), a steamy little make out, and implications of future smut

word count: 1.8k

a/n: not me trying to capitalize off the hugh jackman renaissance and revive my dead blog…anyways, this is my first time writing for logan! hope you all enjoy <3

i feel like we don’t talk enough about logan’s enhanced sense of smell.

the man can catch a whiff of someone the second they walk into the room, even the building sometimes if their scent is strong enough. it’s especially heightened when he realizes he’s attracted to you. at first he thought maybe it was because you were always wearing perfume, the aroma lingering around the mansion wherever you traveled. but then it became such an intense, all encompassing sensation that he knew it was something deeper.

his suspicions are confirmed one night as he walks past your room. if the faint whimpers he heard weren't enough confirmation of your activities, then the scent that fills his nostrils seals the deal.

you’re touching yourself. and he can smell your arousal.

it makes something stir in his stomach. the animal-like urges he always tries so hard to keep at bay threaten to make their way to the surface the longer he stands frozen in the hallway. logan attempts to shake the heat that spreads across his skin as he makes his way back to his own room, but it only ends with him cumming hard into his hand an hour later.

the next day, when he catches you on your way out of charles’ office, you offer him the same kind, beaming smile you always did. then that damned smell fills his nostrils again and his fists curl at his sides once you’re out of eyesight.

there’s only one explanation for it.

you’re ovulating.

which means there’s no escaping his desires unless you stay out of reach.

so for his sake and yours, he decides to just avoid you completely until the week is over. he can’t risk caving to those urges and doing something stupid and irrational.

of course you’re completely oblivious to it. you think that he’s just being weird, going through another rut of being a standoffish loner like he was when he first arrived at the mansion. because after about a week, he’s back to being a bit friendlier, to being the logan you had grown to call a close friend.

then the cycle seems to repeat itself and you notice it’s just you he’s avoiding.

you try and wrack your brain to think of anything you could’ve done to warrant this kind of isolation. you hoped if something upset logan he would just talk to you about it instead of playing this childish game of hot and cold.

after a couple months, you decide you’ve had enough.

cornering him was a difficult task. but you were observant enough to know certain parts of his routine, including exactly when he would be lingering in the common areas after all the kids had gone to sleep. after two failed attempts of trying to catch him in the kitchen, you finally managed to find him alone and unsuspecting.

“why have you been avoiding me?” you blurt, wanting to cut right to the chase. you’re expecting him to flinch a little bit, perhaps even be stunned.

but he knew you were coming. logan knew it was only a matter of time before you noticed his schtick.

still, he decides to look for an excuse, any excuse, to cover up the real reason.

“m’not avoiding you” he grumbles halfheartedly around the rim of a beer bottle. taking an extra long swig, he finally turns to look at you; leaning against the doorway with your arms folded and a look akin to annoyance plastered across your pretty face.

you cock your head to the side, clearly unimpressed with his answer.

“a few days ago, i watched you back out of a room the minute you realized i was in it,” you start to list off, counting with your fingers. “last month you avoided the wing where the gym was altogether while i was going through a new training regimen.”

logan winces at the memory. the scent of your pheromones was intoxicating. so much so that he couldn’t step foot anywhere near the gym without feeling like he needed to rub one out.

“and the month before that,” you huff out a sad laugh, voice suddenly soft and quiet. “you didn’t even say goodbye before you went off on that mission with scott and jean.”

guilt overtakes him quickly at the pain in your tone.

you’ve never looked smaller as you pick at a loose thread on your sweatpants. “did i do something wrong?”

“no,” logan reassures, jumping out of his seat at record speed, though still trying to maintain some distance. “you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“then what is it? you sigh exasperatedly, desperate to put an end to this nagging feeling that’s been eating away at you. “logan, you know if something’s bothering you, you can tell me.”

and he wants to. he so badly wants to, maybe even see if you’ll offer to help him out. but you’re you. the sweetest, kindest thing he’s ever known and he’ll be damned if he lets his curse of a mutation ruin whatever relationship the two of you have.

but then you’re inching closer and his skin starts buzzing again. his senses are consumed by you. by the way you look up at him with big, wide eyes, the softness of your skin as you reach to place a comforting hand on his forearm. it's all too much, and he finds himself pulling away from you with a grunt.

it hurts to see him retreat from you so aggressively. his jaw is clenched tight, his fists at his sides even tighter as the veins in his arms bulge bigger than you’ve ever seen before. he looks pained. like he’s fighting something internally.

“logan,” you approach him cautiously, unsure of what exactly to do. “what’s going on?”

his eyes squeeze shut at the sound of your voice. “just, please go back to your room.”

“i’m not leaving you like this.”

“m’not asking you,” he grits out, almost like a growl. “i’m telling you. go back to your room.”

now he was starting to piss you off. you narrow your eyes, leaning your hip against the counter.

“or what?”

suddenly he’s crowding your space, chest heaving up and down as he stares at you with pupils so wide his eyes are nearly black. logan’s voice is scarily level when he utters his final warning.

“or i’m gonna do something i regret.”

when you shift closer to him, his nose twitches with a sniff. the raise of your brow doesn’t go unnoticed, and he knows that you’re not leaving this room until you get to the bottom of what he’s been hiding.

that’s when something inside logan decides to throw caution to the wind, just for a minute.

“i can smell you.”

curiosity morphs into confusion at his admission. you shake your head.

“i don’t understand.”

then, the man’s gaze travels to the waistband of your pajama pants, the tension in his jaw growing more taught by the second. his hands flex at his sides, trying to keep him grounded and calm as he finally admits what’s been driving him mad.

“i can smell you.”

the emphasis on the last word takes a minute to register. logan watches as the gears turn behind your eyes, catches the exact moment of realization as your gaze softens and your lips part.

oh.

oh.

slowly things start to piece together. how logan’s behavior seemed to fall around the same time these past couple months. a few weeks before your cycle.

he wasn’t avoiding you because he was angry, or upset. he was avoiding you because you were fucking ovulating.

logan expects you to flee, to be completely weirded out and steer clear of him for the foreseeable future. what he’s not expecting, is the words that come out of your mouth.

“i can help you with that if you want.”

you say it with such nonchalance, such casualness that he wonders if you’re even really grasping what you’ve said.

the wolverine shakes his head. “trust me, you don’t want this.”

he doesn’t quite believe his own words as he watches you close the distance between your bodies. something you’ve been desperate to do for as long as you can remember.

the thin fabric of his tank top and the soft cotton of your t-shirt is the only thing standing between you both. your chests are mere centimeters from touching and logan can feel the heat radiating from your bodies as his confession hangs heavy in the air. then that fucking smell comes back tenfold and he groans.

“you don’t get to make that choice for me,” your voice is sickly sweet, dripping with desire as your fingers ghost over the waistband of his jeans. he feels like a horny teenager as he preens at the barely there contact.

logan breathes your name, a last stitch effort to get you to run, though he knows it’s futile. if there’s one thing he knows about you, it’s that you're stubborn. unmoving in your ways.

and that when you want something, you don’t stop until you get it.

your hand comes up to cradle the side of his face, a rather gentle touch he wasn’t anticipating. his eyes flutter shut as you swipe your thumb over the expanse of his cheekbone.

your words are barely above a whisper. “i trust you, logan. completely.”

that’s all he needs to hear before he throws any sense of self control out the window.

he surges forward and captures your lips in what is possibly the most heated kiss you’ve ever experienced. you nearly stumble over at the sheer force of it. logan’s large hands fly to your waist, yours to the back of his neck as his tongue prods for entrance into your mouth. it’s messy, almost primal as you let him ravish you like he’s been thinking about for weeks.

you moan and he swallows the sound greedily, desperate to hear it again, and again, and again. when his lips move to press against the column of your throat, you know this is going to escalate into exactly what you hoped it would.

“logan,” you breathe out as he focuses on your pulse point, his hands wandering further south to knead at the globes of your ass. “not here.”

“why not?” he mutters, all smirky and smug as he continues to press wet hot kisses against your neck.

“because i would prefer if you didn’t fuck me where our friends eat.”

he laughs, a deep vibration felt against your chest as you absentmindedly grind your core against his. it makes him bring his mouth back up to yours, stealing one final kiss before he pulls away.

looking at you like he wants to eat you alive. and by god you might just let him.

pressing a playful smack against your backside, he gently nudges you in the direction of the corridor.

“lead the way sugar.”

thanks for reading! <3

[konigslittleliebling]

MY DEAR, MY DARLING ONE.

(PASS ME THAT LOVELY LITTLE GUN)

table of contents; distressing situation, you’re a captive, implications of torture, injury, violence, attempted sa, established situationship (they have those in the apocalypse too), hurt/comfort, strong language. proceed wisely!

drip drip drip.

every thirteen seconds, that drain pipe drips. you’ve timed each interval. three drops every time.

drip drip drip.

boy, that was a slow twenty-six seconds.

drip drip drip.

thirty-nine.

and you’ve kept count of every last one; you’ve been here just shy of four days.

then that scrape. that horrifically jarring scrape against the steel sheet wall.

your bones rattle, ears ringing as that familiar panic starts to seep in.

you listen out for the clinging and clanging of the shipping container door being unlocked, and on the second drip, it screeches on its rusted metal joints. you squeeze your eyes shut, preparing for the stream of daylight to flood in, but it never does. it’s dark outside.

time must have escaped you, or you’ve slept longer than you thought. you must in fact be encroaching on day five.

the night’s chill nips at the bare skin that your underwear fails to conceal, which is most of it, and you tremble from your damp corner of the large cargo tank. it creaks when someone steps inside, and you’ve since learnt that it’s best not to make eye contact with whomever approaches.

you’re a slow learner, and you’ve had to learn the hard way, but still you learn.

you’ve got two black eyes to show for it.

“gov’s on his way.” drawls a familiar southern voice. merle. “i picked up a chinese kid and his girlfriend earlier today,” he continues thickly, stooping to a crouch before you. “don’t ‘spose yer familiar with ‘em?”

glenn and maggie. your heart lurches, but you say nothing.

“only, they know my brother.” he sinks to one knee, the cool point of his blade kissing the underside of your chin when he tilts your face up. “ya look like ‘er,” he observes with a smirk, blue eyes dashing over your bruised face. “glenn’s piece’a tail, i mean.”

there’s no way he’s made that connection. you always bore a closer resemblance to your father, akin to beth; unlike maggie who resembles your late mother.

“they proposed an ultimatum,” he goes on with that raspy voice you can hardly stand. “we give ya back, they’ll tell us where yer hunkered down.”

“why are you telling me this?” you ask hoarsely, finding your voice. having not had any human interaction for a couple of days, it comes out a little croaky. you clear your throat.

“‘cause the only way gov will allow that is if ya cooperate,” he lifts his sharp prosthetic so the tip rests below your eye, tender to the touch. you wince despite his delicacy, and he eases the knife so it merely hovers in front of your face. “and we know yer not so good at that.”

“why do you care?” you spit, forgetting yourself.

merle’s eyes flash but he doesn’t strike you. he’s the only one who hasn’t.

“this might be my last chance ta get my baby brother back,” he divulges, strangely soft.

then a pair of footsteps, heavy and purposeful, crunch the gravel beneath them as they march in your direction.

merle glances over his shoulder then turns back to you, voice low. “do yerself a favour, girl, give him what he wants.” he scuffs a knuckle against your lower lip where dried blood has congealed and collected, a morsel of guilt present in his stare if you look long enough.

you narrow your gaze, eyes following him when he stands. “this’ll all be over soon.”

“she talk yet?” drones another familiar voice, one you can stand even less.

merle twists on his axis and out of your way, allowing you to see a lean silhouette in the doorway, blackened by the floodlights behind him.

“nah,” merle tells him, fiddling with the buckles of his contraption. “stubborn lil bitch, this one is, gov.”

the governor hums and from that alone you can tell he’s smirking. “so is her sister.”

your cheeks burn with a foreign rage, swollen eyes shooting daggers at where you think his own leer down at you. the hands that hug your knees to your chest tighten, fingers curling until you think your knuckles may split through the skin.

“stubborn. . . and very, very pretty.”

your jaw ticks, a red hot ache spreading over the rest of your face from the amount of times you’ve been smacked there. you’re certain you probably look like a gerbil, and you know for a fact you’re missing a few teeth.

the governor steps inside, and the light from outside finally illuminates his face when it ricochets off the back wall and onto him like a spotlight. he’s wearing that same smug expression you suspected he would be. it’s the only one he seems to have.

he manages to drag his eyes from you long enough to acknowledge merle, catching a glimpse of the man’s remaining hand. he spots the blood that smudges it, brownish from its age, not that he notices. “you beat her?”

merle’s temples ripple as he grinds his teeth. “yup,” he motions to your cowering frame with his knife-hand. “slapped her about real good, still nothin’. i can come back tomorrow—”

“that’s alright, merle,” the governor dismisses him with a half-arsed wave. “i’ll take it from here. if good looks aren’t the only thing she has in common with her sister, i might just know how to crack her.”

he snaps a finger, and another henchman you don’t recognise scuttles in with a chair, places it down in front of you, then leaves as quick as he came.

merle loiters, regarding him coolly. “she ain’t respondin’ ta force, gov. i reckon—”

“thank you, merle.” the governor cuts him off, spinning the chair around to take a seat. “why don’t you go and give our friend glenn a visit? somethin’ tells me he’s easier to scare than his lady friends.”

you’re dead wrong there, you muse.

“yes, boss.” merle gives him a curt nod, then throws you an unreadable sidelong glance on his way out.

“now, then” the governor props his arms over the back of the chair, hands clasped. “how are we?”

god, he really grinds your gears. “peachy.”

he chuckles, leg bouncing. he does that a lot. “that looks sore.” he points to the various welts and cuts that blotch your black and blue face.

no, they tickle. “had worse.”

“that be?” he grins, incredulous, tapping his heel now.

“well, the world sorta went to shit,” you answer from your defensive little ball. you must look so pathetic to him. “so did human decency, apparently.”

his facade falters ever so slightly. anyone else might not have noticed, but you��ve started to suss him out.

“though i’ve found men always lacked in moral capacity, so i guess some things never change.” you finish, suddenly confident.

something else you’ve learned during your time here is that he’s nothing without his ego. one hefty blow to that, and you might just catch him on the hop.

he blinks slowly, like a slimy little lizard, then that charming smile returns to his lips, splitting from cheek to cheek. it sends a chill rocketing down your spine and you shiver, which you hope he didn’t see.

“you can make this easier on yourself,” he motions to your battered face again, and you’re starting to grow self-conscious about it. “this is mostly on you.”

you huff out a laugh through your teeth; it pains you to do so but the way his eyes twitch make it worth while.

“somethin’ funny?”

“nope,” you let your head thump back against the wall, a provocative smirk peeling your lip up. “nothing funny here.”

thwack.

his backhand sends you flying onto your side, right onto your ribs. you hadn’t realised they might be broken until now and you let out a groan, wrapping an arm around your middle.

the scraping of the chair legs against the floor slice through your eardrums and you cringe. you always hated the sound of cutlery squeaking against a plate, and that’s the sound it reminded you of.

“no,” he says fiercely, no longer interested in the upkeep of his persona. “there isn’t.”

you whimper when he grips you by your hair, wrapping it around his fist, then flings you back into the corner the same way one might discard their litter onto the roadside.

you land awkwardly on your shoulder and let out a throaty, struggled breath. you refuse to give him the satisfaction, even if you do want nothing more than to bawl your eyes out.

you grit your teeth. don’t fucking cry.

he’s kneeling beside you now, expression overcast. then a merciless hand takes your chin in its jaws and forces you to look at him. you heave out through flared nostrils, eyes wide as you grip his wrist and squeeze it.

he doesn’t relent. if anything, his grasp tightens.

“where’s your group?” he asks you, mouth so taut you’re surprised he got his words out.

you swallow, shrinking into yourself slightly under his cold stare. there’s no shred of remorse behind those eyes. not even a little. “my daddy’s a religious man.” you begin, digging your nails into the skin of his wrist which flexes in response.

he squints at you, confused.

“i’ve always been indifferent, though. i’m not so naïve as to be a non-believer. . . but what god would allow an apocalypse? what god would create evil such as you?”

he says nothing, but his hand slips to your neck where it grips you lightly. not so hard that you can’t speak, but hard enough to warn you.

“but my dad? hard-core believer.” you clarify, still holding onto his wrist, nails biting into it a little more. “no boys, no parties, no fun. so maggie and i hatched a plan. if ever she or i had a boyfriend, we’d cover for each other. if she was the one with the boyfriend, i’d keep dad occupied so she could sneak him in, or sneak herself out. and she’d do the same for me. anyway, dad figured us out eventually and for one whole summer we were confined to the farm except for church every sunday. wanna know what i did?”

the governor regards you with dark, disinterested eyes.

“one sunday, the church was particularly full and the only room was right at the back next to this skinny boy who must’ve been new in town. out of boredom or pity or wanting to get back at my dad, i reached over, pulled the boy’s dick from his slacks, and jerked him off right there on the back pew, in the presence of god. what better way to rebel than that?”

you can tell he’s waiting for you to make your point, so you do, but not before smiling as widely as you’re able.

you lean forward so you’re nose-to-nose. “it’s. . . uncanny how much you look like that boy’s dick.”

his mouth twists into a grisly snarl and he squeezes your neck, the air catching in your throat. you gasp and claw at his hand. “last chance.”

even if you wanted to, you can’t say much with him squeezing the life out of you like this. well, if you’re going to die here, you may as well have the last laugh. with what remains of your strength, and through the sea of stars that cloud your vision, you manage to wheeze: “not for all the tea in china, pencil-dick.”

he glares at you with disgust, then with a frustrated growl he releases you, not before pushing you roughly against the container’s steel structure.

“murphy!” he bellows, summoning one of his henchmen.

a large man enters, burly and barrel-chested. “yes, boss?”

“do what you have to do, whatever makes her talk.” the governor orders him, running a hand through his hair. “if she still won’t cough anything up, kill her. if her people want her back, they can have her dead.”

murphy nods, a sick smile stretching across his face.

the governor turns to leave, then stops to say. “but save her head — it’ll look nice in my collection, and i’ve got an empty tank.”

your stomach churns. you knew there was more to this guy than what meets the eye. then to your horror, the door slams shut, plunging you into a darkness blacker than pitch.

you freeze and trap your breath in your lungs, which they don’t thank you for, and listen out for any movement. you can hear murphy’s faint breathing, but you’ve lost all bearing and have no idea where he is.

you’re bare-foot. perhaps you could try to slip past him to the door, jump out, then lock him in.

but you can’t see a fucking thing. knowing your luck, you’d walk straight into him, or miss the door entirely.

then a rough hand seizes you by your scruff and wrestles you to the floor so you’re prone, cheek pressed flush against the cool metal of it. you let out a yelp and struggle to free yourself, but another hand bends your arm back and a knee digs heavily into your lower back, pinning you down.

“gonna talk?” murphy asks, and something tells you he hopes not. “i would if i were you.”

you squirm, but it only causes you great pain and gets you absolutely nowhere. you go limp beneath him. “fuck you.”

“i’ll be doing the fucking.” he sneers with a tone so volatile that you know now why the governor left with such haste. even he was shaking in his boots.

a bile rises in you throat when his belt unbuckles and you huff, eyes closing. “go on, then.” you dare him, mind drifting to happier times. “i probably won’t even feel it.”

schwip.

there’s a whistle in the air above, a subtle gust coasting over you; followed by the weight above you going rigid.

then a loud thud lands beside you, causing you to jolt.

footsteps clatter against the floor and you hightail it on hand and foot until you reach the far corner, huddling yourself into the fetal position.

a pair of hands take hold of your shoulders and you shriek, blindly clawing and swiping and batting your hands.

“hey, hey, hey,” someone shushes, trying to reach for your face.

you whimper, still trying to fight them off, until they manhandle you out of your cubby and take your face in their hands. “hey, look at me.”

only now do you register the familiarity of their voice and their touch, and allow yourself to really look at them. you can’t see that clearly, eyes still adjusting to the bright light that spills in through the door which you hadn’t heard open.

“daryl?” you manage to croak. now that your adrenaline is wearing off, you only now realise the extent of your injuries. it feels as though every bone in your body is broken.

but the relief that surges through you soon overwhelms your pain.

“it’s me.” he whispers, stroking your hair from your face. from the way his eyes darken, it would seem he wasn’t expecting to find you in such bad shape. you feel him tense. “i’m here, i’m right here. yer okay.”

you finally succumb to your elements and collapse against him, body racked with sobs. he shushes you again and bundles you up in his arms, rocking you gently whilst he lays a tentative hand on your head. “i know, i know. s’okay.”

“gotta go.” you hear merle rasp from the door. he must’ve brought daryl to you.

“one second.” daryl snaps, tucking you further against him like he’s scared you’ll disappear. “gimme yer shirt.”

there’s a beat of silence before you hear merle hurry over, then you feel the warmth of him or daryl draping it over your shoulders. you sniffle against daryl’s neck, arms linked tightly around it.

“alright, i’ve got ya.” he says against your forehead, rising slowly to his feet. “there ya go, nice n’ easy.” one arm supports your back whilst the other locks under your knees, thumb rubbing a soft pattern against your shin.

when he turns to carry you out, you see murphy’s lifeless heap on the floor, a puddle of red oozing from each bolt that pierces him. one lodged between his eyes, and the other buried into his unzipped crotch.

“this way.” merle leads daryl away from the distant crackles and pops of gunfire.

“let’s get ya outta here.” daryl says, breaking into a steady jog. he holds you closer to him so you’re not thrashed around too much by his brisk pace. “no one will ever fuckin’ touch ya like that again.”

[trulyumai]

befitting for an emperor

pairing: emperor geta / wife! reader

synopsis: you were Geta’s, and he was yours.

warnings: pure smut. Geta secretly loves soft moments, pulling, kissing, reader gets manhandled.

enjoy!

18+ mdni

A laugh sprung out from the man’s chest, it bubbled in his throat for only a moment before escaping and making its way around the room. it made blood seep to your face, in embarrassment your hands tried to cover your cheeks.

“my wife,” Geta teased, his own calloused and rough hands bumping into yours, making sure to remove them entirely from your pinked face. “how can one be so worked up over mere skin? skin you’ve seen before, no less.”

“I’m— im not. It was just startling, husband.” your eyes met his briefly before they took interest in the stone wall behind his naked figure. He had just gotten out of his bath, and instead of calling the servants in— like he usually did, he was silent, slowly making his way to your distracted form.

you were enjoying a light reading, marking the pages with your inked pen until the man suddenly interrupted, grabbing at your frame with wanted impulsion.

his fingers gripped onto your chin, urging you once more to look up at him—always up.

you granted such a wish, and met his fiery brown orbs with a softness. his fingers were light against your smooth skin, but there was an implication there, a show of force to be applied.

“my wife,” the words were so low, barely leaving his lips as he inched closer with a caution. “you’ll sleep with me?”

your eyes widened.

“sleep… or make love?”

Another mean laugh left his mouth.

“Make love?” Geta chuckled so close to you, that you swore the vibration could be felt within your throat. “It’s fuck, silly wife. we will fuck.”

Violent, angry eyes met with your calm and soft ones. And a hand came between the two of you, reaching for the back of your gown to slip it off entirely.

It came undone quickly, sweeping off your form in one solid movement before bunching down at your feet. Your figure stood in front of him, now as bare as his own.

The fingers made there way up, to the swell of your breasts, slowly caressing and gripping with newfound addiction. Pushing forward, Geta made sure your body fell upon the mattress, his palms came crashing beside you, each on the side of your head in a protective display.

Leaning down, the emperor kissed and sucked around your neck, making sure to leave pink and purple bite marks in every direction. soft gasps escaped you, along with little mewls of pain and pleasure— to which the man ate up generously.

“please,” you begged, already hooking your smaller legs against his backside, opening yourself up for him once more.

“please what, pretty wife?” Geta growled, meticulously digging his fingers in your hair before pulling back, showing off the slobbery marks he left behind.

“M—ah Geta—” the emperor smiled, his hips lowered teasingly onto yours, pressing his member so close to your warmth.

“please—” to embarrassed to say the full sentence, your arm covered the top portion of your face and your chest bucked up, only pressing further and further to the drooling man above you.

“if you want me to make ‘love’ to you, little wife, you have to beg.” tears began to wet at your lashes in desperation. seconds— or maybe minutes passed before your arm moved from your face. with pink cheeks and pouting lips you kissed Geta.

slowly at first, making sure both of your mouths synched before the movement sped up, before your tongue sped up and before your words fell upon his ears.

breaking apart, a trail of saliva followed both your beings. It made Geta quiver; ever the impatient man he was already holding his wet tip in his hand, moving it until it kissed your oozing entrance.

your watery eyes were so squinty, so love filled and tired at the same time.

you knew what he was waiting for. what he wanted you to say.

so, with a tight grip on his waist, your legs hooked around your ankles before the man could blink. a doting, messy smile graced your features as you spoke.

“please fuck me, my emperor. until you can’t anymore. until I birth you an heir, until auh—!” He didn’t even let you finish before entering you in one go.

He was so big. Too big. Stretching you painfully without any warning.

“If that’s what you, ugh, want— pretty wife, I’ll give.. it to you.” Stomach tensing, his arms hooked around your waist, pulling your entire lower body off the bed as his hips rocked back and forth.

Arms now entirely behind your head, your vision doubled. his pace was so fast— so rough.

The sound of skin slapping emitted through the chambers, his cock slammed into you over and over, making the tears overflow your lashes for the second time that night.

“—mmh!” high pitched moans left you, they sounded clipped and interrupted as his movements knocked the breath out of you with every push his dick made in your soft mound.

Geta’s brows furrowed, biting down a scowl he slapped at your chest, wobbling your tits in front of him. He was getting close already, and could you blame him?

To have your drooling, submissive body on display, gods, it was torture.

He had to get you to cum first. His pride wouldn’t allow it another way.

“—auh, cum for me. cum for me sweetheart, cmon.” sweat inched its way down his chest and met with the other liquids upon his crotch. The slapping only got louder from how dripping you had came to be. It ran down your thighs, drowned his manhood and dribbled onto the sheets with ease.

You felt the coil in your stomach tighten, it felt so hot, so warm. You thought you might pass out from the sheer heat of it all.

His hands brought you back. They found their way under your armpits, and with a jerk, lifted you in the air, dangling off the emperors lap as he still rutted into you like some wild animal with your legs flopping around with every shove he made inside.

Suspended in the air, your thighs opened up more, fully allowing the man to pummel and bully his way into your slippery mound, hitting that spot over, over and over.

That was all you could take.

A sharp cry left you as your back arched into the pale man’s hold. His grip tightened, you swallowed him so tightly he nearly stopped such harsh movements.

You came in a quick, violent flash. It tingled around your belly before delving down to your toes, making them tense and separate with how the orgasm invaded your senses.

Geta couldn’t last after that.

He came too, sheathing his pulsing cock into your folds, spilling his seed as deep as it would go.

You didn’t remember much after that. Only that everything was so warm, and that your body felt too heavy to manage.

Geta was the one to clean you up, sneakily pushing the drops of white back into your warmth with silent touches. He was the one to wrap you up, bundle you in so many blankets that none were left to be spared.

And he was the one to kiss and stare at you for most the night; never straying too far from your crumpled form.

[kestrel-of-herran]

there's sooooo much meaning in mark turning and walking back towards helly and so many layers to the scene in terms of both emotions and narrative implications.

up to this point they both thought they were about to die. mark would get gemma out of lumon for his outie, turn into him and wait on his mercy to be sucked into his consciousness in a capacity that might render him into nothing more than an echo or a ghost, and helena would never turn back into helly because mark scout and gemma would expose lumon and terminate the innies' existance. mark s. is staring at this oblivion when he's staring at the door and the woman he doesn't recognize calling out for a version of him that needs him only for the labor he can provide for him in dulling his pain and earning his money and rescuing his wife.

when the red lights turn on over helly she thinks it's already over, that mark got gemma out and she'll never get to see him again. britt said the alarm reminds her of her escape attempt at the staircase, so this is where she runs to on impulse, for the slightest chance she might be able to see him again.

when she calls out his name it's just a single word to all of gemma's cries and pleas, but it's the only time in this scene when "mark" denotes him, the innie. her voice and the sight of her at the end of the corridor ground him back to himself, remind him he is a person, he has people who care about him and love him and want him because of who he is, not who he could be, and that he has things he wants and people he doesn't want to lose. he might have nothing in this world built just to control him but he has this choice and he has her and their love.

when he starts walking to helly he's made that choice with every atom of his body, but she still doesn't understand, she's thinking maybe he wants to tell her something, maybe he's coming just to say goodbye. it only hits her fully when she sees his expression, all the love and desire and rapture there, all the feeling in his heart, that this is real, that he's making this choice, which means she's not about to die and she's not about to lose him. the girl who didn't want to live half a life has become the only thing he wants to live for. it's this sublime moment of disbelief and relief at the enormity of salvation that can be achieved through your actions when you didn't ever hope you could be saved.

and then he takes her hand, and nothing exists in the world but them anymore. the world was built for lovers all along. he looks at her like he wants to drink her in and she finally lets herself have it, lets herself feel joy and pride and this conviction, my love mine all mine, nothing in the world belongs to me but my love does. and triumph, too, she chose well, she gave her heart to him and he's more than worthy of having it, and love as a source of power and lust for life, if it's the two of them against the world nothing can stand in their way.

the music is enormously important here, it coocoons them in their emotional journey, shelters them from the incomprehensible anguish of the outsider. this moment is only for them, their connection something they built and earned and will continue to fight for, independently and in spite of every controlling entity in their lives.

it's an action that is also a statement, a discovery and definition and actualization of self, i'm this kind of person, i'm the kind of person who wouldn't lose you. it's a rubicon moment, a point of no return which is the start of time, a line whose crossing will remap their world.

what he did is life-defining for both of them, the choice to put themselves and their love first, the choice to say i am a person worthy of life and joy and agency. the triumph of the human spirit over the dehumanization of the dystopian narrative.

[murderbot-moodboard]

I have watched the Episode 7 three times, and naturally I have some thoughts:

- Okay, Gurathin officially has the coolest backstory I can imagine for his character. Being a former corporate spy has so many implications for who he is and what he's capable of. It explains why he's been suspicious this whole time (apparently from the moment they acquired a SecUnit) that Murderbot could be working with the Company to hurt the Preservation team. It also explains why he was suspicious of LeeBeeBee from the beginning and saw through all her attempts to get him and the others to reveal information.

- Interestingly, the rest of PresAux knows this about him, but Murderbot doesn't, which would seem to fit with the books, as I'm fairly certain Murderbot would've mentioned it somewhere if it knew Gurathin was a former corporate spy. (We could also discuss in-world reasons why Murderbot might not mention it, but I'll leave that for fanfic writers to explore.)

- Gurathin's relationship to Mensah also makes a lot more sense from his backstory. He was desperate, broken, and essentially enslaved, with no one to turn to, and she forgave him and helped him get asylum in Preservation Alliance, which had to be an involved and risky process. She was his only friend for a while, and knowing Mensah, she would've stuck with him and done whatever she could to support him through all the ups and downs (including withdrawal from his corporation's proprietary drugs).

It makes sense that Gurathin would see Mensah as a rare stabilizing force in his life. She's someone he's terrified of losing, to the point that he'd go on a survey with her in the Corporation Rim rather than let her out of sight into the dangers he narrowly escaped. Even if it means putting himself in a situation likely to trigger reminders of his past trauma and addiction and tempt him to relapse. He's fallen in love with Mensah, but his feelings are largely because of who she was to him at the lowest point in his life, and because he's become emotionally dependent on her during his addiction and trauma recovery and his integration into a foreign culture in adulthood. His going into Mensah's room to cry over her pillow, an action Murderbot misinterpreted and classified as creepy and depressing, seems to indicate rather that Gurathin doesn't think he can continue to function if he loses her.

- Okay, now that we've discussed the big reveal, I want to note that this episode made me fall even more in love with all of PreservationAux and Murderbot. After several episodes of the team being separated into groups, we get to see them all working together during an emergency. And PresAux works together really well as a team—as long as they're not being shot at by hostile SecUnits. PresAux and Murderbot... still not quite working as a team yet, but they're making an attempt.

Adding a readmore because this is quickly becoming a long post:

- I love how Bharadwaj and Gurathin basically hang out together and take care of each other for most of the episode. In past episodes, they've both seemed unwilling to admit to the rest of the team that they're struggling and need support. But with Gurathin being shot in the leg and Bharadwaj shaken by the betrayal and violent death of someone she'd cared about, I think they've both lost some of their ability to pretend they're fine. They also seem to find comfort and usefulness in looking out for each other, and possibly a distraction from their own problems that's helping them cope. Either way, the casual physical closeness is very sweet, and shows at least one way Gurathin has become more integrated with Preservation culture.

- Before I forget, I went back and replayed several times that moment in the habitat where PresAux steps back from Murderbot, and I noted two things: (1) Mensah only barely steps back, and she looks slightly cautious and evaluative rather than afraid while doing so, and (2) Gurathin, who is sitting on a box, does not step back, but just moves sideways into a more upright position no longer resting his weight on his arm, and could possibly be trying to get in front of Bharadwaj?

- In the crisis situation of this episode, Mensah really embodies her role as team leader, acting as a source of calm and decisiveness when her team needs her to be. I felt like she showed a new level of steady confidence, and I think it's partly because she's rising to the occasion for her team as a good leader does, but also because she now understands the kind of ally they have in Murderbot. Murderbot is an ally who would literally cut out pieces of its body to get them out of danger. She also gets to share the burden of command with a consultant who understands combat and the dangers facing them better than any of the team, and who has saved them several times so far. Her understanding of Murderbot as a person gives her new confidence in communicating with it and new insight in how to persuade it to work with the team, even if the insight isn't perfect.

- Let me just say, the scene with Murderbot being grown over with branches was haunting. It's true to the things Murderbot fantasizes about doing in the books, and it's also a great example of what depression can look like. There was discussion on Discord about how this is essentially suicidal ideation but Murderbot is unlikely to recognize that. It's also reflective of an aspect of depression that doesn't always get attention: the feeling of wanting to just never have to move again.

- I love that Pin-Lee got lots of time this episode to voice their opinions and suggest courses of action for the team. In my opinion, most of the characters felt like they had come closer to their book portrayal in this episode, and this was especially true of Pin-Lee. Their strategic thinking and assertiveness was evident throughout the episode. I also internally cheered when they said they wanted to sue the shit out of the whole Corporation Rim—that's our lawyer Pin-Lee!

- Arada nerding out over the worms was so funny and endearing, and definitely reminded me of other people I've known who are very passionate about their field of expertise. And it seems very in character for Arada to think LeeBeeBee was bluffing about killing them all.

- Ratthi was hilarious this episode, and came across as someone who tries to use charisma to charm his way through new or uncomfortable situations, in order to hide the fact that he doesn't know what he's doing and is making it up as he goes. It's worked enough times that it's become his main coping strategy, even when it's not a very effective one.

- Poor Bharadwaj was really not having a good time this episode. She's clearly still having a hard time with what happened to LeeBeeBee, and still angry with Murderbot for it. And then the worms show up! Her extremely repulsed facial expressions made it pretty clear she'd rather be anywhere but near those things.

- Something interesting I noticed this episode was the way Gurathin sometimes blinks while his eyes roll back in his head. I'd noticed it at least once before, in that scene where Murderbot doesn't strangle him (which I watched on loop a few times thanks to gifs by some lovely people), but I'd thought it was just a fear response or something. In this episode, though, especially a couple times during the flashback scene, Gurathin's eyes definitely did the same thing. So now I'm thinking it might have something to do with his augments. There was also discussion on Discord of whether the reason Gurathin's condition seemed to deteriorate quickly had anything to do with his augments. I have no idea, but it occurred to me to wonder if immunosuppression is necessary for augmentation (like it is sometimes currently for organ transplants), and if that would interfere with his body's ability to heal or fight infection.

Okay, I think I've covered all the things I wanted to cover that other people haven't already covered. This episode was chock full of good character moments, y'all!

[audliminal]

Survivability Bias Pt 2

Masterpost - Ao3

Danny spends the next few days exploring the town more, while he considers the implications of everything he’d learned  at the library. He’d taken notes, but they’re not exactly the best. Danny’s never been that good at taking notes, after all, but he has a pretty good memory, so the various key words and few quotes he’d scribbled down are plenty useful in reminding him of all the wild shit he’d read about.

There’d been a lot of history involved in the whole meta situation. It seems like these so-called meta humans, and various other races (species? Danny doesn’t know nearly enough about the cultural implications of that) have been around long enough to have had a significant impact on the world at large. And yet, at the same time, there really hadn’t been a lot of personal information on any of the heroes. Oh, there’d been plenty on some of the villains - and of course there’d still be villains here, he’s not lucky enough to escape that - but aside from various speculation about their romantic lives, and a few acknowledgements of family ties here and there, there’d been very few details about where most of them actually came from.

Superman, for example (he seemed to be this world’s go-to example of metas and superheroes), is listed as being an alien, who’s powers come from his biologies unique interaction with this planet’s atmosphere, although it doesn’t explain anything about what that means. Interestingly, there seems to be almost no speculation about Superman’s so-called secret identity. Only about half the listed heroes seem to have one according to the public, but Danny knows that song and dance too well to fall for it. Honestly, they’re even more likely to have a secret identity than Danny himself, seeing as Danny’s alter ego is literally dead. Not that ghosts seem to be much of a thing here.

He’d felt so silly looking up information about ghosts, right before leaving the library. Compared to the deep dive into recent history, googling “are ghosts real” must have looked insane if anybody could see it. The answer he’d returned had been not unlike the way things had been when he was ten or twelve. Before the portal, you’d see dumb ghost hunter shows where they never actually saw much of anything. Ghosts were, like, poltergeists that moved your furniture around and slammed the doors shut. The results here had been a little more interesting - clearly in a world where superheroes are a fact of life, fantastical stuff is a little more rational, and the speculation was clearly affected by that fact, but it still had been, seemingly, all speculation.

Of course, none of that really mattered when it came to Superman. Danny was at least ninety percent sure he wasn’t a ghost. And even if he somehow was, it didn’t change the fact that he either has a secret identity, or he basically never takes part in society. And if he doesn’t have a secret identity, then the question very much becomes why not. Because that means he either has no real reason to care about anyone here (which seems implausible), or he’s unable to spend that time in public. It’s that possibility that’s knocked out any chance of Danny approaching any of the heroes. Because there’s always the possibility that the endorsed heroes are being used to lure other metahumans in. And Danny doesn’t know nearly enough about this world to make any kind of judgment on what’s most likely here. After all, historically there’s plenty of examples of governments that  work with specific people among targeted groups, in order to more successfully take out the others. it tends not to end well for those people when it’s all over, but anyone who’s short-sighted or even just backed into a wall enough can fall for that.

Hell, the GIW had actually tried that line on Danny once or twice, not that he’d ever accepted. After all, they’d never realized that was actually sort of alive, so their pitches had always been... less than convincing. 

Danny blinks, reaching out to touch the brick wall in front of him. He hadn’t meant to come back here, but honestly at this point, he really shouldn’t be surprised. This random little alley on side street wouldn’t be interesting at all to anyone else. But if Danny stares long enough, he can almost see the green-tinged light of the portal that brought him here. Not that he’d ever seen the portal from this side. He hadn’t turned to look until after the light had faded. The idea of seeing his friends’ faces through the swirling green had been too much.

They had all known exactly what it meant when he came here. The difficulty of the journey was the point. Between the anti-ecto acts gaining not just mainstream awareness, but support, and the GIW gaining access to better funding and training, well, the second the GIW had started successfully ending ghosts, it seemed like all the denizens of the zone had collectively decided to stay the fuck home.

At first Danny had enjoyed it, had relaxed and been excited to finally be able to focus on just being a teen. But the GIW hadn’t calmed down, had just started going even more on the offensive, and the second he and Jazz had noticed agents showing up casually at their house, everyone had gone into full alert.

That’s how they found out that the next goal was to apparently take the fight to the zone itself.

The conclusion had been easy from that point. The portal needed to be destroyed, and fast. But with the ghost zone blocked off (and Danny’s death being the unknowing link that made the portal ever work in the first place), that would leave Danny as one of three remaining targets.

They’d all immediately agreed that Vlad could figure out his own solution. Dani- well, she had been traveling, but the second she turned up, the others had made plans to send her on her own one way portal trip too.

Of course, the likelihood that she’d end up here is probably minuscule. So he’s alone.

“Hey,” a stern voice cuts through Danny’s thoughts. He glances over to the person who’s standing at the door to a building. “There’s no loitering here.”

Right. It’s almost easy to forget, in the face of his life’s inescapable absurdity, that to everyone else in this town, he just seems like a possibly-homeless delinquent. Not that the delinquent part is unfamiliar.

“Sorry,” Danny mutters belatedly, realizing that the person is just waiting as he stares at them like a weirdo. He’s not very good with people anymore. Not that he was that good to begin with. Phantom had been a Ghostly Menace, constantly destroying the town with his fights, nobody had expected him to function as a person. Nobody had thought he was a person. But as Danny Fenton- well, he’d fallen short of just about every expectation set at Danny Fenton’s feet.

Distantly he wonders if his friends even bothered to disguise his disappearance. He’d always kind of wondered if his parents would ever notice if he and Jazz just- left. School definitely noticed, though most of the faculty would probably take it as completely expected. After all Danny Fenton was a terrible student, constantly skipping class and never doing his work, and even when he was in class he was usually halfway to falling asleep anyways. Lancer had certainly lectured him about his lack of discipline more than enough. So they might just come to the conclusion that he’d dropped out and run away.

He doesn’t know if he’d prefer that, honestly. The truth is messed up and complicated and frankly, unbelievable. But maybe if they knew the truth at least one person might feel a fraction of sympathy for all the bullshit that he’d been dealing with. Funny, Danny thinks, how coming here feels more like a death than when I actually died.

[skk-fan-page]

What does this:

Mean in the context of skk, 15, stormbringer, and dazai acting like a lovesick puppy.

Well, the first thing I notice is that it's heavily implied that dazai didn't say shit and hasn't in his entire employment at the ada. Everyone talks about the mafia with a certain level of "hey I heard about you because my mom's dad's aunt's best friend's knitting club was talking about you and one of the members' dog's coparent said they saw you at Walmart."

Between akutagawa, higuchi, and now chuuya, it's like they know nothing that might help them with the mafia.

Why wouldnt yosano know though, she used to be mafia? Well that's what I thought at first too. I figured maybe rumors had just spread throughout the mafia in her time there.

But, at the same time, add up these numbers and then tell me if the math is mathing for yosano to know anything about chuuya

Chuuya is 22 and joined when he was 15, meaning he joined 7 years ago. 14 years ago (11 when she finally escaped) means not only would she not have met him, he would've been 11 by the time she left.

Not only that, but she was an 11 year old child-doctor, which means she would've had no contacts in the Mafia and no friends to tell her anything.

And, most damning of all, in 15 phase.02 mori says this when asked about suribachi city.

By the time chuuya was awakened, yosano was already out.

So maybe it's kyouka. But here's the thing: she doesn't seem to know shit outside of her (old) job description. She was in such an information silo that she didn't know what a crepe was. That makes her out of the picture for me, especially considering she was the subordinate of the subordinate of the boss's subordinate.

So that leaves 2 options: word on the street, and dazai.

If I can get information on the second highest ring of your underground murder organization by asking around, your organization is getting shit on by the feds in 4 seconds flat.

So that leaves one option: dazai.

But he doesn't seem to be much of a sharer, so why would he share about mafia things? Well we have precedent for it.

There's this incident, proving he's totally chill with sharing about the mafia. And then, there's something so gay it will make you want to claw your eyes out and join the witness protection program to get away from how single you feel

I wish someone would look at me the way dazai looks at chuuya's corruption form. And he's even bragging about him and how cool and powerful he is.

Regardless, this proves that he does totally talk about chuuya when he's not listening, and that he's not the inscrutable clamshell of a man he pretends to be.

Now: the other implication. Chuuya just assumes dazai was talking about him, meaning this was a pattern in the past. We can see this pattern manifest in the party that dazai tries to throw in 15, as well as the fact that ango knows chuuya in dead apple.

How many times do you think dazai genuinely set up challenges for chuuya back in his mafia days, to the point where upon being recognized, his first thought is "dazai did this."

Just put a ring on it already guys.

[shirefantasies]

ok ok because all the parent au’s are so cute😭

so can I please request the fellowship’s reaction to finding out their s/o is pregnant?🥺

tysm!

I love my parent au hell yeah 😎 Warnings: Some mentions of infertility, implication of miscarriages (NO graphic detail), suggestive jokes

The Fellowship Finding Out You're Pregnant (Wife!Reader)

Aragorn

"Sleep."

"I don't need to—"

Much as you attempted to protest, fatigue had been taking you of late, and your husband’s gentle but firm grip was easy to succumb to. Relenting, you allowed him to guide you onto your back and drape you onto your shared bed, a sigh of relief escaping you as your back was cradled, too. In his murmurings to you before you drifted off, Aragorn expressed concern for your health. Far be it from you to deny a ranger’s intuition, so as sleep overtook you you agreed to see a healer the next day.

When morning came, there was naught to do but heed your own word and make way for an older, wiser woman’s aid. And aid she did: with a needle-sharp eye she deduced nearly all your symptoms before you could even speak them yourself, and she barely needed to look you over to make her judgement.

~

“A child?”

Grinning, you nodded up at your husband and repeated his words, uncaring at the dreaminess in your tone. “A child.”

As was his wont, Aragorn spoke no more words, but his stoicism dropped in favor of a wide smile as he swept you into his arms.

Legolas

“Something is different,” you heard Legolas comment.

“Some sign borne to you on the wind?” Your husband had sharp senses, senses you trusted with your very life. That did not mean you were above teasing him, though.

"No," he replied, "Your condition. A certain weakness has befallen you. I've noticed how exhausted you've been. When was your last cycle?"

Legolas's words summoned a single hearty laugh from you, who wondered how many wives were asked such things by their husbands. Quick as the irony struck, however, it waned. Your eyes widened as you counted.

"You certainly remember your teachings," you breathed, shaking your head lightly, "I suspect you, my love, are onto something."

"You are with child?"

Legolas finally vocalized your shared suspicions, the phrase carried soft and sweet and sure upon his voice where your own would have faltered. As he spoke, he drew nearer to you, reaching down to take your hand, his thumb running over the back of it.

"We did it?" That teasing little prince you got the privilege of seeing emerged in the form of one of Legolas's rare grins.

"I think we did," you answered, leaning into his touch until your chests were close as could be, your hearts beating one atop the other as your lips too joined.

Boromir

“Go on, go on, don’t keep me waiting!”

Grinning, you waved a dismissive hand before grabbing up your skirts and running off as fast as your off-kilter legs could. Your whole body felt heavy of late, your gait ever so shifted. Sickly tendencies had taken you, but you and Boromir had no fear, only suspected cause for celebration. Your husband practically yanked you out of bed that morning and shoved you out the door in his excitement. Annoyance hardly ticked its way across your head at the grin splitting Boromir’s face, the lovestruck look in his green eyes as he waved his goodbyes.

Your heart fluttered and the sight and jumped into your throat as you answered questions, gave what was asked of you for the midwife’s test. It all added up. Bolting upright, you barely had your dress back on before barreling out the door, which she joked you’d sent snapping off its hinges as you ran. Lack of balance was an utterly inconsequential trial in such a moment, your heart thrumming in tune with the beat of your feet upon Minas Tirith’s white stone.

Boromir awaiting you cut such a mental image it elicited a giggle from you as you shuffled down the lane. In your mind’s eye he was standing there in the doorway with wide eyes and hands on his hips asking what the midwife said.

Reality elicited a full-blown bark of laughter at how well you knew your husband. There Boromir stood, the only difference being his posture, which instead leaned in an attempt at a casual stance against the doorway but straightened in a hurry like your news didn’t have eight or nine more months to sit.

“Well, my love? What did she say?”

“She said you’ve got an excuse not to ship off to any battles anytime soon.” You replied, falling against him as he clasped one of your hands against his chest, his heartbeat rapid beneath your palm. Your other hand reached out a finger to poke at his chest in mock accusation.

His only reply was the triumphant whoop of a knight victorious, a sound loud enough to drown out your squeak of surprise when he lifted you in the air and twirled you.

Gimli

How many months had it been? Too many to count, at least from the top of your head, had you been making attempts. Attempts which had occasionally culminated in tragic failure, attempts which sometimes amounted to a great nothing. Through it all, Gimli was your rock. For all he bellowed and grieved, gripped your hand tight and cried right alongside you, he was there to lift your spirits, too. Nudge you and joke about how you'll have to try harder with a saucy little wink only a dwarf could summon.

Gimli was not there when you received the sign— propriety and all. Not even the healer was there, for you had requested to be alone and she immediately obliged, disappearing back between the folds of her tent as you looked down into the next omen of your future, chest slamming. Your urine bore the exact signs you had been told of, even seen in the past. This time, though? You felt different. Better in some ways, worse in others. Less sick, but…heavier. Less steady.

The vessel bore the signs. Stronger signs than you’d had before. Could it be…

“You’ve been in this state longer than most,” the healer’s voice emerged as a hand clapped your shoulder, “Getting used to it, eh?”

For once, your tears were accompanied by a smile.

The task ahead deserved the proportions Gimli’s people may not have stood by, but lived by. It had to be something he’d be alright with not doing himself, though. You thought and thought, and in the end your answer came.

“Why the sudden fascination with all these old toys, hm, my dear?” One auburn brow arched, your husband sauntered into the room in a perfect tone of teasing skepticism. “Not— not that I mind, of course, but they are…everywhere.”

So you’d gotten a little carried away. The pull ram on wheels was so cute, but so were the little pecking birds and the tiny warrior looked just like Gimli! And the wee cat reminded you of your dear friend Legolas, not to mention—

Your name startled you back from your reverie. “Love? Any particular reason you’ve made a playhouse of us?”

“The baby will love it,” you replied with a shrug, waiting for his response.

Didn’t take long. Lips forming an O, Gimli sputtered, gaze wildly swinging between every toy, your eyes, down lower, back to the toys…

“Baby? Baby?!”

“I am pregnant. Much farther along than we’ve ever gotten before. You’re going to be a father, Gimli,” you barely managed to breathe beneath his warm, fuzzy, and a little bit bone-crushing hug.

“I knew we had it in us,” you heard your husband whisper, “You’ve got a fight in you, lass, and so does our little one. It’s one of the many reasons I love you both.”

Frodo

Would your husband be happy? The last thing you would want to be to a soul who had endured so much was another burden. A regret. Hands wringing, you blinked back a hot rush of tears from your rapidly fluttering lids. Joy rang against the back of your skull, muted by the bang of your heart. How would you go about this?

The sound of your name, soft and sweet, lifted you gently from your spiral and back into the arms of reality. The light touch of Frodo’s hand upon your shoulder and the pressure of his head lying against you. Warmth swelled from the points of contact, giving joy its volume back. A smile tiptoed its way back onto your face, stepping lightly as your eyes met Frodo’s deep seas. How you loved staring into them. Would your child inherit them? You hoped so.

That thought alone alongside Frodo’s quiet inquiry as to what was wrong spurred you forward. It was now or never.

“Frodo,” you answered in a faltering breath, standing to fave him and take his hands in yours, “I— I wanted to be sure first, but it has been long enough. I’m with child, Frodo.”

Sometimes it seemed impossible that your husband’s wonder-filled eyes could grow any wider, but they’d just done so. “We’re having a child?”

His expression was one of surprise, but what else? All you could do was nod, heat prodding the corners of your eyes again. Until, that was, more warmth caresses you in the form of Frodo’s hands gently pulling your head down as he kissed the crown of it.

“You’ve given me a gift I never thought possible. A new life. Happiness I once thought denied to us. I could not ask for a better mother to my child and I will be the best father I can. There’s no one I’d rather be doing this with than you.”

Sam

For a time you'd wondered if it was even possible. Nothing had happened yet and not for lack of trying. Half the time it seemed like every other thought in yours and Sam's mind were about a baby, especially knowing what a large family your husband wanted. Oh, and how you wanted to give it to him! What would it feel like? Would you know?

You'd felt ill enough to ask your neighbor Cedrella for a bit of advice, maybe a mite of one of her herbal teas, when realization struck.

"Has your chest been a bit sore?"

"Yes," you answered.

"You already said fatigue. Ever felt nauseous?"

"Yes," you repeated, "In fact, that was the thing I was hoping to cure the most. I figured my soreness might've been telling me my cycle was coming."

"And when were you supposed to have that?"

A mental map of the month papered the walls of your head. Last month it had been the fourth, so this month... You gaped. How had you lost track so badly? ...You grinned. How had you lost track indeed.

"Three weeks ago."

At that Cedrella beamed, swishing some of her dark brown curls off her shoulder. "I don't think you'll be having it anytime soon. Lucky for you, though, I have just the tea. May sound like an odd blend, but ginger root and raspberry leaf are miracle workers for all you young ladies’ symptoms.” She was off in an instant, unscrewing a jar and scooping bags for you.

As much as you thanked her, you didn’t stay long after that. After all, she was right next door. You could always come back.

Your name rang through the halls of your home the moment the door scraped gently open. “Did Cedrella get you fixed up with something, love?” Sam was in the kitchen when you found him, straightening the potted herbs you had sunning in the windowsill.

Why not have a little fun with it? Smiling widely, you held up the little box of bags you’d been given. “She did indeed. Best mix she had for cramps and morning sickness.”

“Morning sickness?” Sam tilted his head, looking for all the world like those golden puppies the Proudfoot grandchildren had recently welcomed a litter of. “Isn’t that only if you’re…”

“Expecting,” you finished for him.

“We are? …You are?” Sam corrected, bounding across the wood floor with great clumsy strides and all but falling into your arms.

“We are,” you agreed, tension melting from your body as it sank into Sam’s, “Our little dream is coming true.”

Merry

“Have a drink, won’t ya?”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” you answered the elder hobbit, waving a hand.

“Why not?” Your husband chimed in with a grin, an arm around you. “We’ve been dancing up a storm! Gotta wet your whistle every now and again!”

How you loved that impish grin of Merry’s, but right then you were feeling anything but; tension stiffened your muscles as you shook your head again.

“No, thank you.”

“Are you feeling alright?” Merry’s grin faded as he rested the back of his hand against your forehead, uncaring of the sweat you’d worked up dancing or any hair that fell atop it. “Will you at least have some water?”

Your already warm body spiked with his touch against your slick forehead, but a sense of comfort spread across you with his endearing care. Merry led you from the whirling hobbit pairs in the center of the inn, away from the many stomping feet and to a pair of chairs. He waved Rosie down to bring you a mug of water, which you gratefully sipped. The sides of the pottery were cool against your hands, refreshingly contrasting your pounding head and pulsing cheeks.

“What’s wrong? I thought you liked Master Bolger’s mead. Or,” Merry’s brow immediately crinkled, “Did he say something to upset you? Believe you me, I’ll have him straightened out in a moment.”

With one hand, you restrained your rising husband from springing fully out of his seat. Bobbing back down from the shoulder, Merry looked at you with a mix of confusion and awe dancing in his dark blue eyes.

“He didn’t offend me, Merry,” you assured him, inhaling and exhaling in a sigh, “I just didn’t want to tell you like this.”

His eyes flashed to storms of pure worry. “Tell me what?”

“I’m pregnant. Some of the old wives told me it’s not good for the baby to keep drinking, so I didn’t want to take any chances. I’ll be teetotaling for quite some time.”

Drink was the furthest thing on your husband’s mind, you could tell. For all it was worth, you could’ve just told him you’d only be drinking bog water. The mad, besotted smile on his face brought one to your lips, for clearly he hadn’t heard a word you said after ‘pregnant’.

“You’re having a baby?”

“That’s what being pregnant means,” you teased, lips forming a smirk, “Yes.”

“Oh! Oh, my dear!” This time, you did not stop Merry’s rise, the way his hands took yours and pulled you in for an embrace, the warm buzz of his whisper into your ear. “Can we have one more dance? I’ve got to show you off a little more now. Celebrate with you in my arms.”

How could you say no to that?

Pippin

You should’ve expected this. After all, you could hardly keep your hands off each other. Still, though, your mind blanked with the shock of your great-aunt’s words.

“Are you sure?”

Chuckling and tutting, she nodded, grin smug with satisfaction. “I don’t even need to look at you. We all felt the exact same way, me, your gran, and our little sister. Your mother, too. You’re in luck, m’dear— morning sickness doesn’t run in the family, you’ll likely not cast a mite!”

Sarcasm reared its mental head, but you shushed it, aware what she’d shared was ultimately good news. Thanking her, you made your excuses—quite easy ones, all things considered—and shuffled off to Tuckborough. Your only regret was your family finding out before your husband, but of all of them you trusted that particular set of great-aunts not to spill.

But spill you would. En route you all but crashed into a procession of pigs, stumbling Farmer Mosco more amused than annoyed as he asked your mess of skirts where you were off to in such a hurry.

"I've got a surprise for Pippin!" You called behind your back, not stopping for another moment.

“Well,” you heard the farmer call back, “If it’s anything like mine, it’ll have him off his feet!”

Off his feet indeed. Pippin was home when you got there, already sitting outside and lowering his pipe and furrowing his brows when he caught sight of you barreling his way.

You could have done this eloquently, made a surprise or a clever little gift or pulled him inside for some solemn whisperings, but that was never yours or Pippin’s style.

“What’s wrong?” Your husband asked, rising fully from his seat, pipe long forgotten and smoldering at his side.

“I’m pregnant, Pip!”

“You’re what?”

“Remember how I was feeling a bit under the weather? Turns out I’m not sick at all!” You added, meeting him and smiling as his hands immediately latched around your waist. “We’re having a baby.”

Pippin’s smile grew bigger than you’d thought possible, tears shining in those lovely green eyes of his. He peered at you for a moment of silence, gently caressing your waist and staring into your eyes like he could see the light of the Valar themselves therein. And then all at once it broke, a massive grin spreading across his face as he whooped and spun you around.

"We're having a baby!" He shouted even louder, neither of you caring who heard you cheer.

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[morwentrouble]

Real talk: we absolutely cannot afford moral purity moving forward. Everyone deserves due process and basic civil rights, even pedophiles and rapists and other horrible horrible criminals. When you exempt any category of humans from basic civil rights, you open the door for others to define other categories of people as exempt. It is already happening to Latinos and Palestinians. It will happen to queer people. We will be disappeared, imprisoned, tortured, and murdered.

In case you missed it, Trump had a hot mic moment on 4/14/25 in which he tells El Salvador's President Bukele,

"Homegrown criminals are next. I said homegrowns are next. You've gotta build about five more places." [like human rights violation incarnate CECOT]

"Yeah, we've got space," Bukele responded as Trump officials in the room could be heard laughing.

"It's not big enough," Trump said.

He says he's taking about "really bad people" & tosses out the example of those who physically & sexually assault elderly women in public places. But his people showed us years ago that their definition of "really bad people" is dangerously expansive. Project 2025 includes language explicitly equating queer people (especially trans people) and allies with sex offenders in the name of protecting children from predation:

Project 2025 calls for outlawing pornography—and equates that with materials that acknowledge the existence of LGBTQI+ people. Pornography, they say, is “manifested today in the omnipresent propagation of transgender ideology and sexualization of children.” It’s hard to escape the implications of what this means: If affirming LGBTQI+ people = pornography and pornography must be banned, that sounds an awful lot like criminalizing respect for our existence. They take it one step further: They say that people who make this material available should be imprisoned, and teachers and libraries who share it should be forced to register as sex offenders.

"Except pedos and rapists," I've seen commented over & over on this kind of post. "Pedos and rapists are scum who deserve anything that happens to them."

No exceptions, especially not those, is exactly my point. Because powerful MAGA Republicans believe that trans people specifically and queer people in general ARE pedos and rapists. They will leverage that "except" to destroy our lives and our communities simply for existing.

If you can't believe that no human deserves cruel and unusual punishment, believe this: they will come for us any way they can. Don't make it easier. Human rights are either universal or they are meaningless.

[etfrin]

❝ꜱᴏᴜʟꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴄʀᴜꜱʜ❞ — chapter one | coriolanus snow

「ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ:」 SFW | Coriolanus is his own warning, elitism

「ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ:」 young! Coriolanus Snow x fem! Reader

「ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:」 Coriolanus finds out the plint prize won't be his, at least for now but the district twelve girl belongs to him

「ᴀ/ɴ:」 here's the first chapter ;)) hope you like it?! Remember to give feedback guys! And beta read by @nowitsmissing

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previous : prologue

Coriolanus Snow wakes up to his grandmother singing the Panem national anthem. He quickly takes a shower, trying to ignore the squeaks of rats in his bathroom. He rubs himself clean, turning his skin red from the raw scrubbing. He stops as his fingers brush on the scar tissue he has on his wrist.

He takes a deep breath, not letting his mind wander off to you. It's the reaping day. It's the plinth prize. A prize he was going to win. You were of no importance today, or ever for that matter.

But still, he can't help but imagine that the date was etched on his skin. The numbers were written with ink darker than the night, now all that remained was an ugly scar that gave him a nastier remainder.

He shakes himself out of it. His hands grab a towel to dry himself. He fixes his curls, trying to make them as stylish as possible. He has a reputation to keep up after all. Thankfully, today wasn't one of the days in which his eye bags were obvious, the hollow of his cheeks too obvious due to lack of food.

He looked surprisingly healthy like any privileged Capitol citizen would look like.

He gets out of the bathroom to go to his grandma’ams. He gives her a note on her singing of the national anthem before asking her where Tigris is. Just on cue, Tigris bursts in.

Her voice was excited, her face all smiles. She hands him a shirt, his dad's old dress shirt renewed with tesserae buttons. He wore it, letting his cousin rant about the process of it all. Even though he had no interest in listening, it was a thank you in his way.

He pins the rose given to him on his shirt. Teasing his family members about new dresses and chocolates. He was going to win the Plinth Prize, nobody could take this away from him. It was his right.

In the academy, he chats with his inner circle. Making snide comments about Sejanus and his Ma. That's when you come in, a drink in your hand. Your eyebrows are raised as you look at Arachne with barely hidden disgust.

Fuck, you looked stunning in your dress. He has to dig his nails into his palm to remind himself not to stare. Why are you torturing him by being so pretty? You're just a district girl, you had no business having such beauty.

“Tell us who won,” Arachne said with her haughty voice, “Your boy toy surely would have spoiled it by now.” You laugh in response.

A small giggle escapes your lips. You don't take offense by having Sejanus being called your boy toy. Coriolanus wants to furrow his eyebrows from your reaction. Were you and Sejanus dating? No way in hell. Even if you're district, you're better than Sejanus in every way. He wants to scowl at the implications.

(You're his, his, his)

“I wouldn't dare ruin his big day, Arachne,” Sejanus's voice rings out instead, him standing behind you. His arm around your shoulder. “People may not like my father but they do love his money. Surely you can relate?” Sejanus grins.

“Funny,” Arachne replied with a sneer.

You rolled your eyes, “Don't be mean, Sej.” You sip your drink and Coriolanus’ eyes can't help but follow the movement of your tongue poking out to lick your lips clean of the drink. His eyes also glare at Sejanus's hand on your shoulder, a part of him wishing he could break his arm.

You turn to Coriolanus. “Nice shirt,” you comment with a smile, and Snow can tell it's more genuine than anything you flashed at the rest of your classmates. He feels himself flush at the compliment. Not even stopping you even though he should because why should your dirty hands touch him? But he doesn't stop you when your fingers reach out to delicately touch the red rose pinned to his shirt.

“Such a beautiful flower,” you mutter in fascination, “and fresh too.” You tear away a rose petal, crushing the poor thing between your fingers, the tip of your fingers turning red.

He watched, no thoughts in his mind but he knew he should be offended. It has been ten years of your behavior he had endured, yet not once could he open his mouth to insult you.

How weak had you turned him since day one. If anyone knew, he would be ruined.

“Did you have to do that?” Clementia frowns, “Flowers are significant to the Snows.'' You only smirk in reply to Clementia. “I see,” you comment, before taking Sejanus's hand in yours.

You begin to walk away but Snow sees you turn around for a split second. Your eyes meet his and your lips form a word. Sorry. He mouths back, ‘ It's fine. ’

You smile at him and turn back, walking towards the chair where the top 24 seniors are supposed to sit, waiting for the announcement. You had let go of Sejanus’ hand by then, letting relief fall over Coriolanus.

Coryo's fingers rub the scar tissue over the fabric of his shirt. It was going to be fine. Over the years, both of you have grown up a lot. Despite having district blood, you consider yourself Capitol more than Sejanus did. You had adjusted first, and even if your peers didn't accept you, their families were certainly charmed by you during the galas.

You were smarter than Sejanus. You were better than Sejanus. Certainly, you couldn't be compared to the Capitol citizens, but you were worthy in Coriolanus' eyes. That doesn't mean he accepts you as his soulmate. That's something that won't ever change, however, the pride he felt towards you is something he couldn't control.

Coriolanus sits between you and Sejanus. He liked the fact that he was in between like a border neither of you should cross. Sejanus whispered to him, his voice grating but Coriolanus heard what he said.

“I know you had high hopes for this,” he whispered, “But there won't be no Plinth Prize. Not today.”

Coriolanus freezes as he hears what Sejanus means. What does he mean by no Plinth Prize? Never in history is that possible. Sejanus must have been mistaken. That's it because otherwise, everything in Coriolanus Snows’ life would go to hell.

However, Sejanus wasn't a liar nor did he make a mistake. Dean Highbottom soon revealed that the 10th annual Hunger Games and the mentor who won will win the prestigious prize Coriolanus needs. Livia Cardew, the girl he loathed, got someone from district one. Sejanus, the lucky bastard, had gotten someone in district two.

You had gotten the boy from district twelve. Someone named Jessup. The boy was healthy, fit, someone who could win under your guidance. Anger blooms in Coriolanus' chest, he tries hard to control the urge to not throw a chair at Dean Highbottom.

Even God wouldn't be so petty as the dean is. For reasons unknown why. The district twelve girl was his. Lucy Gray Braid.

Her makeup is jarring, she was wearing a dress that reminded him of clowns if they used more colors than red and white. The only thing good about her was how she captured attention despite the fact she had already insulted Snow by creating a facade in the reaping.

You can't take my sass

You can't take my talkin'

You can kiss my ass!

He looked at you when he heard the last part. A part of him craved your reaction, surely out of everyone, you wouldn't mock his tribute. You were district yourself after all. You wouldn't mock your people.

What Coriolanus Snow forgot was that you were his soulmate. And in no way the fates would allow his lover to be a saint, an angel as he had hoped for. You were anything but.

You had cruel amusement gleaming in your eyes. A smile of triumph on your lips as if you're sure that you will win the Hunger Games and not him. You turn to him, your eyes hiding the cruelty. You lean forward and Coriolanus counts to ten in his head so his eyes don't fall on your lipstick-stained lips.

“May the best man win,” you whispered, a smirk on your face, filled with the mockery all too familiar like the rest of his peers.

He was going to fucking show you.

“And hereby I declare the beginning of the 10th annual Hunger Games. May the odds be in your favor,” Dr. Gaul's voice calls out to the students.

Odds will be in his favor, whether it be willing by the Lord or his brute force.

Next Chapter

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[kazumist]

THROUGH THICK AND THIN .ᐟ

✩ — in which soshiro had forgotten the lengths of your love for him.

✩ — request: hi, can i pls request an argument with hoshina and how u resolve everything 🥹🥹🥹

✩ — includes: hoshina soshiro x gn!reader. hurt/comfort, angst if u squint. cw: arguments, implications of soshiro being injured but thats just it, soshiro is kinda mean Uhm, ooc!hoshina this is another experimental fic help me. wc: 1440. reblogs and feedback are much appreciated !!

if there was one thing sharper than the blades hoshina soshiro wielded, it would be the words that escaped his lips.

hoshina knows how to sugarcoat his words. he considers himself a good talker—negiotiator, if you would. however, when it comes to more sensitive topics, that’s when it all starts to crumble down. 

he never expected for him to catch feelings, especially with the line of work he takes. it’s too risky. dangerous. worrying. but he fell as deep as the ocean could get for you. you accepted it. him and his line of work. him as a whole.

yet soshiro seems to forget that sometimes.

getting out of a mission unscathed was impossible. he would always have at least one injury planted on him. it was a repetitive game of russian roulette where either his injuries would be severe or light. and unfortunately for him, today was sadly the former. 

a knock was heard at the door of the hospital room he’s staying in. a mission had recently just finished—about three days had passed, and soshiro was unconscious for the first two due to how he overexerted himself. “come in,” he says. and to his surprise, he saw you opening the door.

soshiro hasn’t told you about him being hospitalized yet—so how?

“captain ashiro told me.” oh. so that’s how. well, he was aware that you had also built a friendship with his commander. and that was completely fine with him. it was awkward when you walked over to the bed, pulling out the chair for you to sit on. you refused to make eye contact with him while soshiro just stared at you.

neither of you has an idea of what to say.

“i wish you told me as soon as you woke up. i was worried sick when i heard the news about the kaiju attack and all.” you said, keeping your gaze focused on your fingers as they played with each other. he flinches slightly as guilt starts to bubble up inside of him. it was already five in the afternoon and he’s been awake since ten in the morning. he wishes that he told you as soon as he woke up as well.

however, there’s one thing that has started to creep onto soshiro lately—fear. insecurity, perhaps. he gets haunted by the thought that you would definitely be happier in someone else’s arms and that you would be more happy being bathed in someone else’s affection. being with a man like hoshina soshiro was dangerous, as if it were a gamble to play.

because you never know if you’ll still wake up to him being alive the next day. and believe it or not: hoshina was scared—terrified of that possibility. he doesn’t want you to be sad, he crumbles at the thought of you crying in the first place. so he made it a task for him to push you away. to be distant.

to be someone you would hate.

that’s the only way he could keep you safe.

“sorry. i didn’t want to disturb you.” bullshit.

“why…” you trailed off. soshiro noticed that you werent playing with your fingers anymore and that you were now clenching your fists. “why would you think that? soshiro, your health matters to me.” his heart also clenched when he heard the slight crack in your voice. “why would it matter to you? i could die any day.”

“are you being serious right now?” he hates it. he hates the way that the first time he saw your eyes today, they were filled with such negative emotions. anger. hurt. confusion. “do i look like i’m kidding?”

“soshiro, why are you acting like this? did i do something wrong? i know we haven’t seen each other a lot because we’ve been both busy.” no, you didn’t. this is my fault, but this is also for the best. is what he wanted to say—but he just swallows up his words. “it’s nothing.”

“no, it’s not just ‘nothing.’ tell me what’s wrong, please? so we can fix it. it pains me when we’re like this.” it pains him too—it pains him so fucking bad. but hoshina soshiro is stubborn. so he will find himself accomplishing his task, whether it pains him or not.

because all he wants is the best for you, even if he wouldn’t be able to provide that.

— — — — — — — — 

he doesn’t know how things got so heated between the two of you. and he’s sure that you both might disturb the other patients who are confined in the room next to his.

“why won’t you just tell me what’s wrong? i feel like an idiot, soshiro! what am i?! some fucking mind reader on what goes on inside your head?!”

“like i told you, it’s nothing for you to worry about! what can’t you understand with that?!”

“what can’t you understand with me saying it’s not just nothing?!”

“and what can’t you understand with me implying that you shouldn’t care anymore?! dp i have to spell it out for you?”

you weren’t sitting down anymore, and hoshina doesn’t dare to speak anymore. fighting with you was the worst. and this time, he fucked up real bad. “i… it’s getting late. i should get going.” you say, and soshiro could feel a part of him shattering when he heard you hold back a sob.

the next time soshiro saw you, he was on his day off (a day off he didn’t really want to take but captain ashiro forced him otherwise since the doctors told him he shouldn’t be making his body engage in strenuous activities just yet). and the first thing he did? he visited you. he knew you get off work early on fridays, making you free for the rest of the weekend earlier.

he knocks on your door, although hesitantly. he’s nervous as he waits for you to open the door.

and he’s grateful that you still opened the door for him in spite of your last conversation with each other. you didn’t say anything as you opened the door further, inviting him in. the awkwardness gave hoshina a rush of deja vu about the awkwardness in the hospital room.

“i’m sorry.” although these two words don’t just cut it so easily, he thinks.

“do you really mean it? what you said in the hospital?”

his breath hitched as he found the right words to say. if hoshina was going to be honest, he hasn’t thought much about what to do at this point. surely, he had achieved his goal that night, right? “yeah.”

“liar.”

he turns to you immediately, and you were already looking at him to begin with. “you’re lying, and i could tell that because you’re nibbling on your lip. you always do that when you lie. just tell me the truth, soshiro, please.”

why should he? would you accept his reason? would you accept the insecurities that haunt his every waking thought? would you accept him even though he said such mean things to you the last time you saw each other?

would you still love him despite it all?

you would. you always would. 

and so he explains from the very start—when and where these thoughts started in the first place. and you listen to him intently, absorbing every single detail he says. once he was done, you took a deep breath. 

“god, you’re so stupid. did you know that?” soshiro lets out a weak chuckle at that, avoiding your gaze. you cup his face with your hands, making him face you. “look at me,” he refuses. “soshiro, look at me.” he then complies, slowly trailing his eyes across your features before resting them on your gaze.

“you don’t get to decide what’s best for me when it comes to this type of thing, okay? i love who i want to love. you don’t get to decide that i’d be happier with someone else. because i love you. i love you more than you could ever imagine, more than you could ever feel. remember that. engrave that inside your mind so you can never forget. you are the one i am helplessly in love with, soshiro.”

i love you. i love you. i love you. it repeats inside his mind. you are the one i am helplessly in love with. it echoes. soshiro feels stupid for attempting to become someone you hated in the first place. there was no way he could ever bear the possibility of you actually hating him.

how could he forget? you had already accepted him as a whole. through thick and thin, you will stand by his side.

[libingan]

period sex with ghost???? sign me tf up!!!! it’s been such a long time since i last wrote any fanfiction, so forgive me if it’s dogshit im just rusty

a loud groan escapes you as you doubled over, another wave of pain rolling through your lower abdomen. pressing a hand against your stomach, you feel the familiar dull ache that had become a monthly companion.

they weren’t that bad earlier in the day, but by the afternoon, that faint discomfort had transformed into sharp, persistent stabs that made it difficult to concentrate on literally anything else.

you’ve tried pain killers, heating pads, every distraction you could think of, but even the slightest of movements exacerbated the cramps, sending jolts of pain through your body.

simon, your loving boyfriend, had been trying his goddamned hardest to help you through this. eventually, after one particularly bad outburst from you — which he won’t hold against you, you were in pain — he opted to stay still, letting you cuddle up against him as you groaned out in pain.

unbeknownst to you, simon had been on his phone, searching up more ways he could ease your suffering. he scrolls through each website, seeing the same results over and over and over again.

that is, until, he sees the words ‘an orgasm can alleviate menstrual cramps’ on his screen. for a moment, simon just… stares at his phone. he’s not against the idea, but considering your earlier outburst, he’s unsure of how he’s going to bring it up.

in the end, he decides with a simple ‘fuck it’ and speaks, “says here orgasms can help relieve your cramps,”

you blink up at him in surprise, knowing the implications behind your lover’s words. “does it?”

“yeah, it does.” he flips the phone over to show you his screen, letting you read the article yourself.

something about endorphins… “feel good” chemicals… natural pain relief…

“…we’ll make a mess.” you say.

“i’ll get a towel.” simon replies.

“don’t you think this is… well, gross? i mean, it’s blood…”

“is that a serious question?” simon asks with an incredulous expression, raising a brow at you.

upon seeing your embarrassed expression, simon lets out a sigh, placing his phone done on the nightstand. “listen, love, if you don’t want to, and you think this is gross, we don’t have to do it. all im saying is that im more than willing to help you out.”

you let out a sigh of your own, biting the inside of your cheek as you mull over simon’s suggestion. your cramps hurt like hell, and if orgasms really do help…

“i’ll try anything once, i guess…” you mumble, and simon wordlessly gets off the bed to grab two towels from the closet.

simon spreads both towels on the bed, on top of each other, beckoning you to lay on it. “took two, just in case one isn’t enough.” he explains, crawling over to you.

“are you sure this is okay with you, si?” you ask, reaching up to gently cup his cheek. simon instinctively leans into the palm of your hand, pressing a kiss to your wrist. “should be askin’ you that, lovie. this okay with you?”

“if it helps get rid of these damn cramps, fuck yes.”

that’s all it takes for simon to lean in, one hand slipping behind your nape to pull you into a deep kiss. his free hand slides downwards, tugging at the hem of your shirt, eager to slip it off. the two of you pull away from each other to make quick work of discarding your clothing and throwing them to the floor… or wherever they end up landing.

simon takes a moment to appreciate your body, eyes raking up and down, the tip of his tongue darting out to lick his lips. he gently grabs onto your thighs, pulling them apart to leave more space for him to settle in between. “gonna take these off, okay?” he says, hands moving to toy with the waistband of your panties.

“okay, okay, take them off,” you mutter, legs instinctively shutting the moment you’re left bare. simon clicks his tongue at that, pushing your thighs apart once more. “you hidin’ this pretty pussy from me?”

he gazes down at your cunt, feeling a rush of heat flow through his veins and straight to his cock. simon lets out a low groan, parting your lips apart to expose your sensitive bud.

simon wastes no time and dives right into it, licking a flat stripe on your clit, flicking his tongue against the sensitive bundle of nerves. he revels in the way your legs twitch, the breathy whines that leave your lips.

“simon… simon, oh…” you moan, hands tangling in his blonde hair, holding his head down. this only encourages simon, wrapping his lips around your clit, lightly sucking on it.

he keeps his eyes focused on you the entire time, watching the way your chest heaves and how your back arches into a perfect bow. the sight of you completely lost in the pleasure has his cock throbbing and he can’t resist grinding against the sheets with a few grunts.

simon knows you’re close with the way your legs start clamping down his head and how your hands tighten around his hair. he places a quick kiss to your clit before pulling away, eyes gleaming with his desire and need for you.

a needy, high-pitched whine escapes your lips, but simon softly shushes you, promising a world of pleasure if you behaved. “be patient, love, gonna give you what you want in a bit.”

he reaches out to the nightstand, opening a drawer to take out a condom. simon quickly rips the wrapper with his teeth, hastily rolling the rubber around his cock.

with a careful hand, he brings his hand down to grab the string of your tampon, slowly pulling it out of you.

“jesus…” you muttered, face scrunched up in disgust as simon grabs a few pulls of tissue paper, wrapping it around the tampon and tossing it somewhere he can’t really be bothered to care about.

“simon! if that stains our carpet, i swear to god…”

“i’ll clean it up later, damn it…” simon grumbles, one hand grasping his cock as he positions himself against your entrance. “you ready?”

you sigh, wrapping your legs around simon’s waist. he takes that as a sign to keep going, slowly pushing his dick into you.

“jesus, fuck…” he curses, hissing as your warm walls envelop his cock so deliciously. “so fuckin’ tight…” simon murmurs, leaning towards you, lips finding their way to your neck.

once he bottoms out, simon takes a moment to enjoy the feel of you around him. “feels so good ‘round me, love,” he whispers, nibbling gently on the sensitive skin on your neck.

“move, si,” you nudged him, and simon wordlessly obeys.

he starts off with slow, shallow thrusts, letting you get used to his size before gradually picking up the pace.

simon glances down, admiring the red ring around the base of his dick, the blood staining your labia and a bit on the inside of your thighs. a low groan escapes him at the sight, hands holding onto your hips as he readjusts himself, fucking deeper into your cunt.

“makin’ a bloody mess on my cock, love… literally…” he teasingly whispers. you had half the mind to smack him for making such a joke, but with the way his cock fills up your pussy so snugly, you can’t find it in yourself to do so.

“s-si! feels—feels s’good!” you mewled, head thrown back in pleasure, your hands twisting around the sheets below. sex with simon is always good, but right now? you feel like a virgin being touched for the very first time.

simon reaches down to draw circles on your clit with his thumb, groaning as your gummy walls clench down on his cock. “y-yeah? you gonna come for me, love?”

“yes, yes, yes, please-!” you moan out, eyes squeezed shut. the additional stimulation on your already sensitive nub brings you closer to edge, and you’re damn sure simon can tell, especially with how your sounds seemed to have increased in volume.

“come, let go for me,” simon pants, his own orgasm fast approaching. “come on, love, come on,” he coos, his hips stuttering as he circles his thumb faster.

that’s all it takes for you to tip over the edge, eyes rolling into the back of your head, mouth hanging open as a loud moan erupts from your throat. your walls clamp down so tightly on simon’s cock, drawing his release out of him.

simon gently takes his hand away from your clit before laying on top of you, crushing you with his weight.

“how do you feel? still cramping?” he asks, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“no,” you reply, lifting a hand to gently scratch simon’s back, “thank you,”

no words are exchanged after that. just you and simon basking in the afterglow. that is, until, you remember the fact that you’re still on your period.

“you’re cleaning everything up, simon. this was your idea.”

simon pulls away, exhaling a heavy sigh. “yes, ma’am,”