#zero difference made whether you read it or not

[askshivanulegacy]

Teaching is only half the battle. You can teach anything at any level all day long. What you CAN'T do is make someone do the other half, which is learn it. If you want learning to occur, you have to explore different ways of presenting and relating to the material.

We shouldn't aim for dumbing down literature (assuming you're at the level that you should be challenged by it), but you should have tools that help you interpret it. You should be given actual productions (movies, plays, audio) that let you hear and see how the language is performed. And these extra aides should be made as interesting as possible so that students can be engaged in what they're learning.

It's just basic technique that you want to do whatever you can to get students interested. The core material doesn't need to be easy but it should not be dry and boring either. If you're in survival mode in a class because it's dry and boring, then the teacher has failed.

In this case, it doesn't mean everything needs to be only in modern English. Like people have already said, every passage is already (or should be) given twice to help you understand sections you have trouble with.

But it DOES mean you can't be teaching things like the Twelfth Night in a way that's boring, and that has nothing to do with the version of English it's in and everything to do with the teacher failing to teach.

Novosad is an econ professor at Dartmouth btw

[barleyo]

Frostbitten, Forbidden.

Hector Condicionado X F! Reader (smut)

A/N: another one shot with my favorite cretin. he's so lovely, i just want to eat him in one bite. hope you enjoy reading this!

Tags: dub-con, p in v, creampie, lots and lots and lots of dirty talk, sensory deprivation (eyesight)

Wordcount: 1.1k

Hector would do anything for you. He made it abundantly clear. From the moment you met him, or rather, from the moment he saw you, he knew he would make any sacrifice, any oblation, just to make you happy. No, he didn't want to make you happy—he wanted to keep you happy. A constant state of pleasure and contentment, all due to his own efforts. 

If you were tired, he would build you a bed frame with his bare hands. If you were bored, he would come up with a story to rival the telling of Shakespeare on the spot. Sad? Paw at his vent and tell him all about it. 

Fuck, he would slice his own palms and use the blood to write one of his novels for you if you wanted to do some light reading.

The only thing he couldn't do for you right now was turn up the heat. His only purpose, his one job, he simply couldn't do. Whether there was some sort of blockage in the air filters or a malfunctioning motor, nothing seemed to be working. 

Dead winter and not a single puff of air to ease your pain. 

It tore him up inside more than you would ever know, watching you toss and turn in bed, layering yourself in blankets that hardly helped. He tried for days to fix it himself. He borrowed tools from Tony, but hell if he knew what he was doing. Bang a wrench against the grate? Plead with the thermostat to co-operate? 

He felt like mold. Worse, actually. At least mold gave the world penicillin. What was he giving his beloved? Hypothermia? 

Your poor, freezing legs kicked under the thin covers in discomfort. He knew he had to do something, and he had an inkling of where his mind wanted to go, but it just seemed risky.

Then again, he'd take any risk to satisfy you. 

Your body was shaking inconsolably at this point. You were miserable. Days of straight ice and still air were starting to get to you. Truly, you were convinced it was colder outside your home than in it, but you wouldn't run the chance of finding out. You wanted nothing more than to drift into sleep, but it was too cold to even hope for a good night's rest. 

Just as you began to give up, you felt the bed dip beside you. That wasn't right. You lived alone. 

You tried to scream, but a quick hand covered your mouth. Was this the end? Jesus, why you?

"Hush, my love, it is I."

Oh. 

You slacked in Hector's grasp. You had heard his voice many times, and although it sounded a bit different outside of the vent, you still felt its comforting tones wash over you. That didn't change your confusion. Why was he out of the vent?

As if he could hear your thoughts clicking, he answered, "I couldn't stand to see you like this. Suffering, when I can do something about it."

You hummed against his palm in understanding. Your eyes flicked across the wall in front of you as you laid on your side. You wanted to flip over and see him. You tried to resist the urge, to respect his privacy, but your body acted on its own.

Hector quelled your movements sharply, firm hand turning your head to face the wall again. 

"You know I cannot have that." His calloused hand covered your eyes instead. He cupped his palm over them to keep you both literally and metaphorically in the dark about his appearances. "Don't focus on anything but my warmth. Let me help you, amor."

He hastily fidgeted with his belt, popping the buckle with overly eager hands. 

"Let me make everything up to you. Please."

"Don't you know what it does to me to have this power over you?" 

Hector had gotten much more into this than he thought he would. Obviously, a chance to get this close to you, to touch you, was heaven, but to have complete control?

This was the stuff of fantasy. 

Total domination, zero vulnerability. An opportunity to act on all the depraved things he had said to you in the vents without the fear of being judged for his looks? Sign him up.

"To have you at my mercy? To have all of your trust?" He bottomed out, pushing your face into your pillow. Gentle, as to not hurt his precious girl. "I've wanted this for so many moons. So much wasted time—god—if I knew it could be like this..."

You moaned a strangled little noise into the fluffy pillow. He hated not being able to hear the full extent of your pleasure, but there would be time for that another day.

"That's right," Hector said, voice syrupy and warm as he spoke to you, "I would've taken you much earlier."

His hands gripped your hips and forced them upwards. He dreamed about this. It nearly felt like deja vu, seeing as how he thought of bending you into these nasty positions many times before. It was almost too good to be true. 

"Maybe I would have snuck out of the wretched vent early in the morning to visit you." 

What a tease.

"Or maybe late at night. Late when you think nobody hears you, touching yourself in the dark." His hips stuttered. He didn't want to cum yet, not until you did. He wouldn't forgive himself if he messed up yet again. "I hear you. I hear every sound, every little noise you make. I turn the air up. Make it nice and loud, so nobody else gets to enjoy the show you put on."

Despite the slight uncomfortableness of the angle he put you in, you could see why he did it. He was hitting deep. Deep and purposeful. It was too much for you to handle, especially with his teasing. 

"If only you would have asked me for help. I would've been out in a heartbeat." 

A sexy, but flagrant lie. The sweet vent-dweller took to hiding deep in the vents when you masturbated, stroking himself recklessly while trying to silence his breathing. He was far too nervous to actually do anything about it and far too ashamed of eavesdropping. 

"Next time you need pleasure," he choked out, feeling your gummy walls flutter around him, "call for me."

If he had any shame in the current moment, he'd be horrified at how quickly he came after you. He was simply waiting for your body's permission before he blew.

"I'm always here for you, love."

[fiastomatocheek]

MOMMY, WHAT IF…?

pair: dad!luke hughes x f!reader

genre: fluff, family, domestic.

warnings: none! just heaps of family fluff and heart-squeezing sweetness.

summary: it’s pizza-for-breakfast sunday, and lucy is ready with her usual table-side interrogation. but this time, her questions about her parents’ love story take a tender turn. from wondering if she’d still exist to asking whether luke cried when he saw you in a wedding dress, lucy unknowingly reminds her parents just how magical their story truly is.

fia’s note: maybe some of you might be getting a little tired of all the lucy ideas but truthfully, i’m still very much obsessed with dad!luke and lucy. actually, i don’t think i’ll ever stop writing this series 😭 i could probably write 100 parts and still have more to say. but if you’re feeling a little over the dad!luke content, feel free to skip this one and hopefully i’ll see you in another fic soon! thank you so much to everyone who’s been reading and supporting, it means the world.

tagging team fia ! — @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @dancerbailey3 @mashmashi @hopefulsuitcasemoneyzonk @kell9rs @alwaysclassyeagle @nokiaholland @macka @silvenyy @voidvannie @itsonlyaddi

fia’s masterlist | join fia’s taglist | yap & fic

Pizza-for-Breakfast Sunday is a sacred tradition in your house that had started as a joke and quickly become a favorite.

Luke stood barefoot, sweatpants, carefully sliding slices of breakfast pizza onto plates. You were leaning against the counter, still in your comfy pjs, watching Luke multitask with an ease.

And at the island sat Lucy, your brilliant, soft-hearted daughter, wearing a bunny robe and holding her ever-present stuffed rabbit under one arm.

She had that look. The one that meant she wasn’t just here for pizza.

Luke noticed it too.

“She’s loaded up,” he whispered to you, smirking as he brought over the plates.

“I can see the questions forming.”

“She’s been rehearsing in the mirror again, hasn’t she?”

“Oh, 100 percent.”

Lucy cleared her throat dramatically.

“Snoopy. Mommy. I have a few questions.”

There it is.

“Go on, baby,” you said as you took your first bite.

She tilted her head. “Mommy, what was Nana like when you first met her?”

You smiled softly, leaning back in your chair.

“She was so warm. Nana hugged me like she already knew me. She smiled and said, ‘Finally! I get to meet the girl who turned my son into a walking love song.’”

Luke groaned. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“It was sweet,” you said.

“Nana asked Mommy questions about my family, work, and then she pulled me aside and said, ‘You’re very special. Don’t let him get away with too much.’”

Lucy giggled. “That sounds like Nana.”

Luke chuckled. “It is Nana.”

Then Lucy leaned forward, serious as a judge.

“Mommy… did you pick Snoopy from a line of daddies?”

You blinked. “A line of daddies?”

“Like, they were all standing in a row, and you walked past each of them like, ‘Hmm, nope. Hmm, nope. Oooh, this one! This one looks like he gives good hugs.’”

Luke nearly choked on his juice.

You reached over to ruffle Lucy’s hair.

“No line of daddies, baby. I didn’t pick him from a parade. I picked him from the whole world.”

“Why?” she asked.

You looked over at Luke, “Because he was different. Daddy didn’t just make Mommy laugh, he made me feel safe. He looked at me like I was magic. He showed up for me, even when things were hard. And everytime I tried to imagine a future without him… it just felt wrong. He was always it for me.”

Luke reached under the table and gave your hand a gentle squeeze.

“And Mommy was it for me.”

Lucy sat with her chin in her hand, nodding slowly.

“Okay. That makes sense.”

Then, with zero warning, she asked, “Mommy, if you hadn’t married Snoopy… would I be someone else… Lucy?”

You blinked. “That’s a big question for a six-year-old.”

“I am six and a half,” she said proudly.

You smiled. “If I hadn’t married Snoopy, there wouldn’t be a Lucy at all. Not you, not the way you are now.”

“But then where would I be?”

Luke stepped in, his voice soft.

“You’d still be somewhere… maybe just waiting. But we’re really glad we found eachother when we did. Because you’re the best part of us, Luce. We couldn’t have dreamed of anyone more perfect.”

Lucy looked thoughtful. Then she whispered, “Good, I like being me.”

“We love you being you,” you said, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

She beamed. Then turned to Luke with renewed energy.

“Snoopy. Did you ask Nanna and Pappa before you married Mommy?”

“I did,” Luke said proudly.

“I asked both. Nanna squealed, and Pappa gave me a serious handshake and said, ‘Good choice. Don’t screw it up.’”

Lucy gasped. “Pappa said ‘screw it up?!’”

You and Luke burst into laughter.

“He was joking, I think,” Luke added quickly. “Mostly.”

Lucy smiled wide. “Did you cry when Mommy walked down the aisle?”

Luke blushed. “A little.”

You raised an eyebrow. “A little?”

“Okay, a lot. I wasn’t prepared. Mommy was so beautiful and smiling at me like I was the only person in the world.”

“What about you, Mommy?” Lucy asked. “Did you cry?”

You nodded. “Only a tiny bit. When I saw Daddy crying first.”

Luke grinned. “I started it.”

Lucy hugged Button tighter. “That’s so romantic.”

Then, with a dramatic pause, she delivered the next blow.

“But… Snoopy… what if Mommy never said yes to you?”

You and Luke stay stilled for a second.

“Then I’d still be out there,” he said gently.

“Trying again. And again. Everyday. Until Mommy saw how much I loved her. Until she said yes. Because I never wanted anyone else. Just Mommy.”

Lucy clutched her bunny to her chest. “Snoopy, you’re lucky she said yes.”

“I know I am,” Luke whispered, brushing your hand again beneath the table.

Lucy sighed dramatically.

“Okay, okay. That’s enough for today. I do have three more questions.”

You smiled. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. But I’m saving them for next Pizza Sunday.”

Luke leaned in. “Should I be nervous?”

“Hmm… Extremely.”

[hannyoontify]

seventeen '96 line as things that have made my heart flutter

warnings | smidge of jealousy during hoshi's

notes | source? erm possibly my own... experiences from the past..... ;;; not proofread

p.s. i recommend reading these as situationships/pre-relationships

95 line | 96 line | 97 line | maknae line

jun - a kiss on the cheek while taking pictures in a photo booth

“ooh this frame looks cute! do you wanna do this one?”

jun smiled at your energy. “whatever you want, bubs. i’m following your lead.”

he stood back as he watched you take the lead, clicking through the different settings of the photobooth. when you finished, you rushed over to his side with an excited smile. “okay, quick! there’s a timer and we have to finish within that time!”

the big, red number began to count down and the two of you stood against the wall. outstretching two fingers, you made posed for the camera and jun followed your example. the machine made a loud click sound as it took the first photo.

“again! okay, what pose should we do next? ooo! jun, grab the kitty hairbands!”

the next few snapshots were taken of you and jun posing with the kitty hairbands provided by the store. jun made a loud meow for one, making you burst into laughter, which the camera caught perfectly in time. jun, with his handsome face scrunched up mid-meow and you, your mouth wide open and your eyes closed as you laughed.

“eww! i hate that photo, we’re not choosing that one.” you said mid-giggle. 

“why? it’s cute. i think it explains our dynamic perfectly,” jun grabbed you by the shoulder and tugged you closer to him. “okay, last one. cheese!”

the screen began counting down again and you leaned closer into jun’s shoulder, getting ready to pose for the camera again. as the number got closer to zero, jun glanced down at you, frozen still, waiting for the camera to take the last photo.

“4… 3… 2…. ” the robotic voice from the machine counted down.

taking a deep breath, jun closed his eyes shut and dipped his head. it was a quick kiss, so soft and gentle, like cloud resting on the peak of a mountain. brief moment of contact before drifting away. 

jun’s lips felt soft against yours and you let a soft gasp. your jaw dropped in surprise as the camera flashed with another loud click. 

your knees wobbled, as if gravity had suddenly shifted around you. there was tightening feeling in your chest as you looked over at jun. he looked at you with a gentle, apologetic smile.

“sorry, i should’ve asked.”

the world seemed to still, each beat of your heart pounding loudly against your chest. the way jun was looking at you sent a cascade of warmth spiraling through your entire body and you smiled.

“it’s okay… i liked it.”

hoshi - grabbing you by the belt loops of your jeans

you could feel someone’s heavy gaze set on you and you already knew whose set of eyes the stare belonged to. listening to your other friend talk about his chemistry lab with a really hot dude, you glanced over your shoulder and made instantly eye contact with soonyoung.

he was on the other side of the gym, his elbows resting on his legs as he watched you with an unreadable look in his eyes. deciding to be obnoxious, you stuck your tongue out at him and his lips tugged up into a tight grin, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes like they usually did.

“sorry, but i think one of the teachers are looking for me.” you dismissed yourself from the small circle of friends. your friends waved you good bye and turned back to resume their gossiping session where they were trying to decide whether the hot guy from one of their chemistry labs swung both ways.

you jogged across the gym, dodging equipment and other students and staff who were getting ready for the annual homecoming rally. you and soonyoung both applied to asb your sophomore year of high school, desperate for some kind of extracurricular to pad your college application with. although being in your school’s asb came with a lot of responsibilities, it was fun when you did it with your friend(? situationship?).

soonyoung was sitting at the bottom bench of the bleachers, his face resting on his palm and his eyes watching you intently as you approached him. 

“what’s got you pouting? did seungcheol yell at you again?” you stood in front of him with your hands resting on your hips and a small smile. “come on, cheer up soonie. i promised to buy you frozen yogurt after this.”

he pushed himself up to his feet, now towering over you with his height. “you promised to do the banners with me.”

soonyoung’s bottom lip jutted out in an almost adorable way and you physically stopped yourself from cooing at him. 

“is that why you’re upset? because i ditched you and the banners?” you smiled and soonyoung nodded.

“you left me to hang out with those…” his words faltered and you glanced back to see the group of friends still gossiping. the discussion seemed to be getting pretty heated with the way you could hear seungkwan’s voice steadily growing in volume.

“them? we were just–“ you turned back to face soonyoung when you felt a gentle tug on your waist. stumbling forward, you now stood barely inches away from him. “soonyoung, what-”

he tried his best to avoid eye contact, his eyes darting around the gym as he nervously licked his lips.

“wndedootbewsjfhme...” soonyoung mumbled. his grip tightened on your belt loop, pulling you closer to him, your body now grazing his. 

“h-huh? wh… i can’t hear…” it was your turn to avoid eye contact now. your heart hammered against your chest, fast and hot in anticipation.

“i said… i wanted you to be with me…” soonyoung muttered. his ears were flushed, a bright shade of red that brought a small smile to your face.

“w-what, are you jealous or something?” you teased as an attempt to cover up how loud your heart was beating in your ears. 

soonyoung grinned. his shy and timid demeanor from seconds ago was nowhere to be found. in it’s place was the soonyoung you knew, complete with the overly confident and cocky smile accompanied by the mischievous glint in his eyes. 

“what if i am? is that going to change anything?” 

wonwoo - leaving his game to give you attention

“wonwooooooo” you cried out. wonwoo let out a small grunt in response. “i’m boreddddd”

you perched yourself on the edge of his desk, watching his focused eyes stare at the monitor in front of him. his fingers were moving at a lightning fast speed, but his facial expressions demeanor seemed to scream calm and relaxed.

“you’re bored?” wonwoo echoed your last words and you nodded. although his eyes never left his screen, you could tell he was paying you the utmost attention he could currently afford. “hmmm… how can we fix that?”

leaning your head on wonwoo’s shoulder, you pouted. “i want you to play with me, not your games.”

wonwoo laughed. the corners of his eyes had a slight wrinkle and you felt something tugging at your heartstrings. “is that right?”

with a few clicks of his mouse, his monitor turned dark and his pc chirped, alerting him that the system had been shut down.

“wha-? you were in the middle of a game-“

wonwoo took off his headset and ruffled his hair with a hand, trying to fix it after hours of wearing a headset. “doesn’t matter. you’re more important.”

you felt your breath catch in your throat as you felt heat creeping up your skin, reaching your cheeks and the tips of your ears. 

woozi - initiating pda in public first

it was loud. the football stadium was packed with students decked out in school spirit, and you could barely feel your fingertips from the biting cold.

“jihoon…” your fingers tugged on his sleeve and jihoon spared you a glance before leaning closer to you to hear you better in the loud crowd. “i’m cold...”

he looked at you and smiled. “told you to bring a jacket.”

“this is a jacket!” you retorted. 

“this?” jihoon laughed. you could see a twinkle of amusement in his eyes as he looked over your outfit. “honey, this jacket is basically a cropped top on steroids. you seriously expected this to keep you warm in this weather?”

you felt the tips of your ears burning at the new nickname he called you, but you couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment. that wasn’t the response you expected–or wanted.

“you’re being mean!” you whined, but a small laugh escaped your lips at the way jihoon faux-frowned at you. you lightly shoved his shoulder. “i’m being serious, it’s not about the jacket.”

jihoon raised a brow. “what could this possibly be about then?”

“it’s about…” you trailed off and shook your head. “never mind. it’s nothing.” 

you crossed your arms over your chest and turned back to face forward. a wave of embarrassment washed over you, serving as a wake up call. sure, you and jihoon had some thing going on, but you felt silly for expecting him to hold your hand or hug you in front of almost the entire school.

jihoon was a private person. that was a fact that you knew that better than anyone else. he wasn’t one to initiate physical contact when it was just the two of you, let alone in the middle of a busy high school football game.

“[name],” jihoon spoke quietly in your ear, his warm hand grazing against yours. “[name], look at me.”

when you didn’t respond, he let out a small puff, followed by a small laugh. 

“c’mere” jihoon muttered. he wrapped his arm around your waist and tugged you closer to his side. “they say sharing body heat helps.”

 you stared blankly at him. the colony of butterflies in your stomach seemed to migrate to your heart and you swallowed thickly.

“wh- what if someone sees?”

jihoon let out a half snort. “let them see. i don't care”

note: jihoon had extremely red ears during this entire exchange, and no, it wasn’t because of the cold. trust me. 

reblogs and feedback is always appreciated ^-^

[loneworldgazer]

Hentai tropes that makes you go Incognito type shit

cont: jjk men as weird hentai tropes but I get a little creative instead of them being corny and noncon

pairings: Toji x reader, Choso x reader, Gojo x reader

a/n: this isnt depressed reader x anybody guys I was bored so this is what came out. Minors, be careful what you read online. I am NOT responsible if you fucked yourself over because whatever you read from me. Also I don't condone any bad actions okay, I'm a weirdo with morals guys

Writing has gotten tiring tbh because I can't sit up for many hours because of college so I'll take my sweet ass time making fics this sem break

tags: pervy, cheating in toji's (on the reader's side), onahole use for Choso, Choso and Gojo's are low-key pervy, small descriptions of smut or just nsfw drabbles and just like hentai, all scenarios end after three minutes

Toji: the debt collector/NTR

Your poor, stupid s/o had gambled away their money in secret and Toji was the man they sent out for these types of things. Threatening life, torture was too overrated anyways to make clients cough up cash so loan sharks get a little more creative when collecting pocket money.

"'Scuse me, are you Shinji's?"

A broad man who wore a hoodie had approached you unceremoniously but you knew was sleazy from the way he held that letter in his hand. You had your fair share of odd people coming to you whether it was to serenade or some freak you didn't know that sits at the back at your work.

Crunching down on the candy you were eating, it slowly turned bitter with the zeros you were seeing on the paper. The cold autumn air swept through your face and that cold eyes of yours glaze over but you barely reacted.

"Again?"

Who knew he would be sitting with the spouse of his client over hot tea and little cakes you can pop into your mouth. The ring on your finger does not hold any meaning anymore with what you've heard.

He seen countless of tired eyes staring at him but yours burnt through his skull. It wasn't just a challenge, it was like you were trying to eat him alive; the eyebags added onto that look. It was urging him to spill over quickly.

He explained the details, money and whatnot that you had to earn by the end of the month which made your eyes begin to linger anywhere else but the letter he placed down. You were obviously disconnected from his words that he kept quiet to make sure you were listening but alas, you were lost in the clouds. He reached out for the cake you were currently eating and you poke at his fingers with your fork.

"You know what I should do for revenge, Fushiguro?"

He blinks, reaching over for a different pastry. The flaky crust crumbles under his rough fingers.

"You."

He crushes the puff pastry, white cream dripping down his thumb as he looked at your fiery gaze and lick up the sweetness with a teasing grin.

---

Your partner should be worried that you weren't home and they get more worried when a file is sent to them by you at the crack of dawn. It was unnamed and the cold side of your bed gets colder, clicking on it with a gulp.

What they didn't expect was you covering the camera while this strange man.. wait, it can't be. Toji had you bent over, clasping the camera and letting your fingers brush over it so Shinji could get confused as to what was being shown. That diamond ring of yours shone bright in this specific angle and once your hand was peeled back by Toji, Shinji had this bad headache immediately.

Your slutty face was on camera, tongue out and sweaty like this wasn't the first round you were on. Reaching a high fever pitch scream, the man from behind had pressed your face down on the table so that shit eating grin could be seen when you had creamed all over the man they thought they wouldn't have to worry about ever.

Little huffs of "..faster, faster" were burnt into that tiny brain of his when Toji pounded you to hell and focused on deepening his thrusts into your wetness. He pulled off the rubber that was filled with semen, showing Shinji the multiple used up ones tied salaciously around your thighs. The ravenette reach for god knows what number condom he ripped off to put around that mushroom tip of his.

His thick cock kept on abusing your hole, picking up your head from the wood so you could say a few words to Shinji.

However, there was no words exchanged instead a text that made their face go pale and the expression of pure pleasure had fucked them up.

"Watch from the very top of the file."

Choso: Magical onahole

All Choso had was five bucks and a dream ever since attending college, all because of his extracurricular activities but nonetheless, this sketchy website was one of the things where he (half) shamelessly filled in.

"What's their last name?" "Picture?" "What colour is their pubic hair?"

These questions get uncomfortable to answer and even if he doesn't know he used his common sense but that only made him blush even harder. He hadn't done much pervy things in the past and now anyways but this might be the most horrid thing he's ever done. He assumed his friend must be pranking him because this was too good to be true but what made it worst was the review pictures.

They look so authentic and erotic, there's no way this would be edited to the max with 72 reviews for this type of website. Hell, he shouldn't get so hard when his mouse hovered over the Finish option and groaning when the website informs him that his order will arrive in three days.

You were his longtime crush and he was a tad shy to approach you properly. It's just so hard to socialize without popping a boner when you speak to him. He has auralism just because of you and he was deep into asmrs but he'd never find a voice like yours ever. He'd lose his mind more if this supposed onahole could speak, he'd cum from that alone.

---

After three days, he had gotten a heart attack. You had approached him when he was about to open his locker. He can't help but stare at you, fixing you with a steely look when he's nervous. Thankfully, you don't take notice and held out his pencil case, He left it in the lecture hall and you came rushing to give it to him. It was so caring of you that it didn't register to him that as he opened the locker, a blatant box of the onahole that he ordered was winking up at him.

He quickly slammed his locker, sweat slipping down his forehead.

"Are you okay?"

No, he might bust if you get worried about him and he shakes his head. He assures you he's okay, with that he also convinced himself that he was okay and swallowed. You giggle, pointing to the library and saying you had to go to your friends now.

In a daze, he nods and you hurry away for your session.

He was so gonna kill his friend.

---

He sat in his usual spot in the library, obscured by the shadows and out of the range of the camera. Around this time, couples would be here to hook up but luckily none decided to fuck here and he sits. With his luck, you were directly sitting in front of him miles away but he could clearly see your smiling face.

Now, this was the next craziest thing he's going to do and he undo his trousers and peeled open the box.

The onahole he was looking at was your exact body type and was this how you look like underneath? He brushed his thumb over your tummy and you flinched. He gulps, that was a coincidence, right? The girl you were with was probably playing footsies and his thumb trails lower. Boldly, he rubs at your hole. This was you but it wasn't you but it was you, his cock twitches. He looks up and you were covering your mouth with the sleeve of your sweater and he couldn't mess around anymore.

Gently, he preps the onahole since the website did explain its terms and conditions but it's not like he read everything; his brain short circuited when it mentioned some sort of transmission waves in the toy. He lewdly slid his tongue in, rubbing it in the toy's walls and was surprised when it starts slicking up. He ate this toy out even though it looked ridiculous that he was suckling off silicone in the library at 2p.m. in the afternoon.

Your friends slipped away to buy pop and when you're all alone, you shakily rested yourself against the table.

What he didn't know was how you were in bliss. What was this mystery sensation you were feeling, some slithery mystery tongue deep in your hole? Did you picked a good spot in the library? You didn't move from this specific spot at all and this phantom thing playing with you gets bolder. Tears form at your eyes when you felt two fingers deep in, resisting the urge to moan out in the library and you were soaked.

When something bigger starts to poke at your hole, you knew this seat was the luckiest place you planted your ass on.

Gojo: Invisible Man

The powers of nerdery had blessed him because of his infatuation with hentai he picked up after a rough day of work. He found some odd object on the way home and he was suddenly invisible. He tested a lottttt of freaky stuff when he puts this power on but this time he's going to test it on you.

Fridays were dinner dates he self proclaimed between you and him and his place was next. He felt so fidgety and excited, he was gonna suprise you with this and freak you out. That mischief of his made him rub his hands together.

He puts the trinket in his pocket and watches himself vanish to the environment. Proudly staring into the mirror, he sits on the couch and waits for you to come home. On time, you had made it unlocking the door to his place and calling out for him.

He wanted to giggle like a little Japanese schoolgirl (get the ref) when you were searching for him throughout the house and he slowly stood up from the couch when you stood in front of the TV. He licked his lips, seeing that relaxed face of yours when you stare into nothing. He gets up in front of you, holding his breath. Gojo didn't know that being invisible comes with staring at your pretty face as it blinked away at the sleepiness that dared cross your expression the more he didn't appear right around the corner.

Gojo holds your face and you freak out, lurching back to whatever sensation holds you. It snapped you out of your daze when his hand tickles at your chest.

Oddly silent at this ghost who was feeling up on you, he took it as a sign and brushes down your body. Man if you ever did face a ghost with him around, he wouldn't even let that ghost touch your skin this close but thankfully, it's him being the ghost.

His warm hands go down into your shirt and rubs at your skin, he couldn't resist hugging you and lifting you up to try to make you panic. Surprisingly, a giggle fell from your lips.

"Being invisible doesn't make your shadow go away... Satoru?"

He stopped, plopping you down and looking at the wall behind him and his lanky self was plastered into the wall and he covered his lips almost dramatically.

"Oh my, who would know I'd be caught so early?"

He wasn't even shameful in the very least, disappointed that a pervy phantom groping you after work wasn't a tale you would tell him at dinner. A small grin curves your mouth and you fell back on the couch and his dick jumped when you spread those legs of yours.

You urge him to continue his ghost activities with your feet trailing his invisible leg, wanting the adventurous feel of not knowing where he's touching you once you look away from the wall.

He was given the biggest opportunity of fun.

[fatal-blow]

hmm i wanna make a proper post about practicing relaxation. lets go

So for some reason, you can't fucking relax

Chronic muscle tension is really, really common, but few people know how to combat it. In that same vein, relaxing the muscles does not come naturally to everyone, and for some it's a skill that must be practiced.

Firstly, the inability to relax is tied to a few things. Obviously trauma, stress, anxiety, and other neurodivergencies contribute a great deal to chronic muscle tension. What most people don't realize, is that chronic tension can also result from an unbalanced body. In particular, it's a major symptom of Morton's Foot Syndrome/Neander foot, which has a HUGE comorbidity with neurodivergency (particularly ADHD/Autism). I've made plenty of posts about it on the ol' blog that y'all can check out, and searching "Morton's Foot Syndrome" (it's frequently confused with Morton's neuroma) will also bring up information.

Secondly, chronic muscle tension also causes just about every symptom under the sun. All those symptoms related to stress, the tension headaches and the stomachaches and the muscle weakness etc? Most of these are a direct result of the physical strain of muscle tension, not some abstract symptom of being mentally overwhelmed.

So how do you know you have chronic muscle tension?

Experiencing the physical and mental symptoms of anxiety pretty much guarantees you have chronic muscle tension. These symptoms feed into each other--it doesn't matter whether the tension began in your head or in the rest of the body, both will be affected in the end. Chronic pain is another sign of muscle tension, but of course not everyone has the same sensitivity or conceptualization of pain.

The most objective way to tell is to simply give your muscles a squeeze. Try around your calves and ankles, your arms, your stomach. Yes, even if you're fat. A proper, relaxed body will be so squishy that you could feel down to the bone, and move the muscles and tendons around with little discomfort. For thinner people, a relaxed muscle will jiggle like fat.

Meanwhile, a tense muscle will have little to no squish, like squeezing a bouncy ball. You may struggle to press deep into the muscle at all. To differentiate from bone, know that bone will have absolutely zero give; compare the hardness of your shin bone to the muscles of the rest of the calf. You should be able to apply pressure ANYWHERE on your body with no pain or discomfort.

Another more objective sign of chronic muscle tension is the inability to sit or lay down comfortably. Constantly changing positions, fidgetiness, or restlessness all point to muscle tension, often because a position rests on or pulls on a tight muscle. The way you sit is a telltale sign of what muscles are too tight: for example, sliding your butt down your chair is a sign of tight hamstring muscles.

How do you unlearn chronic tension?

It's not easy. First, I urge anyone reading this to look into Morton's Foot Syndrome and treat it. This syndrome is extremely common (on my end, pretty much all of my friends, family, and several people who follow this blog have realized they have it!). The reason Morton's Foot causes chronic tension is due to the instability of the foot--in order to prevent the body from toppling over like a tower with a poor foundation, the muscles in the body overwork themselves. Getting the right insoles (insoles sold at the store will not address the problem) will improve your stability, making it easier and less exhausting to stand and walk.

Treatment will only stick once Morton's Foot is addressed! If you feel like all your stretching and exercises aren't cutting it, please PLEASE look into this!!!

Okay, now that I've said my piece of MFS, here are a few things that you can try to help learn how to relax.

Tense and Release. Pretty much exactly what it sounds like. Practice tensing and releasing different muscles while paying attention to the difference in how each feels. It's a good first step to building an understanding with your body. You can easily find videos that guide through these sorts of exercises.

Pay attention to your habits. Strained or unusual posture is a direct result of chronic tension. Think about when you keep your hand in a fist too long, and when you finally uncurl it all your fingers aches. ALL the muscles in your body are like this, but unlike your hands you might avoid stretching those muscles afterwards, because stretching overtight muscles can be unpleasant! Over time, the tension will build up in the form of triggerpoints, which functionally shorten the muscle and cause even more problems down the road.

Stretching and massage. Stretches should target overworked muscles, but massage is necessary to get the full benefits of stretching. If you stretch and feel a pain, you can try to find that pain using the triggerpoint guide in my pinned post--massage that spot indicated in the guide, the stretch will become easier. I'll make a formal post about stretching eventually, but in the meantime I discuss proper stretching technique here.

Stay warm! Heat makes muscles more fluid and easier to stretch. Cold will increase tension, but it also numbs pain, which is useful for sudden cramps or seizing of the muscle.

Practice belly breathing. When you pull in a breath, make sure it's your stomach that moves, not the chest. Chest breathing activates neck muscles known as scalenes--when these muscles are tense, they can cause numbness, tingling, and pain in the hands and arms. Belly breathing is often easier to do while lying down than it is while standing up--mastering it in both situations will make a difference.

Learn to trust your body. Chronic tension means you're fighting your own body. When you begin relaxation exercises, they might feel scary, maybe even giving you the sensation of falling. Whenever I do relaxation exercises, I have so much tension in my own body that the release will cause a jerk or a spasm--but I have to concentrate and allow my body do this instead of instinctively trying to stop it. I always feel better afterwards, but it was disconcerting when I first started. The body generally knows where everything is supposed to go, and learning when to give up the reins to it can give you new insights into what will help you feel better.

Be careful about painkillers. Everyone loves their ibuprofen and acetaminophen, but understand that the pain you feel is very real. If you take a painkiller and then put your body to work, your ability to judge how much damage is happening is hampered. That muscle you're holding tense for three hours straight may not hurt, but it doesn't change the fact that it's accumulating tension. Be extra gentle with your body on painkillers.

And that should cover it. If anything sounds strange or doesn't make sense, I'm always happy to elaborate and answer questions! Go onwards and try to feel a little bit better today.

[malwaredykes]

well. here she is. miss Leigh Stasik.

trans woman. stubborn, incorrigible, eccentric. communist; she has leftist in-fighting with herself on the regular. a cannibal; she has no moral qualms about this, and its both a bit of a spiritual thing and a bit of a pragmatic thing. medic (not a doctor. no medical license). she knows for sure she had some kind of significant personality change from being shot in the head, but she doesn't remember what she was like exactly before it happened, it all became this kind of distant memory soup. shes originally from west new cali, but she grew very attached to the mojave. and has a lot of contempt for the ncr. She Will Serve Crack Before She Serves This Country. thank god the army discriminates against transsexuals etc. zero tolerance for the legion, obviously.

she firmly believes she is not nice, or kind, or compassionate, but instead her actions and her general sense of justice stem from her simply doing whats the most logical and objectively beneficial. it may be true to some extent, but she might also have a wee bit of ocd of the "i am a horrible person whos at all times like 2 seconds away from committing atrocities" variety.

shes a SCIENTIST. unofficially. she doesnt have a degree nor a chosen field of study. she makes her own hrt and other mysterious concoctions, including designer chems. which she claims she ingests injects etc not for recreational purposes, but to Enhance Her Powers And Possibilities. she reads old world books about psychology so she can manipulate people better. and makes weird contraptions and doohickeys while high. shes a HACKER of course and hacks terminals and systems for fun and just to see if she can.

her stats are out there due to implants and intense training, originally they were rather average. in-game she wears combat armor mk 2, but i see her having spruced it up like this. her main weapon is the ycs/186, the unique gauss rifle, but before that she used a modded plasma pistol. which she very much enjoyed the silly appearance of. because it was so small and with so much shit tacked on and she could just hold it in one hand like a mutated revolver like Hands up motherfucker bang bang bang lol. her melee weapon of choice is the machete gladius, but she's been training to be able to wield a thermic lance.

in my head the trajectory of her actions and the fate of the mojave that follows is different from what you can do with the game, because leigh could only go for The Secret Leftist Route Which Was Supposed To Be In The Game But We Were Robbed Of It.

boone was the first friend she made after leaving goodsprings and their relationship is particularly notable. they are Comrades, Siblings-In-Arms, Worsties (like besties but fucked up). theyve seen each other at their worst. they annoy each other on purpose. theyve had serious ideological clashes with each other and some ways in which boone perceives the world drive leigh absolutely nuts. they're ride or die for each other. theyre the kind of comfortable around each other where she'll be on the toilet and smoking a cig with the door open and talking to him, while he's naked sitting on the floor removing stitches from his leg. she's done surgery without anesthesia on him. he's projectile vomited blood on her from being poisoned by cazadores. she strongly encourages him to become a traitor to the ncr and to take part in the revolution and the formation of the new independent mojave alliance. somehow, it works on him in the end. shamefully they kinda like snuggling... boone bro come to bed man its nighty night man its beddy bye time.

shes in love with lily bowen. i havent decided yet whether she actually makes a move. but she thinks lily is sooooo dreamy. and shes right. if you dont think the enormous 203 year old blue mutant woman is dreamy thats your problem. outta her way

[tac-the-unseen]

OUAGH the last one gave me the idea of a musician reader x slasher

If I were to suggest a specific genre maybe they’re into rock because. Yeah.

Could you do something with that?

Slashers x Musician Reader

Micheal Myers:

•Plays it off but thinks it cool as hell

•He did play the piano for a very short time in his childhood, but the ward made him very rusty 

•Will happily watch any concerts you put on for him

•Will Secretly watch you if you don't 

Billy loomis & Stu macher:

•They both immediately pitch in a song request 

•They bring up the fact that you play an instrument to win arguments with people 

•Will eventually find a way to break your instrument 

•They will be very apologetic about it 

•attempts to replace it 

Thomas Hewitt:

•very interested 

•He's curious by nature, he wants to know everything he can about it 

•Your instrument is the most expensive thing in the house 

•daydreams about being able to play a song for you, one day

•until then, he'll try to figure it out himself 

Bubba Sawyer:

•Tries to sing along when you play

•he also dances but always ends up knocking stuff over

•Will sit in front of the door so his brothers can't get in while you're playing

•They constantly complain about the racket 

•Chop-top will occasionally sit in while you play 

Bo Sinclair:

•immediately shows you his acoustic 

•brags about how he can out play you

•loses miserably because he only practiced for a couple months 

•mad about it

•polishes its case whenever he comes around to it 

Vincent Sinclair:

•romanticizes it by thinking about how you're two different types of artists 

•Sketches you playing your instrument 

•Sheepishly asks you to pose

•makes a mini wax sculpture of your instrument 

•He get super giddy if you play a song for him

Lester Sinclair:

•extremely impressed 

•He's always thought of being able to play an instrument as a high class/rich person activity 

•Falls asleep while you play, Not because you're boring, But because he finds it soothing 

•will find out how to care for your instrument so he can help repair any damages it might face

Billy Lenz:

•probably was the reason He zeroed in on you in the first place 

•fines it incredibly alluring and wanted you to play all the time 

•Will find a way to get his grubby hands on your instrument 

•Will eventually break it but not feel sorry 

•(Not So) patiently waits for you to get it fixed

Brahms Heelshire:

•He can play the piano and just uses it as another excuse to hang out with you 

•looks up songs to properly make a duet with you 

•whenever conversations died down or get a little stale, he whips out the instrument card 

•whether you did or didn't know how to play an instrument he's going to romanticize it anyway 

Hannibal Lecter:

•insists on making some kind of duet with you, and whether or not your instruments align with each other 

•buy stuff to make for your instrument is a mint condition 

•’humbly’ braggs about your talent at his dinner parties 

•Will make you food associated with your instrument(s) (look that up, it's a real thing because of course it is)

Will Graham:

•Like to watch you play whatever it is you play

•He's never really had any interest in instruments, But he starts listening to videos featuring your instrument. 

•Casually asks Hannibal facts about your instrument 

•makes you a little charm related to your instrument to put on your keychain 

•Has flashbacks to the guy with his throat turned into a Cello 

The Lost Boys:

•They all at some point have picked up an instrument 

•David can play the Piano, Organ, violin, and guitar

•Dwayne can play the Hand drums, flute, and Bass guitar

•Paul can play the clarinet, electric guitar, French horn, and marimba 

•Marko can play the Drums, Harp, Cello, and viola

•They have all genuinely considered starting a band 

•No matter what you play, you'll fit in

Thanks for reading <3

I went for a more neutral tone with this fic. Because I don't want to write 16 other fanfics about specific music genres ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠🎀)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

[theoneandonlylobster]

My Big Damn Ashes of the Academy Thoughts

Okay so honestly I just need to take this panel by panel because frankly my overall impression of the comic is that everyone got replaced Invasion of the Body Snatchers style with people that look the same as they do and have the same name, but have zero idea of the backgrounds or motivations of said characters, and so they were just making shit up as they went along. Like, I write fanfic, I read fanfic. I have, in general, a pretty high regard for fanfic. And of course one of the more common Dangerous Ladies childhood type fics is how did they meet, why are these three very different individuals friends, etc etc.

And this was not even approaching the worst, crappiest, least coherent of that type of fiction I've read over the last nearly two decades.

Ashes of the Academy is a giant nothing burger comic, a fart in an elevator you're trapped with until you can make your escape.

So, without further ado, let's begin:

So right here on the second page of the comic, and the first page with dialogue, we have Ursa letting us know that, apparently, contrary to what we know, the Academy made Azula a bad person. Not her parents, definitely definitely not Ursa. You got that? It was all the Academy's fault. And we will continue beating that ostrich horse the entire rest of the comic, make no mistake!

Ah yes, Ursa, noted Not Ever An Imperialist At All, Not Even Once, Nuh-Uh.

Skipping several pages that would be me saying these two things multiple times...

Credit where credit is due, I like these two panels. I like this tiny glimpse into the friendship of Kiyi and Lihua or whatever here. One, because I imagine this is more like how Azula probably actually was, based on what we see in Zuko Alone. And two, that means Kiyi is unconsciously mirroring her sister and I like that interpretation of her character. It seems that Hicks does too, on a subconscious level. Look at that devious little look on her face! Little shit. Yeah, you cause a ruckus! Adorable.

I'd be lying if I said this didn't get a chuckle out of me. Is Katara on Zuko's Ministry of Education? Lol wtf. Still funny though.

More Kiyi being a little shit that I can get behind. This time in a Little Miss Know-It-All superiority complex sense that I'm sure would get real old real fast for anyone around her.

I've pointed this out on another post but Kiyi isn't a princess? Wtf? Come on, Hicks. Like it's not hard to figure this shit out. I think giving her a character trait of literally running to her big brother the Firelord anytime she feels slighted is pretty good, but of course it's never explored, because that's not a heroic trait and Kiyi has to be a hero for some reason unlike that irredeemable monster Azula who was born bad.

So nice of you to ask her first Zuko! Fuck's sake! Being Firelord has really gotten to this boy's head, like I know he has absolute power and all that shit but damn, if I was Mai, I would be wanting to get back with him less after this, not more, regardless of whether or not I liked the job in the end. Fucking consent, bro! (Previous page has him telling the headmistress she'll do it.) Unfortunately, this is actually not ooc for what we've seen of Zuko, honestly, imo. Mai, you can do so much better. Like, I ship Maiko. I love their dynamic etc etc. But girl. Respect yourself. This boy is NOT it at this point.

This is our continuing indication that they'll be rewriting the past in this comic, and we'd all better get on board. Zuko certainly thinks Azula treated him badly and has a very, "Zuko did nothing wrong!" approach to it all, but Mai was there for the vast majority of it, witnessed it with her own two eyes, so she would not react to that sentence with, "True." She just wouldn't. At least not the Mai we know. So let the assassination of Mai’s character commence!

Like, was this comic so half-assed nobody could be bothered to look up the spelling of Ukano's name? Yes. Yes it was.

Can I be made to believe Ukano said this to Mai when she was smol? Absolutely, yes. He's portrayed as a social climber and willing to utilize basically any route he can access to gain clout and influence. That's a man who is not above using his daughter in this way. I think it's somewhat implied by Mai’s dialogue in The Beach, even. Dude was a shitty father, Caldera was rife with them. Do I believe for one second Mai became friends with Azula because of this counsel? Absolutely not. The Mai we know thinks for herself 100% of the time, it's basically her thing.

Oh, cool, there's a 10 image per post limit. Well. I'll keep going in reblogs and indicate when I'm done. Bear with me, friends.

[shallowseeker]

I do love the first "shop-talk" scene in 4x02:

and not just because it effortlessly, primally occurs in THE KITCHEN MY SPECIAL INTEREST (and it's a late-night kitchen-talk at that... how intimate!) There's just... so much more to this scene that I want to ramble about!

First, there's something so adorably "big brother" about Dean taking the floor while Sam gets the couch:

But in terms of symbols...

In this dreamscape, the living room represents a known place. It’s a familiar territory, a space shaped by childhood and the daily rhythms of a little brother Dean knows like his own heartbeat.

In this shot with Sam, we see "an open window" and the clearly lit figure of the kid Dean grew up with—(well raised, really).

Here, Dean knows the rules. He knows how to move, how to deflect, how to care. He knows his mission. His role. His scripted lines.

BUT

Here, the kitchen is different. Murkier. It’s not representing the known rhythms of childhood. It's an emerging, liminal, domestic space.

The windows are flanked by shutters, filtering the light. There’s no clear view to be had... only silhouettes and suggestion. (This is the space of adulthood. Of individuation. Rawness, fear, and confusion abound!)

Unlike their first meeting, Cas doesn’t burst in with wings and thunder. He stands still. Quiet. Mysterious. Secretive? A stranger, yes—but one who already sees Dean in ways that unsettle him.

And ofc, this isn’t just a conversation. It’s a visitation—a mythic moment that happens while Dean is vulnerably caught between states: sleep and waking, safety and fear, childhood and transformation.

Cas is imposing, a low-level threat presence, but he waits for Dean to approach.

Aaaaaaaaaand

CAS: Excellent job with the witnesses.

Cas opens with shop talk. It’s clinical. Detached. The tone is 10000% at odds with the intimate motif of the dark kitchen. We've somehow launched straight into the "We raised you out of Hell for work," vibes, like Dean is a mission parameter, not a person.

But it’s not cruelty—it’s just his angelic default. It’s how Cas knows how to speak. Orders. Objectives.

War room briefings.

And Dean seems… strangely betrayed by this.

Not because Cas has done something obviously cruel, but because of what’s missing—human warmth, care, acknowledgment. (You were hip to all this? You did nothing? You?)

Dean is offended, even affronted—but beneath that, he’s clearly craving some kind of warmth.

Who knows why he expects it?

And then—Cas fidgets. Just barely. A shift. A pause.

There's this little "uh" that slips out in his answer. It's such a small thing, but in context, it's HUGE. Dean asked something direct—accusatory, maybe even vulnerable—and Cas can't seem to give a clean answer:

CAS: I was, uh, made aware.

Dean reacts bigly.

What’s endlessly fascinating about this moment to me is that his sense of betrayal seems soooo genuinely emotional. His pivot to sarcasm—"Well, thanks a lot for the angelic assistance"—quickly escalates into something almost childlike: "I almost got my heart ripped out of my chest!"

First, the line reads like an appeal: "Don’t you care that I was in danger? *I* was in danger!" It reads like he's low-key fishing for a reaction, testing whether Cas felt any way about that fact.

Second, his body language zeroes in on his own chest—his heart. He gestures forcefully, repeatedly. It’s not just verbal—it’s visceral, almost like his body is trying to say what his words can’t: Don't you care? Don’t you feel? I'm hurt. Worry about me!!!!

And Cas?

Cas answers with a flat, "But you didn't."

It’s even. Unbothered. It lands like a brush-off, like he’s reducing Dean’s very real, very human fear to a statistical non-event.

You’re overreacting. That’s the subtext Dean picks up here.

Which of course causes Dean to get even more huffy:

DEAN: "I thought angels were supposed to be guardians—fluffy wings, halos—you know, Michael Landon. Not dicks."

And well. It's another appeal, really. Dean's saying, "I thought you were supposed to protect us. Protect me."

But also it's so funny because Dean is low-key insulting him. He's of course testing Cas—feeling him out, trying to see if Cas even CARES, but it's so hilarious, too. They're already sniping!

Cas remains stubbornly even. Stoic. Hard.

CAS: "Read the bible. I'm a soldier."

(It reads like: "So what if I AM a dick, Dean? What then? Beware. I'm cruel. I'm warning you. THIS is what I am.")

But I love how Dean remains obstinate nevertheless. ("Yeah? A soldier, huh? Why didn’t you fight?") And Cas doesn't give. ("I’m not here to perch on your shoulder.")

Their attitudes clash, beat for fucking beat!!!! Cas sways forward aggressively, squaring up like he's starting to get a bit ruffled by Dean’s testing: "We had larger concerns."

Excuses, excuses.

It spirals further as Dean starts mining for more—emotional—information. "Concerns? There were people getting torn to shreds down here!”

Again, he's in a coded way feeling out if Cas cares about PEOPLE: "Don't you care?"

(Don't you care don't you care don't you CARE?)

Because here's the kicker: There’s something about Cas that makes Dean suspect he does.

Maybe it’s the way Cas holds himself. Or when he chooses to look away—shame, maybe?—or maybe just how Cas settles his breathing when challenged. (Cas stiffens and digests things in ways that read like guilt.)

Whatever it is, Dean picks up on those small signs and it TOTALLY emboldens him to keep hurling his emotions at him!

The conversation goes even deeper after that, lurching into dangerous territory for both, territory about values and Faith.

DEAN: “And by the way, while all this is going on, where the hell is your boss, huh? If there is a God? ... I’m not convinced. Because if there is a God, what the hell is he waiting for, huh?”

And throughout this entire exchange, Cas’s doubts are visible in his body language.

Frankly, I think that’s what gives Dean the courage to push so hard. It’s like he sees through the armor, maybe thinking to himself: "Jeez, maybe this angel doubts all this bullshit, too."

Unfortunately for Dean, when Dean breaks, he breaks wide open.

DEAN: "What the hell is he waiting for, huh? Genocide? Monsters roaming the earth?" This is very raw. "The freaking apocalypse? At what point does he lift a damn finger? And help the poor bastards that are stuck down here?"

For some reason—some maddening, magnetic reason, whether it’s the nonverbal cues or recently dying and going to Hell or whatever—it just cracks Dean apart. Even as he’s trying to get Cas to break, to flinch, to feel, it’s Dean who’s unraveling.

Of course it’s also: At what point do YOU lift a finger? Why didn’t you help ME? I almost died. Other people DID. That’s the real question pulsing underneath Dean’s rant. He’s not just condemning Heaven. He’s confronting Cas the individual as much as his own crisis of faith and disappointment.

And Cas... Cas breaks eye contact. He has to.

Not arguing. Just… withdrawing. Retreating into formality. He defaults to a scripted line... doctrine:

At that—Dean explodes.

Why won’t Cas meet him halfway? They’re not on the same emotional wavelength at all. Dean is so frustrated!

And yet, with Dean's "So help me, I will kick your ass!" comes a turning point. Cas literally throws up his hands, and it’s beautiful because it also shows a yielding.

It's a small, rare sign that Cas is finally letting Dean’s truth reach him.

An "Okay, fine."

Dean breathes a beautiful little sigh of relief at that yielding. His shoulders relax. It felt good to get all that out.

Like maybe he feels like—oh my God, hey—maybe they actually got somewhere. Maybe now they can finally really talk.

But then!

Then, adorably, Dean’s eyes dart around in a panic.

Because Dean’s brave to a fault—but even he’s thinking, WHAT THE FUUUUUCK AM I DOING? WHAT THE FUCK DID I JUST SAY????

When Dean peeks at Cas again, it’s different.

The air between them has cleared a little bit. There’s a new kind of honesty between them now: raw, foundational, and open.

Dean feels it, and he tentatively broaches that new space. (Because Cas yields, softening just a bit nonverbally, Dean feels comfortable enough to try.)

So he moves a little closer to Cas, mirrors his body language, and speaks to him like a fellow soldier...

This shoptalk too is yet another coded appeal. It's a: "Please talk to me. Tell me something."

Cas shifts uneasily, throwing out another clipped company line: "big things afoot."

But then!!!!

Then Cas decides to tell him... what he can.

"But you need to know," is code for, "I'll tell you what I can." It functions as a bit of rationalized logic. You NEED to know, so it's okay if I tell you.

And so, they fall easily into what will become their infamous rhythm. As Dean moves forward to tentatively join Cas by the sink, Cas can’t help but lean in just a little—another subtle fidget.

They're swaying into each other's space.

As they inch closer, testing one another, the light from the blinds slices across their faces, casting all these sharp lines and shadows.

And as they test each other and throw their frustrations and emotions at one another, they see each other a little more clearly.

[glitter-stained]

Look, I'll say it: Zurr isn't a magical demon that took over Bruce's body, it's a vilifying, demonizing take on induced DID. I can't keep seeing people fight to defend Bruce's honour in Gotham War by saying "it wasn't actually him so it's not his fault", reject the Lazarus Pit Madness headcanon because "Jason and he alone did his crimes and he has no excuse", and then we're talking about how Bruce's or Dick's trauma is what made him a hero, one post later on my board it's "the lazarus pit madness headcanon is unnecessary because Jason's behaviour is completely explainable and logical if you just take in account that he has cptsd" (or bpd depending on the post) and then that fanfic I had to stop reading because a character literally was screaming at Jason "so what you died get over yourself but you weren't magically controlled by the pit so you have zero excuse and justification for being angry" and then a post about "wow why is Batman punching down on all these mentally ill people", and then in the replies "are you dumb it's because those crazies are bombing orphanages..."

I'm still thinking about that moment in "dumpster slasher" where Batman is like "the killer is still free while poor Elmore [a homeless guy with substance use disorder and major neurocognitive disorder] is being shipped off to Arkham... This doesn't sit right" yeah buddy I'm sure if you ponder that for a while, the reason why the fact the only mental health facility in your city is also a prison for dangerous criminals with no apparent mental illness doesn't sit right with you will appear to you eventually.

Maybe it's time to confront the fact that the difference between a hero and villain in dc is often whether their mental illness is demonized, glorified or minimized. Or the fact that attenuated circumstances and responsibility exists on a gradient and there is such thing as "altered responsibility due to mental illness" in a trial. Maybe it's not "oh it was this evil Zurr/Batman entity, not Bruce/Batman, so there is no responsibility to be taken and anyone condemning those actions as abuse is talking in bad faith" maybe it's "this is a terrible representation of something that exists and should be treated respectfully" and "I don't have to accept this terribly harmful rethoric and fucked up depiction into my conception of my fav's characterization in such a dislocated, often incoherent canon if I don't want to."

And also maybe it's "if we accept this event/depiction as canon it doesn't mean that we have to either bash the character completely or erase his mental illness into something vaguer/mystical that would somehow absolve him of his place in this situation".

And maybe it's "what does accountability for your harmful actions looks like when your judgement was heavily impaired by mental illness, and what judgement can be placed upon you and who decides where people are placed on that continuum of responsibility and how do we acknowledge and go forward into repairing things when severe harm/abuse was done under impaired judgement and also how do you reconcile all of this with your sense of self, (especially in conditions like bpd/cptsd and especially did where the sense of self is already so altered/complicated) with what your values are, what you want to be, what you are capable of doing and what you thought about yourself before the bad thing happened." I don't know any simple, correct, good answer, especially not a one size fits all. All I know is: the desire to be a good person, and be able to distinctively separate people between bad and good, is profoundly human and, at times when lines of responsibility get blurry, profoundly unhelpful. Most people who are going to hurt you aren't mentally ill. Most people who do terrible things aren't mentally ill, and sometimes people are mentally ill and hurt people and the two have nothing to do with eachother. But it is also a reality that sometimes judgement is impaired and behaviour is altered due to mental illness, and then you need to figure out where to go from there. Acknowledging this while also fighting stigmatisation is a complicated business. It's messy. Mental illness often is. I'm weary of any rethoric that pretends it's simple.

[orellazalonia]

Group Therapy

Summary: Tony forces you, Bucky, and Sam into a mandatory group therapy session meant to improve communication, but it quickly devolves into passive-aggressive chaos, exaggerated breathing, and glitter-based threats. (Bucky Barnes x reader x Sam Wilson)

Word Count: 1.3k+

A/N: Lots of dialogue. Loosely inspired by the boy’s bickering during that one therapy session. Also lowkey nervous to post a different ship than stucky or just Bucky. Anyways, Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

You should’ve known something was off the second you saw Tony Stark’s name on the file labeled “Avengers Personnel Wellness Initiative.” It was slipped into your inbox with a cheery little note scribbled in red ink:

“Mandatory. I’d make it optional, but let’s be honest. Some of you are one more sarcastic quip away from homicide. See you Thursday, - T”

You’d barely finished reading when Sam popped his head in your room, looking smug and holding up the same file. “You get the invite to Avengers Couple Counseling Hour too?”

You narrowed your eyes. “It’s not couples counseling.”

“It is if you’re dating us,” Bucky added flatly from the hallway, already walking away like this wasn’t his problem to solve.

You groaned.

And that’s how you ended up here, sitting in a perfectly neutral gray room with soothing paintings of trees and lakes, heading the stiff chair that squeaked every time Sam shifted his weight. The therapist, Dr. Halliday, looked terrified but determined. Her notebook was already open, pen ready to scribble down trauma and ego in neat bullet points. Bucky had already made a comment under his breath about the notebook.

She smiled too wide and greeted the room like it didn’t hold two supersoldiers and someone who once watched one of them chase the other with a hot pan for drinking the last of the coffee.

“So, I understand you’re here for emotional synchronization and group cohesion?”

Bucky blinked. “We’re here because Tony wants to bully us.” Sam scoffed. “He’s just mad because he had to fill out a feelings worksheet.” “I didn’t fill it out.” “You drew a middle finger on it.”

Meanwhile, you slowly leaned back in your chair, already regretting every life decision that led you to this moment.

The therapist cleared her throat. “How about we start with a simple question. What’s one thing you admire about each other?”

There was a long silence. Bucky folded his arms. Sam raised an eyebrow. You offered a small shrug.

“I mean… Bucky’s good with knives,” You offered.

Dr. Halliday smiled, a hint of nervousness seeping through. “That’s… specific. And Sam?”

You hesitated. “He has a great smile.”

Sam immediately grinned and nudged Bucky. “Did you hear that? Great smile. Can your war journals do that?”

Bucky glared. “Say smile one more time and I’m throwing yours into orbit.”

You sighed.

Then it was Bucky’s turn. The therapist asked him to share something positive about you and Sam. He stared at the ceiling like he was begging the universe to open up and consume him whole. Finally, he muttered, “You both talk too much, but you make the world less awful. Sometimes.”

“That was almost sweet,” You said.

Sam leaned back with a smug smirk. “Bet that hurt to say, huh?”

“I hated every syllable.”

“Okay!” The therapist said, chipper but clearly dying inside. “Let’s shift to—uh—conflict resolution styles! What do you usually do when you’re upset with each other?”

“I jump out the window,” Bucky said flatly. “I put hot sauce in his coffee,” Sam added with zero shame. You blinked. “You what—”

“I know,” Bucky said, gesturing toward you. “She takes deep breaths and then threatens us in passive-aggressive Post-It notes. It’s terrifying.”

“I only do that when you two make me the middle spoon and fall asleep on me.”

“It's called protection,” Bucky muttered.

“It's called heat stroke,” You shot back.

The therapist’s pen hovered, unsure whether to write or cry.

You’d made it thirty minutes in.

Dr. Halliday put down her pen. “Let’s…try a grounding exercise.”

Bucky leaned toward Sam. “That sounds fake.”

Sam whispered back, “Bet it involves breathing.”

Dr. Halliday reached under her desk, pulled out a small glass jar labeled “lavender-mint serenity,” and lit it with the kind of intensity usually reserved for summoning spirits.

“This is a grounding exercise,” She said, placing the candle on the coffee table like it was the solution to world peace. “Focus on your breathing. In for four seconds… hold for four… out for four…”

You tried. You really tried. But next to you, Sam was making exaggerated whooshing sounds with every exhale.

“Innnnn… oooouuuuut… like that, right?”

Dr. Halliday gave him a pained smile while Bucky wasn’t even pretending. He stared at the candle like he wanted to throw it at someone.

You peeked at him through the corner of your eye. “Just breathe, Buck.”

“I don’t need a candle to inhale oxygen,” He hissed.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “He gets like this when you take away his combat knife. It’s part of his routine.”

“It’s grounding,” Bucky shot back. “My way just involves punching something.”

“I can print out a photo of Tony for you to hit later,” You offered. Bucky actually looked tempted.

Dr. Halliday scribbled something down. Probably: Patient shows aggression toward candles, sarcasm, and emotional openness.

She then looked up and smiled, tightly. “Let’s try something else. A communication-building exercise.”

“Define communication,” Sam muttered.

“Each of you will take turns expressing a frustration using I feel statements,” She explained gently. “Without blame.”

You, Sam, and Bucky exchanged a slow, dreadful look.

“I’ll start,” Dr. Halliday said, either to model the behavior or remind herself she was still in control. “I feel overwhelmed when sessions go off-track, because I want to help, but I need everyone’s cooperation.”

You nodded. “Fair.”

Sam crossed his arms, clearly enjoying this more than he should. “Okay, my turn. I feel deeply annoyed when Bucky eats the last protein bar and then blames it on gravity.”

You turned to Bucky. “You blamed gravity?” “The box fell over. They rolled. I didn’t plan it.”

Sam leaned forward. “You looked me in the eye and said, ‘Fate chose me.’”

“Okay,” Dr. Halliday cut in quickly, “Remember, no blame-“

“I feel,” Bucky interrupted flatly, “That Sam is a smug, winged menace who chews with his mouth open and makes my eye twitch.”

“That’s not a feeling,” The therapist said weakly.

“I feel violated when I find feathers in the dryer.”

Sam gasped. “That’s just racist.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Okay. I feel like I’m babysitting two adult toddlers who also happen to be capable of mass destruction.”

“That’s fair,” Dr. Halliday muttered under her breath, then cleared her throat. “Let’s shift to nonverbal communication.”

“Oh boy,” Sam whispered.

She handed you each a blank piece of paper and a marker. “I want you to draw how you see your dynamic. No words. Just visuals.”

Sam immediately started sketching a stick figure version of himself with a halo, Bucky with angry eyebrows, and you in the middle with a giant coffee cup and stress lines. Bucky took a full minute before drawing a broken clock, a knife, and a cartoon bird exploding. You just drew a couch… sinking into lava.

You all held up your art like traumatized third-graders at a very intense PTA meeting. Dr. Halliday stared at them in silence. Then she gently folded her notebook closed.

“Well,” She said after a long pause. “That was… illuminating.”

“Can we go?” Bucky asked.

“Is there a points system for good behavior?” Sam added.

You just raised your hand and said, “Do I get a sticker or something for not screaming?”

Dr. Halliday let out a tired sigh. “You get a gold star and a recommendation for individual therapy.”

Sam and Bucky both turned to you.

“Oh look,” Sam grinned, “You’re finally the favorite.”

“Better be laminated,” You mumbled.

You all filed out of the room in silence, the scent of lavender and mint clinging to your clothes like shame.

Outside the door, Bucky turned to Sam. “Next time you put hot sauce in my coffee, I’m putting glitter in your wings.”

Sam snorted. “Joke’s on you, I like glitter.”

You walked ahead of them and muttered, “I will duct tape your mouths shut next week.”

And somehow, that was the most productive session you’d ever had.

[omgfangirlland]

I've been reading about supernatural reader having a toddler with Dean. And I propose that her and Dean a child, though magic like supernatural reader, can't have a baby naturally for one reason or another so her and Dean make a baby using magic. I feel like it would add another layer to Anxious Dad Dean

(I'm assuming this is all one anon, and I didn't read this through, so sorry for any mistakes)

I'm such a big fan of neglected reader or just batsis in general looking like Martha y'all don't even know- I also have to get this out of my brain before I continue answering:

Reader: I'll get you a baby.

Dean, thinking this is some next level flirting and is shocked you spoke it with Sammy around: *stumbles in incoming traffic*

And the alternative:

Reader: I'll get YOU pregnant.

Dean: Promise?

I can get behind this-

So I have two thoughts- "amazonian" baby girl made from clay and "demon" baby boy gifted by Crowley with a hellhound as a bonus protector.

What I'm saying is twins. I have settled on twins.

The thought would start with Dean cuddling you in bed or on a couch, slightly drunk, after running around with the baby of the family y'all saved that day. Maybe a little jab from you along the lines of him looking nice with a baby on his hip, and him just straight up saying he'd love to have a baby with you, maybe five and a big wedding- "And one of those ugly dogs that the kids will get mad at me for calling it ugly".

And while he falls asleep with no worries, it keeps you awake.

Thinking it through- it was a nice thought. Having a family, a loving one and proving to both of your fathers that you can do so much better. But that was a conversation to happen while sober.

And it definitely happened when Bobby and Crowley were present, and whether they thought it'll be a nice gift or whether they wanted their kids happy (You can't get Dad!Bobby even from my cold dead hands, and I also think Crowley would get attached to you purely because of the zero filter you have) they get their kids a kid-

Well, a kid each. They both thought they had an original idea, alas, they did not. Bobby pulled out an old magic book of Amazonian rituals, and Crowley finally cashes in a "first born" contract and takes a pup so the kid(s) will be protected whenever and wherever.

Now- Dean didn't cry- but he was teary the whole time he held the two(and hissed at Sam when he tried to take one of the kids, honestly, he barely let you hold them, the compromise was you sitting on his lap and holding the kids while he had you three wrapped in his arms). You both were terrified.

Mainly due to the fear of turning into your fathers, but also- you now had two little creatures who despite not needing to be as baby proofed as a human baby, were still fragile little things that needed the best- Sam wasn't sure where all the money came for but when he asked you just smile and said vengeance(Crowley stole a few cards from Bruce and gave one to you).

You, after Dean handed you a blanket: No. Texture is nasty.

Dean, throwing the blanket at Sam who was pulling two carts filled with toys, clothes, 30 different types of baby food and formula milk, dog stuff, and books for the baby and parenting tips for both of you: The texture is nasty, Sammy, we need something better!

Sammy, tired from Dean's constant doubting of everything and anything in this store: I will teach your kids to bite you- (he did teach the kids to bite Dean on command and to give you kisses on another command)

----

Dean, face scrunched as he tastes all the baby food they got: Who thought green beans mixed with banana is a good baby flavor?... Who thought apple, squash and zucchini is?!

You, mixing something in a bowl: Banana and biscuits mush. Very good for adults too. (to this day I eat this, it's such a good munch but fair warning- it can be a texture nightmare for some)

----

You're a more relaxed parent, but you hold the kids more, while Dean takes the "check on the babies every hour to make sure they're breathing" type of parenting- helicopter dad? idk man is stressed and worried 24/7- He chills once they enter toddler stage, but his eyes are always on them to make sure they don't smash their heads against the floor (he's thought a few times during the walking stage to just put the rascals in helmets and rugby padding)

I, personally, would think Morgana or Cersei would be amazing for the baby girl and while I'd itch to name the kid after a prince of hell, I fear Dean would be too superstitious about it- so Lucian, Acheron or Anwir would be something he better agrees with.

Now, the kids are both mischievous once they start walking and talking- not in the brat type of way, but in the trickster "mom said only a cookie but if we entertain dad or uncle Sammy enough we can manipulate them into giving us seconds" type of way. And while the baby girl is the planner of the mischief, the baby boy is the emotional manipulator aka the one who lies better(I also think the boy took after you, quiet and looking more like the Wayne part of the fam but with Dean's eyes while the girl is Dean with your eyes.)

The quote marks around the amazonian and demon are there for a reason- they're not exactly that, but show signs of powers/inclinations. The baby girl has better reflexes than either of you and is more resilient but not to the point WW and Donna are, and the baby boy is more supernatural inclined, senses/sees ghosts and demons in their true forms, is allergic to holy water but not to the point it burns, just a mild itch.

So, coming back to Bruce and his parents seeing the babies, Like I said, Bruce would pass out seeing you with one kid, two of them? Heart failure. Add to that that you look like Martha when the light hits you one way(and he has flashbacks to when his mom died) while looking like his ex wife when the light hits the other way- and little toddler man looks eerily like him- the man is not okay. And the poor baby girl looking like the jobless, national terrorist you found in a ditch(his thoughts not mine)- but that's fine grandpa Bruce is in business- What do you mean you don't want him in your babies lives?

Yeah, he's delusional, not even a bit, straight up thinks he can tell you to leave Dean and you will come back and live here with the kids. Remember when I said Sam will throw hands? Dean will jump across the coffee table before he can. (Martha is cheering him on, but shh. Thomas is just too busy cooing at the young kids to care)

It hurt more coming from you than if the men(he refuses to acknowledge either Sam or Dean) were to call him a deadbeat who could barely be called a sperm donor.

Dick will have an existential crisis with Jason because now they're officially old™️and have niblins, and I think the info will break Damian in the Damian.exe has stopped working way, lil man just can't process that he's an uncle. The rest won't really be affected beyond being sad that they can't see them irl, just in the video the cameras captured.

Bruce in a moment of stupidity would probably try to go the cps route but like- he doesn't know where the fuck you're at, and John C. sure as hell ain't telling him- "Nope, not fucking with people protected by Angels and Demons, you bellend. Lie in the bed you made."

The whole fam learns that what the police records say isn't the full truth, but they still don't deem the Winchesters as good people to be around- and Bruce is really only raising his tension by watching the few CCTV records of Dean slow dancing with you to some old rock music while Sam naps in the booth with the babies, kissing you like you're the most important person in his life- like even then he was mocking Bruce.

Peepaw Crowley starts fucking with the family when he finds out the shit they tried to pull by hitting where he knows they'd be the most inconvenienced at- the businesses, both vigilante and day business.

[sometimesanalice]

California Dreaming

Summary: At sometime past 4am, the last thing you would have ever expected was to receive a call from Bradley Bradshaw. But time is a funny thing it feels like it might be running out.

Pairing: Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Female Reader

Length: 5.6K

Warnings: angst and a bit In-N-Out slander

(author's note: this fic is set in the 'Like I Can Universe', but can be read on its own!)

You’re pulled from the light sleep you’d just barely managed to slip into by the sound of your phone ringing.

Although you weren’t too sure if your mind was playing tricks on you again. And in that liminal space between awake and asleep, you didn’t trust yourself to know the different anymore. Sleep and you haven’t been on the best of terms over the couple of months, and you had the dark circles under your eyes to prove it.

Your boss had told you about the chatter he’d heard about a position opening up soon at the West Coast office. It was an opportunity that would be perfect for you, minus the fact it would involve uprooting your entire life and moving across the country. You still hadn’t given him an answer yet whether he should put you forward for it or not. But you’d taken to sleeping with your ringer on just in case you were needed for anything, not wanting to close the door completely. And you’d woken up in a panic more than once thinking you’d slept through an emergency call, only to see absolutely zero new notifications.

Just when think it might have been another stress induced fluke, it goes off again.

Bleary eyed, you scramble to reach it. Wanting to silence it to not wake up your boyfriend from his more-peaceful-than-yours slumber. Only half-consciously noting it’s sometime past 4 AM.

However, it’s the name splashed across the screen that makes your heart stop.

𝗕𝗥𝗔𝗗𝗟𝗘𝗬 𝗕𝗥𝗔𝗗𝗦𝗛𝗔𝗪

You sit straight up, the crisp white sheets your boyfriend preferred pooling around your waist.

“Bradley?” You don’t even remember hitting the green button before the phone was up to your ear. “Bradley? Are you ok?” The words come out a sleepy slur all jumbled together by your sluggish tongue.

He’d texted you when he landed back on US soil; a silly selfie with crinkled bag of McDonalds in his hand and the American flag in the background. It had made you grin like an idiot when your phone had lit up with it.

You knew that he had been called back to Top Gun, but that was as much as he’d been able to tell you.

With the time difference, it makes it the hour too early for you, but also too late for him. He should be asleep right now. But you know Bradley, he wouldn’t be calling right now unless it was about something important.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I know it’s late there,” Bradley apologizes. “Or early, I guess.”

Tired. He sounds so tired.

You didn’t doubt he was still probably fighting the jetlag that came with being in San Diego after living in Japan for the last year and a half. But it was the weariness in his tone that had you concerned.

“But you’re ok?” you press. You needed to hear it.

“I…” he pauses, then sighs. “Yeah, kid. Everything’s fine.”

You blow out a relieved breath, rubbing at your heavy eyes.

“Good. That’s good,” you nod, reassuringly. Not that he can see you.

He is safe. He is ok. That’s all that matters to you.

Jack groans your name. “Seriously?” The word drips of exasperation and annoyance.

You wince. Less at its sharpness, but more at the feeling like you can’t seem do anything right lately.

You and your boyfriend have been together a little over two years now. You have a comfortable life together in Boston, nice even. But you shook the snowglobe of your relationship when you’d first mentioned the possibility of a promotion and moving, and it still felt like you were waiting for the remainders of all those stirred up flakes to settle back down.

“Give me a minute, Bradley,” you whisper into the phone, “Don’t hang up.” Your voice is so quiet you’re not even sure he heard you.

You turn towards your boyfriend, an apology on the tip of your tongue, but he’s already rolled over away from you.

A literal cold shoulder.

Your eyes trace over the exposed skin of his back. It’s dark, but you could point out where every freckle is on him with bullseye precision. Sometimes you weren’t sure if he knew you as well.

Like when he’d bring you red roses, a flower you’ve never felt one way or another about. You’d tell yourself it’s the thought that counts, that it’s the gesture that matters. But for as many times as you’ve bought your favorite flowers yourself and displayed them on the coffee table in your shared living room, Jack has never once brought them home for you.

It made you wonder sometimes if he even truly wanted you, if he cared enough to pay attention. Or if he was just content in the fact that you’d be there.

And then you’d feel guilty for even thinking that in the first place.

But you didn’t just break up with someone over flowers.

Or the way he always seemed to make plans for you with his friends without ever asking you first. Or the way he was never more attentive to you until the two of you were in front of a group.

There’s a sliver of moonlight peeking through the edges of the blinds of your bedroom. A set of curtains would have solved the issue, but you’d never been able to get Jack on board. It was something you there thankful for now as you tiptoed out of the room with just enough light to make sure you wouldn’t trip over anything.

You ease the door gently closed behind you, feeling some of the tension melt from your body.

“Ok, I’m back,” you tell your best friend.

“I take it we woke up Jack?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, padding towards the black leather couch in the living room. You fight back the hiss that wants to be released when your bare thighs touch the ice-cold material. The October chill had a way of sneaking in everywhere. “He’s got a big pitch presentation on Friday,” you say, feeling like you need to explain, “So he’s just a bit on edge right now.”

Bradley makes a noncommittal sound, something close but not quite like a disapproving rumble. You distract yourself from reading into it too much by turning on the lamp on the side table to its lowest setting. A dim glow illuminating the living room.

“Tell me, how’s California?” It’s a pivot. You know you’re trying to smooth things over; you’ve been doing a lot of that lately.

“Sunny.”

You snort and roll your eyes.

“It seems you left good jokes back in Japan,” you tease. You pull your knees up to your chest and reach for your favorite soft knit blanket, tucking it around you. “Be honest, how many things did you forget to pack this time?”

Bradley groans your name. This time you smile.

“I had to take scissors to my favorite pair of Levi’s, because I didn’t bring any shorts for the beach.”

Picturing the pained look on his face as he desecrated his favorite jeans nearly sends you into a fit a giggles. But out of respect for the fallen and your best friend’s feelings you press your lips together, the corners pulling up on their own.

You can’t resist lightly teasing him though, “Beach jeans? That sounds like a choice.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Bradley says, solemnly. The drama queen.

“Is there someone who saw you in them that I could bribe for some new blackmail material?” you ask. “It’s been a while since I’ve gotten my hands on anything truly juicy.”

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, kid, but I looked damn good in them.”

This time you don’t hold back the laugh, only muffling it with a hand over your mouth when you realize that your boyfriend could probably hear you through the closed door.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Give me some time and I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’ll make some space in my Bradshaw Blackmail folder in the meantime.” Bradley’s warm chuckle in your ear makes the room feel less cold. “So what else have you been up to?”

“We haven’t had a ton of down time, but I did hit up an In-N-Out with Natasha the other night.” That was a name you were familiar with. You’ve never met Bradley’s fellow aviator and friend, but you were happy he had someone with him there that he was close to. “It was the same one I took you to when you came to visit after I finished Top Gun the first time.”

It was a fluke of fate that you’d been sent to the West Coast office for some training around the time that Bradley was on leave before being sent back to his squadron. The overlap was only for a few days, but the two of you had made the most of it.

“Who knew you were such a sentimentalist?” You lean your head back against the couch.

“It’s the closest one to base,” he justifies, “Although, you’ll be happy to know their milkshakes are still trash.”

You grin. “Hey, I never said they were trash. That was all you, Bradshaw.”

You’ve only been there the once, but it had been fun getting to experience it with him for your first time. He’d ordered more than enough food for two people, making sure to get some of the more classic not-so-secret menu items for you to try. And the Neapolitan shake had been fine, but the ones from the ice cream shop in your hometown where Bradley had had his first job were much better.

“Your face said otherwise,” he bats back.

You hum noncommittally, not wanting to concede. It was more fun for you this way, even if he was right. Not to mention no one knows how to read your face better than Bradley does.

When you don’t argue, he continues, “There’s even a rumor going around that they might want to keep some of us around longer. Like they’d form a new squadron that would be stationed here.”

You perk up, “In San Diego? You could be there permanently?” Between his deployments and moving around from base to base, you don’t think he’s been in one place for more than two years since he went to UVA. “That would be amazing.”

“Yeah, it really would,” Bradley agrees, he sounds hopeful, “But I don’t want to get ahead of myself.”

‘Hope for the best, but expect the worst’ was the motto he seemed to live by. He’d had the rug pulled out from underneath him more times than anyone else you knew.

The two of you are quiet for a moment.

You don’t want to push him into talking about whatever the reason is that he’s called so early in the morning. But no matter how many jokes you trade with him, it’s still in the forefront of your mind. And try as you might, you can’t shake that feeling of unsettledness that was resting heavily on your chest.  

Outside your living room window, the streetlights are bright against the dark sky.

You’ve told him more times than you could count that he could call you any time, but Bradley being Bradley has always made it a point to call during hours that were convenient for you, even if that meant he was still up at some ungodly hour.

But that was so him, always putting everyone else ahead of himself.

With the confidentiality that goes hand in hand with his job, you know he can’t talk about the specifics. It was something you were used to after nearly a decade of Naval service behind him.

You nibble on your lower lip, weighing your words.

“How’s it been with…” You trail off, but you know he knows who you’re referring to. You run a hand up and down your calf, trying to warm up quicker.

Mav? Pete? He’d been Captain Mitchell the last time you’d seen him back when you were in high school, you weren’t sure what his rank was now.

Mav has always been the number one topic on Bradley Bradshaw’s No Fly List. The few times you’ve dared to bring it up in the past had been shut down quicker than you think he could probably fly his jet.

Bradley told you last week in a text that had simply read He’s here. You didn’t even have to ask who he was. It had been just as much of a shock to you as you imagined it probably was for him seeing the man who had derailed his dreams when everything else in his world had already fallen apart.

It was a story you’d always thought there had been more to, but between the two of them you’d always be Team Bradley. That’s how it was supposed to be for best friends.

You can feel Bradley mulling over his answer. “It’s been… motivating.”

The way he says it you can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. And maybe he doesn’t even know himself.

You sit up straighter on the couch. “Oh?” you say, casually. Neutrally. Not wanting to let your inflection to color Bradley’s response.

Their reunion has been a long time coming, you just wished you could be there for him with this the way he’s always been there for you. Not just on the phone, but there by his side.

Bradley sighs again, it’s heavier this time. Like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’s probably roughly running his hand down his face, the way he always does when he’s really, truly frustrated. Like he’s trying to free those too big feelings from trapped beneath his skin.

“I’m flying with him for the first time in my career. I want him to see why I’m here. I want to show him.” The anger, the hurt rings though loud and clear. But so does the determination. “These patches I’ve been called back are the best of the best that there is. And I’m one of them, kid. And I got here on my own, without him.”

You wait to see if he is going to continue or not, wanting to give him the space to talk through his feelings, but he’s gone quiet again.

“You’ve worked so hard for this, Bradley.”

“It was all I ever wanted,” he says, his voice rough, “To be like them.”

Like Mav. Like Ice. Like his dad.

You’d been there for the fallout. He’d been crushed when he didn’t get to go to the Academy, the self-destruction that followed had been hard to watch. You’d seen the way he had to pick up the pieces of his life. The way the boy had quickly had to become a man. Every choice Bradley has made since then has been with one purpose in mind.

He’d set out to be a Naval aviator and he’d achieved it.

“You should be so proud of yourself,” you say, softly.  “I know I am.”

You imagine Mav is proud too, but you don’t say that part out loud.

After all, he practically helped raise Bradley- in his own way.  Always calling whenever he could. Sending presents. Spending his leave time with the Bradshaws. They’d been a family.

“Sometimes-” Bradley cuts himself off, trying to collect his thoughts. You can almost feel the tormented whirlwind of them through the phone. “Sometimes,” he starts again, “There are moments, when I see him fly- it’s crazy shit that no one but him can do- and I forget. Just for a second. But then I remember and it’s like I’m eighteen and feeling like I’ve been punched in the gut all over again.”

Your stomach twists in the same way it always does when you’re reminded of that rough period in time when the two of you were just teens. And now that you’re older, your ache even more for the boy whose whole world was so turned upside down by the one person he thought would never let him down.

“When we’re flying together, I’m reminded how it could have been. How it should have been,” he corrects himself, roughly. “I thought I was fucking over it. It’s been fifteen years, kid. And I’m pissed at myself because he should be nothing to me, I shouldn’t care what he thinks.” His voice is a hoarse rasp. “Why can’t I get over it?”

It’s times like this where you can feel every mile between the two of you. Every inch of space in your long-distance friendship. And it chafes at you that all you can be is an ear for him to vent to rather than a shoulder for him to lean on.

“There’s no version of this where it wasn’t going to be tough. And I don’t think you trying to brush off who he was to you, like none of that mattered, is going to make this any easier for you,” you tell him. “Not with the history the two of you have. And you can’t punish yourself for having feelings about it.”

“I told him no one would mourn him if he burned in.” He all but blurts it out.

Your suck in sharp breath and you shake your head in disbelief, “Bradley, you didn’t.” There’s no hiding the shock in your voice.

You know there’s an unspoken code of conduct between aviators from the things you’ve picked up from the way he’s talked about his career and fellow Naval officers over the years. That when everyone’s lives are so dependent on each other to look out for one another, there were certain things you didn’t joke about. Things you didn’t throw around, not even in the heat of a moment.

“Shit, shit,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. 

You don’t know what to say to him. It’s silent in your darkened living room. The only sound is of his affected breathing over the phone.

You can’t keep dancing around things with him anymore tonight. He cracked open the door, but now you’re the one pushing through it.

“Bradley, what happened?”

His voice is strained when he speaks again, “We had a couple accidents during training a few days ago- no one was hurt.” He is quick to clarify, and you know it’s for your benefit. “It was a bird strike and they had to eject, but they were cleared to fly the next morning.” It hits too close to home all the same. You don’t worry about anyone the way you worry about Bradley. “Mav found me in the Ready Room later that night, and it was just the two of us alone for the first time since everything happened. He was talking to me like I was the kid he’d helped raise, instead of the one he’d fucked over. And then all that anger came rushing back. So I did what I always seem to do, I went for all the things that I knew would hurt him the most.”

You squeeze your eyes tight in sympathy. You’ve been on the receiving end of Bradley’s sharp tongue before. You’ve never held it against him, but you’ve also never forgotten the way his words sliced straight through you.

“I knew it was fucked up as I said it, but in that moment it felt good to hurt him the way he hurt me,” Bradley says, quietly. Every word feels chewed on, like they’d be covered in indents of his teeth. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look in his eyes, kid. I really fucked up. It’s been eating at me ever since.” He pauses and clears his throat. “I hate that part of myself. I hate that I said that to him, regardless of the shit we’ve been through.” His voice is pinched, tight. “My mom would be so disappointed in me.”

The guilt in his voice is unmistakable and it's a confession you can tell that takes a lot out of him. No one holds on to regrets- or grudges- like he does. Even if the one he’s holding it against is himself. You know this is going to be something he’ll carry around with him for a long time to come.

But it is the way he stumbles over the mention of Carole that cracks your heart open.

You had grown up adoring her. She’d been lightning in a bottle. Her smile was always the brightest in the room, and her laughter always made people stop to look wanting to be in on the joke too. There was no one quite like her.

And after she died, you’d mourned that loss too. You still carried the evidence of that love with the scar issue on your heart. But for Bradley, that was a wound that no amount of time would ever fully heal for him. Forever a reminder of who wasn’t there.

He’d already lost so much. First, his dad. Then his mom. And now with his uncle.

Bradley had told you about Ice and his passing. You knew they had come to an understanding in the after of everything. It was a relationship held together by a monthly phone call or two, and a dinner invite whenever Bradley was in town. He’d called you during one of his breaks on the morning he found out, troubled because he didn’t know he’d even been sick.

Just more time missed with someone who had meant something to him.

You didn’t want him to regret saying those harsh words without the chance to make amends. You didn’t want him to miss out on any more time with people who wanted to be there for him. You didn’t want him to shoulder around that pain and resentment anymore. A decade and a half of it was more than enough to carry that around. You didn’t want him to forever push away the one person who probably cared for him just as much as you did.

“So apologize,” you gently urge him. “Talk to Mav and apologize. For him and for you.”

He sighs, heavily, “It’s not that simple.”

Gone is the quiet girl in her dark living room. You want him to hear you. “It really is though, Bradley. Tell him. Pull him aside after class or get there early. Or take him to that bar on the beach you told me about and buy him a beer. Don’t let this be a thing you can’t take back. You can still apologize.”

“I-I don’t think I can. There’s not enough time for that now.” His words are stilted.

You feel your eyebrows pinch in confusion, “Aren’t you guys there for a couple more weeks?” He doesn’t answer you right away and you feel a chill drift across you, even under your blanket. “Does that mean you’re shipping out soon?”

“It’s why I called.” There’s something more serious in his tone, you’re talking to the Naval officer now. “We got the orders, we ship out tomorrow. Or later today, technically.”

There’s a swooping sensation in your stomach and it feels like the floor has fallen out beneath your feet.

“Goddamn it, Bradshaw. Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Your voice wavers.

“I know, I probably should have.” At least he has the good sense to admit it. “I just wanted to talk to you, like normal. Although we didn’t get very far before I derailed the conversation,” he says, self-deprecatingly. “Do you think you can give me a few more minutes of normal, kid?”

You know there’s not much you can ask, and even less than he can tell you. You’re surprised you even allowed to know this much.

But you don’t need a dossier of confidential government information to tell you that whatever he’s being sent to do is dangerous, because you’d be able to read even the most redacted version of Bradley Bradshaw. You’d known something was off from the very moment you’d seen his name lighting up your phone.

You don’t want him to feel your anxiousness, you don’t want to add to whatever else he’s currently going through. Bradley called you because he wants to let his mind relax. So if he wants normal, you can give him normal. You can give him as much as he wants, as much as he needs.

“I’m sorry for making fun of your beach shorts.”

Bradley huffs a soft laugh, “No, you’re not.”

“You know,” you muse, fighting to keep your tone light and airy, “I haven't played hooky in a while and I have some miles to use before the end of the year.”

“You want to come out here?” The suggestion works just like you hoped it would, he sounds less troubled than before.

“I could use some Vitamin D and a milkshake. Do you know a good place to make it worth my while?”

“I might. It depends on your opinion is about Neapolitan shakes though.” Your nose scrunches up on its own. “Are you making that face, kid?”

“No,” you reply too quickly.

“Liar.”

You smile to yourself. “I’ll even let you pick me up from the airport and you can finally show me that Bronco of yours in person. It only seems fair that I get to see what all the hubbub is about after I’ve spent hours letting you talk my ear off about it: V8 engine this and four-speed manual transmission that.” You do your best Bradley impersonation and earn an amused scoff from him.

He’d bought it right before he’d been sent to Japan. Ice and his wife had been looking after it for him while he was away. Bradley had even documented his reunion with it after landing back on US soil by sending you a video of it with him humming the Peaches & Herb song in the background.

“You’ve got yourself a deal,” Bradley says. You think he might be smiling too.

It’s all to easy for you to slip into a normal conversation with him. He asks about your mom and stepdad. You don’t mention the possible promotion, but instead tell him about the passive aggressive microwave fish debacle that plagued the entire floor for days.

The two of you talk about nothing in a way that feels like everything. And every chuckle you pull out of him feels like a victory. Your tired eyes flutter shut on their own, with them closed you can almost pretend he’s sitting right next to you, until a yawn slips out of you without your permission.

“It’s getting late, I should let you go.”

You want to keep talking to him, but you can imagine the circles that have already formed under his eyes over the last few days. “You should get your sleep. Rest up, because we have big milkshake plans…and you’re not allowed to stand me up. Got it, Bradshaw?”

“I hear you,” he promises. “Try to stay out of trouble until I get back, kid.”

“No promises.” You feel your lower lip wobble.

“Atta girl.”

You laugh. It sounds a little watery to your own ears, but you hope he doesn’t hear it. You’re grateful he didn’t choose to FaceTime you. It’s probably for the best he can’t see your face, you’ve never been a very good poker player.

“Be safe, Bradley.”

You’ve already decided that you’ll let him be the one to hang up first. You didn’t have it in you to hit the red button before he did.

He blurts out your name. “Wait.”

“I’m still here,” you answer, quickly.

You hear him sigh in relief. “I-You know you’re my favorite, right?”

“I know.” Your throat gets thick and your eyes prickle. “And you’re mine.”

“Yeah?”

Your friendship with him as always mattered the most to you. It wasn’t even a question.

“Of course. I didn’t make very intricate embroidery floss friendship bracelets at summer camp when I was thirteen for just anyone, you know.” You’d spent hours making him one in his favorite colors. He’d worn it until it fell off and then asked for another. “You’re my favorite too,” you repeat, wanting him to hear it again.

“Ok. Ok, good,” Bradley says. He lets out a slow breath. “See you soon for milkshakes, kid.”

“See you soon.” It comes out a reedy whisper.

You stay on the line until he hangs up.

And only when the screen goes black do you allow yourself to give into the emotions that had been surging up inside of you.

With the corner of your blanket, you wipe at the tears that are making hot tracks down your cheeks. There’s a hollowness that has settled in your chest that you don’t think will go away until he tells you when to book your ticket to come and see him.

It doesn’t matter that you remind yourself that he is one of the best at he does. Or that you know he’ll be with other people who are just as good as he is. In all the years he’s been in the Navy, you’ve never once heard him sound that unsure before, and it’s rattled you.

It’s not that you didn’t know there was risk every time he sat in the cockpit of his fighter jet, even if it was just to train. But this was the first time it’s ever felt like he was preparing you for the possibility that you might never see or hear from him again.

You didn’t want to imagine a world with Bradley Bradshaw in it.

He’s never once broken a promise with you, and he wasn’t allowed to start now.

You don’t know how long you sit there in the dark with only your feelings and the sound of the clock on the wall for company.

Your eyes drift towards the closed bedroom door, where you’re sure Jack is sleeping unbothered on a soft mattress between stark white sheets.

It hits you then that he hadn’t come to check on you.

It’s still just as dark outside. Only the little lamp next to the couch offers any light, as you look around your living room.

You’d liked all the exposed brick when you’d first moved in, had imagined all the ways you could soften the apartment with things to make it more cozy for you and your boyfriend. More like the two of you.

But the books on the bookcase had been carefully chosen to fit a neutral color palette, while all your favorites had been moved to the smaller one in the office. Their colorful covers hidden away. The spot where you thought some kind of landscape painting could have gone, had a photograph of a sepia-toned city hanging there instead. It was still art, but it was the kind of thing that had been made to disappear into the background.

You keep waiting to see a piece of yourself reflected in the room, some mark of you that had been left behind in the home you live in, but other than the black and white striped rug that had been too good of a deal to pass up on at a store with a no return policy, none could be found. You didn’t see any of yourself there at all.

You thought that you’d been making compromises, but it’s dawning on you that all along really what you’ve been doing is making concessions. A one-sided partnership. When all you ever wanted was to share a life with someone.

Earlier you found yourself making excuses to Bradley, but now it felt like something you weren’t sure you wanted to look past.

You are tired.

And not because it’s sometime around 5 AM now. You’re already well past the start of a new day.

You’re tired of being the one to trying to make something work.

You’re tired of being the one who always makes a genuine effort.

You’re tired of red roses.

Maybe people did end relationships over flowers. Or the art on the walls.

Grabbing your phone, you open your email ignoring all the messages that are already waiting for you, and start typing out a message. When you’re done, you read it over a couple of time before sending it off to your boss. The whoosh that follows as it bounces off the exposed brick in the quiet living room feels like progress.

You didn’t want to miss out on any more time either.

Not with the people who mattered the most to you. The people you mattered the most to.

Leaning over the arm of the couch you turn off the lamp and stretch out to get comfortable on the cushions underneath you. You tuck a throw pillow under your head and drape the blanket over you.

From this angle, you can almost pretend the city lights look like stars.

Your alarm is already set, and if you’re lucky you can doze a bit longer before it will go off all too soon.

But it’ll ok if sleep doesn’t find you.

You’re already California dreaming.

Who gave me permission to do this to myself?! Oh my heart. Don't mind me, I'm just in my angsty era. Thank you for reading!

If you enjoyed these two, you can read their story from the start here!

You can read my other stories here!

taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken  @callsignspark @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @ofstoriesandstardust @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @angelbabyange @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @imaginecrushes @keyrani @chicomonks @artemissunn @mayempress @eddiemunsonreader

[inkandstardusts]

honey i laugh when it sinks in, pt ii

summary: Patrols with Joel are usually always the same. He leads and you follow. It's what works. Until one night when you confess far too much and it opens up a can of worms that neither of you can seem to put away.

part ii of ii

part i can be found here! part ii follows part i so i do recommend reading it if you haven't.

word count: 4.8k

rating: explicit

warnings/tags: smut, first time, romance, age difference (reader is mid 20s, joel is early 50s), reader is AFAB but with no other descriptors

a/n: finally got to writing part 2! i haven't edited this yet so excuse any errors/mistakes. i didn't intend for this to get as sappy as it did but i do hope it still stays true to characterizations. as always, please let me know your thoughts!

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The dining hall is fairly quiet this morning. You’re grateful since you were hoping to distract yourself from the continuous thoughts of Joel you’ve had since he made you that offer on your porch almost two weeks ago. You haven’t had a chance to see him since. Your patrol schedules haven’t aligned and he isn’t really the one to socialize all that much but somewhere in your heart, you wonder if it’s on purpose. Whether he regrets his offer and is avoiding you until it blows over. The chances of that happening though, are basically zero. You’ve thought about what he’s said since the minute he started walking back home that morning. Whenever you have a spare moment, you ponder it in your mind. What his hands would feel like on you, how his beard would feel against your neck, the sort of sounds he’d make. It’s like you’ve been infected with some sort of horny virus that’s hyper-specific to Joel Miller. You haven’t even told Maya about it yet, worried that it would be pointless if Joel really has regretted saying anything to you. 

Which is exactly why you woke up this morning, grabbed a battered version of The Count of Monte Cristo you had found on a run a few weeks ago, and decided to read during breakfast. You’ve never been one to mull over men but Joel Miller has somehow wormed his way into your mind and at this point, it’s sort of frustrating having to distract yourself from thoughts about him. You’re just starting chapter three when someone clears their throat. You look up to see Joel Miller standing in front of you, an unreadable expression on his face. He looks vaguely uncomfortable. You can feel your face beginning to warm up. 

“Joel,” you greet, giving him a nod.

“Mornin’,” he says, sounding rather gruff. His cheeks are flushed, probably from the cold air and his hair is just long enough that it curls around his ears. As always, he looks as handsome as ever. 

“Can I sit?” he asks and you do your best not to look surprised as you nod. You think you might look a bit like a deer in headlights. He takes the seat across from you, his broad frame filling the space in front of you. 

“I just wanted to apologize,” he says and you can feel your brows furrow. “For what I said that mornin’ on your porch. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.” 

Now, your eyes do widen. You’re about to interrupt but he keeps going.

“I realize that it was probably odd for you, havin’ me come in and offer something like that. Like I said, it’s none of my business and I don’t want you to feel like you have to do somethin’ you don’t wanna do.”

“No,” you say, abruptly. His brown eyes widen a bit and the pitch of your voice. You realize how loud you must have sounded and look around to see if anyone is looking at the two of you. Thankfully, the dining hall is still mostly empty save for a few people scattered around. 

“What I mean is that you didn’t,” you say, looking back at Joel and speaking softly. “Make me uncomfortable, that is.”

He nods, looking relieved but not convinced. “That’s good.”

“Yeah,” you agree. And then you begin to ramble, like you always seem to do when you’re having a conversation with Joel Miller. “I want to take you up on your, um, offer. I just haven’t seen you around and I didn’t know if it would be weird to like, knock on your door and say ‘Hey Joel, can we have sex please?’ y’know? I guess, I didn’t really know how to proceed and I’m sorry if it seemed like I was disinterested - ”

“Hey,” he says, cutting you off. “Take a breath. And stop apologizing. You didn’t do nothin’ wrong. If anything, I might have overstepped.”

“You didn’t,” you say, quickly. “You really didn’t.”

There’s a pregnant pause and then he nods, before standing up. He’s leaving? But you haven’t even figured out what to do next.

“I’m glad,” he says.

“You’re leaving?” you ask, trying not to sound too disappointed. You see the corner of his mouth twitch in a maybe smile. 

“Have patrol,” he says, although he sounds a bit reluctant. 

“Oh,” you say. Then you bite the bullet. “So when can we?” 

You watch him flex his hand, the muscles moving beneath the sleeve of his flannel. 

“Whenever you want,” he says, voice serious. “Just knock on my door and say Hey Joel, can we have se-”

“Okay,” you say quickly, cutting him off. Your cheeks feel warm and so do your ears but you’re pleased that he cracked a joke. He smiles then, not just a twitch of his mouth or a ghost of a dimple but a real smile. There just for a second before it’s gone again. 

“I mean it,” he says. “Whenever you want. If you want.”

“I do,” you say, again far too quickly. He nods, and now his eyes are dark as they trace over you. “What about today?”

“I’ll be back from patrol at sundown,” he says. “I’ll come to yours ‘round nine, if that’s fine for you.”

You nod, clearing your throat and suddenly feeling warmth in the pit of your stomach. “Fine with me,” you agree. “I’ll see you then.”

He nods before he turns around. You try not to watch his retreating figure but your eyes trace over his broad shoulders and his back, how long his legs are and how sure of himself he seems. You feel a flutter in your stomach and look around to make sure no one saw you ogling Joel Miller. 

Nine p.m. can’t come soon enough, you think as you try to resume reading your book.

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There’s a sharp knock on your door exactly at nine. You smile as you walk towards it. Joel is never late, not for patrol and now not for this. When you open the door, he’s standing there, looking cold. You step aside.

“Come in,” you say and he does, taking his coat off as he walks through the threshold and then Joel Miller is in your house. You both look at each other and he clears his throat.

“How are you?” he asks. You want to say that you’re better now that he’s here and that you’ve spent the better part of your day thinking about this very moment but instead you smile, shrugging.

“Fine,” you say. “How was patrol?”

Joel frowns. “S’awful. Paired up with some new kid that never shot a gun and thought doin’ so right as we entered the perimeter would be a great idea.”

You wince, scrunching your nose. You can empathize with him. You were once paired with an eighteen year old that thought it would be hilarious to shoot at a skittish deer only for a clicker to come out nowhere and tackle him. You had managed to kill it somehow but your hands had shaken the whole day after that.

“That sucks,” you say. “Bet you missed being partnered up with me.”

You mean it as a joke but he doesn’t smile. 

“You’re a good patrol partner,” he says, voice serious. You snort. 

“I just follow orders,” you say, shrugging. He shakes his head.

“There’s that. But you’re also vigilant, and you’re good at spottin’ things and thinkin’ fast,” he explains. He sounds genuine and you feel yourself flush.

“Thanks Joel,” you say. He nods and then looks around your living room. It’s warm from the fire you had going and you’ve done your best to try to decorate it with trinkets you’ve found on runs and around town. It’s cozy and some part of you hopes Joel thinks so too.

“S’nice,” he says when he looks back at you. You smile, gesturing for him to sit down on your couch.

“Do you want something to drink?” you ask and he shakes his head. Suddenly, tension creeps through the room and you can feel your palms beginning to sweat. Now what? Do you just climb on his lap and beg him to fuck you? Or do you ask? The first option seems desperate although at this point, you truly are desperate for him. And the second seems far too serious.

“Why do you wanna do this?” he asks, cutting through the silence, and it’s definitely not what you’re expecting. Your mind blanks for a second before you realize you have to answer him.

“I just do,” is the first thing out of your mouth. “I mean, I want to do this. And I trust you.”

He nods, seeming satisfied with your answer. 

“Alright,” he says. Then he spreads his legs further and taps his left thigh. “C’mere.”

You stand up immediately, and walk towards him, standing between his legs. He wraps one large hand around your wrist, tugging you so that your knees brace around his thighs. You’re straddling him. You’re straddling Joel Miller. Your heart starts pounding in your chest and you take a breath, trying to calm your nerves. You settle so you’re more comfortable. This close you can smell the scent of the soap he uses and something else, more woodsy.  He takes your chin between his fingers, making you focus on his eyes. 

“We stop whenever you wanna stop,” he says, serious. His eyes are so dark now, you can barely see the brown around his pupils. 

“Or you,” you say, voice breathier than it was a few moments ago. You’re pretty sure your heart is beating at a mile a minute. Joel smiles, a real smile. The corners of his eyes crinkle and you want to kiss him there.

“Don’t think I’m gonna wanna stop,” he says, voice lower. 

“Me neither,” you say, leaning towards him. When you kiss him, something warm cracks open in your chest. You feel him pull you closer, his hand gripping your hips. You open your mouth in a moan and feel his tongue run across your bottom lip. You’re gripping his shoulders so tight that you’d probably leave marks if he was shirtless. You’re not sure when you started rocking your hips against him but he stills you with his warm hands, squeezing your hips. You whine, biting at his bottom lip as he pulls away. 

“Joel,” you say and you’re surprised by how needy you sound. “Please.”

He chuckles. “Tell me about that dream of yours,” he says. It’s not what you’re expecting and if you were any less turned on you’d probably be embarrassed.

“Really? Right now?” you ask. “Feel like there are better things we could be doing.”

“Humour me,” he says. His eyes trace over your face and you shift slightly in his lap, feeling how hard he is beneath you. You move your hips a bit more before he stills you, squeezing your hip hard enough that you hope there’s a bruise in the morning. 

“Um, well, it was sort of like this,” you start, curling your arm across his upper back. You like how you can feel the muscles move as he shifts. “And you were sort of,” you pause here, suddenly feeling shy.

“I was sorta what?” he asks, voice soft. 

“You were touching me,” you say, voice breathy again. His hand skates across your torso, lifting the bottom of your shift so the tips of his fingers brush just below your belly button. 

“Like this?” he asks and you shake your head. You take his hand, pushing it below the elastic of your cotton pants so that it rests right above where you want him the most. You’re so wet he can probably feel it through your underwear. You shift again, looking for more friction.

“You’re so wet, sweetheart,” he says and you moan. He rubs you through your underwear and you can feel yourself clench around nothing. “S’all I did?” he asks and you shake your head. 

“What else?” he asks and his mouth brushes against yours. You kiss him and he allows it, sucking on your tongue before he pulls back, just a fraction so that your mouths are separated. 

“You put your fingers in me,” you say. He hums, looking pleased. He pushes your underwear aside, and the direct contact of his finger against your clit has you bucking your hips. He shushes you, before petting you some more.

“Joel,” you moan. “Inside me, please.” 

You’ve gone past caring if you sound desperate. You need some part of him in you right now or you might just combust. He answers your pleas by slipping his middle finger in and curling it just so perfectly. You clench around him and he grunts. It’s thicker than your own fingers and the feeling of being full isn’t lost on you. You shift your hips, greedy for more. 

“You’re so tight,” he says and he sounds like he’s trying to contain himself. “Fuck,” he says and you moan. You can hear the wet noises of his finger moving inside of you and then you feel a second one prod at you. You widen your knees to give him better access and he tucks his head against your shoulder, kissing at the soft skin of your neck. 

“You’re dripping all over my wrist,” he says as you keep moving your hips. Your head tilts back, eyes closing in pleasure. You’re so close, you can feel it in your fingertips and toes. Suddenly, he stops and you make a noise of protest.

“Joel,” you say and he’s lifting you off of his lap before shifting you so you’re flat on your back on the couch. 

“Can I take these off?” he asks, gesturing to your pants. You nod, still dazed. He tugs them off quickly, tossing them aside. 

“Need to taste you,” he says, before he’s pushing your knees apart and settling himself between them. You should feel exposed. You’ve never been in front of a man like this. But somehow, you don’t. You trust Joel. And right now he’s looking at you like you’re the loveliest thing he’s ever seen. He looks right at you as he lowers his face and licks from your clit and all the way down and the noise you let out is so loud you hope for her sake that Mrs. Alvarez is asleep. 

He keeps watching your face, as he presses his nose against your clit and you can’t even find it in yourself to feel embarrassed as you grind your hips against his face. Joel makes a noise, almost like a grunt and then you feel his tongue inside of you. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you arch your back. You must look possessed, but you don’t care. This is better than any dream you’ll ever have. He replaces his tongue with his fingers and then does some sort of combination of the both that has you bucking your hips.

“Joel —” you start and when he curls his fingers, you moan before you can get the rest of your sentence out. He hums against you. You can feel it building inside of you, like a giant wave about to crash against the shore. You try to warn him again. 

“Fuck…Joel I’m — I’m gonna come,” you finally get out and if anything, that spurs him on. He curls his fingers again, this time rubbing against that part inside of you that you can never reach because it cramps your wrist. You slide a hand into his curls, tugging as you arch your back and let go. It’s so intense you can feel your thighs shaking around his head, but his steady hands grab both of them, holding them still. When you come back to yourself, you open your eyes to find him sitting on his knees, watching you. His mouth is pink and wet, his cheeks flushed red. 

“Did you like that?” he asks, and it doesn’t sound like a line. He sounds genuine. Which is why you laugh. You see his brows furrow but his mouth twitches in a smile.

“You just made my legs shake and I’m pretty sure I sounded like a cat in heat at some point and you’re asking me if I liked it?” you ask. He smiles but there’s something predatory in his eyes. You feel yourself clench around nothing. 

“Have to make sure,” he says, voice warm. He shifts, and that’s when you notice the bulge in his jeans. You reach forward, ready to unbutton his pants but he wraps both your wrists in one of his hands. 

“We don’t have to,” he says. You snort.

“I think it’s sweet that you’re such a gentleman Joel, really. But I really want to,” you say. He traces his eyes over your face, almost like he’s cataloguing every aspect of you. He reaches a hand out, finger moving gently under your eye. 

“You sure?” he asks, resting his hand against your jaw. You reach for his hand, tugging it so that his thumb settles against your lower lip. You open your mouth, touching the tip of your tongue to the tip of his finger.

“Please,” you say again, looking right at him. He takes a deep breath. 

“Alright sweetheart,” he says. “I’ll give it to you.”

You reach for his pants again and this time he lets you unbutton them. Before you can take him out, he stops you. He runs a finger along the bottom of your shirt and you understand. You sit up, taking it off, leaving you in your flimsy cotton bra and nothing else. 

“Your turn,” you say and he smiles. He reaches for the back of the neck of his shirt, tugging it off in one quick movement. Efficient, as always. It makes you smile. His chest is golden and solid, and you trace your hand across his sternum and down to his stomach. He’s strong everywhere. His arms are corded with muscle and his shoulders are so broad that you want to bite into them. 

“I’d let you,” he says, voice amused. It’s then when you realize that you said this out loud. You flush, feeling your face heat and he chuckles. You lean back as he tugs at his pants before he stops, as if suddenly remembering something.

“We should do this in your bedroom,” he says. That’s when you realize that you’re still in your living room, almost naked on your couch. You nod, standing up. You feel a little ridiculous, naked from your stomach down and it’s like Joel can read your mind. He tugs you so that your back is against his warm chest and you can feel his belt buckle at the bottom of your spine. 

“S’alright,” he says. “It’s just me.”

His voice is warm and gruff, and you lean into it. He presses a kiss against your neck before nudging you gently. You take that as your signal to lead the way. He stays close behind, so close you can almost feel the heat of him as you lead him to your bedroom. When you enter, you cross quickly to turn on your bedside lamp so that the room is lit in a warm glow. You turn around and find Joel watching you with dark eyes. You walk so that you’re on the edge of the bed, before you sit down. He walks towards you, slipping a hand into your hair so that he’s cupping your head. He leans down and kisses you, tongue probing into your mouth. You allow him. You grab at his shoulders, nails digging into the strong muscle there and he grunts against your mouth. You’d let him do anything to you at this point. He tugs at the straps of your bra, before he reaches behind and undoes the clasp. He leans back and looks at you, eyes wide. He moves his hand so it’s right at the top of your ribs, running a finger along the skin there. He pushes you so that you’re lying down with your legs on either side of his hips. He finally tugs his pants off, quickly followed by his underwear. 

You’ve never needed something inside of you so badly until now. You shift your hips, opening your legs even wider. You reach forward, running a finger down his cock and he grunts. 

“Fuck,” he says. You wrap your hand around him, and he’s so warm. 

“Is this okay?” you ask, and he nods again, jaw clenched. He wraps his hand around yours, showing you how to move it. You’ve always been good at following his instructions. His hips shift and suddenly he’s tugging your hand away. 

“This’ll be over a lot quicker if you keep doin’ that,” he says, and he looks a bit embarrassed. You’re so endeared. You lean back, settling on your elbows and he holds himself at his base before moving closer to where you need him the most. When his tip touches your clit, you moan, shifting forward. 

“Please,” you beg and he grunts. 

“We have to go slow, sweetheart,” he says and you know he’s right but you feel possessed with need. 

“Joel — please. I need it so bad,” you whine. 

“Yeah?” he asks, rubbing himself across your slit. You nod and he leans forward, kissing you filthily. He pushes the tip in and it feels like too much and not enough all at once. You both look down to where you’re connected, how you’ve opened up for him so well. You moan, shifting forward, trying to inch more of him into you. He pushes in a bit more and you’ve never felt this full in your life. It’s like he’s splitting you open and you can’t get enough. 

“It’s so much,” you say, but you’re still shifting forward. Joel grunts, forehead pressed against your neck. He finally bottoms out, both hands gripping your hips so tight that you think it might bruise. You hope it does. 

“Just a second,” he says. “You’re so tight sweetheart.”

You flush, smiling. You run your hand down his arm as you get used to the stretch. It stings a bit but for the most part, it feels amazing. Like something you’ve never experienced before. 

“Good?” Joel asks, after a pregnant pause. He’s above you now, and you can tell how desperate he is to move. You nod. He pulls back before thrusting in again and you moan. You can feel yourself get wetter and so can he, judging by the noise he makes. 

“You’re perfect,” he says, moving. “S’fuckin’ perfect. Been thinkin’ about this for months now, and I get to have you.”

You’re too drunk on the feeling of him inside you to respond to the revelation. You moan, moving your hips in tandem with his. His hands tighten on your hips, and he pulls you closer. His arms flex with every thrust and he looks so beautiful like this, face flushed red and the greying curls of his hair sticking to the back of his neck. 

“Feels so good, Joel,” you say and he thrusts into you harder. One of his large hands moves from your hip so that it presses down right below your belly button. The pressure feels so good, unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. You mewl as his hand moves lower until his fingers circle your clit. 

“She gonna come for me again?” he asks and you clench around him so tightly that he grunts, thrusting harder. “That’s right, she is,” he says. “Be a good girl and come for me.”

You do. Your back arches and you feel like you’re flying. You’re so wet you’re pretty sure you’ve made a mess of your sheets but you don’t care. When you come back to yourself, Joel is watching you, eyes dark. You shift your hips forward. He leans down and kisses you, gripping your jaw between his fingers. He runs his tongue across your mouth before you open, letting him in. It’s messy and hot and you can feel yourself pulse, where he’s still inside of you. You pull back, looking right into his brown eyes. 

“Your turn,” you say, voice raw and echoing your words from earlier. Something in his eyes softens and then he thrusts again. You clench and if you weren’t so worn out, you’d probably be able to come again. Instead, you run a hand up his arm and into his hair, pulling him closer. His hips start moving more erratically and he presses his face into your neck. You think of what you said earlier about biting him and how had responded. You don’t second guess yourself as you gently sink your teeth into the meat of his shoulder, sucking. 

Joel moans, thrusting into you once more before he’s pulling back out of you. You watch as he wraps a hand around himself, tugging once, twice before he grunts and comes all over his hand. Before you can think, you’re reaching out, uncurling his hand from around himself and bringing his fingers to your mouth. You lick the taste of him, swallowing down the saltiness. He watches the entire thing, mouth gaping and eyes hooded. 

“Fuck,” he says, finally. You slump against the bed, watching as he steps back. You want to ask where he’s going but he’s already out of the room. Something in your chest stutters, and you take a deep breath. Before you can spiral into worry, he comes back with a damp towel and clean hands. He pushes your legs apart before he wipes across your thighs and in-between, where you’re sticky and wet. He drops the towel on the floor and then comes around to the other side of the bed, slipping in. He pulls you against him so that you’re settled facing each other, his large hand on your waist. You think of what he had said when he was inside you, about wanting this for ages. 

“Joel,” you start, unsure of what to say. He’s watching you carefully. “Do you like me?” 

It sounds foolish, now that you’ve said it out loud. Like something you’d say in elementary school. 

Joel however, smiles. His brown eyes are soft as he looks at you. 

“You just made my legs shake and you’re asking me if I like you?” he says, echoing your words from earlier. You flush. 

“I mean —” you start to say but he interrupts. 

“Know what you mean, sweetheart,” he says and the endearment isn’t lost on you. It was one thing for him to say it during sex but now, after, it feels like it means something more. 

“I suppose I wasn’t honest with you,” he says. “I’ve liked you far too long and couldn’t stand seeing some boy try to get your attention. Felt like I was possessed when I came to you that mornin’,” he says. He sounds sheepish. You move your hand so it rests on his shoulder. He pulls you closer, his leg going in between your own.

“If it makes you feel any better, I thought I was dreaming,” you say and he chuckles. 

“You and your dreams, huh?” he says and you laugh. 

“Sorry for accosting you at the bar,” you say and he chuckles. 

“You can tell me about your dreams anytime,” he says. “Even the ones that aren’t dirty.” 

You flush. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

There’s a pregnant pause.

“Joel,” you say and he hums in response. He’s still watching you. “I want to do this again. And not just this but like. All the other stuff too. Relationship stuff.”

There, you’ve said it. It’s out in the open. 

“You askin’ me to go steady?” he says, but he’s pulling you even closer now. One of his hands snakes behind your back, running down your spine.

“Well sure if that’s what you called dating back in the middle ages,” you say.

“Ha,” he says, deadpan. Then, “Sweetheart, you don’t have to ask. I’ve been yours for months now.” 

“Oh,” you say. The confession overwhelms you in the best possible way but you’re also left speechless. “I’m glad.” 

It’s not your best response and you want to say more but Joel doesn’t seem to mind. He smiles.

He cups your face, pulling you in for a kiss that’s so tender you feel your chest crack open. He pulls back but you push forward, kissing him once more. You bite at his lip and his hand moves to your hip, squeezing once. You pull back, smiling.

“So is it too early to ask if I can put a donut around your dick?” you say, feeling warmth bloom in you as you feel Joel chuckle. He presses a kiss to your forehead.

Maybe Cosmopolitan wasn’t completely useless. 

[kristallioness]

…Cause I don't wanna lose you now. I'm lookin' right at the other half of me. The vacancy that sat in my heart is a space that now you hold. 💚 Show me how to fight for now and I'll tell you, baby, it was easy comin' back here to you once I figured it out. You were right here all along. It's like you're my mirror, my mirror staring back at me. 🪞 I couldn't get any bigger with anyone else beside of me…

Tfw you have the power to illustrate your own fanfics (cause no one else will *lol*). (Thanks for pointing it out in one of your old tags, @kataracy! I never thought about it as a strength before from this POV and, whenever I'm feeling down, I come back to that reblog of yours just to read it again.)

Jokes aside, there's a bit of a story behind this post. Namely, I went to the first ever Justin Timberlake concert in Tallinn this Monday. I'd come down with a sore throat at the weekend and was pondering whether to go or not since we knew it'd be raining the whole day. 🌧️ I was prepared to dress up warmly, pull my rain poncho on and so, ultimately, as I felt better in the evening I decided to go. I'm so glad I did because now I know I would've regretted missing it.

And of course the show started with "Mirrors", which was one of the biggest hits back in 2013. I've been feeling so nostalgic ever since because I listened to this song AT LEAST once every day while I was working on this old "masterpiece" of mine (it was one of my best works back then). I associate that time - that particular summer break - in my life with this song.

A day or two later back home, I decided to reread my old fanfic titled "Rainy day" (which the drawing was based on). I remembered it being really awkward and I thought I'd feel embarrassed going back to it, but like.. *clutches chest*.. I didn't remember it being so sweet.. and intimate, and well-written. So I wanted to pour my feels out into new illustrations of this story, including a redraw of the original piece from a slightly different angle. 🥰

It's been a dozen years and I can't get over how proud I am of myself - zero references used, huge progress made (especially with the anatomy). Finished after drawing for 24 hours straight. *lmao* It looks like it turned out to be drawing practice with Aang (I just love seeing him in those ceremonial air nomad robes). And Momo? Well… Momo's always important.

I'll also post them below one by one, so you could see them up close (along with the corresponding excerpts from my fic):

…"I had better land before I get hit with lightning," he pondered to himself before changing his course down to the street. In a couple of seconds he was safely on land again. Luckily he wasn't too far from his house so it was no trouble walking the rest of the way. While walking in the Upper Ring, the Avatar noticed how some blue jays flew past him and the ones sitting on tree branches took off the same way. Pretty soon he could feel raindrops on his bald head. Seconds later, a heavy downpour fell upon him and the city. Using his cleverness and remembering what another master waterbender had once done, Aang waterbended a round shield of water above his head to keep himself from getting wet. He cheerfully continued his walk back home, the angry looks of fellow passers-by, who didn't have umbrellas, almost making him want to laugh…

…Aang opened the front door, stepped into a very dark living room and closed the door behind him. He put his glider next to the front door, took off his shoes and put on a pair of warm yellow woollen socks that Katara had knit for him last winter. He immediately spotted Momo sleeping on one of the lime green pillows around the table which was located in the center of the room…

…"Katara, is that you?" he asked worriedly. "Yeah." "Well, where are you?" "I'm right here, on the couch." Aang started walking towards the lounge, the part of the living room higher from the main floor. To his relief, he could see Katara's brown locks resting on the dark green pillows of the couch. She had pulled a blanket of the same colour almost all over her face. "Katara, are you okay?" Aang carefully asked when kneeling beside the couch in front of her. He lifted the blanket from her face only to have a slight shock. "Oh no! You look terrible!" "I know." "When did you get sick?" "Right after you left home this morning. I started feeling really weak, hot and cold at the same time. Soon my nose became stuffy and my eyes began watering." Aang put his right hand on her forehead. "You're burning up! Hold on, I'll fetch the thermometer. I'll make some tea and get some water for you to drink."…

…"Since when are you afraid of lightning?" Katara lifted her head to look up at Aang. "Since the time you got shot with it." There was a long pause in between. Aang didn't know what to say, so Katara opened her mouth first. "I believe it's time I admit something. I've been having nightmares. Nightmares about that time when we were fighting Zuko and Azula in the Crystal Catacombs of Old Ba Sing Se. I keep seeing the moment when she shot you with lightning, you falling. I always catch you and bring you out of there, but each time we escape on Appa, everything doesn't end the way it actually did. I have never been able to revive you." At this point her eyes began to tear up. "I would use the water from the Spirit Oasis to heal you, but it never has any effect. Before I manage to try anything else, I always wake up. I feel so useless!.." her voice was cracking, she was starting to cry out loud. "Shh-shh!" Aang stroked her head, hushing her sobs with his robes. "But you did revive me. I wouldn't be sitting on this couch if it weren't for you. You saved me."…

…Katara enjoyed this. His constant stroking made her feel like nobody could sneak up from behind nor attack her. She adored the idea that he was listening to her heart beating because she considered it to be a way of telling how much she loves him. The waterbender liked that the airbender would let her lean on him as a sign of trust. Not to mention that she was still a bit turned on by his touch near her breasts. She was beginning to sweat and Aang noticed that. It was definite proof that her fever had fallen…

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