#both of those statements are equally true

[captainobviois]

why does this picture of me next to the wardens look like its from a found footage horror movie

[homunculus-argument]

I don't know why nobody told you this, but sometimes if you're not sure what a sentence means, you can see if the statement makes sense if you reverse it by adding/removing a "no" from it. From here on, I will refer to them as "positive" and "negative" statements - this does not mean that the message itself is a good thing or a bad thing, only whether the statement is worded as a "yes" or as a "no".

Let's have an example, where the part that's stated as a positive is in green, and the one that's stated as a negative is in red:

A food that has animal products in it is not vegan.

Does that make sense? Now let's flip it around, by turning the positive half into a negative, and the negative into a positive:

A food that does not have animal products in it is vegan.

See how both of those statements are true? You can do this to almost any sentence, even ones that only have positively or negatively worded statements, for as long as you make sure that you flip all of them. Let's try a bit harder one:

An able-bodied person who is physically capable of returning a shopping cart to the right place but chooses not to do that is automatically bad person. They have no good reason to do that.

Wow, that's a long one! Now let's flip every part of it around:

A person who is not able-bodied and is not physically capable of returning a shopping cart to the right place, and cannot choose to do it is not automatically a bad person. They have a good reason to not do that.

That was a lot more complicated, but see how the same rule still applies? When you flip all positive statements into a negative form, and negatives into a positive form, you get a statement that is also equally true! It might be tricky at first, but with enough practice, you can learn to flip any text around to see if it makes any more sense to you in reverse.

Of course it's not a perfect system, but it's still a good tool to have available to help you understand what words mean. And if you are still not sure what OP is trying to say, you can always ask! It is always smarter to ask than attack.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Filthy Secret - A Daemon Targaryen/Reader One Shot Story.

Daemon is your stepfather... you both want one another... and neither has any particular fondness for your mother. So, what are you to do? Kinda obvious, isn't it? ;)

Words - 2,710

Warnings - Stepfather/stepdaughter pairing, smut below the cut, minors DNI!

It was a marriage of convenience, the alliance between two houses sealed in the bonding of wedlock. Neither spouse particularly enjoyed the company of the other at all, though, it had to be said.  

It was not your marriage, however.  

Your mother at least attempted to keep her new husband happy. Although she often griped in great voice about not being able to stand breathing the same air as him, she confessed to finding him attractive. The same could not be said regarding how your new stepfather viewed her.  

“She is little more than a wretched, twisted up shrew with a face like a boot and the temper of an antagonised mare.” 

A harsh statement, but true enough, you suppose. You and your mother are not close, your suspicions over her involvement in the demise of your beloved father long held and deeply rooted. It is why you have no qualms over the unabashed lusting over your stepfather, for if you agree with your mother over anything, it is that Daemon Targaryen is nothing short of an incredibly handsome man. 

Truly, with his piercing violet eyes and an aura of regal charm that cannot be ignored, he captivates your thoughts and dreams more than you’d ever care to admit. His presence in your household introduced a dynamic shift, a tension that crackles in the air whenever he’s nearby.  

The servants often whisper of his exploits and adventures, tales that only fuel your curiosity and burgeoning infatuation. You know that you shouldn’t, that acting upon your fantasies for the man who captivates you is beyond verboten, but you cannot help yourself. It spurs you into seeking his company more often, drawn irresistibly to his magnetic charm and the promise of something more than the mundane existence you lived prior to his marriage to your mother.  

Despite the complexities and underlying animosities of your new familial bonds, one thing becomes clear; Daemon Targaryen is a figure who stirs a burning longing within you, a dangerous passion that you’re eager to explore, consequences be damned. 

They would be damning too, those consequences. Bedding a man so much older than you, Daemon in his mid-thirties and you only just stepping into your womanhood, the man who holds the title of your stepfather too, no less. It would be scandalous, but that is what drives your need for him. The excitement, the forbidden nature of it, the thrill.

It is why whenever he catches you gazing fondly upon him, he never chastises you for it either. Your little flirtatious game is equally as thrilling for him as it is to you. 

One such instance takes place on an afternoon where it is just he and you in the house, your mother our riding with your infant brothers, entering the library of your sprawling estate to see Daemon sitting by the roaring hearth, reading quietly.  

The words he chooses to speak, well, they act as an accelerant to the air that has been rapidly gaining heat whenever you find yourselves alone together. The time for lustful gazes and looks of barely concealed longing are now to be retired in favour of something much... naughtier, it would seem. 

“Not in the mood for riding today?” he asks, looking up from the pages of the book he has spread across his strong thighs. 

“I am,” you speak, leaning back against the desk opposite from where he sits. “But not horses.” Licking your lips, you know you are far beyond holding the desire back any longer. “I had something else in mind, to set my legs astride of.”  

He raises a pale eyebrow, hooked by your tease. Immediately, he closes the book with a soft thud, his long form rising to his feet, watching you intently before you turn and walk to the terrace. While looking out over your lands, your back prickles with anticipation, soon feeling the warmth of his body behind you.  

“This little dance we play with one another; it must come to an end sooner or later. You know that, though, don’t you?” 

“As long as that end involves you pushing your famously big cock deep inside of me, then yes, dear stepfather. I do know it.” 

He chuckles, low and deep, hands bracketing your waist. “Hmm. For an untouched girl, you certainly know how to play the part of a wanton, filthy little whore. Perhaps a little too well.”  

Taking his hand, you demonstrate that further, placing it at the crest of your sex as you lean back against him. “Correction; your wanton, filthy little whore. If you want me to be, that is?” 

It sends a rush through him, to have you offer yourself like this, for all the dirty thoughts he’s had over you while he’s been balls deep in your mother to finally come to fruition. Truly, it was only ever imagining fucking you that kept him hard whenever he’s been with her.  

“I think you already are, aren’t you?” his fingers curl, gripping between your legs, beginning to massage. “That’s what you want, isn’t it, my girl?” he murmurs, his hand working against your apex through the barrier of your dress, his other snaking to clasp your throat.  

“You need it, don’t you, to know what it is to be touched by a man. Yes, you want me to play with this sweet little cunt, make your pretty little virgin hole all wet and aching for me, hmm?”   

“Mmm,” you hum, your head lolling back against his chest, “I do. I want to feel your hands all over me, want you to take care of me, make me a woman under your touch.”   

His lips meet your neck, and it sends sparks to glimmer brightly over your skin. “I would too, little dove. No fumbling boy could make you feel like I could.” Another kiss is planted, his cock, so stiff and hot, pressing against your lower back through his britches. “Like I will, when I take you. Just say the words, little darling. Say them, and I will escort you to your bed and fuck you like I have never fucked any other.” 

Turning, his contact breaks, yours connecting, your hand moving to rub his cock as you pull him to your level, tongue flickering just below his jaw. His skin tastes like the scent of a thunderstorm, earthy yet fresh. “I don’t want you to take me to bed. I want you to fuck me right here upon the rug. This is her favourite room in the entire house. I want to feel the thrill of knowing her husband fucked me raw right here within it whenever she’s present, reading her tawdry novels.”  

Gods, he never expected this, for you to be such a siren. “You are a wicked girl,” he breathes, hands clasping your breasts, fingers circling until your nipples stand furled, the stiffened peaks begging for his tongue. “Luckily for you, wicked girls are my favourite kind.”  

Lowering his head, his mouth captures yours, the kiss borne of magma storms, clasping you to him before he lifts you with ease, carrying you over to the thick, wolf pelt rug in front of the roaring fire. Clothes are shed, both of you driven by the need to feel one another’s nakedness, his eyes touring your body appreciatively, head dipping to close his mouth over your nipples in turn. 

Oh, gods. It feels even better than you expected it to, to be lying there, pinned beneath the body of a man, the one you’ve so coveted for as long as you have. Your fingers lose themselves in the silvery white waves of his hair, tangling in the braids, removing one to spit on your palm.  

A little dribble of saliva glistens at your chin, his tongue licking it away before he kisses you with maddening want, your wettened hand moving between you to curl around his cock. Fuck, he really is as big as he’s famed to be, the whispers of the servants who’ve caught him strolling around his quarters naked very much yielding true.  

While you’ve never truly been with a man before, it doesn’t mean you have no clue what to do with one. Nay, your cousin took it upon herself to school you there on a recent visit, the stable boy acting as a very willing participant to her guiding you through a sexual tutelage. She felt it important that you know how to pleasure a man come your wedding night. This might not be it, but still, what she showed you pays off.  

His mouth drops open as you tug at his shaft, thumb gently swirling the head of his hardness, groaning, mouth burying at your neck. “So naturally gifted with a cock in your grasp, aren’t you, sweet thing?” he whispers, body shuddering. “Fuck, you’re good.”  

To hear his praise makes you soar, adding a little more pressure, feeling him harden further against your diligent fingers. Gliding over his shaft, you marvel at how it feels against your touch, so thick and veiny, your apex becoming dewy while imagining the sensation of it parting your walls.  

While you enjoy the feel of him bobbing in your grip, Daemon has other ideas, his body moving, mouth planting heated kisses of thirst over your skin as his hands slide over every curve. Nearing your apex, he places a bite to your hip, the smell of your sex ensnaring him, pulling him closer.  

His big, calloused hands push your thighs apart, and he doesn’t hesitate to bury his mouth between them. “Gods, what a pretty cunt, already dripping for me,” he rasps, tongue delving between your folds again, your back arching from the rug beneath. “You taste like honey, sweet thing.” 

You didn’t expect him to be quite so complimentary of you, the bestowing of pleasantries on another not indicative of his nature, so to hear him do so only further stirs the lust within you like a swirling tempest. Each lick drags over your pink slowly and firmly, settling upon your bud, circling with a hot, flat press. It has you wailing for him, fingers once again becoming tangled in his hair, biting your lip as your head tips back in bliss.  

“Mmm, look at the way you love my tongue,” he groans, rapid licks sending you to the heavens, sucking on you hungrily. “Yes, that’s it, my little whore. Let me hear those beautiful cries.”   

The pleasure melts down your spine, lost in the abyss of it, feeling his tongue slip to your opening, teasing, pushing into you before it returns to your pearl. You can barely keep still, not caring an ounce if the servants hear your shrill wails, almost crying, it feels so incredibly good.  

“Oh, oh gods please, don’t stop, Daemon! Please don’t stop!”  

Looking up at you from between your juddering thighs, he smiles, tongue still rapidly flicking over your bud. “Not until you come. How do you desire to? On my tongue, or around my cock?” 

“Both.” 

His lips wrap you in a firm suck, the vibrations from his rumbling chuckle sending a slicing blade of pleasure through you. “Greedy little dove.” Turning his head, he bites your inner thigh, that little slither of balefulness making your nerves bounce, Daemon returning his mouth to your sodden folds.  

“You need a little more, don’t you, sweet thing?” Pushing his fingers into you, they sink right to the knuckles, bathed in the silky wetness streaming for him. “Yes, you really did need that, didn’t you?” 

Forming a reply after he begins to rake against your walls with mind-blowing precision is impossible, but your wails of delight certainly answer his question sufficiently. Ebullience begins to skip over every nerve, his fingers driving into you, the lewd sound of it filling the air, his mouth alternating between rapid licks and firm sucks upon your bud. 

It has you spiralling, bliss tumbling through you like unabating rain, your cunt puddling against his fingers as your body tenses and it surges over you. Your hands grip tight in the roots of his hair, thighs closing against his head as you cry out, panting heavily as the dreamy afterglow settles over your bones.  

He focuses on the glint in your eyes, your cheeks flushed, and if you are not the most beautiful sight to him, he knows not what is. “You’re ready for it, aren’t you, hmm? Ready for my cock to make you a woman.”  

You nod, biting your lip, not nervous but wondering what to expect as he sits back on his heels, grasping his manhood and steering it to your soaked folds. He smears himself in the slick of your arousal, and it feels heavenly, the sensation of every ridge of his cock gliding over your splayed sex. Pushing for entrance, he spreads you around the thick of him, sinking in, leaning to kiss you as your mouth drops open.

“There,” he breathes, lips moving to plant kisses at your clavicles as his cock drags back, your tits bouncing as he daggers into you again. “How does that feel, to be truly made my little whore?”  

Reaching for his face, you view him sultrily, gasping as he bottoms out and trawls back through your slick walls again. “Better than I ever imagined my handsome stepfather’s big cock would ever feel.” 

The sin of your statement sets his blood to blaze, a strong hand clutching your jaw as he kisses you blindingly, allowing you no time to become accustomed to him inside of you. He’s immediately feral, pounding into the glossy clasp of you with boundless thrusts, the sound of it rending the air, peppered with your sweet cries and the low baritone of his groans.   

“That’s it, right there, oh gods! Fuck me!” you wail, nails dragging his back, not caring at all over the branding and what your mother will likely say. He isn’t hers any longer, because there is no way you will ever refuse him, ever give him up. If it eventually blows your family apart, so be it.  

Daemon, it seems, has similar feelings. “Fuck, you take a cock so beautifully,” he groans, leaning to nip your neck with a sharp bite. “You are the one I should have married, not your hatchet-faced dullard of a mother.” 

You are under no illusions of him having any feelings for you that extend beyond the fact you would make a pretty, highborn wife and bear him equally pretty, highborn babies. Love is not a word understood to Daemon, but love doesn’t come into what you share with him there upon the rug, the union roaring with greater heat than that of the fire beside you. 

The ecstasy of it creeps over you, curls like a vine ascending your spine, squeezing tight as your legs lock around his waist, his cock pounding you deep.  Your hips roll up against him, the heat of his hardness scintillating to you as your hands grip his biceps.   

Any rolling rhythm is abandoned to all out frenzy, his big hands sliding under your shoulders to clutch you, make you take the full brunt of every hard arrowing into your soaking core, groaning in abandon as his pleasure begins to coil strongly.   

“You’re such a good girl, taking a hard fucking as well as you do.” He moans, kissing your throat as you throw your head back. Chasing your releases furiously and with unstoppable vigour, lighting shoots through you both, engulfed in the abandon of ultimate ecstasy as your bodies undulate with energy that flows and pumps wildly. 

An aurora blazes behind your closed eyelids, white-hot, flooding every nerve as he grits, body stiffening, his cock filling you with hot ropes of spend.  

“Little whore,” he whispers, nuzzling you, chuckling. “Pink cheeked, fucked out, beautiful little whore.” He kisses you, fingers stroking your cheeks, his cock still twitching pleasantly within the snug flutter of your cunt. “Now that I know what it is to have you, I shan’t stop.” 

Smiling, your hands run over his thick, muscular arms, unwinding your legs from the clutch around his waist. “You’d better not.” 

He doesn’t, much to your delight. And to hell with what your mother thinks. He’s yours now. 

A/N - If you enjoyed this, please reward your author with a little interaction. A comment or reblog would be so warmly appreciated!

[1nk20ul]

Discovering Jon and Martin’s Birthdays

It’s a wonder how much you can uncover about The Magnus Archives using only a bit of mathematics and a smidge of psychology.

Apparently I have too much time for both and can definitively say that I have revealed the absolute best and most accurate dates for both of their birthdays. Feel free to join me as we dissect piece by piece when these two were born and put to rest the age old question: What is Jon’s zodiac sign?

I’ll put the results in the tags as a TLDR if you’re not interested in reading my method and simply care about what star sign they are or what date to put in your calendar so you can go out for ice cream.

Statement Begins.

To find out the birthdays of Jon and Martin, we first must determine when exactly they joined the Archives. This will be important for the wider picture, as after all, the earliest possible birthday must take place after they start working there. We also must understand the Archive team’s speed in order to understand how to space out our statements and find that aforementioned number.

Gertrude Robinson passed away, according to her file, on the 15th of May 2015. This makes 15th May our earliest possible starting date. The next time the day’s date was specified was on 13th January 2016, when Naomi Herne gave a live statement. This is MAG 13, and our latest start date. Obviously, these numbers are nowhere close to the day we’re looking for, but they act as upper and lower limits. Our answer is somewhere inside.

In Jon’s supplemental notes for MAG 12, he states that Gerard Keay passed away late the previous year. Since Gertrude died after Gerard in early 2015, he must have died in late 2014. This confirms that MAG 1-12 was recorded to tape in 2015. We know that MAG 13, the next statement, was given live on 13th January 2016. This creates, at the very least, an almost two-week gap between archiving statements. This is likely due to the holiday season, so the time between 24th December and up to 1st January can be omitted. To recap, MAG 1-12 was recorded in 2015, and MAG 13 onwards in 2016.

The key to determining archival speed lies with Martin. Martin goes missing right before MAG 17 and reappears at the end of MAG 21. As he gave such a detailed account of those two weeks, our archiving timeline can be significantly accurate. MAG 19-20 were more than likely recorded on the same day, meaning three separate recording sessions took place in two weeks. However, it took a minimum of six weeks to record MAG 14-16.

So far, the timeline looks like this:

Now we have to figure out the left half.

Calculating the average time it takes to archive statements from MAG 13-22 (removing any outliers from our calculations), we can find a true average and apply it to the 2015 year. By March of The Magnus Institute’s 2016 calendar year, the Archive staff was able to archive 1.31 statements per week. I double-checked this number by doing the same with the statements recorded between MAG 22 and MAG 39. By multiplying the average amount of weeks it should take them by the adjusted number of statements recorded, it should equal the number of weeks it actually did take them. If the numbers are the same, the average is reliable. Hoping for the number 20, the number of weeks I had calculated... was 20.11. This average seems relievingly trustworthy and fits Elias’ complaint about the staff “barely getting through one statement per week.”

All we have to do now is multiply the first 12 statements by the 1.31 average to determine how many weeks it most likely took to do the recorded work of 2015. This leaves us with 15.72 weeks and makes the earliest and most probable start date somewhere around 5th September 2015. I will round this to 1st September as I am not expecting the team to start working on statements right out the gate, so these extra four days act as a buffer for everyone to get their bearings and find the tape recorder. Also, it’s convenient for Elias’ financials to start everyone on the 1st of the month.

Now is the fun part - the birthdays. We now know that Jon and Martin’s birthdays must fall somewhere between early September and the end of February. Since March kicks off the Archives living with the threat of Jane Prentiss, they have to take place before then. After that point, the team is far too stressed to have the carefree party heard in MAG 161. We also know that Martin’s birthday has to come before Jon’s, as the team mentions going out for ice cream at Jon’s party. This event has to be long enough in the past for Jon to forget about it, so their birthdays must be reasonably spaced out from one another in the allotted time. Likewise, an amount of time must have passed after their start date for the team to be close enough bond to want to celebrate Martin’s birthday.

Martin’s birth year is easy to determine. Martin tells us his age in MAG 56. His birthday could not have happened at this point in 2017, so his birth year must be 1987. In a Q&A, it was speculated that Jon and Martin have birthdays near each other (and one being slightly older than the other), so only 1987 and 1988 are our options for Jon’s birth year. Let’s look a bit closer at that.

Early ‘88 is closer to Late ‘87 than Early ‘87. At Jon’s birthday party, he says he’s turning 38. Martin is 29 at this time. The obvious conclusion to me is that Jon simply adds a decade to his age. (I find this the most hilarious yet believable scenario.) Jonny was also born in 1988, being 28 himself when that scene would take place. As Jon’s childhood details sometimes mirror Jonny’s, I am taking this as a sign of accuracy.

And by doing some additional work that I will not share here, I can reliably say that these are the best observed birthdays for Jon and Martin:

Martin - 23rd November, 1987

Jonathan - 2nd February, 1988

Also, this makes Martin a potential Valentine’s Day Baby. Do with that what you will.

Thanks for reading!

(Full timeline for those who are interested:)

[softnwonderful]

Ok, I have a lot of things to say about the whole ¨hate comments¨ situation going on, because I'm done with people pointing the finger and playing the victim. But first let's keep things clear: 

Yes, Argentinian people leaving hate comments it’s absolutely wrong and not justifiable. 

No, it's not ok to blame Argentinian fans alone for this whole situation.  

If you can’t understand that those two statements can both be true and coexist, stop reading all together because there’s nothing I can say that will convince you otherwise.  

Formula 1 has always been toxic and intolerant, fans from every team and driver have at some point thrown shit to each other. From the death threats Lando received last year while fighting for the championship, to all the racism Lewis had to deal with during his entire career. We could even talk about the systematic xenophobia there is against Latin-American and Asian drivers in this sport. And yet people where so quick to complain about Franco fans racists, xenophobic and generally hateful comments.  

This issue didn’t start yesterday; it has existed for years. And to say that it’s just now “getting out of hands” because of the new fans, it's to ignore the struggle all the other drivers have been through before. There’s not a specific number of hateful comments a fandom should surpass to start taking the problem seriously, so we cannot sit here and blame Argentinian people for all of this, when this has been happening since way before Franco got to F1.  

And let’s also not pretend like this is a unilateral problem because, for every hate comment, there’s and equally hateful response. I’ve seen people call Franco fans the scum of the world, saying that Argentinians are basically monkeys, and that it was a pity Franco didn’t get hurt on his last crash. The same people that are complaining about the hate, are answering to xenophobia with even more xenophobia.  

With especially European fans getting together to blame Argentinians only, it almost feels like the hate it’s tolerable as long as it doesn't come from uncivilized latinos. And I refuse to allow this whole thing to turn into an uneven and almost imperialistic dynamic where 1st world country fans feel entitled to give the rest of us morality lessons, as if we were any different from each other.  

Yes, it is necessary to make people accountable for the things they say, as long as it's not directed to a specific group of people and it’s done impartially, to all fandoms equally. And the solution to that is beyond any of us or the drivers, it's something that should’ve been regulated a long time ago by media managers or someone above them. In the meantime, all we can do as fans to make things better is BLOCK and REPORT any hate comment we come across, no matter who it’s directed toward.

[absolutelynotsanebaby]

I’m constantly thinking about how Cole is such a balanced mix of his parents. Obviously the first thing is that he looks like both of his parents (resembling Lou earlier in the show and then post-redesign more like Lilly, which is fun if you interpret it as him growing into his mothers features) but it goes past that right into his themes, fighting style, and morals especially.

So, his true potential episode has him lying to his dad and planning to steal the fangblade/blade cup. Everyone kinda knows this as the accidental coming out allegory but it’s VERY compelling to look at Lou’s reaction as him not even really being mad about Cole being a ninja. He seemed angry and disappointed in the fact that Cole wasn’t who he thought he was, in the sense of him not actually wanting to follow Lou’s footsteps and the fact that he was stealing the blade-cup. Lou specifically says these two lines; “I can’t be proud of any son who thinks stealing is right. And I’m not going to wait around to watch you make a mockery of our family’s legacy!” And then after their performance “more importantly I saw you fight. Those serpentine were up to no good, trying to steal the show, and I saw you stand up for what is right!”

(<- direct quotes are taken from this post by razzle-zazzle, which you should read btw, inspired me to finally write these thoughts down.)

(Also it’s worth noting Cole also denounces stealing later lmao, as seen in here.)

This is pretty direct proof that he values doing the right thing, and distinctly doing things the right way (<— also a trait cole VERY much shares). Which is something he did have to relearn and adjust upon understanding his son not doing exactly what he wants doesn’t have to be bad (self promo but this post goes into how Lou’s mindset affected Cole’s btw). The second statement is also very reminiscent of what Lilly says to Cole in MOTM, the “promise me you’ll always stand up for what is right” talk. To tie this together basically while MOTM is a very clear and thorough look at how Cole takes after Lilly, Lou is very present in his moral system too. Additionally, Lou is an incredibly passionate man, and clearly expresses and puts himself into dancing which very much mirrors how Cole treats being a ninja sometimes, and his arc about finding himself.

That segways nicely into the fact that Cole’s fighting style is ABSOLUTELY a mix of the strength and power of his mother, and the gracefulness of his father. You actually see Cole denounce his father’s grace by the way, way early before his true potential moment. He seemed insecure about it, which is certainly some kind of toxic masculinity thing because his younger self did not feel like that.

See, Way Of The Departed;

It compliments his arc about learning who he is, and becoming softer because of it really well. He doesn’t have to be insecure about his dad being elegant, because that isn’t a bad thing. He can learn to love dancing in his own way to, in a way that’s safe and his. He can incorporate it into how he fights, and this is something pointed out by @/razzle-zazzle but the tripple tiger sashay resembles an attack too.

Basically, Cole is both his parent’s child, and they equally influence the person he’s become, but he’s not just an arbitrary mix either. He takes the legacies of both and molds them into his own, for the better. He finds balance! It was always about balance with him.

[theemporium]

[5.6k] an attack in the winter break leaves max reeling as he tries to cope with a new and furrier version of himself. the world seems to think mad max is returning to them but your presence says otherwise.

[find other fright night specials here]

.

It had been a completely normal day when Max Verstappen had his whole life changed. 

Or as normal as it could be on a cold, wet January day in England during the winter break.

The run up to the season had been weighing down on everyone’s shoulders, last minute tweaks and changes and updates being made in hopes of making a car that will continue to dominate the grid. The factory has been busy, day in and day out. With less than a month until the car launch, it felt like everyone was working themselves to the bone to get the car ready. 

Max was no different. Though, it was less about data sheets and car parts for him, and more about practising on the sim until he was beating the previous laps he set. He liked having feedback to give to the team, he liked feeling like he was contributing to the early mornings and late nights. He liked feeling useful to the team. 

He ignored most of GP’s warnings about running himself down on the late nights, waving the older man off with a smile and a promise he wouldn’t stay much later. And it was partially true, he didn’t stay too late. 

No later than you did. 

Because if there was someone equally as determined and dead-set on giving this car everything they had like he was, it was you. 

It had become a routine between the two of you on those late nights where you were the only ones left in the factory. Max would finish up at the sim, make his way towards your office on the other side of the factory where he would walk you to your car, chatting your ear off about anything other than engineering and cars and data to help get your mind off work. Even if it was for a few short minutes. 

There were some days where the two of you would sit in one of your cars for a bit, to just talk. Other days, one of you was too tired to drag the night out further. It varied but it all fit the norm.

Just like that day. 

The flickering street lights accompanied you both as you made your way towards the car park, with Max nodding and laughing along to some story you had been telling him about one of the other engineers. At first, he thought he had imagined the growl—one of those instances that could be brushed off with wind and bushes and the darkness around them that made everything look a bit scarier. 

But then he heard it again. And he saw a flash in his peripheral vision. And next thing he knew, a large beast appeared out of thin air and was heading straight towards you and Max’s body reacted with pure instinct and quick reflexes to shove you out of the way before the beast tackled him to the floor. 

It was a blur after that. 

Hot, searing pain exploding through his body. Blood roaring in his ears. His heart pounding so fast in his chest. The white dots blurring his vision as he tried to turn his head away from the beast. The glimpses of fear and horror on your face before his vision had gone black. 

The biggest concern at that moment was whether or not Max would be okay. If he would be able to compete at the start of the season. If he would be able to continue at all. If the public would somehow find out and expose the story before Red Bull could even prepare a statement. 

The beast was the last thing on either one of your mind’s that night.

But when Max woke up the next morning, completely unscathed with only his bloody, ripped clothes as a reminder of the previous night. The two of you knew there was more to that beast than a normal animal attack, that you were dealing with something beyond your imagination. 

Max Verstappen didn’t expect to go into the next season worrying how in loving fuck he was going to balance being a Formula One driver and being a werewolf. 

Despite what critics and idiots behind a phone screen like to think, Formula One was a very physically taxing sport. Max had spent the better part of his whole life giving his body to training and endurance so he could compete at the level he does. Most athletes are more in tune to their bodies and their wants and needs than the average person, and Max was one of them. He knew his body. He knew his limits. He knew strengths. He knew his weaknesses. 

That knowledge was completely useless when he became a werewolf. 

One attempt at a workout and a dented metal bar later told Max that this whole werewolf thing came with a lot more setbacks than he realised. He understood pretty quickly that this wasn’t something he wanted to get out to the general public. He didn’t know how it would be perceived—hell, he wasn’t even sure how he perceived it. 

But someone had to know. He couldn’t hide it for the rest of the season. 

In the end, a few select people in his team knew about his lycanthropy and they worked together to keep it hidden from everyone else. 

It was a mindfuck working with Rupert to sort out a whole new workout plan, to evaluate his newfound strength and other abilities, to learn his body all over again at the age of twenty-seven. It was weird having to explain to GP, a man who he considered his brother, that he was no longer the man he was before the winter break—that he was hardly a man at all, anymore. It was fucking weird having to look you in the eye and see the conflict of emotions on your face whenever you saw him, whenever you replayed the way he saved you from the same beast that created him. 

It was fucking weird. 

But he could learn. Resilience and perseverance were two traits Max learnt at a very young age. He didn’t give his whole life to this sport just to throw it away because of his newfound—and unwanted—lifestyle. He refused to let it ruin more than it had. He was a werewolf but that didn’t mean he was going to give everything else up. He would deal with his lycanthropy like he did with other problems in his life—privately and out of the spotlight. 

He just failed to realise that something could risk that privacy. 

And he failed to realise it would be his own short temper that could possibly expose him. 

…

Preseason testing taught the team a lot about the car. 

Yet, all Max was learning was that the car was shit, the media were nosy and his patience was nonexistent with every human interaction he had outside of the team garage. He could feel his skin prickle whenever a camera was pointed at him or a microphone was shoved in front of him or his name was called out. 

He thought the glare on his face would be enough to keep people away but it was wishful thinking. He was the reigning world champion and he was driving, what was seeming to be, a hopeless car. It was a journalist’s wet dream.

“Your eyes.”

Max clenched his jaw, ripping the balaclava over his head. “I’m not glaring.” 

“Not that,” GP hissed, trying to pull Max to the side, away from the cameras peering into the garage. “Your eyes.” 

Max huffed. “Stop talking in fucking riddles, mate.” 

“They are yellow,” GP whispered frantically. “Like your—“

“Fuck,” Max groaned, snapping his eyes shut as he let out a deep breath. “Fuck, what? Why? It’s not a full moon. It shouldn’t—”

��There’s a lot that shouldn’t happen with you that does,” GP pointed out, feeling the glare from Max behind his closed eyelids. “We need to get you out of here.” 

“They will see,” Max replied. 

“Put your helmet on.” 

“Yeah,” Max snorted. “Because that won’t be fucking obvious.” 

GP sighed. “Well—”

“What’s happening?” 

Despite not being able to see you, Max still turned his head towards you, almost instinctively. He could feel your hand on his arm, warm and comforting and—

“His eyes look like glow sticks,” GP muttered. 

“So he says,” Max bit back, because he was annoyed and pissed off and GP was the easiest target. 

“He’s trying to help,” you scolded lightly, your thumb swiping back and forth, almost passively like you didn’t realise what you were doing. “Let me see.” 

GP straightened. “That’s risky—”

“Let me see.” 

Max let out a shaky breath, slowly blinking his eyes open until you came into focus.

“Blue,” you said with a soft, reassuring smile. “They are blue now.” 

Max’s shoulders dropped with relief. 

“Get him back to his driver’s room before it happens again,” GP murmured. 

Max bristled, a looming realisation that he was essentially being grounded by his race engineer making his skin feel prickly. But he couldn’t disagree, it was already a close call with his eyes flashing in the garage. He didn’t need the cameras catching it either. 

“If anyone asks, we will say Helmut lost his mind and made you wear contacts whilst you drive,” you teased, keeping your hand on his arm as you waited for him to grab his things. 

Max huffed out a laugh. “I’m sure he will like that.”

“You’ll protect me,” you grinned back at him. 

And yeah, Max would. 

…

The next close call happened after the season had started. 

The car had been improved since the shit show that was the preseason testing weekend, but it wasn’t all that great either. Max knew it was a process, knew the team were reaching the point of getting the car to a truly competitive and dominant state. It just took time and he just needed to be patient. 

But patience wasn’t something Max had a lot of these days. 

All in all, a podium wasn’t bad with the state of the car currently. However, Max knew that the media would be ready to push back, to insist the reigning world champion should be on the top step and not the third, that he should have all the answers to his own failures. 

He could feel it. 

He could feel the shift in his gums as his canines pushed through, pushed against the confinement of his helmet. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He could hear the crowd booing over the blood roaring in his ears. He felt like the whole world had been dialled up to a hundred the second he stepped out the car after pulling up behind the number three sign. 

He could feel it. 

He could feel the way his team reached out for him. He could feel their hands patting his back like it didn’t make his whole body tense. He could feel their hands patting his helmet like it didn’t make his head feel like it was spinning. He could feel their hands reaching to hold his neck, to bring him closer, to suffocate him more. 

He could feel it. He could feel it. He could—-

“Another trophy to add to the shelf?”

Max’s head snapped around to see you on the other side of the barrier, headset still around your neck and a smile on your face that made the third place feel a little less pathetic. 

“Probably hidden in the back,” Max managed to mutter out, somewhat muffled by his helmet and the chaos around you both.

“Surprised you have enough space,” you joked, teasing and lighthearted and so distracting that Max almost didn’t feel the way your hand covered his gloved hands, the way your thumb swiped over the tips of his fingers. 

He hadn’t even noticed his claws retracting, hadn’t even noticed them ripping through the material of the gloves in the first place. 

“Oh,” was all he could say.

“I’ll take care of it,” you assured him, not risking any more with so many people and cameras and microphones. “Go enjoy the podium.” 

“You’re gonna stay here?” Max asked, something in his chest twisting at the idea you would have to run off back to the garage, to the screens and data sheets and computers and away from him.

“I always do.” 

…

It took a few months into the season before a race weekend aligned with a full moon. 

Truthfully, it hadn’t even been a risk that Max considered which, in hindsight, was probably pretty stupid. It should have been one of the first things on his mind the second he realised what he was. It should have been a top priority after his first full moon, somewhere in late January—a night full of pain and discomfort, an experience Max didn’t want to repeat but knew he would have to. 

Ignorance was bliss and all that jazz. 

Yet, it was the Canadian Grand Prix where Max found himself battling more than just the championship that weekend.

He was lucky enough that it wasn’t a night race but that didn’t change the fact he was snappy all weekend, more so than usual. He was irritant and annoyed and perpetually fighting the growing pain through the weekend as it got closer to the full moon on Sunday night. 

GP asked if it was safe for him to even race in this state.

Max, honest to god, snapped his teeth at the older man in response. 

It was tense and suffocating in the Red Bull garage.

No one seemed to question Max’s awful mood any more than it was expected. A few people poked and prodded but the gritted, sharpy responses they received in response was enough to make most people back off. It was being played off as jet lag, a bad quali session and a grid penalty that didn’t feel all that deserved. 

Max was adamant he could race and deal with the full moon. He wasn’t going to let it ruin his career, the sport that he loved and adored and had given his life to. He wasn’t going to let it get the better of him, even if that meant just being snappier than usual to the media. 

And despite GP and Rupert’s concerns, Max was coping well. 

Until lap 57 happened. 

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH HIM?!” 

“Max, stay calm.”

“I’M FUCKING LAPPING HIM! IS HE FUCKING STUPID?” 

“Max,” GP tried again but his voice was a muffled buzzing in his ears, hardly coherent over the anger and adrenaline and rage rushing through him. His body was acting on muscle memory alone as his car dragged on, as it crawled into the pits before he rushed back out. 

He refused to listen to GP telling him to retire the car. 

He refused to let that fucker in the Alpine think he could fuck his race and get away with it.

He refused—

“He’s growling,” GP hissed, hand covering the microphone and his voice dropping as he leaned over to where you sat on the pit wall beside him. His lips barely moved, not with the way the cameras were laser-focused on him and his reaction to Max disobeying the orders that were broadcasted to everyone watching.

“Fuck,” you muttered, pulling your headset off and reaching for his. “Hand it over.” 

GP frowned. “I don’t think this is going to work—”

“Trust me,” you insisted. 

Conflicting emotions swirled in his eyes before he ripped his headset off, muttering something under his breath before he handed it to you. 

“—FUCKING DICKHEAD JUST—”

“Max?” 

There were a few moments of silence and, for a brief moment, you wondered if the connection had cut. You wondered if he had somehow disconnected the radio from his side, you almost turned to ask GP if it was possible to do before you heard his heavy breathing. 

“I know you’re upset,” you continued, taking the chance and hoping he was listening. “It was a bad move. But you’re a good driver, a great one even. You can save this race. I know you can. Focus on the racing, not the rest.” 

Your words were careful and precise, painfully aware that the radio messages were probably being broadcasted. You knew whatever you said would be picked apart by the media and public, dissected under a microscope. But despite your caution, your only focus was making sure Max was okay. 

“Breathe and win,” you said, your eyes watching the racing feed on the screen in front of you. “I know you can.” 

It was completely silent beyond the sounds of the car until—

“I can. I will.”

You bit back your smile. “Good. I want to see you on the top step, Verstappen.” 

He did, in fact, go on to win the race. The celebration with the team was postponed as he spent the night in aggravating, uncomfortable pain—alone, suffering, excruciating. He refused to let any of you stay with him, to see him in that state, just like he did every full moon since the attack. 

But he still won and that was something nobody could take away from him. 

...

Despite his success in Canada, it was clear the outbursts and frequent accidental exposures of his wolf were becoming a problem. 

It was something he needed to get better at controlling if he wanted to continue the way he was, if he wanted to keep his lycanthropy away from the greedy hands of the journalists. This was his life now, it was something he had to accept and learn and grow with. 

It was just a little hard to do when he didn’t know how.

“This is stupid.” 

Rupert sighed, ignoring the glare Max was currently staring into the side of his head as he continued to hook the heart monitor onto him. “It is no different to when we do this for your training.” 

“Except this time you are purposefully pissing me off instead of torturing me,” Max bit back.

“We want to help,” GP corrected, leaning against the wall opposite of him. “You need to learn how to control the wolf side of you.” 

Max scoffed. “Maybe people should stop being stupid then.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” GP snorted before getting a nod of confirmation from Rupert that they were ready to go. “Okay. We are going to start easy, alright?” 

Max nodded. 

GP glanced down at the laptop in front of Rupert that had Max’s current heart rate showing before looking back at the driver. “Following the incident with Pierre Gasly in the Canadian Grand Prix, do you think you should be more careful when lapping cars?” 

Max let out a noise of disagreement. “What the fuck? Why should I be careful? It’s not my fault he is slow!” 

“I’m sure the PR team will love that response,” GP deadpanned, watching as Max’s heart rate started to speed up. “The stewards deemed it a racing incident.” 

“And the stewards are fucking stupid,” Max snapped back. “I was lapping him. I had priority. Everyone knows that. It’s their job to know that too.” 

The heart rate continued to increase and GP could have sworn he saw a flash of yellow in Max’s eyes.

“Max, control it,” Rupert reminded him.

“I’m trying,” he gritted out.

“They are going to keep poking, Max,” GP continued. “They did it before and they will do it again. They will push and push and push until they get the reaction they want, the one that fits their agenda.” 

Max growled in response. 

“I know you’ve seen it already,” GP said, listening to the beeps of the heart monitor get faster and faster. “Mad Max is back. He is unpredictable. Unhinged. That’s the story they want and that’s the one you are giving them.” 

Max’s breaths were getting heavier. “They don’t know—”

“Exactly, they don’t know,” GP pointed out. “And we don’t want them to know so you have to learn how to control it before you wolf out on them. Before you let them win.” 

His eyes were bright and glowing and yellow, a flash of sharp teeth under his curling lip as he growled and snarled and—

“I’m here! I’m here! Sorry, I’m late, I was getting coffee. Did we start yet?” 

It was like a flip had switched. 

GP and Rupert watched the scene in front of them like it happened in slow motion. The way Max seemed to perk up at the sound of your voice. The way the glowing eyes and sharp teeth seemed to slowly morph back to the Max they knew. The way the rage and anger and frustration was nowhere to be seen by the time you walked into the room, a tray of coffee and a bag of pastries in each hand. 

You stood there, watching the three of them stare at you with mixed expressions. “What? What did I miss?”

“Interesting,” GP commented. “Very, very interesting.” 

…

“You like her.” 

Max let out a string of curse words, almost knocking the mugs of hot water over before he put the kettle down and turned to face his race engineer with wide eyes. Heightened senses aside, he didn’t hear GP sneaking into the kitchen. Or even realise he had been watching Max mutter away to himself for the last five minutes.

“Fucking hell, mate,” Max grumbled, placing a hand on his chest. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“And don’t change the topic,” GP retorted with a knowing look. “You like her, don’t you?”

Max hated the way he could feel the tips of his ears start to burn. “Like who?” 

GP raised his brows in response. 

Max deflated, his shoulders dropping. “Look, I know what you’re going to say—”

“I think she’s good for you,” GP interrupted.

Max blinked. “Okay, maybe I didn’t know what you were going to say.” 

“She’s your anchor,” GP noted, his lips twitching upwards. “I had my suspicions but today confirmed it.”

“Anchor?” Max repeated with a frown. “Mate, is that not a news thing? She’s an engineer—”

“No, I—” GP let out a deep sigh, muttering something under his breath. “God give me strength. I mean that she helps ground you, helps you differentiate Human Max and Wolf Max.”

“Oh,” was all Max managed to mutter out.

“She’s good for you,” GP repeated with a soft smile. “And she understands you. Maybe if you tell her, we can work something out and—”

“No.” 

He frowned. “No?” 

“No,” Max repeated, blunt as ever. “I’m not telling her anything and neither will you.” 

GP’s frown deepened. “Max—”

“No, you don’t get it. She…” The boy trailed off, swallowing harshly as he tried to voice his thoughts. “You didn’t see what happened that night.” 

“Max—”

“I saved her,” Max stated. “I saved her and she’s only here because she probably feels guilty. I…I don’t want to tell her and make her feel like she has to feel the same because I almost died or something.” 

“You liked her before,” GP pointed out. “Is it so hard to believe that maybe she felt the same? That she cared about you way before you jumped in front of a werewolf for her?” 

Max clenched his jaw. “Drop it. I’m not telling her and neither are you.” 

GP sighed but he knew it was pointless to fight the stubborn boy over it.

“And she doesn’t find out about this anchor nonsense,” Max added, turning around and busying himself with the mugs on the counter. “We’ll find another way.” 

…

GP’s words about you being his anchor rung on a loop inside his head as the next race weekend approached. 

The Spanish Grand Prix was always quite a hectic one on the schedule. The fans were wild and passionate. There was usually more of a buzz around the world championship by this point, an insight into a real fight after nine races. And it brought back good memories, wanted memories of his first ever race win.

It was a reminder why he was here, why he kept coming back every weekend. He wanted to race and he wanted to win and he wanted to be successful. He wasn’t going to let the lycanthropy stop him. 

And even if he would never admit it, GP was right. 

You were his anchor, you calmed the angry, rapid wolf inside him. It was like everything he felt around you when he was human was amplified. He felt seen, accepted. You took him for how he was, not how you wanted or expected him to be. 

You saw Max—not the racing driver or the face of F1’s current dominance. 

You just saw him. 

It was hard to feel anything but relaxed and calm around you, to know that his words weren’t going to be overanalysed or thrown back in his face.

“You ready for this race?” 

Max gripped his helmet a little tighter, fighting the urge to lean back against your touch as he felt your palm between his shoulder blades. He turned to look at you, smiling a little at the clear concern on your face. Like you were prepared to find a way to postpone the whole race if he said no.

“The car’s been good all weekend,” Max replied, biting back his laugh when you rolled your eyes.

“I wasn’t talking about the car,” you grumbled, scoffing. “Obviously the car is good. I was working on it.”

He beamed. “I’m good. Promise.” 

“You gonna win?” 

“For you? Always.” 

Max took deep satisfaction in the way your heart skipped a beat at his words. 

“I’ll be happy whatever you end up,” you told him earnestly, your hand squeezing his shoulder and he had the oddest urge to keep your hand there, to place his own over yours.

Max swallowed harshly. “But you deserve a podium so that’s what I’m gonna get you.” 

You laughed, the sound easing something in his chest. “You’re cute when you’re cocky.”

He barely got a chance to process your response as you headed towards the pitwall, prepared for the race ahead and leaving the boy glued to his spot, blushing like mad.

For what it’s worth, he did win the race. 

…

Things were going smoothly until the British Grand Prix.

Max had been able to keep the wolf inside him subdued and relaxed through the first two races of the triple header. He was racing well, he was being polite to the media, he was acting like the Max before the accident. 

And despite his history and previous experiences at Silverstone and the ever loyal British fans, he didn’t think things would be all that different this year. He would maybe get booed, maybe have a few more probing questions. But nothing more than that.

Nothing quite like this.

It was Friday when it happened. 

Max thought the worst of the weekend—media day—had been put behind him. He was ready to get back in the car, he was ready to make the triple header a three-for-three and win Silverstone. He was ready for a somewhat normal race weekend, one where the focus would be on the five Brits on the grid rather than him (especially with it being Ollie’s rookie season).

Sometimes, he forgot just how passionate fans could be. He forgot just how insane they could be too.

The whole thing felt like it happened in slow motion.

He was a few steps behind you and GP and Rupert, taking a moment to sign merch and take pictures with fans who had been waiting for hours. He assumed the group of you had made your way into the paddock, already heading towards the Red Bull motorhome. 

He hadn’t expected for the hair on the back of his neck to stand up, to feel his whole body react before his brain had. His head whipped around at the exact moment he saw the crazed fan reaching towards you. His body was moving as he watched the scene unfold, as they reached for the collar of your shirt and pulled, as their lips moved to mutter something about Red Bull and whatever nonsense they thought justified their attack. 

And before anyone could even react, Max was already shoving himself between you and the fan and ripping their hand away from you. He could feel his heart pounding, his body shaking, the telltale pain in his gums of his canines begging to push through. He could feel himself lose control as the anger and fear of seeing you hurt took over him. 

“Back. The. Fuck. Off.” 

The fan’s eyes widened, something quite like surprise and terror written across their face as they staggered back. Max had half the mind to wonder if his eyes were glowing yellow, if his face was starting to transform, if the crazed fan was starting to see the monster Max truly was.

“Max.” 

An honest to god growl escaped his lips until he felt warm hands wrapping around his biceps, until he felt someone pulling his body away from the fan and away from the crowd. 

“We need to get him out of here.” 

It felt like he had blacked out. One moment he was staring at the crazy fan, contemplating letting his wolf take over, to give into the anger and rage coursing through him. And the next he was in his driver room, his name being called on repeat and warm hands cupping his face as he slowly blinked back into reality.

“There he is,” you smiled, your voice a soft whisper as you kneeled in front of him.

“I–” Max started but he couldn’t get his words out. He couldn’t say what he wanted to say, not with his heart still pounding, not with the wolf inside him howling and whining and begging to check that you weren’t hurt.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” you repeated like you could see inside his head, like you could hear the panic in his wolf’s howl. “Max, look at me. I promise I’m okay. You stopped anything from happening.” 

He tried to take a deep breath but it was staggered and wheezy. 

“I’m okay,” you continued to repeat, dropping one hand from his face to take his hand in yours and intertwine your fingers together. 

Max’s eyes flashed yellow once more before he clenched them shut, urging himself to calm down, to relax, to control his wolf again. And after weeks of being on top of his lycanthropy, it felt a bit pathetic that he sat there for god-knows how long, not trusting himself to lift his head and look at you until he felt human again.

“M’sorry,” he managed to rasp out.

“Don’t apologise,” you murmured, quick to give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Please never apologise for being you.” 

Max let out a bitter laugh. “That wasn’t me—”

“Max,” you started but he shook his head.

“Did anyone see?” 

You took a few moments before responding. “No. Other than the fan but I don’t think they really knew what was happening. I don’t think any of the camera angles caught it either but GP is making sure the media team are ahead of that.” 

“Good,” he managed to mutter, swallowing harshly. “We don’t need anyone else seeing what a monster I am.” 

“Max,” and the way you said his name sounded absolutely broken. “You’re not a monster.”

His lips twitched upwards, almost self-deprecatingly. “You don’t have to lie—” 

“I’m not lying,” you said, a little more insistent this time as you lifted his head up to meet your gaze. “You’re not a monster, Max.” 

His chest tightened. “You’re just saying that because I saved you.” 

“No,” you shook your head. “I’m saying that because it’s what I truly believe. You are the furthest thing from a monster I have ever met.” 

Max could feel his voice waver as he spoke. “Not anymore. What I am now is—”

“Beautiful,” you whispered, smiling softly as your thumb swiped over the apple of his cheek. “Just as you’ve always been. Just as I’ve always thought you were.”

Max couldn’t quite find the words to respond.

“You saved me. And despite having every right to blame me for what you are now, what you’re having to suffer through every full moon, you don’t,” you continued. “Where most people would give up, you fought back. You took your life back. You’ve made it work, Max. Do you realise how fucking brilliant you are? You had to learn your whole body again and you’re still winning races like nothing changed.” 

Max let out a shaky breath. “I’d do it again.” 

“What?” 

“Even knowing what happened, knowing what was going to happen to me,” Max spoke, keeping his eyes on you, keeping his ears focused on your heartbeat. “I would push you out the way. I would jump in front of that wolf all over again.” 

Max wasn’t sure how you would respond but he hadn’t expected you to grab his face in your hands and kiss him. The tight feeling in his chest melted away the second he felt your lips on his, the second he was able to get his hands on you and pull you closer. He would’ve been embarrassed at the pleased rumble in his chest if it weren’t for the fact he was too happy to care. 

“I’ll make you see how beautiful that ‘monster’ in you really is,” you whispered against his lips, your nose lightly nudging against his. “No matter how long it takes.” 

Max was sure that he still had a long way to go and a lot more to learn before he could ever say he felt fully normal again. But the idea of facing the road ahead with you by his side felt easier than tackling it alone. 

He may still be Mad Max to everyone else but he was just Max to you. 

And if he was being honest, the opinion of his anchor was the only one he really cared about.

.

[fairuzfan]

Hey, I've read your post reply on the ask about the Standing together movement, and there you mentioned that it's incorrect to separate Palestinians and Jews and create a false dichotomy when speaking about liberating Palestine and anti-occupation movement. Could you please elaborate on that? It's a very interesting take that I haven't heard before yet.

So I generally don't understand why we are separating "Palestinian" and "Jews" with no potential for overlap between the two. By separating them, this implies, fundamentally, that there can be no Jewish Palestinians which... is not true. Just even historically, Jewish Palestinians exist and continue to exist.

Why are they mutually exclusive terms within their mission statement when they wish to "stand together"? And I'm not saying this in a condescending manner, I'm saying this because I know there are Palestinians who live in Israel who insist on being referred to as Palestinian. They won't let their Palestinian identity be erased under any circumstances. But they're the only group at risk of having that happen to them. Jewish people are not at risk of having their Jewishness erased for being Palestinian. So how can it be "standing together" when you acknowledge that there is a divide, societally, between perceptions of identity where one is at risk of total destruction by another and you, yourself, do not risk anything?

Where do Jewish Palestinians fall in this dichotomy, exactly? Does that mean no Palestinian will be able to convert to Judiasm without giving up their Palestinian identity? Are Jewish people just innately separated from Palestinians as a whole? If so, what is the thing that categorizes "Palestinian" in their eyes? Is it their religion? Well it can't be, because Palestinians have a diverse array of religions and like I said, people who identity as Palestinian and Jewish exist and are at risk of having their "Palestinian" erased in favor of their "Jewish" one.

Is it their ethnicity? Also can't be, because there is a vast array of ethnicities within Palestinian society. Unless they mean Palestinian=Arab, which is erasure. It erases Armenian Palestinians who play an integral part in Palestinian culture, for example.

So like what is the separation exactly? How are these mutually exclusive categories and how are we defining them? Unless, which is the reason that underlies all this, you mean to say that there is a difference between people who are Palestinians and people are Jewish innately in some unidentifiable manner?

Now, many Palestinians who have Israeli citizenship are not really subject to equal rights lol. And those rights are taken away *because* they are Palestinian. You have to acknowledge that. So when we say "Jewish and Palestinian" in a mission statement where you intend to """solve""" inequality, you're already setting that distinction in your mind that there is an actual difference between these people. So it's problematic in that vein.

But also, the group doesn't address the systematic abuses Palestinians face for YEARS, even before the Likud government. You can't erase that and attribute it to Netanyahu only. You have to address that the very system of Israel was founded on the mass expulsion and erasure of Palestinians, that includes Palestinian Jews.

But again, we have this dichotomy of "Jewish" and "Palestinian," setting into motion that "Palestinian" is somehow an identity that is separate from "Jewish." And through what definitions are we imposing that difference? Through... race science? Through cultural differences? Well, again, what about people who have cultural overlaps. Like if a nonJewish Palestinian marries a Jewish person who is not Palestinian and their child is growing up with both cultures? What does that mean for them? What does that mean for the two people who got married? And even Jewish Palestinians, are they having to give up their Palestinian side for marrying someone Jewish? Won't that cause further inequality within our groups? Isn't this separation just a nicer worded version of segregation in that way?

We have to acknowledge that it is within the state of Israel's interests, at their core, to separate these two identities. So by playing into this narrative, we're continuing the very colonization of history as they try to rewrite the past, implying that Jewish Palestinians especially were not considered a part of Palestinian culture and werent allowed to partake in it.

And it's just, to me, very racist to assume that there can't be overlap between these two types of people. It's happened in Palestine for centuries. But when Balfour comes in and is like "here you go, Jewish people of European cultural heritage, here is your homeland, nevermind the other people who have customs and traditions here, just do whatever you want and get out of Europe," everyone just nods their head like yeah that's reasonable. They didn't even try to learn Palestinian culture and life they just kicked us out. I'd argue that Palestinians would have welcomed Jewish immigrants who sought a safe homeland, so long as they didn't kick us out and enact nearly a century of violence. Palestine is the holy land for a reason! This land is the convergence of faiths and ideas and culture in such a unique way. Labeling it "Palestine" emphasizes that Palestinians are diverse and allow for an overlap of identities!

Essentially, when you try to separate groups of people like this, particularly when the separation of "Palestinians" (or more commonly referred to as "arabs" in Israeli society. Even our identities are erased to homogenize us) and "Jews," it makes it seem like Palestinians are fundamentally anti-jewish and antisemitic. And historically, just doesn't even make any sense.

[voidwizardwholikestheshadows]

I’ve decided I want to say something. I’m going to try to see things equally as I talk about it but I will acknowledge my bias toward Tommy. He is and has been a favorite creator of mine and I want people to know that I acknowledge that I might say bias things and to take that into account.

I watched Dream’s stream three times. Once when Dream streamed, Kwite’s stream and Tubbo’s stream. I also would like to acknowledge that they both tried to give him the benefit of the doubt many times and Kwite and Tubbo tried to reach out to him. Also my apologies if I miss anything important in the stream, please just let me know if any of what I say is incorrect.

Firstly and foremost, I will say that Tommy should have backed down with the pedo jokes or stopped altogether. It just doesn’t look good, I’m sorry. I have watched Dream’s “The Truth” video before and tried to look into it myself and I honestly don’t believe that those allegations are true.

I will say that I am not in any way, shape or form okay with telling someone to kill themselves. It’s just not who I am and I don’t like how widespread of a thing that is nowadays. I understand other Tommy fans are upset but god fucking damn it that’s not okay to do toward anyone. I made this post earlier but leave Techno’s name out of this. I am absolutely disgusted by the fans that made “Dream SA” comments toward his fans and how he was going to SA them. It’s gross and you don’t look like a good person.

I have my grievances with Tommy fans but that’s not what I wanna say right now. I didn’t like when Dream was making any sort of sexual remark toward any of the minors. Like in this stream with Tubbo’s sister around 39:55 to 40:02, he made a weird joke about her respawning in Vik’s house. Idk if anyone else cares but that made me uncomfy personally, there was no need to say that. Or this Dream and Tommy interaction, maybe this isn’t as much of a big deal, they were friends and Tommy joked about it but it made me uncomfortable. I would like to specify again that these are my personal grievances with Dream. Or when Tommy joined the server for the first time and Dream and George had him do the crafting table bit which was a reference to sex, that was not cool, Tommy was 16, a minor, it just doesn’t feel okay to me at all. Also he had no clue what the joke was, he did what they asked him to do. Those are my main examples of that.

Also Dream skipping over all the important criticisms that Tubbo was giving him only to act shocked at not having context. It kind of irked me, I don’t know if it was done on purpose or not but either way, Tubbo reacted to the whole thing and Dream couldn’t be asked to do the same, slightly disappointing.

His statement on Aimsey really made me upset. Calling them a mastermind when they only tried to support their friend was a very odd choice. I have no knowledge on the George drama if anyone does please let me know.

Saying people hated him for playing a villain character on the Dsmp is kinda crazy. I believe that most fans can differentiate reality from fiction. No, I don’t think that’s why people dislike you Dream, when watching Tubbo’s stream he mentioned that Dream seemed to skip over the important bits of their phone call to focus on the smallest thing. Whether that was done on purpose or not is just not cool. If he wants people to form their own opinions and look into the facts themselves, at the very least give everyone the full facts.

Dream’s mention of the nsfw artwork posted in the discord in the early days of the SMP… I honestly don’t care what anyone else has to say on this point, it is his server and his responsibility to make sure the minors in the server are safe and not exposed to anything. Showing or allowing minors to see nsfw shit is a Crime. I’m sorry to say but that’s a fucking crime. I know Dream didn’t show it but if Tubbo was uncomfortable, it’s his job to make sure that stops. If nobody else was going to be the responsible adult, it’s his discord server and his Minecraft server, he should have some say if not have all the say in keeping minors safe. Even if they asked to be treated like adults which Tubbo doesn’t remember saying at all, YOU DONT TREAT MINORS LIKE ADULTS IN THAT WAY, THAT IS A CRIME.

And at the heart of it all. The R slur. Reclaiming a slur is for deweaponizing the slur. You can Not reclaim a slur by using it against a group of people, that’s the opposite of reclaiming, that’s just using the slur as a slur. I am not down for ANYONE using slurs they can’t reclaim or are weaponizing it. I am not for people calling Dream slurs when all that went down, it’s not okay. I will agree with Tubbo that his drama did kinda outgrow the MCYT community. Different communities have different tolerances on what can and can not be said, I don’t agree with it but that’s the truth. If there were a lot of people in the MCYT community throwing slurs around, I personally don’t want them here. Using slurs if you are weaponizing it is not fucking okay.

These are my personal opinions and thoughts and why I dislike Dream. I’m sorry if this upsets anyone, etc, etc. I might edit this later if I think of anything else.

[saturniandragon]

Every now and then yt space channels will be like "Jupiter is not orbiting the sun!!" or "the Sun is not the center of the solar system!!"

Those statements are true but worded clickbaityly.

Technically speaking nothing in Solar System orbits the Sun. What they are orbiting is called the solar system barycenter (SSB).

A barycenter is an imaginary point in space where the gravitational force of 2 or more bodies cancel each other out.

The simplest example is the Pluto-Charon system.

See this animation for example. You can see Pluto seems to be orbiting "nothing", but that nothing is called a barycenter, where gravity of Pluto and Charon cancel out. If you were to sit in this "nothing", gravity from Pluto and Charon will pull on you equally.

This is true for any systems with 2 bodies or more. Earth-Moon system is not exempt. However, we don't perceive the Earth and the Moon as "orbiting each other", because the barycenter of both bodies is well inside Earth. The greater the mass difference, the deeper the barycenter is located inside the more massive body.

And yes, this does apply to the entire Solar System. But not just the planets, the dwarf planets, the asteroids, and comets. The Sun is also orbiting around a barycenter, the solar system barycenter (SSB) I mentioned earlier.

Like the Earth-Moon system, the SSB is very very deep within the Sun. Extremely deep, because the Sun accounts for 99.86% of the entire mass of the solar system. Remember that the greater the mass difference, the barycenter is located deeper inside the more massive object.

In fact the SSB is constantly changing as all the 8 planets, dwarf planets, asteroids and comets orbit the Sun. But again the Sun takes up 99.86% the mass of the entire solar system so the change is so minuscule and so insignificant.

This concept of barycenter is often not taught in school grade science, especially the "Sun is not the center of the solar system" part. Because the SSB is so deep within the Sun that it's not a big deal in the first place.

It's easier to just comprehend and digest that the Sun is the center of solar system.

[tharizt]

okay talking about the gender politics regarding belinda and yeah it's kind of mixed. this is ofc rtd's usual track record ("fun to travel with the doctor for a bit but then you gotta get back to settle down") but at least parts of that work thematically here.

obviously stories pushing queer characters or independent women into traditional heteronormative roles are bad but the reality war is a little more thematically complex than that reading allows.

rather than enforcing a nuclear family unit, the episode actively critiques that structure. this is not a family constructed by blood, but one that has been found and built. 15 who is explicitly queer is shown not as a heterosexual father figure

(which would be forcing a queer man into a heteronormative package) but as someone whose queerness and heroism allow him to die not for his child but for *a* child. poppy is important because she is a child and the doctor can help her.

both belinda and the doctor are affirming non-traditional models of family. belinda as a capable single mother (still working as a nurse) and the doctor as a non-biological non-heteronormative parental figure.

this is a deliberate response to ideologies like those embodied in wish world where any form of family that isn’t built around the conventional family unit can’t be understood within that ideological framework.

so i think the critique that the episode reinforces a traditional family model overlooks the ways it’s actually inclusive in how it defines what a family can be.

that doesn't mean it's all good. it's *mixed* but not outright bad for a reason. it’s just not true to say the narrative is pro nuclear family as many on here seem to be claiming (it’s not).

but in making this thematic statement, the show does rewrite the one character whose original conception seemed the furthest from that role. belinda's whole life gets changed to fit the needs of the story (and all the autonomy issues that come with that).

but again there are layers here. i've seen people say "didn’t belinda have an entire first story about not wanting to get married and become a mrs?". sure. but she’s still not a mrs.

people seem to be ignoring that. the narrative still rejects the idea that she needs to be a wife to be a mother. she is a single mother.

equally the entire point of the episode is that you can be a dad without being biologically related at all. you're actually espousing reactionary politics yourself if you're saying a man can’t be a dad unless he can biologically have children.

there’s a reason kate says that in a way they’re all the doctor’s children because in conversation with moffat’s conception of masculinity, rtd shows that the parental role of protecting, sacrificing, and nurturing; is a social one and not a biological one.

and that has really interesting implications when it comes to susan and the potential of removing biological determinism there altogether.

i understand that people are upset that belinda has been reduced to motherhood, but nobody seems to talk about how it does actually engage with this era's themes in an inclusive and non-normative way.

the show, unfortunately, just chose to make that statement using a character who was compelling for completely different reasons.

[gingernut1314]

Songbird Pt. 9

Buggy x F!Reader

Summary: Buggy pulls you from your girl's night only for you to find your captain's emotions running wild.

Warnings: fluff, angst, smut (drunk sex, misuse of Devil Fruit powers, oral f.receiving, slight restriction, p in v, biting), use of Y/N

Word Count: 6.0K

A/N: Heyyyyy guys!! Back with some of the main story!! Sorry it took....a while 😬. I hope you all enjoy!!! 🩷🩷🩷

Requested by: @srgtjamesbarnes

↞ to Songbird Masterlist | One Piece Masterlist | Request Rules | Blog Navigation ↠

Girls night. 

You hadn’t had a proper girl’s night since you were very little with your mom. Those nights where it was just the two of you played a card game together whenever she had a day off from work, which had been far and few in between. 

You had no siblings to account for and, though Nami had been a good friend, she had been too worried about Arlong and her family to truly be able to relax and have fun. Understandably so. 

So when Esmeralda and the other girls aboard the Big Top told you of their tradition, which took place whenever they made dock and the boys went to some crummy bar to drink, you were ecstatic. 

You helped them gather supplies of cheeses, meats, grapes, and copious amounts of alcohol and you all huddled together in your shared quarters, gramophone playing the latest songs Esmeralda had collected that day. 

So far, Emi had shown off her sword-swallowing skills, Seqii and her Aerial Ensemble had done shots standing upside down in a pyramid, you had sung three silly drinking shanties, and Esmeralda had cried about her horse-turned-cat food. 

You now sat in a circle on the ground, shoving the remaining meats and cheeses into your faces, talking about anything and everything that happened within the varying relationships amongst the crew. 

“Cabaji made me scrub the deck two times. Two!” Seqii complained, her drink sloshing around dangerously in her cup as she turned towards Emi, who was equally as off-balanced as her friend. “Can’t you swallow his sword, Emi? Make him loosen up a bit.” 

“I swallow his sword every godsdamn night and --hic-- he still makes me re-tie lines even though they were perfect--hic--before.” Emi hiccupped, downing the rest of her drink. “Just how the guy is. Commanding. Just how --hic-- I like ‘em.” Seqii gave a dramatic roll of her eyes, loudly disagreeing with that statement. 

“What about nice? Gentle?” Esmeralda slurred horrendously from where she sat next to you, one arm looped through yours while her other hugged the skittish contortionist, whose head lay in her lap. Emi and Seqii both booed her, making the ex-equestrian huff. 

“The difference between you and --hic-- the rest of us is you like like Mohji.” Emi hiccuped, spurring Esmeralda to pull from your hold, flabbergasted. 

“He’s nice to me and he loves me. Sorrrryyyy.” She all but shouted, making Emi and Seqii laugh like a pack of hyenas. Esmeralda snatched the bottle of wine Seqii had just picked up in something like payment and the aerial performer let her with a wide grin. “I’m not the only one who like likes who we are with. Y/N like, likes the Captain.” 

Your own laughter was cut short as your heart nearly stopped in your chest. All eyes around the room snapped to you to see if what Esmeralda said was true. 

That warm, fluttery feeling rushed around in your chest at the mention of your captain. A feeling you had been struggling to get back under wraps, but nothing you did ever could lessen the happy feeling. 

The thought of his smile had that feeling soaring. The thought of his sea-glass eyes and his bad jokes and the gifts he would shower upon you--

You gave an elongated, scoffing pfftt with a dismissive arching motion of your hand…and then another and another. 

“Shit. She more than like likes him.” Seqii said, her grin turning shit-eating. 

“I like no man. Men are gross. Ew.” You hissed, wobbling a bit as Esmeralda all but crashed into you on her way to flop on her back. 

“Ughhhh--you’re in denial.” Seqii continued, grabbing the wine bottle back from Esmeralda before she could spill it all over the floor. 

“It’s no --hic--fun.” Emi popcorned in, snagging the bottle from her friend and taking a long swing. 

“You know what is fun?” Seqii asked, fixing you with a mischievous smirk. “Telling us about how good in bed he is.” You felt your face flush at the statement, a few girls giggling and gasping around the room. Others egged you on, all but begging you to tell them. 

“That’s priv--” You started, only to be cut off by Esmeralda popping back up with a near-matching mischievous grin. 

“How big is he?” Your mouth fell open at her bluntness, but the woman only laughed away like it was no big deal. “Tell me when to stop, okay!” She said excitedly, placing her hands together before gradually pulling them apart. “Tell me when to stop--tell--there's no way--Y/N! Tell me when to stop!”

“I’m not--” Again, you were cut off by a loud burp from Seqii who had regained the wine bottle back from Emi. 

“Who cares --hic-- how big he is. I need to know if his dick can --hic-- chop off like the rest of his body.” Emi hiccuped, her question earning a collective eagerness to know from the gathered group. 

“Pleaseeee!” Esmeralda begged, latching onto your arm and shaking you. “I’ve told everyone about me and Mohji--”

“You and Mohji’s sex life is vanilla.” Emi started, making Esmeralda gasp.

“It is not vanil--” 

“I want the juicy --hic-- details. Tell us, come on!” Emi finished, everyone quieting down again to watch you, waiting for any snippet you might give up. 

You thought about it for a second. Thoughts that were fogged and blurred from all the drinks you’d had. Loose thoughts that had you thinking of all the dirty things Buggy did to you and you did to him. 

Had his dick ever detached during your escapades?

“I don’t know.” You slurred on a shrug, earning a collective groan from the group. “I’ll ask geezzzz. But Buggy does this thing where he detaches his--” A loud thump sounded at the door, cutting off your story and earning yet another groan from a few of the girls. 

Another thump sounded and you thought it reminded you of a body getting slammed into a wall. A body that kept fumbling back a bit before attempting to knock once more. 

“Shit--the fucking boys are back,” Seqii grumbled as another thump sounded through the room. She grumbled some more as she stood, wobbly navigating her way through the collection of bodies sprawled over the floor. The door was flung open, letting in a chilled breeze that rose goosebumps to your skin.

Standing there, looking just as drunk and disheveled as the rest of the group, was Buggy in all his Buggy glory. His make-up smeared over his skin, his smile wide and bright, and his hat sitting a-skewed on his head, hanging on by some miracle. 

“Captian Buggy!” The girls all cheered at his appearance. Buggy grinned widely as he dug his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

“Girls! My loyal crew!” He cheered right back, pulling his hands from his pockets and into the air, wiggling his fingers in his excitement as confetti in a rainbow of color rained down onto the floor. You giggled with Esmeralda as more cheering filled the room.

“How’s your night going? Hope I’m not interpreting.” He said, a few of his words coming out elongated and awkward, but no one truly seemed to notice or care because you were all giggling, wobbling, drunk messes. 

“You could never --hic-- interpret captain! Come in!” Emi said, her tone shifting the slightest bit to be more kind towards her captain. “Y/N was just telling us--” You shot her a warning glare that only seemed to amuse her. “How much she likes it here!” 

“Oh was she? Heh. Good.” He said, stumbling into the room, Seqii shutting the door behind him. Those green-blue eyes found you and filled with that softness you had spotted here and there in them. A look that spoke to the same feeling thrashing about in your chest, wishing to meet it. 

“Baby--ugh I mean Songbird--Y/N,” He finally got out. You’re name felt strange spilling from his lips, but you loved it just as you did hearing the nicknames he conquered up for you. 

A few girls around the room gave giddy little laughs at the nicknames, which you shot them their own warning glares for. 

“I always love to hear feedback from the crew. ‘Specially from you newbies. Helps me know what’s workin’ and what’s-” he gave a little burp in the back of his throat as he came to a wobbly stop next to you. “-what’s not.” He stammered on, waving his hands around as if to emphasize what he was saying, confetti that had stuck to his gloved hands falling into your crossed lap.

You huffed with a roll of your eyes as you pulled yourself up, bumping into his leg as your wonky vision threw you off balance. Strong, gloved hands grabbed you under your arms and helped hoist you up, making your face burn. 

“Are the others back?” Esmeralda asked hopefully, sitting herself right-side up. 

“Only lil ol’ me. Sorry, Es.” Buggy said, a hand falling away from your body only for the last to stay glued to your back. You leaned into his touch, loving the feel of his warmth, a warmth strong enough to seep through the white fabric of his glove and your shirt.

“Captian, before you drag our glorious singing songbird off, could we hear one more song?” Emi asked, raising the last wine bottle. “We still have this whole bottle left,” 

“Sure. No skin off my nose.” Buggy said, turning to look your way with a shrug. 

The room went deadly quiet at his words. 

Breaths were held and prayers were muttered. 

They were words that, under any circumstance would have gotten someone mamined--killed. 

But as he looked at you, all that flashed in his eyes was that softness which had never once left them since his arrival. He looked--at ease, almost. 

It was probably just all the alcohol he had drank that night. 

Probably all the alcohol you had been drinking, making you see things.

“Heh. Nose.” He said, bopping your nose. You watched his grin grow wider--a grin that sparked your own to cross your lips. “Sing the one ‘bout that bottle of rum that’s hard to open.” 

“Aye, aye Captain.” You said, giving him a little salute, which he wobbly gave back. 

You instructed everyone who wished to participate to form a circle, snatching the bottle of wine from Seqii before you hopped into the middle, starting the fun and upbeat shanty about a crew of pirates who find a mysterious bottle of rum floating in the sea. A bottle whose cork was too tough for the captain to open, so it was passed around and around the crew, trying desperately to find someone who could open it. 

Once the first verse was sung, setting the disastrous scene for your own crew, you passed the wine bottle to Buggy as you began singing the chorus. A chorus that spurred your captain to pass it to Emi who passed it to Esmeralda and around and around the circle of the bottle went. You followed it, skipping and hopping and dancing away as your crew joined you in singing the chorus. 

You froze as the chorus ended, the bottle landing in Buggy’s hands on a last pass from Seqii. He winked your way, making your mouth run dry as he raised the bottle to his painted lips. 

You almost forgot all about the silly little song you were singing as you watched him, but found the will in your foggy brain to sing the second verse. Buggy chugged and chugged, his throat working with each swallow of the liquid. It had your alcohol-flushed body burning up that much more. 

The girls gave another round of cheers as Buggy detached his head and hands so that the rest of his body could do a twirling dance to the music you provided. 

When the verse came to an end, his head and hands popped back into place and he quickly passed it to Emi who passed it to Esmeralda and so on and so on as you sang the chorus once more. 

Several verses later, the bottle ran dry with a hiccupping hoot of triumph from Emi, who held the bottle high as you finished the song. 

You gave a flashy bow as the girls and your captain cheered for you, blowing kisses here and there around the circle. Buggy detached a hand to pretend to catch one high up, holding it carefully in his palm as he put it in his coat pocket. 

“Thank you, thank you! I’ll see you all bright and early tomorrow morning!” A groan spilled from a few of the girl's lips at the thought of what tomorrow held in store for them. Mainly; all the chores to be done that Cabaji, no matter how hungover, was sure to have to get done.

You looped your arm through Buggy’s and let him lead you out of the room, which you took one more look over your shoulder to look at your friends in their varying states of drunkenness.

“Ask him!” Emi mouthed your way as Seqii did the simple magic trick where one pretended like they were pulling their thumb from its joint…but she had positioned her hands at her crotch with a grin so wide it almost spilled off her cheeks. 

You shook your head at their silliness and persistence to know of your private endeavors…but it had piqued your interest if not in the slightest.

The hall was chilled compared to the body-filled room you had both just been in, which erupted in more laughter as you shut the door behind you. A chill that Buggy’s body, instantly wrapped around yours, shielded you from. 

He placed a big old, smacking, wet kiss on your cheek, making your heart flutter like some caged butterfly. 

“That was so fucking sexy, songbird.” He said, words still coming out warped from all the alcohol he had drank against your temple. 

“Oh yeah? You liked my little jig?” You murmured back, turning your face to steal a glance at those eyes you couldn’t look in long enough.

“Hell yeah. Got me all hot and bothered.” His lips kissed your temple, then your cheek, before latching them onto your neck. You hooked your fingers over the back of his neck and pulled him in closer, savoring the tingling sensations that shot over your skin at his sloppy affections

“Should I do another one?” In hardly the blink of an eye, Buggy grabbed hold of your hand and in a quick, sharp movement that had you wobbly all over again, spun you around and away from him. 

“Please do another one.” He begged, eyes eating up your body as you fought to regain your steady footing. 

“Aye, aye captain.” You laughed before starting to sing an upbeat shanty as you spun and moved your body to the phantom beat down the hall and around the corner towards the stairs. Buggy followed after you, joining you in song and grabbing hold of your hands here and there to give you a little spin. 

When the song came to a close, Buggy gave a loud hoot that echoed back at him and mixed with your laughter. He was quick to scoop you up into his arms, lips finding yours in a sloppy kiss that had your alcohol-fuzzed brain going near blank. 

“Sing again for me, songbird.” He asked against your lips. You kissed him again before pulling away, Buggy giving a little whine to let you know you had pulled away all too quickly. “Did you eat dinner?” Buggy rolled his eyes, his arms snaking around your waist once more.

“Baby--”

“Baby.” You insisted, wrapping an arm around his neck. “I’ll sing for you while you eat? How does that sound?” Light lit up Buggy’s eyes as he nodded several times at this, making his face, in your drunken state, go all fuzzy. 

“I should really promote you to be my negotiator. You’re--” He gave another burp in the back of his throat that you crinkled your nose at in disgust. “Soooo good at it.” 

“Only for you, Captain.” Buggy’s grin widened and he leaned down to claim your lips in another sloppy kiss, but you were quick to place a finger over his puckered lips. “Food first.” Buggy groaned dramatically, grabbing hold of your wrist to pull your finger from his lips.

“Fine.” He gruffed, all but dragging you to the kitchen so that he could eat and get on with kissing you. 

The kitchen had been left in a state of disarray thanks to you and the girls ransacking its stores as soon as the kitchen staff left for the night. Kitchen staff you knew would set Cabaji on you all to clean it all up in the morning.

Buggy gave a groaning oof as he flopped himself onto one of the stools sitting before the island, plunking his forehead against the wood. You chuckled at him and opened the fridge.

“Why’d you come back so early, baby?” You asked, rummaging around for the leftovers you had saved from the diner you and the girls had gone to dinner at.

“I’m too old to keep up with the others anymore. Got tired.” He grumbled making you roll your eyes.

“Oh is that right? Then we should head to bed after this? Get my old man his full eight hours of beauty sleep?” You teased, grabbing your leftovers up. 

Even in your alcohol-fuzzed state, Buggy having yet to snap something back at you was strange.

Turning around, fridge door shutting softly behind you, you found Buggy’s face buried in his hands, shoulders quivering. 

Crying. 

Buggy was crying. 

It had panic and concern shoot through your chest rapidly, your leftovers abandoned as you rushed to his side. 

“Buggy? What’s wrong, baby?” You asked, smoothing your hands over his back and arm to try and get him to look at you. To comfort and console him. “D-did I say something to upset you? I’m sorry, baby, you know I don’t think you’re old--”

“I missed you.” He moaned out. His words--they more than shocked you. 

He had missed you. He had missed you so much he had left the bar early and was now crying about it. 

It was…sweet. And doing nothing for that warm, fluttering feeling invading your every sense. 

“You--you missed me?” You asked, gently grabbing hold of his hands to pull them away from his face. His make-up was done for, smudged so bad it had all but blended into his skin. His watery blue-green eyes looked up at you, only overflowing with more tears as he nodded.

“Baby I missed so much.” He whined, grabbing for your shirt weakly as if it was his anchor in the raging storm that was his emotions. “They can’t sing like you--they don’t know half the lyrics.” Tears continued to spill down his cheeks as he pulled you closer. “And--and I just--missed you.” 

You smiled kindly at him, cupping his face with your hands and wiping away each tear that escaped his eyes. 

“I’m here now. And I still owe you a song.” More tears fell from his eyes despite your attempt at comfort, his face falling against your chest as a sob shook his shoulders. 

You were trying not to laugh--not to let that giddy feeling escape your chest through a silly giggle at your captain's confession. At the discovery that Buggy was a drunk crier. 

You pulled his hat off his head, placing it on the island counter before going about taking his bandana off so that you could brush your fingers over his blue hair, which he had put in a singular braid. 

“Fucking gods I missed you.” He sobbed again, burying his face deeper. “You’re--you’re just so beautiful and too kind to me.” 

Beautiful. He was calling you beautiful.

Your heart was beginning to race with that feeling. With that overwhelming swell of that naggingly warm emotion. 

A swell that the alcohol in your system was threatening to spill. 

To spill the three words you had been struggling to hold at bay. Words that were just on the tip of your tongue--words that began to form and fal--

“And--And your tits are so soft and round and I missed them so much.” And that feeling was swapped with utter annoyance. 

“Really?” You asked, placing your hands on his shoulders to try and shove him away, but his grip on you was iron-like. 

“What? It’s true!” He moaned out mournfully as he nuzzled his face between them. You huffed, feeling just the tiniest bit hurt in that moment when you had thought you were getting a sweet, tender confession from your captain. 

“You just missed my tits? Is that all you missed?” You snapped, Buggy’s face pulled from your breast so he could show you all that sadness welling in his soul. 

“No.” He whined, resting his cheek again on your breasts. “I missed your ass too.” 

“Jackass.” You grumped, yanking yourself away from the clown who gave another pitiful moan. 

“Baby--” Buggy started, grabbing at your arms and hips to try and keep you close. You fought not to give in and fall back into his arms, especially when a wave of fresh tears were rolling down his red and blue smudged cheeks.

“I don’t think you deserve a song now, since you only missed my body” You huffed, crossing your arms and turning your head away from him. 

Buggy moaned yet again, his head flopping onto the kitchen island once more and falling off. His shoulder drooped and his arms fell off, chop-chopped into pieces on the floor. It was a pile of chop-chopped limbs that continued to grow the longer you stayed away. 

“Noooooo. I missed your voice.” He cried, his gloved hands inching their way up onto the island surface. “I missed you being mean to me and I mi-missed you takin’ care of me even when I don’t deserve it.” Those chopped hands continued to cross the wooden surface towards you like some strange spider. Fingers that brushed against your arm in a weak attempt to pull you back.

“I don’t deserve you--you’re too good for me. I’m a shitty shitty fool and you’re a perfect dove who's too bright for me.” 

And now you felt like the asshole. Because none of that was true. Because Buggy was perfect for you in every way. He was more than you deserved. He was better to you than any person you had had a semblance of a relationship with had ever been before. 

You didn’t deserve him. 

“Buggy. No. That’s not true.” You started, going right back over to the chopped-up pile he had become. Buggy was quick to pull himself back together and was pulling you eagerly into his orbit once more. 

“It is.” He cried, knuckles no doubt going white under his gloves at the tight he was holding onto your shirt. “I’m the East Blue’s biggest loser. The biggest in all the Blue Seas. You deserve someone who is better. Someone like that fucking shit-for-brains swordsman or shitty blond pretty boy.” You shook your head, gently pulling his fingers from your shirt to hold his hands tight. 

“I don’t want them. I’ve never wanted them. I’ve only ever wanted you.” Buggy shook his head and you took his chin in a gentle scoop, keeping those sad eyes on you. “And I don’t think you're a fool. Not one bit.” Doubt and self-hatred continued to bubble in Buggy's watery eyes. Emotions you never ever wanted to see shining in them. Emotions you had put there. 

It had your heart beating painfully in your chest. Had your hands sweating and blood running cold. 

You were making him cry. You are a burden to him. 

“I--I don’t deserve you.” Buggy scoffed at this, disbelief thankfully lessening those hurting feelings in his eyes. “I don’t. Before I met you--I was nothing. No one. Just an empty vessel floating around on some godsforsaken ship. A husk trapped in a cave. And now--now you make me feel--full. Like a real person. You make me feel so--so happy.”

“But you would be happier with--” 

“I wouldn’t. I know I wouldn’t because I wasn’t.” Buggy’s bottom lip quivered in warning of another body-shaking sob. You couldn’t--wouldn’t see him upset. Upset over something you had foolishly started. 

“I lo--” Your words lodged themselves in your throat. Words that had been threatening to spill from your mouth from the moment you had caught him singing your song to the night air all those weeks ago. Words your heart and soul begged to speak but your mind caged--bulling them away in fear. Fear of him rejecting such words. Words that were more than just words. 

Words that sobered you right up, letting every last bit of panic flood your chest now that the dulling fog had vanished.

Buggy’s own breath hitched in his throat. That warm look you had spied in his eyes more and more often flashing through their watery depths. A warm look that was overpowered by those hurting feelings you had been trying to save him from. 

“You are special to me.” You managed to croak out. Your heart was beating faster. So fast you were sure it was bruising itself against your ribs, making it hard to breathe. “And--and I want to be here. With you. And I don’t want you to feel that way. Not with me. Because--because you’re too special to me.” More tears fell from Buggy’s eyes and your panic gripped at your heart tighter. 

Had you only made it worse? Had you said too--

A hand grabbed hold of your jaw, pulling you against Buggy’s smudged lips. Lips that kissed you soft and sweet. 

He kissed you slowly. A slowness that spoke louder than any words he could have possibly said in that moment. A kiss that had your eyes sparking with tears right alongside his own.

You grabbed him closer, pressing your body against his as much as the stool would allow. But it was nowhere near close enough. It would never be close enough. 

Your hands moved over his braided hair, down his stubble-lined jaw, and neck. Hands you moved under his coat to try and shrug it off his shoulder so you could feel his warm skin against yours. He chop-chopped his arms from his shoulders to let the coat slip off more easily. Arms that were instantly around you once reattached, hands finding their way under your shirt.

The kiss grew more hungry--needy, but that passion never once fled. A passion that burned through your heart, which struggled to keep the balance between your fluttering feelings towards this clown, and your darkened ones. 

You felt the muscles in his arms work against your hands as he grabbed you up in them, laying you out on top of the kitchen island. 

Random bottles and bits of trash you and the girls had littered it with clattered to the ground, but it hardly mattered. Not when Buggy was trailing a wet line of kisses over your jaw and neck and the swell of your breasts. Not when he pulled your shirt up to continue to leave opened-mouthed kisses along your stomach. 

You breathed his name as he began to tug your brightly patterned pajama pants over and off your legs. 

Those sloppy kisses attacked your calves and thighs--lips that turned biting every so often and had your body sparking, mind fogging in utter lustful need. 

“F-fuck, Songbird,” Buggy spoke around a mouthful of flesh. “Always so ready for me.” You gave a shuddery gasp as a detached hand came to rest over your pelvic bone, thumb running over the thin fabric that still covered your dripping core. 

“Always, captain.” You moaned out, reaching to feel over his cheek and jaw. Those damned fingers passing over your clit, sending a jolting shock through your near-burning body. “P-please--baby, I need you, please.” You begged.

“Let me taste first, baby. Please let me taste you.” He begged right back, his kisses growing ever closer to your weeping pussy. You whimpered but nodded at his request. A whimper that turned sharp and whiny when those wet kisses were placed over your covered core. Buggy moaned against you, tongue creating a dampened patch on your underwear right above your entrance. 

“B-Buggy--please.” You moaned out, hips starting to ground against his mouth, fingers, and nose to create more and more beautiful mind-numbing frustration. Buggy cursed, that detached hand pulling away from your covered clit to start pulling your underwear down. 

They didn’t get very far over your thighs when Buggy’s tongue ran through your folds. You cried out his name, underwear restricting your legs from opening further for him and all but clamping down around his head. 

You couldn’t find the strength within yourself to stop rotating your hips against his mouth--to try to stop chasing your high long enough to loosen your grip on his head or make sure your underwear wasn’t choking him out. 

But those chop-chop abilities handled all your worries.

His head detached from his neck, freeing your legs from their awkwardly folded position and allowing his hand to finally yank your underwear from your legs, giving you the freedom to hook them over his shoulders, granting him full access to your needy pussy. 

His head popped back into place just as his tongue dipped into your fluttering core, lapping up every last bit of your ever-growing arousal in sinful slurps. 

Your fingers wove their way into his hair, messing up that braid, as your hips ground against his mouth near frantically as that build deep within you began to wind. That detached hand crawled over your stomach and found home once more over your pelvic bone so that it could rub circle after circle into your clit, winding that coil ever tighter. 

You moaned Buggy’s name like a prayer as he continued to fuck you on his tongue. As his own moans vibrated through you and set into motion that snapping release within you. 

A release that tingled through your arching spine and sent that white buzz flooding through your thighs and core, which constricted around Buggy’s tongue. 

You fell back against the counter, sweat making your skin stick to it and chest heaving up in down to catch your breath. Your fingers mused through Buggy’s hair, your thighs twitching and whimpering gasps falling from your mouth as Buggy’s tongue remained buried deep within you, licking up every last bit of your finish. 

“B-Buggy,” You moaned, yanking weakly at his hair. “Ne-need you in me. Please.” Buggy mummed in acknowledgment, sending pleasure-filled vibrations through your sensitive core. You bit your lip as he continued to eat you out--as his fingers continued to rub mind-numbing circles into your clit that had your hips and legs twitching as if to try and get away from the persistent assault of your sensitive body.

“Buggy.” You whimpered, yanking at his hair just the sharpest bit tighter. He pulled from your core then, but not without trailing his drooling tongue back through your folds one last time. You wiggled your hips against the burning feeling that shot through you. 

“M’kay, baby.” He murmured, kissing back up your exposed stomach to find your lips once more. The feel and taste of spit and your release had your mind spinning all over again. Had you hooking your legs together around his waist, pressing his hardened cock against your reignited arousal. 

You moved to fidget with his belt buckle, spurring that detached hand to help you loosen it as well as yank his pants and stripped boxers down far enough to let his cock spring free, it tapping against your sensitive clit. Buggy hissed at the feel of your slick against the reddened tip of him. 

You scooted closer, your ass all but hanging off the edge of the kitchen island so that Buggy’s cock lay flush against your throbbing folds. His lips left yours, resting his forehead on your collarbone so that he could watch as he split you open on his cock, that little whimper of his you loved spilling from his lips with every inch inwards.

You cradled the back of his neck as your walls flexed and adjusted for him, that shimmering pleasure starting that coil deep within yourself up once more. 

“Fuck, songbird.” He groaned lowly as he bottomed out, his lips kissing the valley between your breasts. “So good--always feel so good.” Your lips kissed the bit of his forehead you could reach with a stratified hum. “A-always so good for me. A-always take care of me.” He mumbled, pulling himself out to his red-flushed tip before quickly thrusting back into you, pulling a gasp from your lips.

That shimmer turned into a pleasant buzz with each snap of his hips against your own. A buzz that built with each pass of sticky, warm skin, burning lips, and biting teeth. 

Buggy’s sea-glass eyes found your own once more and you’re breath hitched at the warm emotions swirling within them. Emotions that stayed, not chased away by doubt or fear. 

“I-I--you’re special to me, songbird. You--you make me happy. Happier than I’ve been in years.” Tears pricked at your eyes. Tears you fought against but ultimately lost to. Buggy kissed them away, his thrusts slow and circling to keep you closer. 

“I--I think--” He hesitated, his breath huffing against your cheeks as he continued those shallow thrusts. Thrusts that allowed his cock to hit every last nerve ending within you, starting that white buzz you knew meant the coming of your second release of the night. “I--I missed bein’ ‘round you and it had only been a couple of hours. Fuck--you’re so godsdamn special to me it hurts, songbird.” 

You huffed against the rise of emotions flashing through you. Emotions that only swelled that much more when he nuzzled his nose against yours. When he purposely brought attention yet again to his nose. His nose he protected against insult with rage and violence--but he was letting you near it--feel it. 

He pulled away to look into your eyes again and you found tears were pricking at his own eyes once more. 

Slowly, as to give him more than enough time to pull away, you leaned in to place a small kiss to that nose of his--a nose that complemented him and one you loved. Buggy blinked, those tears rolling down his cheeks. You smiled at him through your pants, wiping his tears away. 

Your lips found his once more in a slow, open-mouthed kiss that brought you two that much closer.

That white buzz zapped through your thighs and spine and toes as it shot through down your core once more, Buggy’s name moaned into his mouth. 

He moaned your own name into your mouth, cock twitching and balls pulling tight before spilling ribbons of hot come deep within you. 

You both fell slumped against each other, taking in each other's air as heavy panting filled the air. 

“I’m…I’m sorry for cryin’,” Buggy mumbled as he pet over the bits of your exposed skin he could get at. You placed a kiss to his neck, fingers messing with his braid. 

“It’s okay, baby. Crying just means you had a good night.” Buggy gave that funky laugh of his, kissing your cheek as he made to look into your eyes once more. His smile, so bright and wide, nearly took your breath away. 

“You’re right. I did.” His lips claimed yours in a kiss just as sweet as the words he had uttered to you moments ago. 

“Hey…Buggy?” You asked once you had fully caught your breath. 

“Yeah, songbird?”

“I was just wondering…what all can you chop off?” Buggy blinked at you in thought, not truly understanding your motives. 

“Well--everything, I guess. Why--” Buggy cut himself off when he spied the mischievous smirk pulling at your lips. You clenched your tired walls around his softened cock in way of question. “Fuck, songbird.” He cursed, his pupils slowly growing larger in lust.

“Can it?” Buggy leaned so close that the tip of your nose touched his. It had your heart fluttering all over again.

“Want to find out?” He asked with a smirk to match your own. 

“Yes, Captain."

<- Previous | Next ->

Tag List: @lostfirefly , @fanaticsnail , @empressofmankind , @fanshavegottensotoxic , @wasabiprophet , @ane5e , @synoname-wordsmith , @cefni , @solarrexplosion , @luvrsbian , @misadventures0fdes , @friedtacokitty

[dontsh0vethesun]

fire

masterlist

melissa schemmenti x reader

pure fluff, kissing, slightly suggestive comments

a/n - based on the ep of the same name because firefighter obsessed melissa is the cutest thing on the planet - wrote this as i rewatched it so hopefully it's not poopoo caca | wc: 1.5k

Maybe you shouldn’t be this smiley following a fire in the break room. It should probably be your main focus. But knowing that there’s a fire truck just outside the school has you buzzing with excitement. And seeing an equally as excited Melissa Schemmenti as you lead your class in a single file down the hallway just made you smile even more. 

“Mel, do you think there’s a chance you could use your skill of persuasion to get me a turn in the truck?” you asked her, smiling so innocently that she couldn’t help but mentally swoon. 

“Right ahead of ya,” she returned before turning to her kids who were waiting to be let back into class. “Okay, now, everyone drop your bags. Zip those coats back up - we’re going on an excursion.”

“What’s an excursion?” one of them questioned. 

“That’s where youse all work those puppy dog eyes to get the firefighters to let us play on the truck,” she answered, loving how you practically bounced your way outside beside her, two rows of children in tow. “I always wanted to be a firefighter - I didn’t realise you were into it all too.”

“Well, I’m not, exactly,” you began, slightly embarrassed at your real reason for rushing outside. “I’ve just always wanted one of those helmets. And to sit in a truck. And maybe put the sirens on.”

Melissa couldn’t help the way her smile seemed impossible to dampen, she stood opposite you as you held the doors open for the kids to follow you outside. She didn’t walk off without leaning in so closely you could smell her perfume though, with her breath against your cheek in a way that made your cheeks set alight. 

“You in a firefighter uniform? I’d definitely buy that calendar.”

You accepted your infatuation with the older woman a while ago, as she had with you. But you both had your fears, dancing on that line between friends and lovers, at a stalemate waiting for the other to make a move.

“See, this is why I love fire trucks. I get older, they stay the same,” she mused, looking at the vehicle. “Nothing beats fire engine red.”

You’re sure she looked at you as she spoke, though you couldn’t return the gaze, too flustered by her as always. The way her jeans made your imagination run wild, how she had the most adorable ramblings for her interest. And, of course, you knew the statement was true. Fire engine red truly was sublime. 

It seemed to only be the pair of you to find amusement in the loud blare from the horn when she pressed it but with a shared bubble of laughter, you couldn’t care less about looking ‘uncool’ in front of the kids. 

“Want a go?” Melissa asked, laughing at your eagerness as you nodded and took her outstretched hand. 

“As if I’d say no,” you answered, feeling bashful when she pulled you onto her lap. She’d claim there was nowhere else for you to sit, that sliding over to the driver’s seat would be too much hassle. She wouldn’t mention the smirk she hid from you when she rested her hands on your waist. 

Again, the both of you received disapproving looks from the firefighters when the horn broke through all the noise, giggling to yourselves immaturely. 

Before long, you’d gone your separate ways, with Melissa spewing knowledge about the topic and you making your way to a man scrolling through his phone. 

“Hey,” you smiled.

“Hi,” he returned, already buying the bordering flirtatious smile you gave him. “You work here?”

“No, I just walked in off the street,” you returned, huffing a laugh at his concerned look. “Yeah, of course I work here. You a firefighter?”

“Touche,” he laughed, “So, what can I do for ya?” 

You almost feel guilty for letting him down, but there’s only one Phillie-accented voice that can make your heart skip a beat. 

“I noticed that there’s a spare jacket lyin’ around,” you uttered with a gesture towards the discarded clothing lying on the ground next to him. “And I was wondering if maybe there’s a hat to go along with it?”

You could tell he was disappointed. You could also tell he was about to deny your request but his words fell on deaf ears when you picked the coat up anyway, smiling largely as you pulled it onto your body. 

“Mel!” you shouted, half jogging away from the owner of the jacket. “How do I look?” 

You gave her a little twirl, the sleeves burying your hands in a way she thought was the most adorable thing she’d ever seen. 

“Like a million bucks,” she smirked, admiring you fondly. “How’d you get ‘em to let you wear it?”

“She didn’t.” Neither of you had noticed him standing near you with a slightly annoyed look on his face. You almost shrunk under his stare but you were too pleased with yourself to care. 

You also didn’t notice Barbara and Jacob asking the group of bored children what they were doing. They approached whilst you returned the jacket with a frown.

“You two are more immature than my kindergarteners,” Barbara tutted. “Now, come inside, we have a mandatory fire safety talk.” 

You’d both been perfectly chastised and followed everybody in without argument.

–

Later on in the day, you’d found her doing what you were headed to do as well, bidding a final farewell to the gloriously red engine. 

“Ma’am, we really need to get going,” one of them sighed. “There’s got to be a fire somewhere.”

“Jacob,” you whispered, nudging your elbow into his side. “Do something.”

“What do you want me to do? I can’t force them to stay here.”

“C’mon, put those improv classes to use.”

Of course, that was enough to get him striding towards them, muttering something about Frisbee and practically fighting the hands away from his cookies that were almost used as a way to fetch it down. 

“Are you familiar with the Schemmentis of Southern Philidelphia?” you interrupted, breathing a sigh of relief when you saw the look of recognition you predicted to pass across his face. 

Soon enough you were watching Melissa climb a ladder to the roof. Part of you was terrified of the sight of heeled boots making their way up metal rungs. But the other watched on blissfully at the complete happiness on her face. You’d give anything to have this sight on a never-ending loop. 

“Thanks for lettin’ me do that,” she grinned once she’d climbed back down, still glowing from the excitement of the day. “Felt better than I could’ve imagined.”

You left her to her conversation, packing up your things from your classroom, cheeks aching from the glee you’ve felt today. You were stuck in your head, still reluctant to let go of the sight of Melissa in her own world. And maybe there were some less than wholesome ideations on your part, remembering the sight of the woman at the top of a ladder. 

A clearing of a throat behind you brought you back to earth and the sight of the redhead made heat crawl up your neck, mentally scolding yourself at the way your mind was beginning to wander. 

“Hey hot stuff,” she smirked; you rolled your eyes at her obvious pun but of course couldn’t help but return her smile. It was surprising how much your lips curl upwards when you’re in her presence, so effortless. 

“Hey.”

“I got ya somethin’,” she spoke, bringing her arms out from behind her back to reveal the shining firefighter helmet in her grasp. She laughed happily at the way you gasped. “Had to pay you back for getting ‘em to let me up on the roof,” she shrugged before placing it atop your head, brushing your hair away from your cheek while you shivered at the feeling of her finger stroking across your skin. 

“Thank you, Melissa,” you smiled, adjusting the way it sat on your head as she stepped closer to where you stood. 

“Anything to see a sweet thing like you lookin’ all cute,” she returned, daring to cup your cheek in her palm. You leant into her touch despite the way you wanted to shy away; there’s something about her that crushes the fear of vulnerability, you could never be anything but perfectly comfortable around her. 

“They wouldn’t let me try one on,” you pouted, which only made her eyes glint lovingly. 

“Eh, screw ‘em,” she chuckled, “Now, please, let me kiss you.”

You pulled her into you as soon as the words fell from her mouth. You felt her smile against your lips; you could feel the softness of her lip gloss and the lick of her tongue into your mouth. Your knees could’ve buckled if not for the firm hold she’d taken of your hips and yet you feared they’d betray you anyway when she pulled away with pink flushed cheeks and a heated look in her eyes. 

“Dinner at mine, tonight.” It wasn’t a question and her tone sent heat coursing through you; of course you nodded, unable to speak just yet as you tried to catch the breath she stole.

“How’d you get them to give you this, anyway?” you breathed, lips ghosting hers from how she couldn’t bring herself to pull away just yet.

“I’m Melissa Schemmenti,” she shrugged. “I always find a way to get what I want.”

[fathercharlesoffdensen]

"Charles invading Magneto's mind (an act Magneto's right to call a violation) leaves Erik stranded in the literal freezing waters of his lifelong PTSD. Those tumultuous ocean waves, an obvious metaphor for Erik's mind, threaten to sweep both Erik and Charles away. 'Both' is Episode 10's key word. Charles Xavier could've easily consigned Magneto to his agony and gone about his business. Instead, he makes a choice simultaneously selfless and selfish. He doesn't fight Bastion (Theo James) with his X-Men. He stays in Magneto's mind and risks not just his own life, but his psyche. Even though the gesture doesn't excuse Charles's mental attack, he seizes this rare opportunity to help his beloved friend escape his emotional torment. Charles Xavier will either drag Erik free or drown with him, holding him close in the seething ocean.

"Charles is the only person capable of reaching Magneto because they're equals and opposites. Call them polar magnets or counterbalancing scale weights — or just soulmates. They complete one another, overused Jerry Maguire quote or not. Magneto hears Rogue's (Lenore Zann) distraught voice crying out to him in his amnesiac darkness. Hers is the only face he sees from his memories. Yet without erasing or diminishing his obvious love for Rogue, Erik also adores Charles. He has for decades. Even when they were physically apart, Charles rested in Erik's mind. Blocking out Xavier's influence is why Magneto wears his helmet. As Rogue wisely points out to Erik in Episode 2, 'You were worried if you still felt how much he loved you, you wouldn't be able to go through with your crusade.' That helmet is Magneto's armor against love.

"So, of course, it's Charles who reminds his fragmented self of the identity he forged from the ashes. Charles's compassion succeeds for the first time not because X-Men '97 backpedals their 'Magneto was right' statement in Xavier's favor. Rather, Charles finally works to meet Erik where he is. Erik might be an island because of and despite himself, but his fate needn't be forever lost and always losing. Charles reminds him they are a chosen family of two. He bleeds the poison from Erik's heart. And Magneto emerges reborn, reclaiming himself, his memories, and his purpose. He couldn't have a true redemption arc without Charles at his side."

[dykeulous]

"I hold power over you in some ways and you hold power over me in some ways" sounds agreeable between people on the same level of the social hierarchy, but what power do any trans women - non-passing trans women especially - hold over cis women? I can't understand the disconnect between continuing to treat us like we have any of that structural power, or like we're still too dangerous to change clothes next to, without asserting we're essentially men benefiting from the patriarchy exactly as men do. You seem to acknowledge that sometimes people can be mean to us, but you must surely recognize the depth of pain and disempowerment that all trans people are subjected to. I truly understand that cis women do suffer greatly. But when statistics show that trans women are so much more likely to be raped and murdered, does that not show us to be uniquely weak compared to cis women, and more or less equal to trans men? I don't like ranking oppression either, but like, I just can't fathom how I could be the more socially favored next to a cis woman.

trans women face a very unique form of oppression, doubly so if also oppressed on other axes (race, class, ability, etc.), and they have challenges & struggles that cis women do not have to deal with. however, the reverse is also true. trans women, especially black trans women, are at high risks of prostitution, rape, economic abuse & homelessness, but using this statistic to declare that trans women are somehow more oppressed, or that their oppression somehow matters more than female-specific misogyny, is insensitive to the core. female socialization teaches & indoctrinates female people (so, both cis women & transmascs) into being meek & quiet, and so many rape & abuse cases go unreported because of this & many other factors– oftentimes, cis women are raped by their family members & relatives, which can also make things harder for speaking out about the abuse. male people will have to listen to us when we speak of this, and even trans women will have to step up & listen this time. you are not exempt from criticism, and if we can listen to your insights & experiences, you can do the same for us, even out of basic human respect & courtesy, if not out of genuine interest for learning.

trans women do have legitimate power over cis women (& i’m not saying this as a blank statement), even more so if the trans woman is non-passing, actually. oppression is not based on identity, and while i understand that a non-passing trans woman has an inner battle she has to deal with that cis women generally do not, as well as that she still faces unique struggles cis women do not– claiming that she’s somehow “more oppressed” & wields no systemic power over a cis woman whatsoever is just nebulous. we must take in & analyze all of our differing life experiences, and not jump to attack at the mere acknowledgment of male privilege and sex-based oppression. a non-passing trans woman isn’t being hatecrimed nor oppressed if a cis woman feels uncomfortable & unsafe in her presence, especially in female-only spaces. this is another way trans women can have more power over cis women; they treat female-only spaces as validation, while cis women are basically trapped in those spaces– either out of safety, fear, or sexism (as there definitely are female-only spaces that women are pushed/forced into). a large reason as to why female-only spaces even exist in the first place is because of sexism, and we cannot solve that by absolving female-only spaces & letting everyone in based on identity (which would just result in allowing cis men in anyway, and ultimately stop considering identity at all) while still not absolving misogyny.

we cannot get rid of female-only spaces before getting rid of misogyny. cis women being afraid of non-passing trans women isn’t cis women being secretly bigoted, it’s them being rightfully afraid of male people; and if you truly want to prove that you’re safe, you will have to not only identify as a woman, but also with women. anyone with a fully functional penis has the ability to harm a cis woman via exploiting this specific organ (obviously not only cis women– but also transmascs, transfems & cis men, i’m not trying to imply that only cis women or female people face sexual assault, i’m only going with this since i’m answering to this particular ask– but then again, cis women & female people are the only ones capable of being impregnated, so add on another fear & female-specific oppression). i’m not trying to say that male people are evil or that penises are evil or radioactive or whatever– penises aren’t made to do evil, and people with penises aren’t evil for having penises; those who do harm with them are evil, and cis women (or anyone really) aren’t being bigoted when they point out their valid & justified fear of penises. this doesn’t serve to fearmonger about trans women, and i absolutely understand that there are genuinely transphobic cis women out there who use this to try & further the falsified & transphobic belief how trans women are somehow more dangerous than cis men, or how trans women are predatory sexual abusers. the existence of such cis women, however, doesn’t negate the reality that cis women do have the right to be scared of the male population, and the reality that trans women do have & yield systemic privilege & power over cis women.

trans women can have power over cis women based on the types of female-specific oppression cis women face, that trans women do not; such as religious misogyny (trans women do face religious transphobia), medical misogyny (trans women do face medical transphobia & medical transmisogyny) & cultural misogyny. non-passing trans women don’t face social misogyny, neither, while still however being able of facing economic transmisogyny/economic homophobia & transphobia. trans women, passing or not, never had to experience the [childhood] trauma of female puberty (so, not talking about hormone reassignment therapy here), period stigma, and fear that comes with growing up with a female body/being told “you’re growing up now! you’re no longer a girl you’re a woman now!”, etc. i understand the agony of feeling like you’re trapped in the wrong body, of being severely dysphoric & in pain, as i’m trans myself, and i believe that trans women here can offer a perspective of their own specific childhood trauma connected with puberty– however this shouldn’t be done in a way that will disconnect & discourage cis women & female people from talking about their own experiences. we cannot all relate to each other all of the time. sometimes we just have to sit down and listen.

male privilege is real, and while not all trans women have it (and those who do have it in varying forms, sizes & levels), they still shouldn’t feel attacked when the topic of male socialization/male privilege/systemic power is brought up. i’ll go back to my original statement– i hold power over you in some ways, and you hold power over me in some ways. this makes sense when applied to trans women & cis women, as well.

[youruinedmylifebynotbeingreal]

Your Mess is Mine

AO3

Summary: Corvus was equal parts excited and nervous to bake with Soren. Soren had proclaimed himself a disaster in the kitchen, so Corvus (and Barius) were apprehensive about letting him in there. But when Soren had broached the idea of him and Corvus baking for his birthday together instead of Corvus doing it on his own… Well, Corvus had baked for Gren’s birthday with Amaya. If he could survive that with passable results, he could do anything.

Plus, Corvus had never been able to say no when Soren asked him something nicely. It’s how he’d ended up in the Crownguard at all.

And when he pulled out those puppy-dog eyes? Corvus was a lost cause.

Note: The biggest of thank you's to the amazing @stuck-in-jelly for beta reading this✨

…

Soren woke to the feeling of lips on his cheek and a hand on his side.

“Let me sleep, it’s my birthday.” he mumbled, rolling in the opposite direction. He felt the bed dip as the person next to him rolled over as well.

“Fine, but I guess you won’t get your birthday breakfast…” a voice said in his ear with a dramatic sigh.

Soren’s eyes popped open, and he shot up in bed, nearly hitting Corvus in the face with his shoulder. “That’s right! We’re baking together!”

“Not if you knock me out before we’re even out of bed.” Corvus was still in a defensive position from when Soren sat up, leaning back on one arm with the other in front of his face. Once he’d peeked around his hand to make sure Soren was still, he sat up next to him.

“I knew you’d dodge me,” Soren said with a shrug. He leaned over and gave Corvus a quick peck on the lips. Corvus unconsciously chased his lips, but Soren had already bounded on to the next topic, oblivious to Corvus’s pining. “Good morning!”

“Good morning, birthday boy,” Corvus said, wrapping his arms around Soren’s waist, snuggling into him and resting his cheek on Soren’s shoulder. Soren couldn’t help his smile. This was his first birthday since their temporary defeat of Aaravos. Soren tried not to let the “temporary” bit of that statement bother him right now. He had an amazing boyfriend, and all of his friends - no, his true family - were gathered at the Banther Lodge for him. It would be a good day.

Corvus continued with a, “Sleep well?”

Soren nodded. “Yeah. You?”

The exchange was pointless. They both knew they’d slept well - neither had woken the other with a shout or had bolted upright with a gasp covered in a cold sweat.

But it was nice to have that reassurance.

Corvus nodded as best he could with his head on Soren. “I guess that was just birthday gift number one from the universe.”

“Ooh, how many birthday gifts do I have?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Corvus responded cheekily, sitting up to stretch and get ready for the day. Soren eyed the sliver of skin that was revealed as his shirt rode up, but the momentary distraction didn’t last long when gifts were being discussed.

“Yeah. I would. That’s why I’m asking.”

“Never change, Soren. Never change.”

…

Corvus knew Soren would test his patience that day and was trying to prepare himself. He didn’t want to get frustrated with Soren on his birthday. He fiddled with the scarf in his hands before setting it on the kitchen counter, next to the little nest he’d created for Hat. Best to have it out of the way so they wouldn’t get anything on it when they inevitably made a mess.

Corvus was equal parts excited and nervous to bake with Soren. Soren had proclaimed himself a disaster in the kitchen, so Corvus (and Barius) were apprehensive about letting him in there. But when Soren had broached the idea of him and Corvus baking for his birthday together instead of Corvus doing it on his own… Well, Corvus had baked for Gren’s birthday with Amaya. If he could survive that with passable results, he could do anything.

Plus, Corvus had never been able to say no when Soren asked him something nicely. It’s how he’d ended up in the Crownguard at all.

And when he pulled out those puppy-dog eyes? Corvus was a lost cause.

Not that he’d ever regret saying yes to joining the Crownguard. Living inside, in one place, wasn’t so bad when he had close friendships. He’d been scared to leave Amaya and Gren, but even if they were physically farther apart, their friendship was stronger than ever. Somehow, it felt like they’d been through more together the last six months than his whole time in the Standing Battalion.

Corvus was leaning against the counter in the kitchen when his thoughts of the past were interrupted by his thoughts of the future barging in.

“I’m here! Sorry I’m late, Ez, Callum, and Zym stopped me on my way down, and -”

He stopped mid-sentence when he noticed Corvus had all the necessary ingredients (and more importantly, the sugary sweet condiments) lined up on the island, and that he was holding out two novelty aprons.

Soren doubled over in laughter, poor Hat clinging to his hair for dear life.

One apron said, “Kiss the Cook” in big block letters, and the other had a pattern with various types of bread that said, “Suns Out, Buns Out.”

“I’ll have you know that Rayla and Ezran chose these specifically for today,” Corvus deadpanned.

“I didn’t think these were quite your style,” Soren joked as he walked up and inspected both aprons. “And you’re willing to wear one?”

Corvus nodded.

“You’re too good to me.” Soren regarded the aprons for a moment. “Okay. Which would you prefer?”

Corvus shook his head. As usual, Soren was trying to put others’ wants ahead of his own. “Nope. Your choice.”

Soren sighed, but his lips couldn’t help quirking up. Corvus already knew what Soren’s choice would be and resigned himself to his fate.

“Okay, for you… this one.” Soren pointed at the bread one with a smirk. “Because you’re the bread. And for me… this one.” He pointed at the “Kiss the Cook” one.

Just as Corvus expected. He nodded and handed Soren his apron.

…

They were both out of their usual armor, so the aprons should’ve fit with no problem. Corvus had seemed to put on his apron with no trouble, but Soren just could not get it tied behind him. He felt like he was going in circles with it. And Soren was also, quite literally, going in a circle with his attempts to see the strings to tie them together.

Hat watched with amusement and concern from across the room, lounging on an old chef’s hat that Corvus had turned into a cozy bed for the baitling for the morning. Hat chittered pointedly at Corvus before settling down to nap.

Hands on Soren’s hips stalled him.

“Need a hand?”

Soren sighed and nodded. “Yes, please.”

Corvus quickly got the strings tied together in a neat bow and wrapped Soren in a hug from behind. “You can put on a full suit of armor but can’t tie an apron?”

“Just one of my lovable quirks.”

“You are quite lovable.”

Soren flushed and felt lips press against his shoulder, causing him to turn even redder. Instinctively, he tilted his head to give Corvus more room.

He felt Corvus press a grin into his skin before Corvus’s warmth was gone. “So, what do you want to make first? Pancakes or waffles?” he asked, hands on his hips and looking at the ingredients on the counter.

Soren turned towards him with a pout.

“Nope, don’t give me that face.”

“But you’re supposed to kiss the cook! It says so right here.” Soren pointed at his apron.

“Well, you haven’t cooked anything yet. And if you don’t eat soon, you’ll get all cranky.”

“Hangry.” Soren said seriously, nodding his head. “Hungry plus angry.”

Corvus groaned and scrubbed a hand down his face. “Sure. You get… hangry.”

Soren chose waffles for breakfast and pancakes for dinner, so they’d come back and make those later. He honestly wasn’t sure how the waffles got from Point A to Point B, but he did know that he stirred the batter (“It’s an arm workout that leads to food! Corvus, this is genius! We should do this more often.”) and soon saw their golden deliciousness on a platter, ready for their friends to descend upon. Rayla and Terry had already been in once to help bring all the fruits, sprinkles, and the other various condiments to the dining table.

While they were finishing up in the kitchen, Soren noticed a streak of flour across Corvus’s right cheek and couldn’t resist reaching a hand out to rub it away.

…

Soren had done surprisingly well that morning, Corvus thought. Corvus knew that Soren knew how to take orders as a soldier, and he was just as good at listening and following directions in the kitchen. Soren had made sure the wet and dry ingredients were kept separate until the right time and he’d measured out each waffle carefully.

Corvus was proud of him. Soren wasn’t as much of a disaster in the kitchen as he’d feared.

Corvus was drying off the last dish when he felt a hand on his cheek, and Soren’s thumb vigorously rubbing one spot. Corvus looked at Soren out of the corner of his eye and raised an eyebrow.

“There’s flour, but it won’t go away,” Soren explained frustratedly. But he didn’t move his hand, switching to appreciatively running his thumb across Corvus’s stubble. Corvus leaned into the touch, putting down the dish he’d been holding and turning his attention to Soren.

“You have flour on your face too, you know.” He didn’t, actually, but Soren didn’t need to know that. Corvus mirrored Soren, placing his hand on Soren’s left cheek, looking into his eyes. Their free hands settled on each other’s waists.

A goofy grin appeared on Soren’s face, and Corvus couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his lips in response. They were silent for a moment, and Corvus couldn’t help but get lost in Soren’s eyes. He’d always had an affinity for blue, but after meeting and falling in love with Soren? It was definitely his favorite color. Corvus couldn’t look at the sky, a body of water, a bird, and more without being reminded of his favorite person and comparing the color to Soren’s eyes.

Corvus also appreciated the pure joy he saw in Soren’s eyes, no hint of sadness or doubt. It made him unfairly handsome.

Soren deserved to be that happy. They both did.

Corvus hadn’t realized how long they’d been quiet, just standing in each other’s space until Soren quipped, “Well, I’ve cooked something now…”

“You have.”

“So, where’s my kiss, love?” Soren whispered, bringing Corvus’s face closer to his.

Corvus could’ve teased him longer, but he didn’t feel like it. Especially when Soren pulled out a “love.” It made Corvus weak at the knees, and Soren knew that. He’d made Soren wait long enough. Today was about Soren getting everything he could possibly want, so he pressed their lips together, cupping Soren’s face tenderly.

Soren’s hand moved from Corvus’s cheek to his back, grasping his shoulder as Soren let out a contented sigh. Corvus let himself be backed into the island, and noticed that Soren’s hand had disappeared from his waist. He wasn’t too concerned by it; he was a little busy and Soren’s hands were always roaming.

That is, he wasn’t concerned until he felt a powdery substance making its way down his shirt and back.

Corvus broke the kiss with a gasp, and Soren downright giggled. Corvus glanced behind him to see Soren’s missing hand covered in flour. And Soren had just dumped a handful down Corvus’s back.

…

Seeing Corvus’s face change from desire to irritation was comical, and Soren couldn’t help the giggle that escaped.

“Soren!”

The man in question just shrugged. “I’ve always wanted to have a flour fight,” he explained as he dipped his hands into the flour bowl behind Corvus once again. “What better time to make that dream come true than my birthday?”

Corvus ducked out from Soren’s arms, face dark as a storm cloud. He moved the flour bowl away as he did so. Of course, this just caused a cloud of flour to cover Corvus’s face. So now it was a bit more like a snowstorm on his face, Soren thought.

“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter that I couldn’t get that flour off of your cheek, then,” Soren mused.

Corvus raised a now-covered-in-white eyebrow.

“Oh, it is on.”

The two pointedly avoided where Hat and Corvus’s scarf lay, but aside from that, it was an all-out flour war. The others had peaked in at one point when they realized they’d been waiting for the waffles for quite some time, but decided it was best to leave the two boyfriends to… whatever it was they were doing.

Eventually, the bowls ran out of flour, and they both slid to the ground in laughter, leaning against the island.

“Barius is going to have our heads,” Corvus said between guffaws of laughter.

“Eh, I think Ez will protect us.”

“Don’t be so sure about that!” the King’s voice called from the next room, where he was talking with the others at the dining table. The two Crownguards went silent, eyes widening in shock. “I’ve been waiting on breakfast forever.”

Soren met Corvus’s eyes, and the two burst back into peals of laughter.

“We’re on it!” Soren called, standing up and brushing off his knees - as if that would actually help with getting the flour off. He held a hand out for Corvus, who gladly took it. Soren knew that his past leg injury could flare up if Corvus moved it just the wrong way, leaving him limping the rest of the day. Not that Soren wouldn’t gladly dote on Corvus all day if that’s what it came to, but Soren didn’t want to see his partner in pain on his birthday.

As usual, the one point of contact turned into more, because Soren pulled Corvus in for a quick hug once they were both standing.

“Thank you for indulging me,” Soren said softly.

Corvus shook his head. “Thank you, darling. That was more fun than I thought it would be. I guess you just bring out the silly sides of me.” He tried not to think about how they’d have to clean this all up later.

Soren had been smiling so much that morning, his cheeks were starting to hurt. “Any time, babe.”

…

After that, the two men brought out the waffles, with just a little extra flour on them. Ezran decided they would go outside for a picnic so Soren and Corvus wouldn’t get flour in the Lodge - anymore than they already had, that is (“You two are not getting flour into these seat cushions! We’ll go outside instead.”).

…

Author’s Note:

Earlier this month I lamented the lack of Sorvus baking fanfics, so I took it upon myself to create the fic I want to see in the world.

Thank you for reading!