#this is so easy to get used to and so important

[naamahdarling]

Great news! For those doubting its authenticity, it's on the British Library's site.

I've seen a couple of people doubting it because of how the text in the speech bubbles looks.

It looks like that because the upper bit of text was typeset for a printing press using wee metal letters, and those had straight tops and bottoms and they used guides to make sure all the little metal letter blocks lined up straight.

For a sideways-tilting thing, they had to individually place each letter, turned a little to the side, with no straight bottom line. Note how the letters are out of line up and down in relation to each other, but not in their rotation; the sides were straight up against each other. I'm not an expert, but I'm guessing it was so they could get all the text in one go, instead of having to do more passes with the paper rotated on one of them?

The extra space in the bubbles was probably because the artist would not have known exactly how much room it would take, but was making an educated guess. Heck. They may not even have known exactly what would be printed there, just that it would be very rude.

It would have been suspicious if the type had HAD a straight base line, since rotating a whole block of text like this in an image editor is very easy, and replicating THIS level of jankiness today would require each letter to be rotated and aligned individually on a different layer, and either messing around with the text by creating imperfections that make each letter distinct or using alternate letters, if the font even had them which most free or cheap ones do not, since looking closely shows that they aren't identical -- literally because they were different pieces of metal and the ink was not perfect. It would be a massive pain in the ass for a joke. I make stupid fake shit for funsies, and even I would not go through this much effort for something I didn't think was really important. I definitely NEVER thought of the letters being out of alignment vertically.

So the image is indeed real! This really is just a genuinely hilarious authentic period image of two ladies having at each other.

the more things change the more they stay the same

[rafeslvbug]

introducing…cia!rafe

back to basics!! (physical)

height: 6”4, intimidating for younger officers. would definitely use it to his advantage though, lift you up while kissing, or to reach things from high shelves. have you on his lap so you can be levelled, lean his arm on your head.

build: 200lbs. veiny and back muscles top priority. would participate in all those pull up/chin up challenges back in training.

age: mid thirties. experienced, lets everyone knows it. when he arrives on base, they only need one look at his face to know he’s superiority. they bend over backwards for him.

looks!! (specific)

scars and war wounds: bullet wound in his lower abdomen, that he got a week before your first year wedding anniversary during an attempt to take down a large cartel. always has bruises on his arms, scratches up them and his back too. bullet skimming his skin on his top left shoulder, and below on his upper arm too.

badge: never takes it off. always dangling round his neck, under his shirt, or tucked into his pocket with his wallet. always prepared to take it out if need be, flashing it when he has to. would honestly shove the badge in your mouth if you spoke too much.

personality

paranoid: rafe is always cautious. when you go shopping, walks in the park, restaurant dates. who knows what spies there could be? and it’s justified– on one occasion there really was someone who tried to take you from him, and rafe didn’t let you out the house without him for three weeks. drove you to work, kept an eye on you, drove you home. closed all the blinds, gave you a course on how to notice the people against him, always watching out the windows.

decisive: makes decisions immediately. they’re not uninformed, he always gets the facts first, then makes his choice. but he doesn’t hesitate– says it’s how you end up getting caught. can’t pick a restaurant? he can do it. can’t figure out which order to do chores in? barking out orders like he’s talking to his officers. luckily, you’re a nurse, you often have to make split second decisions, so he doesn’t have to worry about indecisiveness in dire situations. he doesn’t like people who do that.

firm: no arguments, you might want to argue, but there’s no chance for it. he makes a choice, he sticks by it, you can’t change his mind– for better or for worse. might occasionally interrupt you if you try to counter back at him, tends to forget he’s not always in action, and treats you like one of his men/women.

dislikes

ties. makes him feel scratchy at the neck, dangly and get in his way. can’t wear his badge when he wears them and has to wear full collared tops too. wears it to important briefings or meetings. always makes you tie it for him, because if not, he’ll spend hours trying to perfect it in the mirror.

when he turns up at a military base and they don’t show him the respect he’s owed. he’s the highest ranking officer wherever he goes, and expects to be treated as such.

when you try to get him to quit his job. take it easy. he’s never taken anything easy, he wants to fight for his country, protect people. he believes he has to do this.

your teary voice when he’s badly injured on the plane back, holding a bullet wound down, telling you to tell his son how much he loves him– because he doesn’t say it often. telling you to be strong, that he might not make it. the sobs you bite back that hurt his heart more than the bleeding.

likes

missions going his way. success. protecting his country. stopping harmful organisations. doing what’s right.

coming home to you. your son. the way you inspect him when he comes in, scanning for every injury. he doesn’t like the coddling, but he loves that you care.

showering with you. sleeping with you. lunch with you. mundane things that are drastically different when he’s on missions. he showers hardly, no time, no space. beds are small and cramped. lunch is rationed, quick and on the go. but with you, he can take his time. do things properly.

family and people-specific hcs

his nicknames for you: sweet thing, baby, darlin’

his nicknames for your son: little agent, kid, son

he’ll always come home if he can avoid going to a hospital, rather being patched up by you than some other random doctor. you’re his personal nurse at this point.

would constantly assess his son growing up to see if he’s cia material. you’re forever scolding him for it, but he does it unintentionally. watching him carefully while he plays with his toys, overanalysing each comment he makes like it could be something insightful.

[blossomcola]

pairing. nerd!gp sophia laforteza x student!! fem reader

content warnings. cockwarming, riding, toys.

nerd sophia who is forced to help you study for the next exam due to your poor grade in the previous midterm. you could have asked for help from one of your colleagues or someone you have spoken to at least once before, but of course, you can’t do that when your group of friends is literally the slackers of the class and none of the students have grades as good as sophia’s.

she is somewhat awkward to talk to. whenever you saw her with her group of friends she was really loud, but now? different from what you always used to see from afar. she would be sitting in the chair next to you, quiet and still as you completed the exercises she gave you so you can practice a little after she explains the main topics to you.

a fact of no less importance: sophia is a huge pervert. she would pretend to be paying attention and nodding from time to time when you asked her something about the exercises, pretending to listen to you attentively when in reality she has her gaze fixed on your tits, surreptitiously licking her lips and trying to stop her mind from working on depraved thoughts that only a sick person would have. sophia has a thing for blatantly looking at girls’ bodies, something that is easy to hide when you see them passing by in the hallway and not when you have one in front of your eyes.

ohhh but the moment you catch her red–handed… sophia realizes she screwed up when you stop talking to look at her, noticing how she is looking at you and not paying attention to your questions. at first sophia would try to apologize, stuttering and stumbling over her words as she tried to give an apology but getting a pathetic result because she doesn’t know what to say or come up with a credible excuse to save her skin. good luck to her that she doesn’t have to keep trying to excuse herself because you almost immediately shut her up by kissing her, swallowing the moan she lets out in surprise but it doesn’t take long for her to reciprocate.

ending up riding sophia, bouncing on her cock to your liking while she just sits underneath you, looking at you through the lenses of her glasses in amazement but unable to comment because only whimpers or low curses come out of her mouth, only being able to position her hands on your hips to guide your movements to her liking and little by little begin to move her hips upwards to fuck you from below. it’s not like a loser like sophia has any experience with women to know what to do, but it’s more because she may or may not have a fleshlight that she likes to play with from time to time and imagine she’s fucking a pretty girl’s pussy instead of a stupid toy <3 sophia feels like she’s won heaven by finally fucking a girl for real and not having to solve her erection with a cold shower or fuck her own fist while jerking off.

this means you'll have to warm sophia’s cock while you‘re studying, under the promise she gave you saying that she’ll bend you over the table and give you a good fucking if you do all the exercises correctly.

[miss-m-winks]

Yeah honestly, I just appreciate fantasy that puts thought into its world. I don't think every fantasy needs to go into detail about like, why there are potatoes there. A lot of the time, "potato" is also just an easy shorthand to tell the audience "starchy root vegetables exist here", like in LotR where a lot of the details you might consider anachronisms are very easily overlooked with the "this is a translation" explanation. And LotR makes that explanation work because of all the other unique details present in the worldbuilding.

The problems with anachronisms usually come in when they don't feel like they've been integrated well with the rest of the world. I can believe Hobbits have potatoes because of how much farming they do. Of course they've managed to breed their own starchy root vegetable they can call a potato. It's easy to picture them having every fruit and vegetable known to man, because they love food and they do a lot of farming. That's all it takes to make the potato and the cornfields fit into their world.

But if I'm reading a book set in a standard UK-ish middle ages/vaguely old fashioned time period, and out of nowhere they're using oranges as a casual common breakfast fruit, or coffee just shows up to be a regular morning drink, or cheap chocolate candy just exists now, all with exactly the same connotations they have in our real modern world, i find that weird. It throws me out of immersion.

I don't need the author to write a whole paragraph explaining where those things came from, but I am going to need a little more set up and a reason to feel like those details actually fit the world. They need to fade into the background, easily overlooked. If they stand out, they end up feeling weird. If your worldbuilding can't stand on its own enough for me to glance past the morning coffee, there's a problem.

I think the root cause is authors who just toss in details from their own modern life experiences without really considering whether or not it fits. They're not immersing themselves into the world they're writing, and you can kinda feel it. So authors just need to get into their own worlds and think about what it's really like to live there, and I think that fixes most of the immersion problems.

All it takes is a little description of a fantastical orchard and I can believe the oranges. Mention the import market and I can believe the coffee. Maybe give it a new cultural context while you're at it.

For the longest time I opted on the side of "no coffee, potatoes, etc" in fantasy writing, on the argument that if I was writing a pseudo-european medieval story, featuring elements brought to Europe by colonialism would imply the existence of colonialism, and if I was going to include that kind of elements, I could not just mention them casually, it would have to be a major theme of the story.

Then I scrolled past a post on tumblr specifically about "can you have potatoes in a fantasy setting for no reason" that had pics of Peruvian potato farmers and asked "are you really too much of a coward to not write these people into your stories?" (the tone was probably not that accusative, I paraphrase from my own perspective of this), and something clicked in my head, and this epiphany manifested in my head as Gordon Ramsay yelling

"IT WAS NOT THE FUCKING COLONIALISM THAT INVENTED THE FUCKING POTATO."

[ghouljams]

If sandwich shop reader is having a particularly bad day, would ghost notice? Also he makes sure that his cooking area is clean of victims' blood and stuff right? Just thinking about how easy it can be to accidentally contaminate an area or even just a plate. Like if someone washes their bloody hands in the sink and flicks water everywhere, or if they use a rag to wipe something but it looks clean so the chef later uses to wipe his hands. And about readers nut allergy, some ppl can't even be in the same room as someone eating peanut butter. Contamination is scary stuff

First and most important: Ghost runs a tight ship in his restaurant. That kitchen is so clean you'd think it was a murder scene in a former life. No blood is coming into that kitchen and if Soap thinks he's getting his grubby little powder covered hands anywhere near Ghost's sink he's got another thing coming. You could eat off those floors. The health and safety inspector has never seen a kitchen this perfect. Sure he was paid by Price to give Ghost a passing grade for the paperwork but seriously the place is close to godliness with how clean it is.

And of course Ghost notices when his best (see only) customer is having a bad day. Mostly because you always order extra chips when you're feeling down, but also because he is an observant motherfucker who may or may not care a small amount about you. Might even consider you something close to a friend. Don't ask.

But listen, Ghost isn't the guy that comforts people. He's not the guy that listens to people's problems and pats their head with a "there there" afterwards. He's the guy that strings up Johns in the basement when they can't pay a girl's fee (see cutting into Price's favorite business line) and breaks knee caps when schmucks can't pay after horse races. He's the one cutting off pinkies, not sewing them back on (he will put it on ice though, just in case someone wants to change their mind about Price's terms). So the best he can do is pack you a sandwich for later and forget to charge you for it. Maybe he'll give you the rest of the sourdough loaf the Mrs made and some of that allioli Gaz grabbed last time he had dealings in Spain.

What is comfort if not bread and butter? Sounds good enough to a man like Ghost, and you haven't turned it down yet so it must be good enough for you too.

[aetherograph]

^^^^You need THIS, not marriage! You need power of attorney and a will, not! fucking! MARRIAGE!!!

"Don't tell queer people not to get MARRIED" I AM QUEER, I DIVORCED A QUEER, AND I'M TELLING YOU DON'T GET MARRIED.

Getting married is cheap, fast, and easy? You know what divorce ISN'T?

Your spouse has a TERRIFYING amount of privileges that they don't have when they're just your partner. Financial boundaries? Nope, you're married! Doesn't matter what you do, legally your spouse gets access to all your money. This is very dangerous. Marriage obliterates a LOT of legal boundaries that protect you from other people. Don't give those up. Ever. I don't care how much you love that person, how long you've been with them. Don't give up your fucking freedom and ownership of what is yours like that.

You need power of attorney and a will, that will protect you against next-of-kin horrors our elders had to endure during the AIDS crisis. You need to ability to suddenly pick up and leave if you need to.

Queer people can and do horrifically abuse one another, there just has never been any studies done on us, because nobody cared until recently. There is ZERO data on trans people. There is vanishingly little on cis queers. But what little data we have suggests that domestic violence is much, much more common in our population than it is in the cis straight population. Which makes sense--society doesn't love us, tells us we're horrible; so abusers can use that to keep us from leaving them.

Get power of attorney and a will.

Do NOT get married. Not until marriage undergoes a LOT of changes that make it less dangerous (like having customisable terms and not only being "forever" as the only length of time). Queer rights do not begin and end with marriage. Literally everything else is more important than that.

absolutely incredible to me that "in the event of your inability to consent, your autonomy and rights will be entrusted to your closest living relative or parental guardian" is a pillar of widely accepted legislation upholding almost every society across the modern world and not like. the premise of some work of speculative horror fiction.

[guppiechuu]

smoke signals ★ ༄.° l.h.

plug!heeseung x fem!reader

length: 3k

warnings: smut (minors dni), dry humping, drug use (marijuana), kissing, shotgunning smoke, dirty talk

synopsis: rule #1: never fuck your plug. but it’s oh-so hard to remember this rule when your plug is sooo hot and soooo into you.

⤷ chuu's 💌 ── .✦ anon requested stoner!heeseung dry humping and as a DH connoisseur I HAD to oblige :)

——

You weren't supposed to be here.

You had one rule. Don't date your plug.

It was too messy. Too close. Too many girls who were angling for the same thing—twirling their hair round their fingers as they asked for favors, dragging their nails down his bicep, adding extra emojis and letters to all their text exchanges.

You didn't want to be part of the entourage that trailed after him, sliding into his lap at parties, stealing the blunt from his lips mid-conversation. Not your style.

The only problem? He didn't seem to care about any of those girls. He had his eyes on one person. You.

Heeseung had started inviting you over to smoke a few months ago. It was innocent enough—a joint and a movie, most of the time. He was generous enough to let you smoke for free, though it wasn't lost on you why he treated you with such glimmering hospitality.

He made it obvious how interested he was.

And you made it obvious that you were not.

At least, that's what you told yourself.

Heeseung's pursuit was admirable, and you liked the way his attention made you feel, but he probably invited all the girls he supplied to over.

Probably flirted with each one the way he did with you, watched them with the same lazy hunger in his eyes that always had you stumbling over your words. What, were you supposed to believe he'd never had a crush on a customer before? He did this with everyone. It wasn't special.

Even if you were the only person he ever rolled up for.

Even if he always let you hit first, eyes locked on the shape of your lips as you inhaled.

Even if he always sat a little too close when the lights were off.

You stuck to your side of the couch. Kept your arms crossed over yourself like it might stop the tension from boiling up every time he moved and you felt him brush against you.

And usually it worked.

Until tonight.

There was something about being there with him, the way he kept stretching out on the couch, finding reasons to brush up against you. Eyes lingering on you as he passed you the joint, fingers bumping yours on purpose.

"You look tired. Long day?"

You shrugged, trying to ignore the way he was staring. “Just work."

"You should relax.” His face was soft and easy, lips curving into that smirk he always wore around you. The one that said all you had to do was push, and he’d give completely. “I could help with that.”

You threw him a sideways glance, hollowing your cheeks as you inhaled. He watched, shifting slightly. He was always doing that—watching your mouth as you smoked, like he was living vicariously through the joints he rolled you.

Maybe that's why he was always so eager to offer them.

"I'm not one of your girls," You retorted, exhaling towards the ceiling.

He tilted his head. Like you were a challenge he was all too willing to take on. “Never said you were.”

"I'm not just gonna slide into your lap," You said, a little too sharply.

Heeseung grinned. "Didn't ask you to."

Silence.

You ignored him, struggling to decide between being annoyed and mildly turned on. His persistence was flattering, you could admit that much.

He just smirked a little, clearly amused at how easily he was getting to you. “You keep saying no, but you always come back."

Your mouth went dry.

Maybe you were just tired. Overworked and a little lonely—making you extra susceptible to his advances. But there was something in the tone of his voice that was making it hard to remember why you had that oh-so important rule in the first place.

"I like your weed," You muttered, trying hard to focus on the movie playing in front of you.

"Mhm." He was smirking. "You like something."

"Give it a rest," You said, throwing him a look. "I don’t fuck plugs.”

He raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise. "Never said anything about sleeping together either. Where's your head at today?"

Your cheeks burned. God, he was so annoying. He knew exactly what he was doing—teasing you into a corner and then pretending like he had no idea how you ended up there.

You turned back to the screen, jaw clenched, trying to ignore the way your body was buzzing.

It was maddening.

"Watch the movie," You said flatly, not meeting his eyes, which were still locked onto you.

"Rather watch you," He answered casually.

"Not gonna happen, Heeseung."

A blissful fog was beginning to creep into your head, softening all the sharp-edged inhibitions that you normally carried. You settled back into the couch, exhaling softly as your head swam, senses dilating.

Heeseung’s cologne wafted around you, sharp and sweet intermingling with the ashy scent of smoke. You felt the heat of his body beside you—several inches closer than he’d been at the start of the movie—and every subtle movement as he shifted in his seat.

He was fidgeting. Messing with the ring on his middle finger, bouncing his leg every now and then. Like he couldn’t focus.

"You're not gonna kiss me," He said flatly, almost like he was confirming it for himself.

"No," You answered. "I'm not."

"Right." He settled back, leaning against the cushions. “That's probably for the best."

You hummed, side-eyeing him. It was almost amusing, how badly he wanted you.

Part of you wondered what might happen if you relaxed just a bit. If you gave an inch, would he take a mile?

"If you did," He continued, casual, his eyes back on the screen. "I'd let you."

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, really?"

He took a drag. "I'd let you do anything you wanted." He parted his lips, smoke curling up from his mouth. Then he glanced at you, teasing. "Just thought you should know."

You turned your head, studying him. "Anything?" You asked, voice low, almost amused.

His eyes flicked to you. Quick. Hopeful. “Yeah. Wouldn’t even do anything back. I’d just, like, sit here. Then you wouldn’t be breaking any of your precious rules.”

It was half a joke. Half entirely serious.

You nodded, fingers trailing from your lap to his knee. He stiffened beneath your touch, brow quirking up as you leaned forward.

"Didn't realize you were so obliging to all your customers," You said, sliding your finger up the inseam of his sweatpants, knee to thigh.

He flattened his hands on the couch, throat bobbing as he watched your finger move. "Nah, just the ones I really like," He said breathily.

It was hilarious. Watching his muscles tighten under your touch, like he was trying to contain himself. His hands curled into the cushions beneath him, knuckles going white, and in your hazy state you found yourself wondering for the first time:

How far would he let this go?

"I mean... what if I did want to sit in your lap?" You tested, voice light.

His breath hitched.

"Just to try it," You added, glancing up at him. "Doesn't mean anything."

He took a shaky breath. "Y-yeah. Okay."

You smirked, voice dropping almost to a whisper. "And what if I kissed you? But only because you look kinda hot tonight. Not because I like you."

Heeseung let out a sound from the back of his throat, leaning back from your touch like it hurt. Your stomach flipped in delight at the dazed look in his eyes, the way his tongue kept darting out to wet his lips.

You leaned in even closer, palm flattening on his thigh. "Still just my plug," You whispered.

"Mhm," He answered, eyes on your lips like he wasn’t even listening to what you were saying.

You didn't wait for his permission. He'd already given that up months ago. You’d just always been too reserved to take it, scared that he’d find some way to gain the upper hand. Make you the one who was scrambling to gain back control.

Not this time.

You just shifted onto your knees, one hand on his shoulder as you swung over his lap. Easy. Confident. Like you'd done it a hundred times.

And oh, Heeseung had imagined it a hundred times—how you'd feel on top of him, your body flush against his as you sat yourself down in his lap.

Only, you didn't sit.

You hovered, legs on either side of his, fingers trailing down his chest in a way that made his head fuzzy. He stiffened under you, pupils dark and wide, lip caught between his teeth.

"Still gonna let me do whatever I want?"

His fingers dug into the couch cushions. "Course," He said, chest rising and falling beneath your hands. "I'm all yours."

You flashed a wicked smile, enjoying every second of this. You dropped an inch, pressing just enough for him to feel you through his sweats. He sucked in a breath, hands tensing.

"You're such a mess for me," You teased, fingers ghosting over the side of his neck.

He let out a laugh. "You're really enjoying this, huh?"

"Just a little."

He straightened, looking up at you with wide, desperate eyes. “We don’t even have to fuck.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“I won’t even touch you.”

“Really? Thank god.”

He growled, eyes on your lips like he wanted to devour them. “You get off on teasing me?”

Your eyes glinted. “I don’t get off on you at all. That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”

You really thought you'd won. That you had him right where you wanted—Lee Heeseung, everybody's favorite plug, king of nonchalance—squirming under you, begging for just a taste.

Until he put his hands on your hips, his voice darkening.

"Sit," He said seriously. "All the way."

You flushed. "I thought you weren’t gonna do anything."

"I'm not. I'm telling you to."

You lowered the rest of the way, biting down on a sound in the back of your throat as you felt him dig into you. Already hard.

Heeseung’s body was humming. He'd been hard since he opened the door. Waiting to get you in this position all damn night. He groaned, digging his fingers into your waist.

"Wearing this fucking skirt, teasing me like you're the one in control. You're smoking my weed, aren't you?"

You flushed, head spinning at the pressure of him between your legs as you nodded.

"And you want more of it, don't you?"

You nodded again, trying not to squirm. He was pressed so deliciously against you, straining against the fabric of his sweats.

He grabbed the second joint he'd rolled from the table, tucking it between his lips and lighting it. "Then come get it," He challenged.

You glared at him, the heat rising to your cheeks. "You’re—"

"What?" He leaned forward, his hands sliding up your back. His chin brushed against your chest as he looked up at you, eyes glassy and red. “You climbed on top of me, remember? All I did was sit here."

When you didn't budge, he shrugged and sat back. "Stay there then," He said, drawing another cloud into his mouth. "Makes no difference to me."

You protested, folding your arms. "And watch you smoke the whole thing yourself?"

"Sure. Unless you're ready to admit what you want."

"I want the weed."

He hummed, blowing the smoke in a stream against your skin. His breath tickled your chest, sending goosebumps rising across your arms. "That all?"

You had half a mind to climb off him, to remove yourself from the situation before things reached the point of no return, when Heeseung looked up at you and asked,

"Ever tried shotgunning?"

Your eyes widened. "No."

He didn't wait for an answer. He inhaled again and leaned forward, his mouth ghosting over yours as he exhaled the smoke into your lungs, breath tickling your bottom lip.

You gasped, startled by the closeness, and inadvertently drew the smoke into your lungs.

He watched as you swallowed it, eyes glinting.

"Good girl," He said, exhaling the rest away from you.

Your stomach clenched. He might not have thought twice about the comment, but it sent a jolt of desire shooting through your stomach. You squirmed in his lap, desire welling between your legs.

"You liked that?" He asked, glancing up at you as you shifted on top of him. "Come here.”

He did it again, pulling you down on him as he breathed into your open mouth, hands firm on your waist. You swallowed the smoke down, chasing the heat of his lips every time he pulled away.

Your head was getting foggier. Thoughts messier. All you could focus on was the feeling of him underneath you. The pressure against you. The way he was pushing you down on his lap, hips curling up to meet yours just slightly. Just enough to make you crave more.

"Your turn," He said, passing you the blunt.

You rolled your eyes, cheeks warm. "Still trying to get me to kiss you?"

"Still pretending you don't want to?"

The weed was making him cocky. And bold. It pained you to admit that you liked it.

You took another drag and leaned forward, smoke hitting his bottom lip as you exhaled softly.

"I don't kiss dealers," You murmured, watching the vapor curl between your faces.

He laughed, breathless, eyes darting down to your mouth. "Right. And you don't sit in their laps either."

You answered by leaning back, drawing another inhale of smoke into your lungs. He watched, breathing hard, like the effort of keeping still was taking all his strength.

He brought a hand up to your face as you blew out, dragging his thumb against your lower lip to open your mouth. Smoke spilled out from behind your teeth, drifting to the ceiling.

“Love watching you smoke,” He murmured, eyes locked onto your lips like he was entranced. “Love your mouth. The way you move your lips. It’s driving me fucking crazy.”

You laughed lightly, pushing his hand away. “You use that one on all the girls?”

He nodded lazily, eyes locked on your lips. “Only the ones I really really like.”

Your stomach clenched. This time, when you leaned in with a mouthful of smoke, you pressed your lips fully onto his, breathing smoke into his lungs as his lips parted beneath you.

He swallowed, groaning as you opened your mouth against his. The sound made your head spin.

Your chest flattened against his as you leaned in, hips curling against his. His hands flew to your waist, a stuttered moan climbing up the back of his throat as you began grinding against him.

"Fuck, keep doing that," He hissed, glancing down between your bodies to watch as your hips dragged against him.

You couldn’t help it—you moaned, body flushed with the mix of weed and Heeseung's bulge pressing right between your folds. Your underwear was so wet, you might as well have not been wearing any.

Heeseung didn't seem to care that you were leaking all over him. He grabbed your waist and pulled you onto him harder, bucking up slightly as your cunt dragged over his hard-on.

His head tilted back. "Shit," He moaned, lips parting open. “Fuck, you gotta let me inside you. Y/n—“

You silenced him by kissing him again—no smoke, no excuse. Just your tongue sliding over his as you ground your cunt against his dick, body tensed with craving.

Soon, this wouldn’t be enough. Soon, you’d start wanting more. You knew it. He knew it. It was only a matter of time.

“We’re not fucking,” Heeseung insisted, lip caught between his teeth as he rolled his hips into yours.

He was on top of you now, pressing you into his couch like he was trying to get inside you without removing a single article of clothing.

You kept a tight grip on the fabric of his hoodie, knuckles white. “No, we’re not. And we’re not ever going to be,” You reminded him, unable to keep your head from falling back as the bulge in his sweatpants pressed right up against your throbbing cunt.

He growled, head dropping against his chest as his thrusts grew more frantic. Your stomach tightened into a coil of burning nerves, your thighs aching where they were clenched around his hips.

“Hmhh— fuck,” Heeseung whispered, as if he didn’t want you to know how much he was enjoying it. Like he was scared you’d tell him to stop if you did.

“Don’t stop,” You said, voice low with warning.

You’d taken things this far. No way you were walking out of his place empty-handed.

He whimpered, body flush against yours as he rubbed his dick against your pussy, marveling at the way you’d soaked the entire front of his sweatpants.

“Gonna make you cum,” He gritted out. Determined. “Gonna make you wish you’d wanted this sooner.”

“Don’t push it,” You answered, gasping as he leaned back, grabbing your hips and dragging you roughly up against his cock.

“Gonna make you beg for it,” He rambled, jutting his hips against yours sloppily, like he was a second away from the edge.

“Heeseung—“

“Fuck, you’re so bad.” He whined, ignoring your stuttered gasps. “Wanted to fuck you so bad, but you never let me. Still aren’t letting me. Why won’t you let me fuck you, y/n? Wanna make you feel good.”

You moaned, rolling your hips in his hands to chase the friction of his bulge wedged between your folds.

“Yeah, you feel good right now, don’t you? I’ll show you. You’re gonna come back begging for more.”

“Heeseung,” You cried, grabbing the back of his couch as your muscles tightened. Your legs began to tremble, your breaths growing short and harsh.

“Fuck—just like that. You want it bad, don’t you? God, you’re gonna be the first girl who’s ever made me cum in my fucking pants.”

You stuttered against him, tossing your head back as your pussy clenched painfully around nothing. He rammed his hips into yours, groaning as his cock twitched beneath his sweats.

He moaned, pressing a few last exhausted thrusts against you as he collapsed over you.

His breath was hot against your neck, chest heaving as he dug his fingers into the couch below you.

He pulled back, just enough to look at you, his eyes blown, cheeks flushed. You stared back, head spinning, brain struggling to catch up with what had just happened.

“So… about that rule…”

“Shut up, Heeseung.”

[fanged-fanfics]

Can I request headcannons for transformers x gn human reader who said they could hold their whole world in their hands then gently cupping their face?

☆ The World In Your Palm — Transformers x GN Human Reader ☆

Genre: Fluff || they/them pronouns for reader || No warnings needed

A/N: Features Optimus, Ratchet, Bumblebee, Starscream, Soundwave, and Megatron

──────.𖥔 ݁ ˖˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──────

Optimus

ᯓᡣ𐭩 "Can you now? That's quite the goal"

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He thinks it's another cute little human idea initially. A bit of a naive one maybe, but most earth ideas for "shooting for the stars" always confused him a bit. He also sort of sums it up to a hyperbole and doesn't ask much more about it

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Until you offer to show him. That gets his attention. Humans are capable of incredible feats, yes, but how were you planning to prove such a thing? Much more visibly confused, he leans down like you ask him to

ᯓᡣ𐭩 As soon as your palms cup his cheekplates, he's even more bewildered. After thinking about it for a second, he chuckles, leaning into your touch as he uses a large hand to pull you a little closer. "That's very clever" he says with a smile "looks like I can hold the world in my hand too"

Ratchet

ᯓᡣ𐭩 "Uh..huh. Good luck with that"

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Completely doesn't understand the setup. The whole world?? This one? The giant ball in space holding billions of people? What's that supposed to mean? He assumes you're trying to bait him into a joke or something

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Then you ask him to lean down, and he's even more lost. If this is some sort of practical joke you'd learned from others, he wasn't excited for the outcome. But because it's you, he trusts it, bringing his face close enough for you to reach

ᯓᡣ𐭩 When your hands cup his face, he's even more lost. He runs the situation over again in his heads a few times before it actually lands. He acts exasperated to cover up how flustered he is, lightly patting your head. "You humans, I swear... cute trick, kid"

Bumblebee

ᯓᡣ𐭩 "Oh yeah? Go ahead, try, I wanna see it"

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He's amused at the idea. He knows you're likely not being literal, but he wants to see where it goes. He's had a lot of fun learning human jokes so far, what's one more to the list?

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He leans down as soon as you asked, excited to see the expected punchline. He can't exactly see where it's going yet, but knowing you he hopes for the best and waits expectantly

ᯓᡣ𐭩 When your hands land on his face, he has to take a second to get it. There's a bit of a 'is that... it?' moment where he's still waiting for the joke. Then it clicks all at once, and he gains a very obvious blush on his face. He cups his hands around your head, grinning widely "Well I can hold my whole world in just one hand! Beat that"

Starscream

ᯓᡣ𐭩 "Ha! That bold, are you? Is there no end to your feeble little plans?"

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He sounds a little mean about it, but it's just his usual teasing. Sort of in a 'that's nice honey' kind of way. He of course argues that if anyone is fit to carry the world, it would be him, obviously

ᯓᡣ𐭩 It takes some convincing to get him to kneel down. He pretends like he's oh so busy and has so many important things to do, but inevitably gives in and indulges your whims

ᯓᡣ𐭩 The second your hands reach his face, he gets it immediately. He stammered a bit, chuckling as he tried to brush it off. He didn't want it to be so obvious that something so small could fluster him, but he couldn't help it around you. "Ahem- well- you're very brave for being so forward! But I suppose I can allow you to hold on for a moment longer"

Soundwave

ᯓᡣ𐭩 "Improbable. The world is too big for human hands"

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Takes your words at direct face value. He's trying to be honest and let you down easy. He's got no idea how you somehow convinced yourself you were strong enough to pull that off, but he feels like he has to bring you back to reality

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He's only confused when you ask him to come closer. What does this have to do with your claim? He leans down of course, but he doesn't understand what's happening

ᯓᡣ𐭩 When your hands hold his face, he just pauses. He's about to correct you, but before the words can fully leave his mouth, he realizes what you're trying to say. He sighs from his vents as he holds onto your wrists. "I see. I.. can hold the world in mine, too"

Megatron

ᯓᡣ𐭩 "Aiming big, aren't we? Your time will come"

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He indulges your comment. He's promised you the world, everything his servos can carry. Of course it'll all be yours someday, he'll make sure of it

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He leans down at your request, though he of course asks what you're planning. He can tell by your little grin whenever you've got something brewing in your head, but he allows it for the sake of it

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He catches on the second you hold his face, and he chuckles in amusement. "Ah, that's what you meant" he said, leaning into the embrace "clever... for a human" he teases lightly

[amiya-shirou]

I genuinely believe Federico is like 90% of the reason why the central themes of emotion, humanity vs seaborn, and human connection actually work, because it would be so easy to completely ruin the message by making it a vehicle for typical "love is what makes us humans" "if you don't feel love and emotion exactly like everyone else does you're not an ACTUAL human with a SOUL!" nonsense, like to the point I'm also anxious I might end up sounding like that every time I try analyzing the seaborn conflict in any way, but thanks to Fede being written the way he is while having such a central role in Zwillingsturme and being so close with and important to Arturia we know that when she says "it has to include everyone" and when the game falls on praising human qualities and the power of human connection they don't mean "everyone who can feel normal human emotion :)" "everyone but they're gonna need to become human" but simply everyone, no one left behind, no one erased. The focus on destroying the barriers between people exists as an answer to oppression and discrimination, to bring humanity together so they can work as a whole to face adversity, not because not feeling empathy the same way Arturia does is "wrong". Even during the piano scene when Fede is shown as unable to understand why music, why art move people the way it does, despite it being a focal point of everything about Arturia and everything about the humans who stand against the Seaborn, it's never presented as a failing on his part, never presented as him being fundamentally incompatible with humanity - in fact that scene is where he learns how to approach emotion from his own angle in his own way as a form of data and it's when he grows as a person and becomes able to use it to better get Arturia despite his difficulty in conveying and "feeling" emotion. He doesn't get Sankta empathy, he values logical understanding over emotional connection, he's joked about from other characters as being more like a robot than a human, he's deliberately written as being an opposite to Arturia's unrestrained empathy, and yet he is the protagonist to Arturia's antagonist role, he is the one who understood her the most and who could support her in the finale, he's the one outsider who cared the most about fixing things in the Monastery while the "proper" Sankta were all busy dealing with their own problems or actively worsening things (hi Oren). His character arc doesn't have anything to do with him starting to "get" emotions like "real people" do but just about starting to ask questions, to find a way forward when his strict adherence to logical reasoning fails him, to interpret why he does what he does and feel the way he does, to understand why things happens and why people act certain ways, and in quite a few scenes that's precisely why he could reach a conclusion others couldn't.

His biggest scene in Hortus involves him refusing to accept Clement's position that just because the only flower left from his garden he had a deep emotional attachment to was a bit damaged and not perfect the way he grew all the others to be, the way he wanted it to be, then its survival is meaningless.

Just because Clement couldn't see the worth in the flower's existence it doesn't mean there was none for anyone.

Just like Federico was the one chosen by the Law amidst countless "perfect" Sankta well accustomed to their supernatural Empathy.

Everyone means everyone.

[rincent-van-uggh]

Ahh this is so much what I have been thinking. Even if I agreed with intellectual property in principle, IP law benefits corporations far, far more than small artists (because the law only protects those who can afford to enforce it).

All the notions that AI is cheating because it makes the process of art making too easy are not at all distinct, so far as I can see, from people saying the same things about any new art making technology (digital art, electronic music, people say these things are not real art for the same reasons). I mean, people trying to pass off AI art as if they themselves hand painted it are just idiots telling lies, nothing new. If someone uses AI to generate the background for an drawing they did, and they're honest about it, thats just art. People do the same thing with backgrounds not generated by AI too.

I find a lot of AI criticism comes down to "this tool is being operated and peddaled by idiots" rather than that the tool itself is bad. "People who use AI to study for them get lower grades" well duh, having anything study for you is incoherent, you necessarily have to use your own brain for that. If what they mean by this is that people are using AI to write notes and summaries for them to read, this is also misguided as AI cannot reliably create accurate summaries, if it adds in nonsense, you may not realise and study stuff it entirely made up.

There are also adjacent issues. Like I dont take issue particularly with public data being fed to the machine apart from how empowering AI in our current system means empowering shitty corporations. But sometimes private data may be fed to the machine, corporations are getting increasingly sneaky and invasive, changing ToS to say that they can use any of your stuff, even non-public things to train AI. While AI tends to mix together loads of stuff into its outputs, it is feasible that an AI could be fed private data and spit it out wholesale, and we have no way to prevent this currently. I am glad that i have managed to move entirely off of things like google drive because I don't trust them to uphold privacy at the best of times, but especially not in this context.

My main issue with AI, honestly, is that I find it annoying. It keeps being put in places I dont want it, to solve problems I don't have. I think this is a popular position to hold here on tumblr, where we have several times pushed the website management to allow us to opt out of new trendy features we dont like, such as "best stuff first" and other algorithmic generated features, and "tumblr live". I object to having new technology replace the old stuff, not only because the old stuff is what I am familiar with, but because often times it works, in at least some important ways, better than the new stuff. I don't need AI generated art, I enjoy making art myself. I do not want AI customer service chat bot, it is less effective at addressing my needs than the humans are.

The tool is fine, but almost every time I encouter it, it is being used by idiots to uninteresting ends, and I would like to not have to encounter it if I don't want or need to.

Worst part of popular left wing AI discourse online is that there's absolutely a need for a robust leftist opposition to use of cognitive automation without social dispensation to displaced human workers. The lack of any prior measures to facilitate a transition to having fewer humans in the workplace (UBI, more public control over industrial infrastructure, etc) is a disaster we are sleepwalking into - one that could lock the majority of our society's wealth further into the hands of authoritarian oligarchs who retain control of industry through last century private ownership models, while no longer needing to rely on us to operate their property.

But now we're seemingly not going to have the opposition we so desperately need, because everyone involved in the anti-AI conversation has pretty thoroughly discredited themselves and their movement by harbouring unconstrained reactionary nonsense, blatant falsehoods and woo. Instead of talking about who owns and benefits from cognitive automation, people are:

Demanding impossibilities like uninventing a now readily accessible technology

Trying to ascribe implicit moral value to said technology instead of the who is using it and how

Siding with corporations on copyright law in the name of "defending small artists"

Repeating obvious and embarrassing technical misconceptions and erroneous pop-sci about machine learning in order to justify their preferred philosophy

Invoking neo-spiritual conservative woo about the specialness of the human soul to try to incoherently discredit a machine that can quite obviously perform certain tasks just as well if not better than they can

Misrepresent numbers about energy use and environmental cost in an absurd double standard (all modern infrastructure is reliant on data centers to a similar level of impact, including your favourite fandom social media and online video games!) to build a narrative AI is some sort of malevolent spirit that damages our reality when it is called upon

It's a level of reactionary ignorance that has completely discredited any popular opposition to industrial AI rollout because it falls apart as soon as you dig deeper than a snappy social media post, or a misguided pro-copyright screed from an insecure web artist (who decries a machine laying eyes on their freely posted work while simultaneously charging commission for fan-art of corporate IPs... I'm sure that will absolutely resolve in their favour).

It would be funny how much people are fucking themselves over with all this, except I'm being fucked over to, and as a result am really quite mad about the situation. We need UBI, we need to liberate abundance from corporate greed, what we don't need is viral posts about putting distortion filters on anime fan-art to ward off the evil mechanical eye, pointless boycotts of platforms because they are perceived to have let the evil machines taint them, or petitions to further criminalize the creation of derivative works.

[trevuorzegras]

THE TOWN THAT JUDGED 　QUINN HUGHES

　　　quinn hughes x fem biker!reader

SUMMARY 　quinn hughes didn’t plan on getting close to the town’s most talked-about girl, but the more he learns, the more he questions everything. including who he really is.

contains 　mentions of parental illness/death, financial hardship and poverty, mentions of stripping, verbal judgment, mild profanity, police encounter, emotional struggles, use of y/n.

note 　the wc for this is 2.3k, please enjoy! <3

　　MICHIGAN WAS SUPPOSED TO be Quinn’s escape. A safe haven from the chaos of Vancouver, from hockey season, from pressure. The lake brought him comfort — a stillness that made him feel like he could finally breathe. No eyes on him. No unrealistic expectations. Just water, family, and freedom.

Then he met y/n.

She was like a plot twist in a story he thought he’d already figured out. Different — not in a way that startled him, but in a way that made him curious. She didn’t fit the mold of this town he’d grown to love, and that only made her stand out more.

You couldn’t miss her if you tried.

The deep purple 2021 Kawasaki Ninja ZX-25R she rode made sure of that. Her presence turned heads. Sometimes for the wrong reasons. People around here knew her. Or at least, they thought they did.

Y/n had never managed to leave this place, no matter how hard she tried.

She knew the rumors. Knew what they whispered when she walked into a room. She’d never been arrested, but that didn’t stop people from assuming the worst. In their eyes, she was trouble. Not worth their time.

She worked hard — long shifts at a local diner. But bills didn’t care about pride. So when the diner wasn’t enough, she picked up shifts at the club. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t her dream. But it paid. And she didn’t let the looks or the whispers get to her. Not publicly, anyway.

What people thought didn’t define her.

She knew who she was. And who she wasn’t.

Meeting Quinn Hughes was like sunlight cracking through overcast skies.

She had been mid-shift at the diner when he walked in with his brothers and a few friends. All laughter, easy smiles, and a presence that turned the air electric.

She spent more time watching him than waiting tables that night.

He barely noticed her. Too wrapped up in whatever the guys were talking about. Something more important, she guessed. She told herself it didn’t matter. Guys like him didn’t notice girls like her.

Still, by the end of the night, she was almost sure he knew exactly who she was. Word travels fast in a town like this. And facts didn’t matter. Only gossip did. Truth gets bent, twisted, until even you start to wonder who you really are.

But she didn’t let herself dwell. So what if one good-looking guy thought she was nothing? She’d been judged before. Still, a part of her wished people could see past the rumors — that they could see her.

She had dreams once.

College. Criminology. She wanted to be a detective. Make a difference. But life had other plans. Her mom got sick, and survival became the priority. By eighteen, her mother was gone — and so was the future she’d once imagined.

Quinn saw her. Barely.

The night was thick and quiet, his only light coming from his headlights and a flickering streetlamp. He noticed the bike first. Then her — standing beside it like a shadow trying not to be seen.

He pulled up slowly, rolling down the passenger window.

“Hey,” he called gently, voice laced with concern. “You okay?”

Y/n glanced up, startled. She hadn’t heard the SUV roll up. Her helmet sat on the seat of her bike, strands of hair sticking to her cheek from the humidity. She looked tired — not just from the day, but from everything.

She hesitated. “Yeah. Just… bike’s acting up.”

Quinn nodded slowly, not pushing. “Want a ride?”

She looked at him like she couldn’t decide if it was a trap or kindness. Then, with a sigh, she grabbed her helmet and walked towards his car. “Sure.”

The drive was quiet. Comfortable, even. The radio played low. Something mellow. She gave him directions without looking at him, and he didn’t ask any questions. Didn’t make her explain or fill the silence.

When they pulled up outside a small apartment above a pawn shop, she unbuckled her seatbelt slowly.

“Thanks,” she said. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.” He glanced at her, hand still on the wheel. “I’m Quinn, by the way.”

She smirked faintly. “I know who you are.”

He laughed under his breath. “Fair enough. Still figured I’d introduce myself.”

She paused. “Y/n.”

“Nice to meet you, Y/n.”

They saw each other more after that. Small moments at first — him stopping by the diner for coffee, her dropping off dinner for him and his family. Neither of them labeled it. But it was something.

They talked about things people didn’t usually talk about. He told her about the pressure, the expectations, the weight of always being good enough. She told him about the dreams she buried and the scars she never showed anyone.

It was slow. Real.

Then one night, she texted him.

Y/n: Wanna see something cool?

Bring a flashlight.

He picked her up, heart racing with anticipation. She directed him through winding back roads until they reached a crumbling brick building half-hidden by trees and overgrowth.

“The old Elridge Theater?” he asked, squinting at the faded marquee.

“Yup. Closed when I was ten. Been sneaking in since I was fifteen. It’s quiet. No one comes here.”

She led him through a side door half hanging off its hinges. The inside was dusty, the air stale with age and forgotten dreams. Rows of broken seats. A stage that hadn’t seen a spotlight in over a decade.

“This is your hideout?” he whispered, his voice echoing.

She grinned. “Welcome to my sanctuary.”

They climbed up onto the stage and laid on their backs, staring at the ceiling where stars had once been painted. It was cracked and faded now — but beautiful in its own way.

“You always do stuff like this?” he asked.

“Only with people who need to loosen up,” she teased.

He nudged her shoulder. “You think I need to loosen up?”

“I know you do.”

They laughed. It was easy. Freer than anything he’d felt in months.

Then, Flashlights. Voices. “Police! Anyone inside?”

Y/n’s eyes widened. “Shit. C’mon.”

They scrambled off the stage, darting down an aisle and into a side hallway. She knew every turn, every shortcut. They burst out a back door just as a patrol car pulled up in front.

They ran — breathless, hearts pounding, laughing in disbelief when they finally ducked behind a dumpster two blocks away.

Quinn leaned against the wall, panting. “That was —”

“Insane?” she offered.

“Incredible.”

He looked at her, really looked at her. She was flushed from the run, eyes bright, a wild grin on her face. And something shifted in his chest.

“I think I’ve been living my life trying to be this… version of myself that made sense to everyone else,” he said quietly. “Perfect son. Perfect player. Never stepping out of line.”

She tilted her head, breath still catching. “And now?”

He gave her a crooked smile. “Now I think maybe I’ve been missing the whole point.”

A pause. Then, “I think I’ve been looking for something real. For someone real.”

She didn’t say anything. But she didn’t look away either.

And for the first time in a long time, Quinn didn’t feel like he had to be anything more than exactly who he was.

They didn’t talk about what happened at the theater.

But something changed after that night.

Quinn started texting her more. Nothing dramatic. Just little things:

Quinn: You survive the late night drive?

What’s your go-to late night diner order?

I still owe you for that getaway.

They started hanging out more. At first it was late-night drives or quick coffee breaks during her split shifts. But soon, it was hikes, music playing through shared earbuds, or long conversations on her apartment roof — where they’d lie side by side watching the stars fade into sunrise.

Quinn was changing.

And he knew it.

He was finally breathing. Laughing. Saying “no” when he needed to. Letting go of the pressure to be polished all the time.

And when he told Jack about y/n, his brother didn’t understand.

“She’s… different,” Jack said, frowning. “I just don’t want you getting mixed up in anything messy.”

Quinn looked out the window, jaw tight. “Maybe messy is what I need right now.”

Y/n noticed it too.

The way Quinn had started showing up more. Not just physically, but emotionally. He listened when she spoke, remembered the small things — like how her mom used to make mint tea at night, or how she always sat in the far left booth at the diner when she needed space.

He didn’t push. Never tried to fix her. Just let her be.

That scared her more than anything.

No one had ever seen her without expectations. Without judgment.

So the night she opened her notebook and let him read a few of her old detective school essays, she felt like she was handing him a piece of herself she’d locked away.

“You could still do this,” he said, turning the pages slowly.

She shook her head. “It’s too late.”

“No,” he said, quiet but certain. “It’s not.”

The next week, she took him to her favorite spot — a half-forgotten overlook by the lake, hidden behind a crumbling back road and dense bushes.

They sat on the hood of his car, a blanket draped across their laps, passing a thermos of lukewarm coffee between them.

The water shimmered in the moonlight, endless and quiet.

“I used to come here when things got loud,” she said. “Before my mom got sick. When I still thought life might go the way I wanted it to.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at her like he was memorizing the exact shade of her sadness.

“You know what I’ve realized?” he finally said.

She glanced at him, brow raised.

“You’re not messy. You’re real. Everyone else is too busy pretending to be fine.”

Her chest tightened. She looked away before he could see her eyes glisten. “Quinn…”

“I mean it.”

They sat there for a long time after that — not touching, not speaking. Just existing beside each other, like two people finally letting their guards down.

Things kept unfolding slowly.

One night, she brought him into the club — through the back door, after hours. She was sweeping up, and he helped without saying a word. She played music from the jukebox and dared him to dance.

He was horrible.

She laughed so hard she snorted. And when he caught her around the waist and spun her clumsily, they were both breathless and shining like kids again.

And later, standing close, hands brushing, she looked up at him.

“You sure you know what you’re doing with me?”

He looked right back, voice steady.

“No,” he admitted. “But I know I want to keep finding out.”

It started with whispers.

They’d been careful. Mostly. No hand-holding in public, no kissing outside her apartment. But in a town like this, it didn’t matter. People noticed things. The way Quinn lingered at the diner after she refilled his coffee. The way she laughed more when he was around.

And just like that, the rumors took off.

She’s using him.

He’s just a phase.

Poor kid doesn’t know what kind of girl she is.

Wonder what she did to get her claws into a Hughes boy.

Y/n heard it first, of course — dirty looks at the club, side comments from the booths at the diner, snide whispers when she walked into the grocery store.

She told herself it didn’t matter.

But the truth was: it stung.

Especially because she knew what was coming next.

It was Jack who showed up first. Alone.

He waited outside the diner after her shift ended, leaning against the hood of his car like he’d been rehearsing what he wanted to say.

Y/n atopped in her tracks when she saw him.

“Jack,” she said cautiously, tightening her jacket around herself. “Did Quinn send you?”

“No. He doesn’t know I’m here.” He pushed off the car, crossing his arms. “I just want to talk.”

“Right,” she muttered. “That’s what people say before they try to make me feel small.”

“I’m not here to insult you,” he said. “I just want to understand. What are you doing with my brother?”

Y/n stared at him. For a moment, she didn’t say anything. Then, “Did it ever occur to you that I’m not doing anything to him? That maybe he just… likes me?”

Jack shook his head, frustrated. “You’ve got a past, Y/n. People talk. You think we haven’t heard the things they say?”

She stepped forward, jaw tight. “Yeah, I’m sure you’ve heard plenty. But did you ever think to ask what’s true?”

Jack didn’t answer.

She took a breath, steadying herself. “You know what? You don’t have to like me. But I’ve never lied to Quinn. I’ve never asked him for anything. If he wants to be around me, that’s his choice.”

Jack’s expression shifted — not angry, but unsure. Like he hadn’t expected her to meet him head-on.

And maybe that’s when the doubt first crept in.

A few days later, Luke cornered Quinn in the garage at their parents’ house, tossing a hockey stick down and crossing his arms.

“You really seeing that girl?”

Quinn didn’t look up from taping his stick. “Yeah.”

“You know what people are saying, right?”

“I don’t care.”

Luke scoffed. “You should. You’ve worked your whole life to build this reputation, and now people think you’re slumming it with some stripper who—”

Quinn stood up fast. Too fast.

“Don’t talk about her like that.”

Luke blinked.

Quinn’s voice was low but firm. “You think you know her because of some rumors? Try sitting with her when she talks about taking care of her mom. Try watching her stay on her feet for twelve hours at the diner without a single complaint. She’s been through hell and still wakes up fighting. I respect her more than half the people who judge her.”

Luke looked away, uncomfortable.

“She’s not who you think,” Quinn added, softer now. “But she’s exactly who I needed.”

Jack and Luke didn’t get it. Not fully — until they saw y/n with their mom.

It was an accident, really. Quinn had invited her over for dinner. Something lowkey. Just family, and Jack had been skeptical the entire time.

But then y/n helped clean the kitchen. Shared stories with their mom about how she used to organize canned goods by color as a kid. Even teased Quinn gently when he dropped a glass.

Jack saw something he hadn’t expected: warmth.

Not performance. Not manipulation.

Just a girl, quietly trying to belong in a place that had always told her she didn’t.

After she left, their mom turned to them with a knowing smile.

“She’s strong. And she cares about him. I like her.”

Jack didn’t argue. Neither did Luke.

And maybe, in that moment, they finally started to understand.

The town still whispered.

But now, when people said things to Jack or Luke, hinted at shame or scandal — they didn’t join in.

Instead, they said what Quinn had said all along:

“You don’t know her.”

And maybe, just maybe, people would start realizing they were right.

NAVIGATION　　 ✶ 　　NHL MASTERLIST

© V A M P — plesse do not copy, repost, translate, or use my work without consent.

[the-ace-with-spades]

Not usually a fan of Jake having a truly awful family BUT

Jake had very few normal childhood experiences. He spent most of his younger years working on the farm with his mom while his dad did a 'more important' job outside in the city (military, government, politician, etc.) and only would be present for dinner and weekends.

However, when he was present, he didn't really allow Jake to experience being a child - no preschool, no school trips or sleepovers, no room decorations, no CDs or cassettes, no bike riding outside of the commute, no cinema, TV only watched with adults, no games of any kind, no tooth fairy, no fiction books that weren't 'classics', no fun toys (only educational things). Jake's parents had money, but they spent it on extracurricular activities (never anything he liked, mostly piano that could impress visitors and help the church) or smart (church-appropriate) clothing and safety equipment in Jake's size (to work the more dangerous jobs as soon as he was 13, hit a growth spurt and was able to fit adult safety boots) or on local church.

Jake had to develop a whole personality when he left home and joined the Navy (which wasn't exactly easy in the military either) and quickly grasp what experiences an average 18-year-old boy would have and fake having those experiences.

Bradley had known Jake a bit of a messed up childhood from earlier on but they never got that deep into it the first time - Jake has gone no contact with his family when he left home and they both preferred to not talk about their families for different reasons. Jake had only started talking about his childhood and family life when he started reconciling with his newly divorced mom, and by that point, they were heading toward the end of the 'relationship', mostly due to Bradley's inability to be open.

Jake had never had a soft toy. He had a stuffed bear up until he was one but he doesn't remember it - it was taken away because his father thought he was too big for stuffed animals.

Bradley finds this by accident. He and Jake go to Mav for dinner together and Mav lets Bradley have a look through all the things he left behind when he stormed out after the whole pulled papers fiasco when he was a teenager - one of these things is Ducky, the stuffed and graying goose Bradley has had since he was born.

Bradley gets a little teary-eyed when he finds out Mav kept it for him, Jake teases him about it and Bradley tells him he's going to have payback when they visit Jake's mom for Thanksgiving.

And Jake admits that, well, he never had a stuffed animal or any other soft toy.

So next time they go out on a date, Bradley takes him to Build-A-Bear. They build a bear - well, mostly Jake, Bradley is just there to give questionable advice and pull the attention away from that Jake is a man in his 30s using a Build-A-Bear Workshop from staff and customers with pure humor and charisma only - and when Jake is finished, they buy two matching stuffed toys of Jake's design

[lush-escape]

This is Me Trying

Part 7

pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

a/n: this one was soooo much fun to write. Loved crashing out vicariously through reader. I wanted this chapter to be serious and funny and I don't think it would've happened without my sister to bounce ideas off of so everyone say thank you RIGHT NOW @clawdee 😤 okay anyway enjoy 🥰

prev: part 6

next: end

You wake up groggy and disoriented. You can feel the humidity in the air. Your head is pounding and your mouth is dry. Slowly you open one eye and then the other a groan. The room is dimly lit and sparsely decorated. There's a folding table in front of you with grime and dirt covering it, a beaten down couch holding two guys wearing masks is to your right, a few metal folding chairs to your left.

The walls have paint that's chipping, water damage to the ceiling and parts of the wall. The carpet was a dirty brown color covered in stains. The only window in the room has bars on it but you can tell it's dark outside and you wonder how long you had been unconscious. 

“Mm…” you groan softly. It's then you realize you're tied to a chair. Wooden and hard. Arms tied with rope behind your back with your ankles tied to the legs of the chair.

Fuck.

“Ah, finally awake.” A strange voice comes from behind you. It's rough and gravely, you assume from years of smoking. 

“Where’m I?” You mumble with slurred speech.

“That's not important right now.”

“Am I in a fuckin' drug den?” The heavy footsteps behind you stop for a second before you feel a harsh smack on the back of your head.

“Ow!” You gasp.

“No!” The man is very obviously offended as he moves to stand in front of you, hands on his hips. “This isn't a fucking crack house, bitch.” the two goons on the couch snicker to themselves before quickly shutting up once being given a sharp glare.

“Rude…” you mutter under your breath on instinct.

Big Bad #1 pulls up a chair in front of you. His face is also covered by a mask but you can see his eyes are brown and he has a blonde goatee. 

“Now. Tell us what you know about Red Hood.” He states simply as he ‘intimidatingly’ pulls a knife from his boot. Your heart rate spikes.

“Who?” You ask. He doesn't look amused.

“Red Hood. The wannabe hero? He's been busting our dealers for weeks.”

“So this is a drug den.”

“No. It's not.” Big Bad’s voice is tense, it's obvious how angry he is. “Say it again and I'll cut out that tongue of yours.”

Your lips purse.

“We've been tailing you for weeks. Tracked your phone, hacked it. We know you've been hanging out with him.”

It takes you a second but slowly you start to remember through the drug induced fog. The car that slowly rolled through the neighborhood at the party. The one that circled the flower shop. The stranger who you bumped into at the race where you’d dropped your phone. Your stomach sinks.

How long have these guys been following you without you realizing?

“I still don't know who Red Hood is.” You snap back at him. You figure if they're going to kill you anyway, why make it easy for them?

“Red Hood. Jason. Your little boy toy.” Big Bad snarls.

Jason, Red Hood? The man who begged you with tears in his eyes to read to him while he ate you out before fucking you stupid? Yeah, okay.

You snort. Loudly.

“Jason is not Red Hood. Are you an idiot or just fucking stupid?” 

Big Bad didn't think that was funny. He slashes your thigh with his knife, right above your knee. You gasp loudly, crying out in pain.

“Motherfucker!” The tears immediately sting your eyes. “What was that for?!”

He looks almost confused, “For being a cunt.” He states like it's obvious. 

You should be scared, you are scared. Terrified. The fear in your stomach is making your intestines cramp, you're sweating. But you're also angry. You did nothing to deserve this and this man has the audacity to come at you with a knife while you're tied up? To threaten you and use you as a pawn to get back at someone you don't even know? No way. Not a chance in hell.

“Oh get fucked.” You mutter before the back of his hand comes in contact with your cheek. It stings like a son of a bitch, it splits your lip. You can taste the warm iron in your mouth. The white hot anger bubbling up in your veins makes you almost black out. You spit the blood from your mouth in Big Bad’s face.

He stands and you watch with a wicked smirk. He wipes the blood from his face and you can see that he's holding back on hurting you.

“Someone get this fucker, now.” He barks. Goons #2 and #3 rush over with dumbfounded expressions.

“Didn't think it'd be this hard…” Big Bad #2 mutters.

“You got a death wish or somethin'?” #3 asks you with a glare.

“Yeah, somethin' like that.” You smirk again.

All the while you're silently thanking whoever is above for your sweaty palms. Each heart rate spikes, each bead of sweat, is making it easier to slowly slip your hands out of the rope tying you to the chair.

“You're fuckin' crazy, you know that?” #2 points a knife at you. They're panicking now. ‘Good’, you think.

“..not crazy.” You mumble, your lip is swelling making it harder to get your words out clearly. “‘m defenseless an’ tied to a chair.” Your hands are free now. ‘It's now or never’.

“No, no. You're fuckin' crazy and this was a bad fuckin' idea.” #3 has his hands on his head, he's pacing. “Red’s gonna fuckin' kill us.”

“Defenseless my ass.” #2 spits as he gets in your face again.

Gathering all of the courage you could muster up your bring your hands forward and cup both of his ears. #2 reels back, dropping his knife in the process. He howls in pain.

“Ha! It worked!” You smile widely before wincing in pain. Right, split lip. Your excitement is short lived as Big Bad and Goon #3 are on their heels turning to look at you. Your face drops.

“Shit.”

“Yeah, shit, you psycho!” Big Bad barks, grabbing for his knife.

You scramble forward for the dropped knife, ungraceful as a newborn calf, ankles still tied to your chair. You put your hands out to break your fall yet still manage to bump your head. That'll be worried about later.

“Oh, that's pathetic…” Big Bad and #3 laugh at you mockingly. You see boots in front of your face and with a small groan you lift your hand, plunging the knife right into his foot.

“Fuck!” #3 yells. He tries to move away but his foot is stuck to the floor, falling backwards as he tries to work the knife out of his foot. The squelching noise almost makes you nauseous.

“That's fucking it.” Big Bad grabs the back of your neck to lift your head. Your hands reach out for him, scratching at his jacket to no avail.

“No, no, no -” you beg. Big Bad kicks your chair to the side and a leg snaps off. One leg free.

“Oh, yes. You're dying now. I'm not putting up with your shit anymore.

Your hands scramble, a flurry of slaps and scratches, it's a chaotic scene. Your eyes stay on Big Bad as he moves his hand to the front of your throat, choking you. Your gasp and choke, your vision blurs. In one last manic attempt to get away you scratch at his face, catching his eye. He lets go of you and stumbles back, hurling swears and insults at you. You can see a trickle of blood seep under his hand from his eye as your vision comes back.

You hurry to untie your left leg and sigh in relief now that you're free. Goon #2 is slowly recovering from his ears being boxed and staggers to his feet. It takes you a second to catch your bearings but you stand up. #3 finally has his foot free, crying on the floor in pain.

Two goons against one feral hostage.

Right as the two are about to lunge for you everyone is caught off guard by the sound of the front door splintering to reveal a large and absolutely terrifying figure.

Red Hood.

“Oh shit-” you whisper.

He's tense, angry. 

“You fuckers.” He looks to Goons #2 and #3 who visibly swallow. Red Hood steps further into the house, stepping on splinters of wood, a gun in each hand. And then he stops and takes in the scene. 

You with a busted lip and gash on your thigh and two bleeding idiots, one half deaf.

“What happened?” Red Hood’s deep modulated voice rings out.

“This psycho attacked us!” Goon #2 answers almost fearfully.

But your attention is on Red Hood. It's his fault that you're even here in the first place.

“You.” You practically growl.

“Me?” He gestures to himself.

“Oh fuck man, you're in for it now.” #3 shakes his head.

“Shut up, idiot.” Big Bad warns through bared teeth. The three huddle together to watch the stand off between you and Red Hood.

You pick up the broken piece of chair leg, your anger is palpable.

“It's your fault these assholes took me!” 

“Wha- my fault?!”

You take a swing at Red Hood who easily dodges it.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Slow down! It is not my fault!” He doesn't sound angry though which throws you for a second. He sounds… apologetic.

“It is! They took me to get back at you!” You swing again and be dodges. He's not even trying to stop you which pissed you off even more.

“Hey! Knock it off, would you?” 

This time the leg connects to his thigh and he hisses in pain.

“Ow!” He shouts, holding his leg, rubbing at it.

“That's what you get! I don't even know you and I'm being kidnapped because of you? Hell no.”

“Jesus Christ, calm down!” He's irritated but is still trying to back away from you. “Can you at least let me do my damn job before jumping me?” He gestures to the three idiots who kidnapped you.

“No! You're all fucking getting it!” You swing again - this time hitting his arm.

“Motherf- stop it!”

A second later another figure is in the doorway. Shorter, snickering, and-

“Damian?” You question in a breathless whisper. Your grip on the chair leg falters.

“Todd, as much as I enjoy watching you get your ass handed to you - can you please lock in? We have business to attend to.”

taglist: @theendofthematerialgworl @thy-crimson-king @vellichor01

[flawlessflesh]

i've always felt constrained and confused by fandom where everything is shipping focused - it is difficult to find meta or works which aren't filtered through the lens of inevitable romance. i have more success with characters who don't have easy/widely-appealing Shipping Prospects, such as thistle or like, a fromsoft character with 10 lines who then dies LOL

i don't know if it's my irl indifference leeching through, but romance is not any more interesting or important than other relationships. because romance is not particularly notable in my worldview, i am alienated by fandom's focus on shipping and true love, and i am irritated when it feels like people are only capable of interpreting my work through it.

i understand shipping as a shorthand. i've tried in the past to fit my interests into it, but it just felt like people were misunderstanding me because of a '/' between two names, and like i was mimicking behavior i observed rather than felt. i think it's a matter of intent. i am interested in stories which explore romance/sex (some of my favorite movies/books do!), but i am rarely interested in Shipping as a function of fandom. maybe it's because of how characters are placed into well-used templates to serve the ship? or how any interaction must mean a romance that can't be challenged? the character becomes unrecognizable to me - the ship has replaced them.

i've been in fandoms for almost twenty years and i still don't get it! so i gave uppppp

all of this is to say that i am trying to find a ground where i can write stories that matter to me about topics like incest or abuse, which are treated in wider fandom as either radioactive OR only titillating. extremely reductive and limiting. so i am thankful that followers/friends appreciate my stories - if i didn't care, i wouldn't be sharing anything online.

(this is my experience, i am not telling others what they should feel or do. i do not care about that...)

[lynzishell]

Epilogue 💛 Atlas

The rest of the year flew by in a rush of one event after another.

First, there was Spencer’s birthday party. It was the first family event that Ezra and I were both present at, and overall, it went okay. I focused on spending time with everyone else and just let him exist in the same space as me, which was the best I could do at the time.

Dawn also saw Ezra for the first time since high school that day. She did try to be kind and talk to him, as is her nature, but it was quite satisfying that Phoenix didn’t like him from the moment she introduced them. Maybe that’s petty of me, but it’s true.

The important thing though, is that, even though we all walked away a bit sore, Spencer had a great birthday, ice skating and celebrating with her family and two best friends.

When Winterfest came around, we stuck with our original plan to visit Phoenix and Dawn in the city. It was fun to see Aspen getting excited and opening presents. I know our little ones won’t quite be old enough to properly enjoy the holiday, but I’m still so excited for next year and our first Winterfest with them.

Dawn also surprised us with an amazing gift. She knitted two little onsies for Sadie and Simon, which I’m happy to report, they’ve both finally grown into!

That afternoon, when they were ready to head to Copperdale to see Pheonix’s uncle, Ash and I decided to spend the rest of the day with the Goodes after all. I’m glad we did. Even with Ezra there, it was nice to have our usual evening of games and music.

I’m absolutely in awe of Spencer with her violin. She finally mastered Einaudi’s Experience and wanted to play it for us, a duet with Pop on the piano, of course. The performance brought tears to our eyes. Listening to her play with such skill and emotion, she should be in a concert hall, not standing in our living room in her little mis-matched socks.

As happy as I am to have our own place again, I wouldn’t trade the time we spent living there for anything.

For New Year’s we’d planned to take it easy. Watch movies and likely fall asleep well before midnight. But, as you can see, that isn’t what happened.

We got a call from Lex saying that Evan had been dumped, so we cancelled our plans and drove to the city. Charlee raced to Evan’s apartment and dragged them to Lex’s where we were all waiting for them. After a bit of venting and a few tears, we were able to cheer them up, and we all celebrated the new year and good things to come. Charlee was even able to convince them to move to San Sequoia with her and Jay, which I know Ash is happy about.

I’m really grateful we ended up spending New Year’s with our friends because the going away party they had planned for us the following weekend ended up being canceled because… well…

The next morning, I woke up on Lex’s couch being jostled by Ash. He was in a panic because our phones were blowing up, and with the way I was laying on him, he couldn’t get to either of them. He was worried something bad had happened, that someone had been hurt.

But, when I sat up and checked my phone, it was the opposite. Li was in labor. All at once, everything became real.

We drove to the hospital as fast as we could and barely made it in time. But we made it. And now that our twins have arrived, life will never be the same again.

I suppose you want to meet them now. You will. Soon.

Prev // The Goode Life

A/N: I will try to introduce everyone to Sadie and Simon this weekend.. just know I’m completely obsessed with them! But this wraps up this part of my story. From here, I plan to split into two stories: The Good Life will focus on Atlas & Asher (and occasionally the extended Goode family) and my Star Sign Legacy will go back to Phoenix, Dawn, and Aspen as the main focus. I’m currently writing their next big arc, which will take some time, so for now I’ll be sharing sporadic gameplay of the boys (cos infants are my favorite thing in game)

[bronzepascal]

Hi love! Could I request some angsty Pedro fic if that’s okay? I live for angst and I cant rarely find anything on here? Maybe some misunderstandings? Maybe they have an argument? I have really bad communication problems so when I’m upset I just shut down and push people away, maybe something like this also? I don’t have anything specific in mind, so you can come up with anything, be creative!

Hope you can do this, if not it’s okay also :) 🩷

the silence between us

requested!

pairing: pedro pascal x fem!reader warnings: angst, comforting, miscommunication, overstimulation, emotional shutdown, references to social anxiety and autism, ableism from minor characters, emotional vulnerability. author’s note: thank you for requesting, darling! i hope i got the gist of the idea, if it was not what you were expecting, please do let me know! please note that i’m dyslexic & non-native english speaker. feedback is very welcomed! buying me a coffee is also recommend :) word count: 1.4K or 3 pages NO MINORS! 18+ READERS ONLY!

Pedro and you have been together for a couple of years now. He is aware of your communication issues — nope, not issues, — struggles. Ever since you both started dating, you knew that you had to bring up your struggles about talking with people and in general, your autism diagnosis. After a while, becoming more comfortable with and around Pedro, your inner self started to ease off and your communication around him became more loosened. Of course, there were situations and moments where you shut yourself off from the outer world or muted yourself away and Pedro did not think of it too much. He did not even mean to snap around you for being muted. 

He rarely ever did it—he is not the kind of man who raises his voice or lashes out without cause. He is patient, slower to anger than most, more often the one to soothe frayed nerves than to fray them himself, but tonight, as the two of you sit in silence in the back of a sleek black car, the tension has sunk its claws into the corners of his mouth, pulling his lips into a grim, frustrated line. His fingers twitch on his knee, itching to say something, to do something—but you are curled up against the window, shoulders tight, gaze locked on the passing blur of streetlights, and he knows that look.

You have shut down, again. Not just quiet— literally gone. Disconnected in the way you get when things become too much, too loud, too fast, and there is not a clear script for how to act, how to be, how to protect yourself from the subtle barbs and glaring gazes of people who just do not get it.

Tonight was important. The dinner was with people he has known for years—film industry people who flew in from LA. It was supposed to be easy and quick. You did not even have to say much, he told you, just come with him, just sit by his side.

The dinner had been a disaster, not because you did not try. You always tried— fucking hell, you tried so hard. You spent two hours rehearsing your polite small talk with Pedro before you even left the apartment, pacing in front of the mirror, repeating responses like mantras, mentally preparing for eye contact and forced smiles and elbow grazes from unfamiliar people in expensive suits.

The second you sat down, across from a producer who would not stop talking over you, a casting director who spoke about you rather than to you, in addition, a talent agent who narrowed her eyes every time you paused too long to respond—you felt your insides curl in on themselves like burning paper. You knew what they were thinking—you were cold, bitchy, arrogant, rude, maybe even a diva.

They did not understand the gaps between your sentences were not indifference, but calculation, more like a hardcore effort from your side. Every word out of your mouth had to squeeze past a wall of invisible static in your brain. That you were not avoiding eye contact to be disrespectful— it was just that looking at them while trying to form a sentence felt like someone was screaming into your skull with a bullhorn.

Pedro had squeezed your hand under the table, tried to cover for you—tried to turn attention away when it became too much—but even he had started to stiffen toward the end, sensing the unspoken judgment in the room, the increasingly uncomfortable silence surrounding your stammered replies.

Now, in the car, he exhales—loudly, the kind of breath that says I’m trying not to be angry but I pretty much am. You flinch, barely perceptible, but he notices. Of course he does, he always notices.

“I just…” he begins, then stops. His voice is quieter when he tries again. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do sometimes. I wish you’d tell me.”

Your throat tightens, you want to tell him. You always do, but how do you explain the absence of something? The way words go missing, how they drop from your mouth before they are even formed. How you are not trying to be cruel or distant or difficult, you just— fucking can’t. Especially not when your brain is on fire, your skin feels too tight and your chest is full of bees and everyone is looking at you like you are absolutely broken.

“I—I can’t,” you say, voice brittle, almost cracking. “Not like that, not in front of them. You know I fucking can’t.”

Pedro turns to face you more fully, leaning his elbow on the armrest, brow furrowed. 

“I know, cariño, I really do, but it’s hard for me too! I feel like you won’t let me in when it really matters. I get shut out. Whenever I try to help, you just go... so fucking quiet.”

“I have to,” you snap before you can stop yourself, voice shaking now. “Because if I talk, I’ll cry, or scream, or say something wrong, and then they’ll think worse of me. Even you. You were with me, Pedro. They’ll think I’m some freak you’re dragging around.”

The silence after that is thick and awful. Your hands shake in your lap. The inside of the car suddenly feels suffocating. Pedro does not respond right away. When he does, his voice is quieter, more raw.

“You’re not a fucking freak,” he says, not like a defense, but like a truth, like the sky is blue and gravity keeps us grounded — you are not a freak. Full stops after every single word.

“You’re my person, the love of my fucking life,” he continues. “Do you get that? You’re—Christ, you’re so much. Smart, sharp, and funny in this weird little dry way, and yeah, sometimes you shut down, but that’s just part of you. It’s not a flaw. It’s not something I want to fix.”

You turn to him, slowly, still blinking through the sting behind your eyes.

“I just… don’t want to ruin your reputation,” you whisper.

Pedro lets out a laugh that is not really a laugh—more of a scoff, laced with disbelief. “I don’t give a shit about my reputation if it comes at the cost of you feeling safe.”

His hand reaches out, tentative, until it covers yours. He does not squeeze, does not demand, just holds it.

“I’m still learning,” he says, softer now. “I want to, every day. I read, I ask questions, I mess up sometimes— and I might get fucked in my head if I mess up for you—but I care. Enough to keep trying.”

You let yourself lean into him, finally, your head finding the familiar curve of his shoulder. The night air cools your skin through the window glass. Your body stops buzzing, just a little, finding comfort from him. When Pedro presses a kiss to your hair and murmurs, “We’ll figure this out, mi vida. You and me,”—you believe him.

Over time—months, then years—you learn to meet him halfway, but not always and not perfectly. There are still days when your words disappear mid-sentence and all you can do is gesture weakly toward the door, overwhelmed and mute, while Pedro instinctively dims the lights and closes the curtains, grounding you in quiet without needing you to ask. You still have bad stretches—times when even brushing his hand away feels like too much, too loud—and he still gets tired sometimes, not resentful, just worn, like he has been trying to hold a shape made of water. He never leaves and he never gives up. When your brain will not let you speak, he adapts—lighting candles in soft amber hues because he read once that warm light made processing easier for you, or writing notes instead of asking questions out loud. On some of the nights when all you can manage is a few phrases in your native language, slipping from your lips with halting rhythm, he answers back in clumsy, careful syllables he has been practicing in secret—each word a bridge, each mispronunciation a promise that he is still learning. You never become someone who communicates like everyone else and you do not have to. With Pedro, you are understood—even in the silence, even in the mess—and there is nothing more freeing than that.