#( * &. ✧ ━ i. i’m done jumping through hoops » about

[dollfacefantasy]

You Make Me Cry Every Time

pairing: leon kennedy x fem!reader

summary: leon's going through a rough patch, and he takes it out on you.

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, angst, hurt/comfort, leon is mean in the beginning, toxic behavior i guess, implied age gap

word count: 3.7k

a/n: i was going through it and feeling emo so i wrote this. hope everyone enjoys as always <3

tags: @sleepyluxe @kaitkatme @tosuckmyweenis @pupthepokemonenthusiast @bizzarethirst @death-paint @petitecolibri @iron-toxinz @wildest-dreams-at-midnight

The clock on the end table reads 2:43. Muted sounds of nightlife fill the space outside the walls of your apartment. You’re sprawled across the couch, half-asleep, with a soft blanket draped over you. You were waiting for your boyfriend to come home. Again.

Leon had been going through a rough patch. He was moody and ready to snap at any moment it seemed. He drank a lot, and he was gone all the time. You knew he had been through so much and there was no end in sight. That’s why you tried to put up with it, but all of it was weighing down on you too.

You sharply inhale as the sound of keys being jammed into the lock on the front door rouses you from your stupor. Sitting up straight, you rub your face tiredly. Your eyes are still adjusting to the darkness of the living room when the door opens. A beam of light from the hallway shoots across the floor, but it’s gone just as fast as it appears. You hear the lock click again and then see his shadow brush through the room as if you aren’t even there.

He’s in the kitchen now, and you’re not even fully sure of what he’s doing. But you pad in his direction anyways. Your soft voice breaks through the tense silence with a gentle call of his name.

“Leon?”

He turns to you. Even in the dark when you can’t fully see, you can feel the harsh nature of his stare.

“What are you doing up? Told you to stop waiting up for me,” he grumbles.

His tone stings, but you continue to approach him.

“I just worry. I can’t sleep if I don’t know you made it home safe,” you explain yourself quietly.

“Just go to bed. I’ll be there in a second,” he says and turns away again. But before he speaks, you swear you could hear him scoff. 

You didn’t understand where his sudden apparent resentment towards you came from. He had always dealt with so much, constantly feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. But until the last few months, he never took it out on you. Now though, it felt like you were dancing across a floor full of glass shards to avoid setting off an outburst of his.

“I just want to make sure you’re alright,” you say, keeping your voice quiet and cautiously laying your hand on his back.

It immediately became clear to you that touching him was the wrong choice though. He shrugs you off and pushes your hand back down to your side. Now that you were closer, you could smell the scent of booze on him. It wasn’t as heavy as previous nights, but it was still present. You retract your hand and stare at him with concern.

“Leon, what’s wrong? Have I done something to upset you? We can talk about it. I-” you try to defuse the situation before he cuts you off.

“Jesus fucking Christ, it’s enough,” he snaps. He fully pulls away from you. “Take a hint. Go to bed.”

He speaks with such disdain for you, it makes your chest ache. “I was just trying to help,” you say, looking like a kicked puppy more and more with each passing moment. He takes no sympathy on you though.

“Well, you aren’t helping. You don’t know shit about my problems, so stop trying to fix them,” he says to you, his voice ice cold.

“I’m not trying to fix anything. I’m just trying to be there for you because I love you!” you defend. His miserable disposition was starting to frustrate you. This wasn’t the first time you’d jumped through these hoops for him.

“Oh, bullshit,” he says with a roll of his eyes.

That slices through you like a knife. Your lips part slightly in shock, and your words tangle up in your throat. You fight back tears, not wanting to seem even more pathetic to him.

“I can see what you want. You want the old me back. But he’s not coming back. He doesn’t exist anymore,” he rants at you.

“I never said that. You can’t get mad at me for problems you’re creating!” you say to him angrily and cross your arms.

“Aw, you don’t want me to get mad at you? Did I hurt your feelings, baby? Am I being mean to you?” he mocks with a cruel smile before his emotionless expression returns, “Grow the fuck up.”

You try to ignore his teasing and work towards a solution, but that really hurt. And it seemed like he said it with no thought or remorse, like he had been storing that and it just came out. Tears burn in your eyes and a lump rises in your throat, but you manage to choke out your next statement. 

“All you do is push me away. I can’t help you because you won’t even tell me what’s wrong,” you say, forcing your voice to stay even.

“I push you away because you can’t handle real problems. You show me that over and over again. I mean, look, you’re almost in tears, and I haven’t said anything that bad,” he says with a gesture to your eyes.

“If I’m so fucking immature and selfish, why are you even with me?” you ask. A few tears leak from your eyes and down your cheeks but you wipe them away as quickly as you can.

“You know, I’ve been asking myself that question a lot recently, and it’s getting harder and harder for me to come up with an answer,” he says. He keeps eye contact with ease. His voice is laced with venom. There’s no trace of anything but bitter anger.

You honestly struggle to come up with a response. But that’s ok because he doesn’t wait for one before he continues speaking.

“I mean really, what do I get from this relationship? I know what you get. You get the attention you’re so fucking desperate for. But me? What do I get?” he asks, “A dumb little girl who follows me around like a lost puppy? I mean you’ve definitely got a pretty face, but it’s everything else that’s getting harder for me to stomach.”

You can’t stop yourself at this point. He knew how to break you down. Your lip juts out ever so slightly and quivers as tears slide down your cheeks. You take a step back from him and look down.

“There we go. Always with the fucking crying,” he sighs. His tone becomes mocking again as he continues. “You want me to kiss it better, sweetheart? Tell you everything’s gonna be ok. That I’m so so sorry.”

“No,” you cry, trying to defend yourself, “I don’t want any of that from you.”

“I’m sure,” he says flatly.

“Fuck you, Leon,” you weep, “I can’t win with you. You’re absolutely hellbent on being miserable. I’m done. Deal with your shit on your own. I don’t give a fuck.”

You turn on your heel and rush off to the bedroom. You fling the door shut, the thud of the slam echoing through the apartment.

At first, Leon didn’t care. His initial reaction was a shrug. He walks over to the couch, puts his feet up on the coffee table, and turns on the tv to some old movie. He was in a pissy mood, and he especially wasn’t in the mood to deal with you.

But as time goes on, and he sits there alone, a sense of shame starts to cast a shadow over his heart. He keeps seeing your face in his head. The soft look in your eyes while they were full tears he caused. Your body language as he ridiculed you, shrinking away from him, eager to get away but afraid of looking weak. He could hear a replay of his voice spitting out every callous thing he could think of. He felt like such an asshole.

It didn’t help that he was surrounded by things of yours. You’d brought out a pillow and blanket for yourself while you stayed up for him. They smelled like you. On the table, you had a book you’d been reading for a while. You’d tell him parts and explain the drama to him when he wasn’t in a bad mood. The tv remotes, spare the one he had grabbed, were organized in the particular way you always did when you watched tv. He felt the void in his heart growing as you stayed shut away in the bedroom.

You weren’t faring much better. You curled up under the comforter on the bed, crying softly into the pillows. You were missing your favorite one since you’d left it out on the couch. You felt a deep ache in your abdomen, a weight that kept you thinking about him and everything he’d said to you.

Despite how tired you’d been before he came home, you couldn’t sleep now. No position felt comfortable. Nothing made the bed feel less empty.

You felt so pathetic. You should be mad at him, furious, enraged. He acted like such a dick. He said things that gave you reasonable grounds to kick him out. But you didn’t feel that way. You didn’t want that. You were heartbroken. He was right. You yearned for him to kiss it better and tell you it was all ok and that he didn’t mean any of it.

Eventually, you couldn’t take it. You give in. It was humiliating, but that was what you chose. You pad into the living room skeptically. You stand a distance from the couch, afraid of setting off another landmine. But if he wanted to yell, you’d let him at this point. You just wanted him.

He sees you standing near the opening to the hallway that entered the living room. You looked so sad, it tore at his heart. Your face was a mess, your posture was so timid. What was wrong with him?

“Come here,” he sighs and pats his lap.

Without hesitation, you cross the room. You’re in his arms, against his chest. Your arms are wrapped around him tight while your head is buried in the crook of his neck. You start crying again, but you keep it as quiet as possible, still hearing always with the fucking crying ringing through your mind.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out as you struggle to restrain a sob. You didn’t even know what you were really apologizing for. “I don’t wanna fight anymore.”

Another deep sigh escapes him. It could have been interpreted as annoyance, but you could tell it was regret. He rubs your back and holds you close against him.

“Shhh shhh. It’s alright, baby. It’s ok,” he says softly before stroking your hair, “We’re ok. I’m sorry.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” you weep and cling to him.

“No, sweetheart. It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t be so quick to snap at you,” he says in a hushed tone. He kisses your head and continues rubbing your back, something he always did to calm you down.

He kept his voice quiet to keep his own emotions in check. He wanted you to be ok and to know he was sorry. But you didn’t need to know how awful this made him feel. Guilt was gnawing at him now as he watched you cry out the pain his words had inflicted on you. He gently rocks back and forth with you, wanting to calm you down even more. 

“Baby, this isn’t your fault. None of this is,” he says, “I got my own shit going on, and I take it out on you because it’s easy.”

His voice drops to a whisper towards the end of his statement. His words dripped with shame.

“You don’t deserve the shit I say to you, but I just see you standing there, looking so fucking sweet and perfect and you’re looking at me with all the love in the world and I can’t fucking take it,” he says, his voice cracking a little, “I don’t deserve it.”

“Yes, you do,” you cry, grabbing onto him tighter.

“No, I don’t. You shouldn’t have to deal with this. Staying up every night, waiting for a mean old fuck to come home and yell at you,” he says. It was now his turn for his eyes to water while  a lump grows in his throat.

You were at another loss for words. You didn’t know what would convince him not to feel so down on himself. Instead, you press a soft kiss to the side of his throat. He tilts his head back and deeply exhales at the pure gesture. 

“And when I said I didn’t know why we were still together… I hope you know what a huge lie that was,” he says, “You’re all I have in this ugly god damn world. That’s it. Without you, I’d just be going through the motions.”

You gaze up at him as he goes through this. You curl your legs up on his lap with the rest of your body and lean into his touch in an attempt to offer him some comfort.

“And when I look at you, I see the opposite,” he says, his voice fully breaking now, “I see someone who has her entire future ahead of her, and she’s wasting it hanging around a guy like me.”

“You’re not a waste,” you say, sitting up and placing your hand on his cheek.

Your thumb moves back and forth in tiny motions, dragging across the skin soothingly. You both stare into each others’ tearful eyes.

“You’re not a waste to me. I love you. You’re important to my life too,” you say seriously looking at him.

“Baby…” he sighs. You were so fucking cute. If he had any spine, he would break up with you. Force you to do better for yourself. But he couldn’t. He knew in his heart of hearts that he would never be able to let you go.

You lean in and give him a soft kiss. You rub your nose with his. You shift on his lap to be in a better position to give him your affection.

His hands fall to your hips to steady you. He returns the gesture and presses two gentle kisses of his own to your cheeks. “I’m sorry, angel,” he whispers.

You lean in for more kisses, accepting the apology with your actions. You rub the back of his neck and press your body against his. The question of whether he deserved forgiveness crossed your mind, but you didn’t dwell on it. You didn’t really care.

He groans into the kiss as he feels your breasts flush against his chest. Your tongue enters his mouth, and he returns the passion. In a few minutes, saliva coats your lips and your breathing is heavy. You gently roll your hips down.

He feels that as soon as you do it. He disconnects his lips for a moment and looks at you with dilated pupils. You rock your hips again, bringing down your clothed cunt on his jeans. The stiff fabric gives you a good amount of friction and coaxes a whine from your throat.

“Honey,” he grunts, “Are you sure? You’re not just doing this because… because you think you have to, right?”

He didn’t want you using sex because you thought that’s what would please him. But he also couldn’t ignore the feeling of his cock hardening in pants.

You shake your head, panting as you grind on him, your lips still flushed from making out. “I wanna feel your love,” you say, your voice breathless.

That didn’t make him feel much better, but you felt so fucking good. “Babe, I can make you feel loved in other ways. Afterwards, I can show-”

“Wanna feel close,” you say before kissing him some more to shut him up.

Well, this would be as close as you could get. That put him at enough ease to give in to his urges. He grabs your hips harder, kneading the flesh of your ass too, and guides your movements. Both of you let out pleasurable sounds at the sensation.

“So fucking good to me,” he grunts, “My perfect girl.”

Your hips don’t stop as you pull off your thin sleep top. Your head falls back at the muted pleasure you were receiving from rubbing yourself on him.

His hands leave your hips and cup your tits. He squeezes them and then brings his mouth to a nipple. He flicks his tongue on the peak and swirls it with dedication. You let out a breathy whine.

He scoots you closer and continues his mouth’s work on your chest. His cock was now completely stiff in his pants, offering you even better friction. You feel it pressing on your clit just how you like, and you bite your lip. He can tell it’s feeling good.

He pulls his lips away from your nipples. Then he lays a few wet kisses on your jaw before picking you up by the waist and laying you back on the couch. He tugs off your shorts and panties.

His hand slides between your legs. He drags his fingers through your folds, feeling how wet you were.

“Such a sweet girl,” he breathes and captures your lips again in a quick kiss, “You’re soaked, babydoll.”

You nod timidly. He rubs you a little more, circling your throbbing clit and gliding over your wanting hole. You bite your lip and moan softly. Your hips rock against this touch as well before you suddenly whimper at a loss of contact and look up to see him sliding your fingers in his mouth. He groans at the taste of you before pulling the fingers back out of his mouth.

Reaching down, he unbuckles belt and drops his pants to the floor. He strokes his solid, flushed cock a few times. With the faint glow of the tv casting over the two of you, you can see a bead of precum emerging from the head. He adjusts his stance and positions himself at your entrance.

“I’m so sorry, little love. Let me try to make it better,” he breathes as he pushes inside.

Moans bubble in his throat as your tight, wet heat engulfs him. His head tilts back, and a ragged breath puffs from his lips. He grips the back of your thighs and holds your legs up.

He’s slow at first, dragging himself in and out, making sure to feel every inch of you. Your eyes flutter at the feeling, and your hips squirm for more.

As he begins to really thrust and set a consistent pace, he leans down to kiss you again. It’s sloppy and rushed, but he needed to feel you like this. He needed to feel that he hadn’t broken the connection you two had.

“My precious fucking girl. Am I making you feel good? Do you feel close to me?” he grunts, his grip tightening, “Can you tell how much I love you?”

You whine in response and nod. Your body heats up as he continues to slide in and out. He stretches you out just the way you like, fills you up so perfectly. He hits every sweet spot inside of you to make you forget he was even capable of saying such mean things sometimes.

You reach your arms up and pull his head down to rest against your neck. Your eyes were still full of your tears from earlier and a few slip out because of the strong difference between the euphoria of right now compared to the despair of the last hour.

One of your thighs drops back on the couch as the hand that was holding it comes up to your hair. He laces his fingers through the strands and begins pressing messy kisses to the side of your throat.

“My pretty baby,” he whispers against your skin, “I couldn’t ask for anything more.”

His hips continue their movements, his pelvis connecting with the skin of your ass over and over. He nuzzles your neck. You can hear his mix of harsh pants and soft groans right next to your ear. You cling to him as the heat inside you rises.

“Tell me how it feels, sweetheart. Wanna make sure you’re getting everything you deserve,” he says.

“Feels perfect,” you whimper after a string of moans, “I- I’m gonna cum soon.”

“Me too, doll,” he says. His hips piston into you harder. Your hands dig into the muscles of his back while your toes curl

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Leon,” you choke out as a cry leaves you.

“Mhm, good baby. I want you to cum for me, honey. I want you to feel so fucking good. Let it all go,” he says. 

His hand slides from his hair to your face and brushes away some of your tears. He kisses your cheek softly as you fall over the edge into bliss. Your body convulses underneath him as you release. You moan and writhe and the whole time he strokes your hair, cooing at you “my pretty girl” and “so so good for me.”

You were so tight around him. The sight of your eyes squeezing shut and your lips parting in ecstasy was too much for him. He thrusts into you a few more times before a moan rumbles through his chest and out of his mouth. He slams deep inside of you to spill himself. Hot, thick ropes of cum flood your insides.

You were shaky and trembling as he pulled out and planted a kiss on your forehead. He sits back on the couch, pushing the hair out of his face before pulling you up and close to him. He positions you on his lap and holds you to his chest.

He starts rubbing your back again and kissing your hairline. “Love you, babydoll. So so fucking much,” he whispers.

Your eyes close as you return the embrace and melt into his lap. You nuzzle and kiss his chest, relaxing into the affection.

“There’s my girl. All mine,” he coos.

You nod, enjoying the nice moment and letting yourself pretend that this whole cycle wouldn’t repeat in a few days time.

[misserabella]

loosen up

abby anderson x fem! reader

summary; abby was pent up, and angry, and she was taking it out on your team. and you were not gonna have it. you’ll have to loosen her up.

cw; +18 content! minors dni!, fighting, cursing, blood, abby being a bitch, teasing, tension, chocking (kinda??), hair pulling, punching, making out, begging, cheating (abby on owen), fingering (a! receiving), tit and nipple play, oral sex (a! receiving), dirty talking…

your blood was boiling. you were winning the game, it was no big deal. but fuck. did she really have to act like that? she was just like a fucking child.

you saw as abby barely defended the other team player as she shot to the hoop, listless, annoyed. you felt your skin crawl in goosebumps when she took the bounce and with a scowl tossed it to one of your teammates hard enough for it to end up getting out of the court.

“what the fuck anderson?!” you yelled at her, scowling. why was she acting like such a bitch. sure. you can be mad. but this is a match. get over it and play.

she ignored you, letting the player she was supposed to defend score.

you couldn’t handle it anymore getting closer to her and pushing at her chest, making her stumble backwards.

she had come today already with a scowl on her face, and after she had gotten mad about something your team had done wrong at the start of the match, she had started taking it out all on your team and sabotaging you. you didn’t care that she was the captain, if there was something everyone knew is that you wouldn’t stay quiet if something was bothering you. and she was infuriating you. “if you’re gonna play like this don’t fucking play!! you’re fucking it up for us!” she pushed you back.

“at least they need me to play. i’m not some bench warmer like you!” she said, and you gritted your teeth, your ego being hurt. “aw, what’s wrong? did i hit a weak spot?” she falsely cooed, and before you knew it you were punching her, making her lip burst and blood tint her skin.

you could hear the stairs filled with people roar, screaming when abby jumped on you, a hand tugging on your hair as her other hand closed into a fist, coming down onto your cheek and making you hiss.

before things could escalate, your coach was running into the court along with the referee to stop the two of you.

“anderson!” he screamed, trapping her arms to push her off of you. she fought against him and the referee who went to help him since abby was quite strong.

you spat blood, your teammates coming up to check on you.

“you two. out.” your coach ordered, forcing the two of you out of the court and into the changing rooms. “anderson. i don’t know what the hell has gotten into you, but you better be changing your attitude or i swear to got you won’t be making it to the next game. and you.” he pointed at you. “starting a fight in the middle of a fucking match?” he inquired. “are we in kindergarten?” you huffed, crossing your arms. “i don’t want you coming out of here until you fix whatever you two have going on. i don’t want bullshit on my court.” he said, closing the door to the changing rooms behind him to go back to his game.

the air inside of the room was so dense in tension it could be cut with a knife.

“this is all your fucking fault.” you spat, adrenaline cursing through your veins. sweat was pearling your skin.

“my fault?” she scoffed and you turned to face her. “you’re the one who fucking punched me.”

“yeah well you needed it.” you muttered. “just as much as you need a good fuck. bad thing your little boyfriend doesn’t know how to use his dick, huh?” next thing you knew you were against the wall, a hand tightly around your neck.

“you need to keep your mouth shut.” she growled, and you smirked. you were inches apart, your lips brushing, her breath hitting your face.

“aw… have i hit a weak spot?” you mocked her, throwing back her words at her. “i’m sure owen can’t hit your g spot though. how many times has he make you cum, huh? i’m sure not even once, since you’re acting like such a bitc-” she punched you again, making you shut up and your mouth fill up with blood all over again. you smirked.

you looked into her blue eyes, at her reddening cheeks. “well aren’t you cute, hm? blushing ‘cause i’m on the right?”

“fucking shut up.” she spat, and you leaned closer, pushing against the tightening grip on your neck.

“why don’t you make me, huh?” you whispered against her lips, and your smirk only grew when your saw her angry eyes drift down at your lips.

“you wish.” she muttered and your tongue wetted your lips, watching as she stared.

“by the way you’re looking at me i’m not sure i’m the one wishing for it, anderson.”

“you’re so annoying.” she growled, and you hummed when she quickly and harshly pushed them against your, so hard your head met the wall behind you in a thud. it was a mess. all tongue and teeth. your hands pulled at her blonde braid as her strong body caged you against the cold tile wall. she moaned when you bit down on her broken lip, tasting her blood as she could taste yours on your tongue.

“that’s it abby, take it all out on me, hm?” you muttered, and she cursed when your lips trailed down her jaw to her neck, sucking and biting. “this is what you needed, isn’t it?” you inquired as your hands dived in her shirt, hands cupping her tits over her sports bra and tweaking her nipples. “needed to get the attitude fucked out of you?” she moaned, and you smiled. “but we’re gonna get you all fixed for coach, isn’t that right?” she nodded, biting down on her lip as she felt one of your hands trail down her stomach, your fingertips caressing her abs. “speak up for me cap, why so quiet all of a sudden?” you teased her and she gritted her teeth.

“shut -“ she tried and say, but before she could finish her sentence she was letting out a loud moan as your hand pushed inside her pants and panties, fingers diving in between her slick folds.

“jesus christ. you’re soaked.” you breathed out, your fingertips easily sliding against her clit, making her thighs shake. “is it always like this, hm? can owen make your pussy drool like this?” she shook her head.

“no.” she shook her head in a whimper, one that made your own pussy throb. “fuck. he never… he doesn’t know how to touch me.”

you hummed. “you poor thing. so eager to be fucked and yet can’t get what you need, huh?” you mocked her, and you saw her breath hitch. “do you want it? do you want me to make you cum, abby?” she nodded. “nuh-huh. use your words. such a loud fucking mouth and now you’re getting shy on me? speak.”

“yes. please, make me cum.” she muttered, and you smirked.

“atta girl.” she moaned when you pushed your middle finger inside. “jesus christ. he doesn’t fucking deserve you. pussy so tight…” you groaned, starting to thrust in and out. “she’s so eager. she’s sucking me right in.” she moaned, hiding her flushing face on your neck, although you didn’t let her, tugging on her braid to make her face you. “don’t fucking hide from me. wanna see you fall apart.” her breath hitched, her thighs opening for you to reach deeper into her. you pulled from her so she could be the one now caged against the wall, giving you strength to dive two of your fingers inside her harder. “that’s it. open up for me.”

“fuck, fuck, fuck…” she cried out as you curled them against her g spot, eyes squeezed shut, cunt molding around your fingers.

“who would’ve thought… abby anderson, such a tough girl falling apart so easily on my fingers…” you smirked. “you like it baby? like how i’m fucking you behind your little boyfriends back? what would he say, hm? what would he think if he saw you like this, huh?” your thumb met her throbbing clit. “gonna be good for me once i make you cum? gonna stop being such a fucking bitch?” she nodded. “i bet you are. gonna make you cum so good you’d do anything for me.” you smirked. “look at you. you sweet girl, you just needed your pussy stretched out, hm? get loose, yeah? i bet you taste so fucking sweet, you’re dripping on my fingers.” she moaned, your words were so fucking lewd they were making her head spin. but she loved it. she couldn’t be more turned on. she’d never been this needy, this weak. “tell me, does he eat your pussy, hm?” she didn’t answer, yet her cheeks turned pink and you chuckled. “of course he doesn’t. want me to show you what you deserve? want me to fuck you with my tongue, abby?” she nodded, whining.

“yes please, fuck. please need your tongue.” your smirk grew.

“whatever you say, cap.” you teased her, pulling down her pants and panties with your hands, hearing her moan when your fingers left her hole, feeling empty. “so needy… don’t worry baby.” you said as you kneeled in front of her, pushing one of her strong thighs on top of your shoulder. “i’m gonna fill you up real nice.”

abby could swear she lost all breath when she felt your tongue lick a long strip up her clit from her hole, lapping at her slick with a hum that made her moan so loud you had to pull back to hush her. “you need to stay quiet, baby. don’t want your little boyfriend to hear us, hm?” you inquired, suckling at her clit. the thought of owen just bursting into the changing rooms to find the two of you like this only turned her on more. she shook her head. “then be a good girl and stay quiet for me.”

you dived back in, your tongue sliding in between her folds as you closed your eyes, relishing on how fucking good she tasted. “you taste so good… that dick doesn’t know what he’s missing. could eat this pussy up for hours.” abby whimpered, one of her hands finding your hair to tug you closer. and as much as you wanted to tease her about it, you gave her what she wanted, burying your tongue inside her hole, your nose bumping against her clit.

“oh, fuck.” she cried out, head rolling backwards and bumping against the wall as you curled it, fucking it in and out of her, moaning at the taste of the white creamy pre cum that stained your lips, chin and tongue. you hummed, devouring her like a starved woman before moving on to her clit and plunging two of your fingers back inside of her. you harshly sucked on that little bundle on nerves, feeling her shake as you hit your g spot with every curve of your fingers. “i’m gonna cum.”

“so pent up…” you chuckled by how easily it had been to make her fall apart. “poor baby. go ahead, be a good girl and cum on my face.” you said before going back to her clit, curling your fingers faster and sucking harder. it didn’t take long before her moans got louder —to which she had to muffle herself with her free hand— and creamed all over your mouth. you moaned, lapping at everything she was giving you as you fucked her through it. “atta girl…” you praised, smirking at the shaking of her thighs. she was panting by the time she was done, slightly whimpering at your licks as you cleaned her up. she watched as you pulled your fingers out of her and pushed them inside your mouth, your eyes never leaving hers as you sucked them clean. she bit down on her lip, the hand on your hair slightly tightening. “it’s best we go out there.” you said as you got up from your aching knees. “we’ve got a match to win.” she nodded, getting dressed with flushing cheeks.

after that, abby was back to her normal self, playing to win. in fact, it was the best she had ever played in a long time, and your coach noticed. it was before you went to enter the court on a change that he stopped you.

“i don’t know what the hell you did… but well done.” he said, and you smiled, taking a look at abby, who looked away with a flushed expression.

you shrugged.

“she just needed to loosen up.”

-

a/n; i need her

[bindeds]

bite me part two? 🥺👉👈

BITE  ME ( PART 2. )   ALASTOR  (HEAVILY  FT.  LUCIFER)  X  READER. —  you  arrive  back  from  your  outing  with  charlie  and  find  a  familiar  face  at  the  bar.  it  was  unusual  to  find  him  there,  and  when  he  asks  you  what's  wrong,  it's  hard  to  turn  him  away  even  if  you  are  looking  for  someone  else.

tags.  explicit  consent,  but  you  don't  actually  fuck  alastor,  acknowledging  his  asexuality,  jealousy.  plot  contains.  ballroom  dancing  and flirting with  lucifer!  <3 wc.  3.3k

a/n. so sorry this took weeks! i hope you enjoy this anyhow <3

related links . . . part 1. bite me : lucifer’s ver.

masterlist. requests as of 0324 : open.

“You smell delicious, mon cher.”

Your eyes widened at the mirror blurring right in front of you. The dull bathrooms of the hotel hadn’t gone through any paint jobs yet, so in this light, it was the palest, dullest blue that almost glorified the blaring red that your companion possessed. There was no running water and yet the edges fogged up, puffs of greedy heat threatening to reach the very center. You stared right back at your own puzzled complexion, a mix between restraint and twisted bewilderment.

Your hands were limp in Alastor’s slender ones as he held them by your sides, your right hand a little more extended than the other.

He lowered his chin and rested snugly on your shoulder. His eyes shut. His smile was persistent, mocking and as bright as ever.

“Is it truly what you desire?” Alastor asked, and like the moisture that infected the mirror, his bloodied velvet voice rang like a snake’s hiss in your head. “To be … undone by his frivolous charms.”

He spat the words out like it was venom threatening to poison the very tongue he used to keep you right where you were, conflicted with the thrill of your wrestling heart over what this man had been doing to you.

“Alastor …”

“Or would you prefer it to be by my own hand?”

Alastor’s left hand left yours in a quick motion as it went flush against your upper abdomen.

You bit your lip as his hand traveled further down the smooth fabric of your clothing, almost mirroring the movement of sweat rolling down your forehead and cheek.

“Well?” He refrained himself from laughing, but of course it was a very poor attempt.

You were slowly but surely crumpling in his ever tightening grasp.

His hand stopped dead at the very bottom of your stomach.

Your breath hitched. Liquid fire spread in between each strand of hair on your head as you gulped.

“May I?”

“Al, what are you doing? You wouldn’t do this. You’re playing with me,” you dared to speak out amidst the haze of speechlessness that had been cast upon you by this half-done bathroom—by the swell of Alastor’s chest on your shoulder blades, by his entire body that had been so perfect of a puzzle piece against the back of your own.

“Oh, but I would,” Alastor snickered in a low, sinister tone that only finished in a high. “You’ve already witnessed the measures I’d travel just to make myself happy. You and I are both unaware of what I’m capable of doing for the one I yearn for.”

“Al … that’s …”

This is all wrong. He’s going about it the completely wrong way.

Your eyes finally shoot up and away from the mirror that distorted your tunnel-vision view—but that could very well be your own mind overwhelming your body, making it jump hoops all for its own sick gain.

If you started all over again, you couldn’t have guessed you’d end up here. And even if you could … would you have avoided it?

…

The bar had been its usual glowing, droopy green as it always had, with Husk tending to it like he was its loyal servant—and in a way, he was. With being the hotel’s bartender, he was unspokenly tasked to help the poor souls that wander over to his bar to look for solace at the bottom of a whiskey bottle.

But today … had been slightly different.

Slightly different in the sense that Husk … couldn’t read the man before him. He looked … tired, with subtle bags forming below his once bright, wide eyes whenever he looked down, but he still smiled when he downed a shot and settled for red wine after the very first one.

When you and Charlie came bursting in with what would be the sun’s energy if it possessed the power to speak, your eyes matched the man at the bar’s. Husk saw it immediately.

Not just the dark circles under your eyes, or how your shoulders went limp the moment Charlie regrouped with her girlfriend.

Your neck.

It had been very slightly deformed, but he couldn’t explain in what way. In almost every angle, it was flawless skin that looked the same all across your hands, arms and face. But in just one angle in particular …

Husk flinched when Lucifer called your name from across the hotel lobby, waving at you to sit down next to him. The bags disappeared without a trace, with only that bright smile everyone knew so well to accompany his already cheery demeanor. You would have almost forgotten he was even sitting at the gloomy bar in the first place.

“How was your little outing with Charlie? Did you and my little girl have fun?” He asked as his smile persisted through his drinking.

“Yes, sir, we—”

“Oh, no need for that now, just call me Lucifer,” he chuckled as he waved you off.

“Okay,” you smiled, tucking some hair behind your ear. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, yes I’m fine! I’m perfectly fine, why do you ask my dear?” Lucifer raised a brow but his other hand was still wrapped around his half-finished glass of liquor.

“Well, it’s just that—”

You flinched as gentle fingers on your cheek had forced you to twist your neck at an awkward angle.

A whispering breeze blew past a sore spot you had forgotten.

You swatted Lucifer’s hand away and gasped at your own sharp reaction.

“Shit, I’m so sorry sir I—”

“Who did that to you?”

His voice crumbled unstable, being held up by only his will to know what happened. He glanced up at you, brows tensed and pulled together.

You covered your neck, rolling your lips into a crumpled line.

“Lucifer, it’s nothing, really,” you insisted.

Lucifer reached out again. “At least let me heal it—”

“You can’t,” you said, gently deflecting his hand once more.

He blinked a few times. His gaze briefly rested on your shoulder before resuming to his own glass as he sighed silently.

“Alright then.”

He snapped his fingers and summoned a soft scarf from a pume of red smoke. He presented it to you with two hands and you took it wearily, but wrapped it around your neck as soon as you had it in your grasp.

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I’m only worried,” he said, and your name was exhaled from his lips like it was something he’d been keeping in.

“Could you at least … think about it? For me?”

“Think about what?”

“Letting me heal your wound. It looks painful,” Lucifer added as he squinted back at where your wound would have been had you not covered it up with the scarf.

“I’ll …” you paused as you looked away. The lobby had been rather empty tonight considering the evening was settling in, this was usually when people would be flooding either into the dining hall for dinner or out to catch their own meals.

Your gaze fell on Charlie who had been Vaggie’s headrest as they watched tv together in the lobby. They don’t usually do this, so you had a feeling it might have had something to do with the man right in front of you. After all, it wasn’t a usual sight to see him anywhere near the bar considering he clearly found it distasteful.

“I’ll think about it.”

Lucifer nodded. A warm smile overtook his cheeks. “Thank you.”

Husk glanced between you and Lucifer and set down the empty wine bottle he’d been wiping at the side.

He walked over to the back of the bar where the other bottles of liquor were on display and reached for a small radio with knobs on either side. He knew that this would come in handy someday, even if he hated to admit that the radio demon was right.

He turned the knob once, and a fast-talking demon barely got a word in before he turned it again. It took a few more turns before he settled on a song he was lucky to have stumbled upon.

The slow, swaying tune of trumpets began to play, the sound bouncing off the walls to create an ambience similar to that of an old film shot in a fancy hotel just like this one.

And like the corrupt angels heard Husk’s scattered prayers, Angel Dust appeared by the main stairs of the hotel.

“Hey, I’m just gonna head out for dinner,” he called to him before his eyes wandered the ceilings. “Hey, what’s this fancy tune?”

The radio had been magically routed throughout the hotel lobby, and it had been like this since Alastor had given him this radio to tuck away in case of ‘dire situations.’

Everyone looked around the walls of the hotel, amazement filled in the glimmers of their eyes at what they were hearing.

“Just a lil’ somethin’ to lighten up the mood. I haven’t been outside but I’m sure it’s a fine evening,” Husk says rather apathetically, considering the actual content of his words.

“Hey, wait I know this song!” Angel Dust perked up as his eyes widened just as much as his agape smile had. “Husk, c’mon!”

Charlie and Vaggie had already taken the floor and slow-danced in swirls.

Angel Dust rushed towards the bar and beckoned Husk once more.

“It … is a lovely night,” Lucifer uttered your name once more, catching your attention as you exchanged tired gazes with him. “Care to dance, love?”

Lucifer offered you his hand.

But all you saw were the memories of what had happened upstairs not too long ago. The striking pain, the oozing pleasure—Alastor’s gaze.

“Lucifer, it’s very sweet of you, but I can’t,” you refused again.

Lucifer’s already effete smile dissipated, but his hand remained persistent.

“It’s only a dance, my dear. With all the things that wear you down, I can’t think of a more perfect distraction,” Lucifer persisted as his hand remained extended out before you.

You considered Lucifer’s words for a minute. Alastor hasn’t appeared when he usually does whenever Charlie comes back from an errand, and you didn’t want to disturb him especially after the intimate moment you shared before leaving. It must have been a lot for him considering his sexual orientation, even if sex wasn’t involved.

And, Lucifer had been nothing but endearing since you came back. He didn’t pry into your business even if you knew he could tell that you were fatigued.

You hooked a finger in the scarf Lucifer had given you, as if to remind yourself of just how patient and kind Lucifer had been when even he seemed out of it tonight.

You nodded as you took his hand, and you yelped at the sudden pull of your entire body as he spun you around. Before you could reorient yourself, you were in the empty floors of the hotel lobby, with one hand clasped on Lucifer’s own, and the other on his shoulder. His other hand held your waist upright as you danced in tandem, you and Lucifer’s feet like two parts of the same mechanism. His one step forward was your one step back.

“Kiss me once and kiss me twice and kiss me once again, it’s been a long, long, time …”

His eyes remained on you, a gentle smile shone in the gold lighting of the hotel. Perhaps this was why he was named the Morningstar; the setting sun whispered over his cheeks and his gaze, even if it had now been tainted red, was still something to behold.

“Did I tell you you look lovely tonight?” Lucifer asked gingerly.

You held back a chuckle. “You might have mentioned it, yes.”

“Oh, you kid,” Lucifer grinned as he shook his head. “The answer is ‘no,’ dear.”

“Then what was the point of asking?”

Lucifer paused, and all you could do was search his features for an answer.

“It was so that I can tell you a million times over.”

You only had a second to react when he spun you a lot slower this time, and you were actually able to catch a glimpse of Husk and Angel dancing nearby and … was that a stain on the wall?

“You look lovely tonight,” Lucifer uttered in hushed tones, the low voice casting a fumes over your line of thought.

He pulled away from you for a moment, but had a firm grasp as your only link to him was both your hands, arms outstretched to each other. He pulled you back towards him again, your chest to be flush against his own as your hand instinctively found his again.

“You look lovely tonight,” he repeated in a more hopeful tone, and by this time you understood what he was doing and you finally let yourself laugh.

As the song slowed to an end, he dipped you delicately as his arm steeled under your lower back to hold the rest of you up.

“You look … lovely. Tonight,” Lucifer finished.

He helped you up as your eyes locked onto his, though, if you were being honest with yourself, it might have been locked there for just about the entire dance; you were just too busy exploring what laid beneath. You finally returned his solemn smile and he reached to the side of your face to tuck some stray hair behind your ear.

You tilted your head towards his touch, as if it was almost by instinct again.

“You know, I was looking to … loosen up tonight, if you catch my meaning,” Lucifer lifted his chin as hints of that signature grin peeked through his lips.

A raindrop string, a bird’s cry—what had been something so endearing had suddenly turned strangely bittersweet. The answer had been more than sparkling clear in your head.

“Lucifer, I—”

Your eyes instinctively fell on that dark spot on the wall again.

And your entire body shivered ice cold. You perked up and away from Lucifer’s hand as the stain on the wall sneered at you.

“What’s wrong?” Lucifer asked.

Except, it really wasn’t a stain on the wall. More of a shadow in the chair. Alastor materialized fully into a single seater by the tv, eyes squinted as his close-mouthed smile stretched from ear to ear.

Alastor’s high pitched cackle echoed in your head as he dissolved into black wisps again, his shadow stretching towards the half-done women’s public bathroom of the hotel.

“Did you hear that?”

“No … what’s—”

“I’m sorry, I have to go—um, to the bathroom.”

Lucifer called your name as you slipped away from him, but you ignored his call as you rushed into the bathroom like you said you would.

When you burst through the door, the bathroom sat humid and abandoned with the air conditioning of the hotel kept completely out from the stuffy room. The structure of it had really come together nicely, so it wouldn’t have looked nearly as creepy if the team had gotten the paint job done this week.

“Why have you come, dear?” That smooth yet high pitched voice echoed not just in your head this time, but it ricocheted off the walls and back at you to hear it ring a second, third, and fourth time.

Alastor was loudest over your shoulder. You felt his breath tickle your neck as his shoes clicked along the tiled floors. He walked around you, finally showing himself as he planted his cane on the floor between both of you.

“Lucifer and I were just talking and I was looking for you after we came back but you didn’t come to see us. Then music played and …”

Alasto waited a while before speaking up himself. “And what?”

“Oh c’mon Al, could you just—not do this for once? Please? You know what I’m trying to say. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … do that.”

“Do what? Dance with the very man that has me scratching layers of my own skin and flesh out?” Alastor looked up in thought, though knowing him, this remark had been smeared all over his lips since he’d first observed you with Lucifer. All he’d done was scrape the nastiest parts and flung it right at you.

“Alastor, I didn’t know if I should have disturbed you when I got back, alright? Don’t be like that. I really am sorry—and you’re being mean about it, I’m trying to be genuine here,” you protested as you folded your arms over your chest.

“Oh, darling,” Alastor sighed sympathetically. He approached you with just a step or two forward, and with your head still hung low, your eyes zipped at him as he laid a gentle hand on top of your own.

That hand grabbed yours and in a gush of wind, you were in front of the mirror with Alastor’s entire body glued to your back.

. . .

And you’re back in the present. His hand was a clothing iron to your lower stomach, burning and sticking to you like you had to get it off.

“Alastor, do you think I’d choose Lucifer over you for sex?” You shrieked in disbelief.

Alastor’s lips pursed in thought. “It’s the one thing he acquired that i have not. It’s the only thing I can think of.”

“And you’d make yourself uncomfortable … just to keep me from leaving you?”

You feel Alastor slowly nod with his head still pressed against you.

“It’s an indulgence i find useless and quite incomprehensible however—”

You broke out of his grasp and turned around, your hands ending up around his nape.

“Al.”

His complexion relaxed from its previously shocked state. He blinked, and he pinned you against the sink when he leaned into you, his hands on either side of the sink’s edge.

“I think it’s very sweet that you would do that for me,” you began shakily. “But I also … I want you to want me.”

Alastor tilted his head.

“But I do want you, darling. Just earlier up in my quarters I was thinking how lovely it would be to read dracula to you while you drift off to sleep.”

You smiled sheepishly, finally breaking eye contact with him as you lower your head.

“Yes. I’d like that very much. But that’s not what I’m talking about, dear,” you reiterate with honey that Alastor could taste in your tone as you felt him ease up in your hands, he somehow grew warmer, softer—like he had been making himself easier to hold for you.

“I’m … I’m talking about sex.”

“Yes. If you’d like that then—”

“No, Al. I’ve accepted that you’re aromantic and asexual a long time ago. And I consider myself lucky to be in some sort of exclusive arrangement with you already.”

“‘an individual that rarely experiences romantic or sexual attraction.’”

Your eyes widened. “You know?”

“I asked Niffty to use voogle because I felt my skin crumple and bubble at the very thought of participating in that picture box head’s scheme. But yes, I am now aware of such terms. I find that it suits me quite well.”

“I’d like to respect that, Al. You’re who I want to spend all my time with. And if sex makes you uncomfortable then we don’t have to do it. I can always do it myself.”

Alastor continued to smile as if you hadn’t said anything. As if you hadn’t just handed him your heart—blood, arteries and all—on a silver platter. You bit your lip and it pulsated like a heartbeat, but maybe you were just getting lightheaded.

Alastor finally pressed his forehead to yours, closing his eyes as his grin shrunk down to a barely visible smile.

“Thank you, my treasure.”

That night, as Alastor had mentioned, you went to bed in matching pajamas as he read your own book to you, Dracula by Bram Stoker. You fell asleep quite a while after he’d begun reading, and even if Alastor barely gets any sleep at all, he still shifts next to you under the sheets to have you close.

taglist : (comment if you’d like to be on it! tell me if there’s other characters you’d like to be tagged for as well <3) @whateverlololo @shunsuiken @rineptune

[marleyybluu]

Piercings

Spooky x f!reader

Word count: 925

Warnings: Spooky being a cute daddy, talks of piercings, brief description of a child's ear being pierced, tears from both baby and dad (lol), fluff, Spooky gets a lil freaky at the end. (had to), allusions to smut. reader is not race-coded, reader speaks/understands Spanish

(not my gif. hes so fucking hot.)

“Spooky, baby, come on she’s six months. It’s easier to do it now, they say the pain won’t last as long.” You pouted at your husband. You’d been talking about piercings and earrings since you found out you were having a girl. Spooky hated it. Said you could just give her your moms old ass clip-ons and call it a day but you were not about to do your daughter like that. Plus you maaay have jumped the gun and bought lots of studs and little hoops for her.

Your husband scowled at you as he held the child in question in one hand and pushed the stroller with the other. “Pleeeease.” You begged. He huffed and rolled his eyes. “Fine,” He complied. “But I’m gonna be so pissed at you if something bad happens.” You rolled your eyes, you were sure she’d be fine. “She won’t even cry.”

“Have you seen her get a needle at the doctors? Yes she will.” He argued. But it was too late he already said yes and so you led them over to Claire’s. You browsed around until the piercer was done with her current client. Spooky smiled as his daughter’s tiny hands reached for the bow he was holding. “You already have too many bebita…. But what’s one more? Right?”

Spoiled.

While they were distracted you conversed with the piercer who assured you that the pain would be quick, she’d cry for a few seconds but she’d be completely fine after. “Yeah, try and tell my husband that. He might fight us both.” You joked. She laughed and shrugged. “All the dads are like that,” She leaned in to whisper. “Sometimes they cry more than the kids.”

Oh, you’d pay to see that.

“Just let me finish sanitizing every thing and I’ll get to you guys.”

“Alright, thanks.”

You wandered to find your little family, your daughter snug as a bug in her fathers big arms. You poked her side and she squirmed flashing you a toothless smile. “Are you ready, mi amor? We’re gonna make you look extra pretty.”

Spooky groaned. “Say Mommy I’ll always be pretty and that this idea is estúpido.” You flicked him on the back of his bald head."

"Stop teaching my child bad words."

He mocked you and flipped you off, you grabbed his finger, about to twist it off if you could but the piercer had called you guys over. You firmly planted your hand on his back and pushed him to the chair, he sat and glared at you. "Okay, so you'll sit her on your lap, one arm over her torso... like this..." She arranged his arm for him, "And hand... here." His large hand engulfing your child's head, she turned her small head to you and smiled again. "Are you ready?" You asked in your baby voice which always got her excited.

The piercer picked up her piercing gun, you cringed starting to remember what that felt like when you got your nose pierced so long ago. She gently picked up the small lobe of your daughter's ear and let it hang between the end of the earring that was jammed inside the white gun and the hole it would come through. You heard one quick click and your baby's smile turned into a frown, her tiny lip quivered and she blinked out a few tears. Her calm before the storm. Her head was turned away from you and the same thing happened, a fast click, and soon a wailing baby.

Your heart sank, maybe it was a bad idea. Your eyes met Spooky's, in them held sorrow for his baby and disdain towards you-- they were glossy and slowly reddening from his own incoming tears, he rested her head in his chest and bounced her up and down with a comforting pat on her back.

"Ohhh, mi bonita flor, I'm sorry. We're not talking to mommy anymore." He cooed kissing the top of her head. Your jaw dropped. "Oh, come oooon, Spooky."

No response. Just a look that could kill. You half-smiled. "I love you. Thank you."

He sucked his teeth and walked out of the store with your bawling baby.

-- --

The silent treatment continued when you got home, even after your daughter calmed down and forgot the whole ordeal. You held her in your arms as she slept peacefully, milk drunk as usual. Her ruby earrings sparkled as they complimented her skin tone and face shape, you smiled drawing faint circles on her arm. You felt those warm brown eyes boring into the back of your skull.

"Still mad?" You mumbled turning toward him. "Yes." He huffed. You nodded your head at your baby. "Look how fucking cute she is. Just say I was right."

Spooky leaned over to get a better look at her, her small nose twitching in her sleep. He swooned resting his hand on her little leg. "Qué bonito. Ella es hermosa." (How cute. She is beautiful.)

"Exactly." You looked down at her. "Always knew we'd make some cute ass babies."

He delivered a soft kiss to your neck, his teeth nibbling at your skin and you could feel his smile against it. "Speaking of," He kissed the back of your ear. "When we gon' start trying for another."

You gasped as he pinched your thigh with his free hand. "Oscar Diaz!"

"I got my own milf walking around, you think I can control myself?" You playfully rolled and carefully eased off the couch so as not to wake your baby. "Let me put her in her crib."

"Yes!"

something quick cus i'm high asf and I've been seeing a lot of men crying when their daughters get their ears pierced and idk I just imagined spooky lmao couldn't think of a title but if yall come up with one and i like it I'll use it

if you liked this fic feel free to like this fic, comments and reblogs are appreciated.

Peace and love see you in the next one✌🏾

🏷: @darqchilddaydreamz @realhotgurlshit @skyesthebomb

[kiragecko]

A few weeks ago, I flew to visit my grandma with my little brother and sister. My little brother had never been on a plane, and my sister only has once, almost a decade ago. It was an experience.

All three of us are in our 30s and neurodivergent¹. My little brother has Down’s Syndrome² and is probably autistic. He communicates mostly through echolalia³.

I suspected there might be challenges, so I tried to contact the airline before purchasing tickets. This did NOT work. The Westjet agents weren’t allowed to discuss anything with me until I had booked a flight. I was purchasing nonrefundable tickets. The website was quite clear that they could kick us from the plane if they couldn’t support our needs. And they wouldn’t tell me if they could support our needs!

I ended up calling around 8 times. Finally, after purchasing tickets and jumping through all the hoops, someone was willing to talk. They mostly said that everything was up to the people letting us on to the flight, but at least they talked to me!

My main concern was the pacing. My brother’s favourite activity is pacing in circles and repeating movie/song quotes to himself. Once we got on the plane things would be fine (we had movies for him to watch), but I was concerned that other passengers waiting to board would find this stressful. Like - that isn’t our problem, it’s their’s - but flying is hard! If there was a way for us to not add more stress, I wanted to find it!

The airline was zero help, so we did our best to prepare on our own. My uncle died the day before the trip, and that increased stress levels. My autistic sister was dealing with that, a sense of responsibility for my brother, and also anxiety about a mostly-new experience (flying).

-

And then the plane gets delayed.

By an hour, at first.

The airline said we should be there TWO HOURS early for domestic flights. Which is ridiculous. TWO HOURS??? Especially since everything before security can now be done online? But we obediently turn up two hours before the new flight time, and are immediately directed to the priority security line. Which is good. Even the short line is boring for my brother, and I can’t let him pace in the few open spaces. But ten minutes later we’re at our gate, ready to leave.

Now we just have to wait for an hour and fifty minutes!

We had hoped my brother would want to watch his first movie. But he's riled up from lines and crowds and gets right to pacing. A few people have to slow down as they pass, but he’s not hurting anyone, so I let him be.

I’m more worried about my sister, now. She lives with the aunt that found my uncle. She hasn’t slept in days, worrying about the trip. She isn’t handling the noise and crowds. So I keep an eye on my brother (at least 50% to make sure he doesn’t take some of the chocolate he keeps eyeing when he passes the gift shop), occasionally ask if he wants to watch a movie, and watch my sister slowly descend into a panic attack. Not fun. Eventually I send her to the bathroom, hoping that it will be quieter and she can calm down.

BUT! Events have happened during this time! The plane has been delayed another 15 minutes! It is explained that they have had to replace the plane with one they haven’t yet finished retrofitting. This new plane doesn’t have as much overhead baggage space. They need at least 15 pieces of carry-on luggage to be checked. If the passangers aren’t willing to do this, there will be large delays once loading starts, as people are FORCED to check their luggage. Also, there’s no first class on the new plane. Or charging ports. Or meals. Or in-flight entertainment. First class passengers can request some money back. And if anyone misses their connecting flight due to the delays, tickets to their new flights will be provided upon landing.

People start to get tired and stressed. The intercom keeps threatening them. Now it’s 30 bags that need to be checked. Delays will be even longer if this doesn’t happen!

At this point, security shows up. They ask if anyone will take responsibility for the pacing guy. I do. They show visible discomfort with the situation, and his disability. Can I make him stop pacing? I can try, but probably not. Please do that, it is bothering the other passengers. Oh? Really?? Who could have guessed that?!

My brother is NOT willing to sit down. We stand in the concourse, while I talk to him about sitting down and he makes annoyed sounds at me. I’m not about to force him. I don’t want us to get kicked out of the airport, but can they do that for something as minor as acting weird in public? Mostly, I’m worried about all our electronics, which I abandoned in the open when security showed up. I’m not sure if security will try something with my brother if I leave him to pace while I clean things up.

And now, the hero shows up. The head of security has been called, and he comes over and asks me if there’s anything my brother needs. No, there isn’t, he’s quite happy to pace. It’s everyone else that is being bothered.

“I don’t care about them. He has just as much right to this space as they do. I just want to make sure you guys have everything you need. Would he like a sensory package?”

He wouldn’t like a sensory package, but this guy’s offer of the chapel as a quiet space IS interesting. Mostly because my sister is off in sensory shut-down somewhere, and needs a quiet space. But also because I could relax a little nobody would be watching us, and I could relax if my brother had an enclosed room to pace in. (No chocolates!)

As I’m agreeing to this, my sister returns. Head of Security respectfully tries to explain the situation to her. I look at her hunched body language and tell him to just talk to me. Then I send her to pack up our stuff. He wants to Include Her. She really, really does not want to be included.

He also wants to Include my brother. It’s kind of cute. He’s overflowing with good intentions, but obviously hasn’t had a lot of chance to put them into practice yet. He’s incredibly respectful, but in ways that would work a bit better for people who are more interested in their own decision making than my brother. I’m charmed.

Another person shows up. She is introduced as the Accessibility Specialist, and we are asked if we’re okay with her support. Oh yes, I am very okay with this. After she gets caught up - and she reiterates that everyone else can suck it, my brother is allowed to inhabit this space how he wishes - we get ready to head for the chapel. But the plane is about to land. There probably isn’t enough time to transition there and then back. So instead, we all wait around and listen to our two heroes conspire.

Accessibility Specialist has had the job for a month. Or, at least, she's been PAID to do this job for a month. She's been doing it unofficially much longer. She has IDEAS. So that’s where all the unpolished We Respect Everyone energy is coming from. Head of Security is one of her co-conspirators!

In-between plotting, Accessibility Specialist asks me questions. She hears about the amount of phonecalls, and the unsatisfactory answers. The complete lack of support. The fact that I had told the airline that this exact situation was likely to happen, and then got security called on us anyways. She tells me that this information is very helpful. Her plans will benefit from specific examples.

She tells me how unsatisfactory it is to have to send people to the chapel. They're pushing for a quiet room. I agree that this would have been helpful. My brother would probably have been calmer in a quiet space, which would have helped us AND reduced the stress for others. (Also, both me and my sister would have benefited from the quiet. But I didn’t say that.)

In all the commotion, I’ve forgotten to talk to the boarding people about priority boarding. But Accessibility Specialist is on the ball! We stand off to the side, behind a rope, while the plane disembarks. (My brother starts off pacing RIGHT in the way of the disembarkment, so sneaking into the roped off area is a good idea.) We’re going to be the very first ones to board, even before the people in wheelchairs. I pray that my brother is willing to walk onto the plane – he hasn’t been willing to follow me since we got out of security.

The boarding people are on their best behaviour. They make a special trip over to us to scan our tickets. They send someone down the ramp to check on the plane’s status. We are now VIPs. And we seem to have made the Accessibility Specialist’s day. She is so SMUG as she whispers with the Head of Security!

They ask if we’re okay with them accompanying us to the plane. Sure! I’m having a great time watching their excitement. It’s changed a very difficult experience into a pleasurable one. (For me. They are thankfully respecting my sister’s desire to be ignored. She is still not having fun. And my brother is pretty done with this experience. He’s found some quotes about ‘going home’ and ‘not doing this’ to share with me.)

Finally, we get the nod. My brother calmly follows us down the ramp. We get to the plane and are asked to pause for a moment while they finish moving some storage carts around. Seems reasonable to me, but Accessibility Specialist darts forward and takes photos, documenting SOMETHING. And then we get on the plane.

-

The plane itself would have been great. My brother happily took a seat. Enjoyed looking out the windows. And was excited to watch Shrek. My sister relaxed. And I LOVE flying. But, sadly, electronics must be stowed during liftoff and landing. My brother did NOT take these unreasonable demands from me well. He eventually forgave me for the take-off misdemeanor, especially after I put on my own headphones and quoted the movie with him. But my sins at landing were too much. For half an hour after he left the airport, he kept repeating, “NO more flying!” and “Not like this!” Any comments about flying for the next day got his hackles up.

So, I won’t do that to him again. But it was a very interesting experience for me! I am glad I got to have it.

And if anyone has flown through Winnipeg’s Richardson International Airport⁴ in the last while, and wants to tell them about any good or bad accessibility experiences, I think there’s someone there that would appreciate it. I want to see what she can accomplish.

-

PS. She’s also started a program where you can practice getting ready to board a plane! You sign up and they take you through the whole experience, from signing in to walking the boarding ramp. (Or, possibily, just whichever portion is concerning you.) I wish I had thought to contact the airport itself, rather than just contacting the airline and looking at the government’s resources. Good things are happening there.

-

¹ neurodivergent – brain works in a non-typical way

² Down’s Syndrome – an intellectual disability

³ echolalia – communication by repeating/echoing things heard, either right after hearing them, or a long time later

⁴ Winnipeg is in Manitoba, Canada

[mykoreanlove]

🏀 Ballin‘

Yoongi loved meeting you on an abandoned playground late at night after he was done with the day‘s struggles.

He once found this place randomly on a nightly stroll. There was a basketball court, dimly lit and sheltered from the world - ideal for his private getaway with you.

His day had been packed with different schedules, each one more stressful than the next. Poor boy didn’t even have time to change into his beloved #3 jersey.

Yoongi practically ran over here because he needed the release. He needed to blow of some steam with his favorite sport. He needed to move his body and forget about his brain.

But what he needed the most was you.

He watched you miss shot after shot with a sly smirk on his lips.

Yoongi loved to observe you, especially in moments you felt unnoticed. He saw the frustration in your face - the knitted brows paired with your tense shoulders, alarming him that you were pissed off.

„Seems like you need a little motivation.“

You turned to face him.

God, he was beautiful. The long hair slid back accentuating his unique features, his chic clothes which made him look like a million bucks and the cunning smile on his lips made him irresistible to you.

„Each time you make the ball go through the hoop I’m going to kiss you.“

You bit your lip, trying your best to hide your smile. What your beloved Yoongi didn’t know was that you were an ace at basketball, only pretending to fail to get closer to him.

You batted your eyelashes at him, smiling sweetly.

„Let’s hope I make it.“

You turned around with precision and threw the ball - right into the hoop.

„Wooohoo“, you jumped up and down happily, pretending to be lucky.

Yoongi raised a brow, catching on too quickly. He walked over to you and put his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

His scent was intoxicating, he was like a drug to you.

Yoongi leaned in for a kiss, his lips brushing yours slightly while whispering.

„Beginner‘s luck, huh?“

His voice was raspy, even deeper than usual. Goosebumps formed on your skin, desire was spreading through your veins like a wildfire.

You crashed your lips on his, pulling him closer until there was nothing left in between you. He tasted delicious, like a mixture of cognac and mint. His tongue danced with yours, fighting for dominance in this game for two.

Yoongi broke off the kiss, taking a deep breath.

„Don’t be too greedy, baby. You only shot once.“

You rolled your eyes and slapped his chest, too needy to be played with like that.

„You don’t want to kiss me? Fine.“

You let go of him and turned around but felt him yank you right back. Your hands flat on his broad chest, your head looking up into his dangerously glistening eyes. His tongue glided over his lips, not breaking eye contact once.

„Actually… I wanna do way more than kiss you, baby.“

[insanityclause]

“It must have been in about 1979, I was in New York on holiday. I was sitting up with a friend, and we were both stoned as owls.” Jane Wymark was retelling her brush with a piece of theatre history. She recalled the sound of a telephone cutting through the sour, rising smoke. Wymark answered. Distant and absurd on the other end of the line, a telegram message from her mother. “It said something like: ‘Wonderful job. Hamlet, please come home.’”

After several minutes of laughter, it occurred to Wymark that the call might not be a joke. “So I rung my mother up, and said ‘I’m really sorry if I’m waking you up in the middle of the night for no reason, but is this real?’ And she said, ‘Yes, come home right now, because they want you to play Ophelia.’”

Wymark was being parachuted into a production of Hamlet that was being talked about as among the best of the century. Derek Jacobi, a Shakespearean actor then in his forties and recently made famous by his star turn as the Roman emperor in the television series I, Claudius, was in the title role. In some quarters, Jacobi’s poetic, volatile performance was being talked about as the Hamlet of his generation.

A film of the production would be broadcast in America and viewed by more people at once than any in history. When The New York Times asked Jacobi how he felt knowing that a generation of viewers would come to consider his interpretation definitive, he replied: “That way lies madness.”

One night, Wymark recalled, the cast were taking their bows in the furnacelike auditorium. “By the time we got to the end of the show we were pouring sweat,” she said. “Well I wasn’t, because I’d been dead for a while, but Derek and the guy playing Laertes were just sopping. We’d done all the usual curtain calls and everything, and then Peter O’Toole comes wavering on to the stage.”

O’Toole, then almost 50 and skeletal-gaunt, was carrying in his hands a little red book. As the audience hushed he explained that the book was given to the actor who was considered the definitive Hamlet of his generation. When O’Toole had played the part in 1963, the actor Michael Redgrave had given him the book. Redgrave had been given it by someone else, a great actor of the previous generation, and now O’Toole was passing it on to Jacobi, who in turn could give it to whomever he pleased.

The notion that each generation has its definitive Hamlet is a critical will-o’-the-wisp that has dogged the play almost since it was written. The Edwardian essayist Max Beerbohm called Shakespeare’s most famous part “a hoop through which every eminent actor must, sooner or later, jump”, but only one actor in thousands gets to “give” his or her Hamlet in a professional production. “Everyone — great, good, bad or indifferent — wants to play Hamlet,” the actor Christopher Plummer once said.

Why? The question feels redundant. If you are someone who needs to perform, you are someone who needs to perform Hamlet. In Withnail and I, the 1987 cult comedy film about actors and their ambitions, the bloated, fey, lecherous character known as Uncle Monty has a short speech on the subject: “It is the most shattering experience of a young man’s life when, one morning, he awakes and quite reasonably says to himself, ‘I will never play the Dane.’ When that moment comes, one’s ambition ceases.”

Earlier this year, I set out to find the red book.

As a trophy, a tradition, a secret succession, it seemed to embody some of the most romantic ideas about the part. I felt that in mapping its passage from player to player, I could trace a shadow history of the thing that has been driving the whole theatrical world for centuries: ambition.

This is what brought me to ask the retired Wymark about her encounter with the book. And this is how I eventually came to be standing outside a rambling, gabled cottage in north London, uncertain about whether to ring the bell until a vast Shakespearean sneeze told me I was at the right place. The door opened and I shook hands with a neat, elderly man who looked just like Derek Jacobi. The living room, decorated with antique furniture and hung with flower paintings, left an impression of a precisely chosen life. I said that I wanted to ask him about a red, leather-bound book, handed down from actor to actor, that had passed through his hands decades ago. I said he might be the oldest living actor to have held it in his hands. He furrowed an alpine brow and fixed his pale blue eyes on a tiny point just past my left eye. “Oh God,” he moaned, in an agony of remembrance. “It was a little copy of Hamlet . . . ”

Of course, there is no definitive Hamlet. This is true, and so obviously true that people have been saying it for hundreds of years. “There is no such thing as Shakespeare’s Hamlet,” wrote Oscar Wilde. “There are as many Hamlets as there are melancholies.” This is true! Hamlet is sour, obedient, suicidal, sarcastic, self-indulgent, flip and outright murderous before the end of his second scene. Modern scholarship has been wincingly keen to stress the heterogeneity of possible responses. As I once heard a professor say in a university seminar, should we be speaking of Hamlets, rather than Hamlet?

Perhaps. But we should also be honest: that sucks and we hate it. We also can’t ignore the genealogy of great Hamlets that exists, stretching all the way back to Richard Burbage, Shakespeare’s star performer and business partner, for whom the role was written. That the character and the play are both radically unstable and look totally different in different hands seems to have made us more eager to pinpoint a single actor’s performance as the one. Producers, theatre managers, actors and journalists have connived to reinforce that idea.

Hamlet does offer an actor a scope and centrality that no other part does. “It’s the great personality role in Shakespeare,” Jacobi explained when we were sitting down, his hands conducting the silence around him as he spoke. He had settled in a winged leopard-print armchair, like a portrait of himself. On the side table was an Olivier Award, a small bronze sculpture of the great Laurence Olivier himself, the man who won both Best Actor and Best Picture for his 1948 film of Hamlet, and then launched the National Theatre in 1963 with a production of the play. “You use much more of your own personality as Hamlet,” Jacobi said, “rather than becoming Hamlet by going out and acquiring things. . . Hamlet will look how the actor looks, sound how he sounds, move how he moves. You play yourself as Hamlet.”

Jacobi first came to prominence as a teenage Hamlet, in an eye-catchingly serious schoolboy production at the Edinburgh festival fringe. In his early twenties he joined the germinal National Theatre and played opposite O’Toole’s Hamlet as Laertes. In his forties, he was given the red book by O’Toole, filmed in the role and toured the world. He was sworn to revenge under sheets of pelting rain outside the real Elsinore castle in Denmark. He soliloquised and played mad by the Egyptian Sphinx as the sun set.

A particular challenge of playing the part, Jacobi told me, is delivering lines so famous they risk breaking the audience’s suspension of disbelief. In his production, the second act began with Hamlet’s most famous soliloquy. Unusually, it was played as a speech delivered to Ophelia, rather than on an empty stage. In Sydney, at the end of the tour, Jacobi was waiting nervously in the wings. “I thought, ‘This is probably the most famous line in all drama. What if I forgot it? What if I went on and my mind went blank?’ And I went on, and I started . . . 

“To be, or not to be, that is the question/ Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer/ The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune/ Or–

Or–

Or–

Or–”

Blinded to the astonishment of a thousand spectators by the force of the footlights, Jacobi realised he’d dried. Dried completely. It wasn’t like he’d forgotten the words. It was like he’d never known them. An entire minute of silence passed, until he was audibly given his line by Ophelia. Somehow, he got through the performance and the rest of the run. Afterwards, Jacobi didn’t go on stage again for two years. When I mentioned the incident, his eyes turned tight and hooded. He asked to talk about something else. Sensing my cue, I returned to the red book.

“Oh God. Rich!” he called into the next room. “Who did I give the book to?”

“You gave it to Ken Branagh,” called Richard Clifford, Jacobi’s partner, from offstage.

“Ken! I gave it to Ken,” said Jacobi. Then, calling back: “Who did Ken give the book to?”

“Tom Hiddleston!”

“Tom! He gave it to Tom.”

I asked how he had received the book himself and he went back into the trance of remembrance. “Now, I was playing Hamlet at the Old Vic. And at the curtain call one night, Peter O’Toole came on to the stage with this book and gave it to me. And he had originally been given it by . . . Oh . . . ” He trailed off, unable to remember Redgrave.

“Oh!” cried Clifford from the kitchen.

“Oh!” cried Jacobi in the living room.

Johnston Forbes-Robertson. That was the name of the first owner of the red book. Forbes-Robertson was a legendary Victorian actor who played Hamlet into his sixties. The book itself was a Temple Shakespeare, a handsome reader’s edition of the play printed around the turn of the century and bound in red leather. He probably bought it in a West End bookshop, pacing around between rehearsals. Or so I’m told by Russell Jackson, an emeritus professor at the University of Birmingham. “It would have been instantly recognisable,” he told me. “You can hold it more or less in the palm of your hand.”

In 1996, Jackson was working as a script consultant on a film of Hamlet directed by Branagh, who was then in the middle of a hurtling, flame-tipped ascent to near-unprecedented eminence among Shakespearean actors. As a leading man who had run his own theatre company and could direct and star in internationally released film adaptations of the plays, there was no one to compare him to but Olivier. He was now at work on a princely four-hour fantasia, shot amid fake fallen snow at Blenheim Palace with himself in the starring role.

He had cast his old hero, Jacobi, as Hamlet’s murderous uncle Claudius. On his last day of shooting, after the traditional applause that follows a final take, Jacobi asked for silence. Jackson kept a diary at the time: “[Jacobi] holds up a red-bound copy of the play that successive actors have passed on to each other, with the condition that the recipient should give it in turn to the finest Hamlet of the next generation. It has come from Forbes-Robertson, a great Hamlet at the turn of the century, to Derek, via Henry Ainley, Michael Redgrave, Peter O’Toole and others. Now he gives it to Ken.”

Hamlet had been a pivotal document in Branagh’s life. As a teenager in 1977, he had seen Jacobi play the role at the New Theatre in Oxford. In his memoir, he remembers it as one of the moments that inspired him to become an actor. “I didn’t understand it at all, but I was amazed by the power of it because it seemed to be affecting my body. I got the shakes at times.”

Two years later, Branagh went to interview Jacobi, who was then playing Hamlet at the Old Vic. “I got a note from someone called Ken Branagh, saying, could he interview me for Rada’s magazine?” Jacobi told me, referring to the prestigious London acting school Branagh attended. “He was a personable young man. He asked good questions. As he left, he said: ‘I’m going to be playing Hamlet one day, and you’re going to be in it.’”

“Ken,” Jacobi added with a smile, “wasn’t slow in coming forward.”

It was no secret that Branagh had set his sights on matching, even reanimating, Olivier’s career. With his movie of Hamlet, he was threatening to run away with the crown. But while the film won plaudits from some critics, it made back only around a quarter of its budget, and Branagh was nominated only for best adapted screenplay at the Oscars, a curiously backhanded compliment for a Hamlet that advertised itself as the complete text.

Branagh held on to the book for more than 20 years, passing over several acclaimed Hamlets (David Tennant’s agonised spectre foremost among them) in that time. “I took special pains to make sure it was preserved,” said Branagh, who was reached with written questions via an agent and an aide during the shooting of his new film. “I felt the book was something rather treasured and private, and not something that you in any way crowed about. You were a temporary custodian.” In 2017, he finally handed the red book on to the actor sometimes thought of as his protégé, Hiddleston.

So there it was. Redgrave to O’Toole to Jacobi to Branagh to Hiddleston. But still, something wasn’t adding up. I began desperately ringing round old actors asking for snippets of information about the red book, and started reciting the list of names from Jackson’s diary entry: Forbes-Robertson, Ainley, Redgrave, O’Toole, Jacobi, among others. Every time I read the list, everyone said the same thing. Where the hell is Olivier?

Here is a story about Laurence Olivier. Once upon a time, in the early 1800s, there was a great Shakespearean actor called Edmund Kean. He was the Hamlet of the Romantics. Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote that watching him was “like reading Shakespeare by flashes of lightning”. Kean was also renowned for playing Shakespeare’s other great soliloquist, Richard III. As the hunchbacked villain, Kean would rage and swagger and strut about, swishing a great sword in his hand. That sword was passed to William Chippendale, a member of Kean’s company. Chippendale gave it to an actor called Henry Irving, who gave it to the great Ellen Terry who, we understand, gave it to her great nephew. His name was John Gielgud. Gielgud gave the sword to his contemporary, Olivier, telling him to pass it on to the great actor of the next generation. And Olivier kept it.

He is rumoured to have been buried with it. Certainly, the sword has not been seen since his death. (One of the last people to see it was Jacobi, who confirmed to me that Olivier still had it as a very old man.) Is Olivier really lying in his grave with no tongue between his teeth and Kean’s sword beside him? If he is, it feels like a little parable about the sharp, inward points of ambition. Here was a man who got everything and more from a life in the theatre. But he couldn’t bear to part with a prop sword.

The question of why Olivier never received the book becomes more pressing when you read the letters he received playing Hamlet from the Edwardian actor Henry Ainley, the book’s second owner. On opening night, January 5 1937, Ainley telegrammed Olivier in his dressing room: “THE READINESS IS ALL.” Later that night he wrote: “You, my sweet, are the Mecca . . . Pay no heed to the critics, they do not know. You are playing Hamlet; therefore you are a king [ . . . ] You rank, now among the great.”

Ainley’s hornily free-associating letters seem to imply a physical affair at times. “Larry darling, I have been tossing (now now) about at night thinking of you,” he writes in one of the letters, currently kept by the British Library.

“Well, you know what you did. I can’t walk [ . . . ] And the child has your eyes.” Yet it is Olivier’s fame that Ainley most obviously covets. “Soon you will be like [me],” he writes in another. “Your public, your following all gone, dear old boy! The harlequinade. We do not endure!” There is no mention in their correspondence of the red book. Whether Ainley had already given the book away, or felt compelled to hang on to it, or simply had forgotten it, remains a matter of speculation.

It’s not the only agonising gap in the archive. In 1963, an older Olivier cast Peter O’Toole in the production of Hamlet that would open the National Theatre. O’Toole had already played a wild, revelatory Hamlet at the Bristol Old Vic in 1958, in which he famously climbed the proscenium arch mid-performance. It was an interpretation that harnessed the young actor’s modernity. “He’s a lean, lank, individualist Teddy Boy!” one reviewer enthused.

But in 1963, Olivier had other ideas. “It was very strange,” remembers Siân Phillips, O’Toole’s then wife, now aged 91. “Larry [Olivier] had talked him into this terrible costume. He looked like Little Lord Fauntleroy, with a Peter Pan collar and clean, beautifully cut dyed blond hair.”

Phillips thought Olivier seemed to want to trim the edges off her husband. “Larry had this new kind of concept of a very tidy Hamlet, which was the opposite of what [O’Toole] did best. But he had such regard for Larry, who was flattering him enormously. He just did everything asked of him.” Phillips had put her own starry career on hold to let O’Toole have the spotlight. She did his filing and kept track of gifts he had been given, making sure people were thanked, which was why she found it strange that she’d never heard of the red book.

Together, we wondered if the unhappy production had made it a sore point for her husband. “The thought did cross my mind once or twice that Olivier might be trying to sabotage him,” she said. “But how could he want to do that on the opening night of the National Theatre?” On the other end of the phone, I thought of Kean’s sword.

Perhaps this is harsh. Perhaps we can understand the desire to have and hold on to a physical token of fame, strength, adulation, applause, youth — the things that slip away from even the greatest artists. All performers live in fear of unemployment and redundancy, and even the successful ones are loved, fiercely and temporarily, for being someone they’re not. “Today kings, tomorrow beggars, it is only when they are themselves that they are nothing,” wrote William Hazlitt, the English essayist.

“British theatre has traditionally privileged innovation,” the Shakespearean scholar Michael Dobson told me. In France, he explained, you could see Phèdre performed with the same gestures, the same intonation, for hundreds of years. “The British are always inventing new things, like gas lighting and ways of doing ghosts with mirrors. It’s never the old, boring Hamlet your parents used to like. It’s always got this young, original, absolutely real actor in it, instead of those stylised old geezers.”

In which case, let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories about great actors who fell from fashion. It was Burbage who first delivered Hamlet’s acting advice to the players: “O’erstep not the modesty of nature: for any thing so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as ’twere, the mirror up to nature.”

Until the modern day, actors didn’t play big roles just once or twice in their careers, in a long run of performances. They performed them frequently. Even in Shakespeare’s time, actors became associated with certain parts in the minds of spectators. Burbage died in March 1619, and the funeral baked meats were hardly cold when he was replaced by another actor, Joseph Taylor.

An unreliable but enticing story has it that Burbage taught Taylor, and Taylor taught the next great Hamlet, Thomas Betterton. Betterton was the Hamlet of Restoration theatre, among the first to play opposite women. Confronting his father’s ghost, Betterton’s Hamlet could “turn his colour”, as though his face had drained of blood with fright. Betterton made his face “pale as his neck cloth”.

Betterton died in 1710, immortality assured. Within a few decades his reputation had been all but vaporised by the greatest actor of the century, David Garrick. Garrick was almost a religion among theatregoers. “That young man never had his equal as an actor, and will never have a rival,” was the poet and critic Alexander Pope’s verdict. Garrick was both a shameless showman and pioneering realist. He played Hamlet in a mechanical fright wig that made his hair stand on end when activated.

Garrick was replaced by John Philip Kemble, a severe and statuesque Hamlet. In the early 19th century, Kemble was outmoded by Kean, whose ascendant star was quickly selling out theatres. “Places are secured at Drury Lane for Saturday, but so great is the rage for seeing Kean that only a third and fourth row could be got,” wrote Jane Austen, struggling to get seats. Out with the old. Next came Samuel Phelps, the actor-manager who first made a point of performing the original texts of Shakespeare’s plays. He was toppled by Henry Irving, a drawn and gothic actor. Irving was supposedly the inspiration for Dracula; his theatre manager was Bram Stoker.

Enter the melancholic, effeminate figure of Forbes-Robertson, the first owner of our red book. His Hamlet, first performed in 1897 and still being revived into his sixties, was in some ways the last definitive stage performance in this unofficial, highly debatable but surprisingly enduring tradition. “Nothing half so charming,” George Bernard Shaw wrote of his performance, “has been seen by this generation.” Orson Welles described one recording of Forbes-Robertson as the most beautiful Shakespearean verse-speaking he ever heard. You can still listen to it on YouTube, uploaded from an ancient LP.

“The next reference to the actor’s art,” creaks the old voice above the hiss of imperfectly transcribed sound, “is Hamlet’s advice to the players, written, obviously, by an actor who has complete command of his calling.” In a voice ponderous with time but still capable of lightness and precision, he begins the passage in which Hamlet gives notes to a theatrical troupe. “Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue.”

Forbes-Robertson would have seen more clearly than many of his successors how rapidly the galaxy of theatrical ambition was expanding. He was the first great Hamlet to play the part on film, in a lumpy silent production in 1913. If that film looks stagey and stylised to modern eyes, then looking back at these nested revolutions in realism, it’s also obvious that old actors have always looked that way in the eyes of their successors. Naturalism is just the style each era brings with it.

Hamlet’s advice was itself part of this reach towards the endlessly receding goal of the real. To an Elizabethan audience, the travelling troupe with their heroic verse and stagey couplets would have seemed obviously to belong to a previous generation of players, one playwrights like Shakespeare, and plays such as Hamlet, were making redundant. Hamlet says to the players what the theatre is always saying: be young, be modern, be new.

You can’t ask too much of very famous actors. Basic professionalism demands that they don’t tell you anything too interesting. They live like criminals, travelling under pseudonyms and booking the front seat on aeroplanes. We abhor in their personal lives the basic human latitude we praise in their work. “I am myself indifferent honest yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me,” Hamlet says to Ophelia. “What should such fellows as I do, crawling between heaven and earth?”

I had hundreds of questions for Hiddleston, the 43-year-old star of the Marvel Cinematic Universe and current holder of the red book. Unfortunately, Hiddleston is not an easy man to reach. As the man who plays Loki in the Marvel series (global gross about $30bn), he has been watched at his craft by an unimaginable number of human eyes. He does his work in green-screen and widescreen settings that would also have been unimaginable to 90 per cent of the people named in this article. Where Burbage played Hamlet without an interval, Hiddleston’s fame is a postmodern mosaic, put together in franchise films with an average shot length of two seconds. Given that he commands multimillion-dollar fees for these acts of cinematic pointillism, you may imagine his time is precious. I was able to reach him by phone for 15 minutes during press week for Loki season 2’s Emmy campaign. “Good morning,” he said, dialling in from Los Angeles. “I mean, sorry, good evening.”

Hiddleston played Hamlet in a fundraiser production for Rada directed by Branagh in 2017. He told me how he had left drama school and joined Declan Donnellan’s Cheek by Jowl theatre company, standing out as Cassio in a somewhat legendary modern Othello, in which Ewan McGregor played Iago opposite Chiwetel Ejiofor in the lead. Branagh saw the production and persuaded Marvel studios to let him cast this relative unknown in Thor, which then grossed almost half a billion dollars. Afterwards, they sat down for lunch and Branagh suggested Hamlet. “And I said, ‘I would absolutely love to do it with you. What an honour.’”

The production played for three weeks in Rada’s tiny theatre, with tickets that were won by lottery. Among the critics, Michael Billington, Britain’s most decorated theatre writer, was one of the few to have got a seat. “If I had to pick out Hiddleston’s key quality, it would be his ability to combine a sweet sadness with an incandescent fury,” Billington wrote in his review. On Saturdays, Hiddleston remembered, there were gala performances for graduates and theatrical somebodies. “I think at the first one almost everybody with the last name ‘Attenborough’ in the UK was in attendance.”

On one of these evenings, a glass was clinked with a spoon. Jacobi began to speak, explaining something about a book that had passed from actor to actor. “And then Ken was at the microphone, explaining that the responsibility of the keeper of the book is that they pass it on to the next generation. And suddenly Ken said, ‘I’d like to present it to Tom.’”

We were 10 minutes into our 15. I looked at my list of questions — on frontispieces, annotations, signatures, printing quirks — about the red book. Hiddleston was in LA. The book was in London. He was not contractually obliged to talk to me, as he was to the other journalists who were waiting on iPhones all over the world. All that was sustaining this conversation was the actor’s private enthusiasm for the kind of acting he is rarely, if ever, able to do anymore.

Hiddleston began to talk at length. He said the gift of playing the part was to be presented with the most beautiful, profound poetry written in English about the question of being alive, of death, of the possibility of spiritual life after death.

An email arrived saying our time was up. “It has the effect of making me feel more alive,” Hiddleston was saying. “Learning and internalising those great soliloquies, and having to perform them, there is no escaping those big questions of what it means to be alive,” he went on, the minutes ticking by. “And actually I find it very reassuring to ask those questions. I find it repetitively reassuring to say those words. Because it actually makes your life mean something.”

[television-overload]

of our own making

(an X-Files fanfic)

Chapter 21/34 - eggs benedict

[Read on AO3]

It’s strange, staying with Sheriff Adderly and his wife Ellen during this case in Vermont. If he had his way, he’d be checked into a motel instead of infringing on their hospitality, but he’d been given no choice. They even refused reimbursement for their troubles, which did nothing to lessen the feeling—however true or untrue it was—of him being a burden to them.

Ellen Adderly had pulled out all the stops for their guest, preparing decadent meals on fine china for every meal, claiming she’d have done it whether he was there or not. He has a hard time believing that. He can’t imagine living in such a way every day of his life. He and Scully barely manage to set out real plates to eat on when they order takeout at home, and he certainly doesn’t expect her to have a three course meal set out when he gets back from work. Besides the fact that she’s always at work with him, it’s just not something he thinks is necessary. Is that something she’d want to do? He doesn’t think so. 

The routine they have works for them, that’s all that matters.

But after getting a taste of his own personal brand of domesticity, it’s… odd… to see how others do it. He’d never have thought there were so many different ways to balance home life, much less enough that he’d start to form an opinion on them. His parents had been one way—not a particularly healthy relationship—and he and Scully are… well, they’re not really anything besides roommates, but that still counts, in his book.

Whatever they are, he likes it. Far better than this constant fussing, at least.

Mrs. Adderly must notice his discomfort, because at breakfast as she masterfully puts the finishing touches on his eggs benedict, she says “I get the feeling you're not used to anyone taking care of you,” and for some reason, that assumption grates on his nerves.

He takes a measured draw from his cup of steaming coffee, swallowing back his immediate retort.

“What makes you say that?” he asks instead. She probably hadn’t meant anything by it, but it still comes off as rude. He has someone to take care of him, thanks very much. Just not exactly in the same way as Mrs. Adderly insists on taking care of her husband… and apparently Mulder too.

“I’m sorry,” Ellen says, realizing her statement had come out somewhat offensive. “I just mean… I didn’t see a wedding band.”

She nods at his left hand sitting atop the table, and he follows her gaze to the bare ring finger.

“Do you have a significant other, Agent Mulder?” she asks.

Significant? Yes. Very. Other? That’s a good descriptor. Single, married, other. Yeah, he’d select other, if this were a multiple choice question. Although he’s pretty sure that’s not what she meant.

“I’ve– um…” he starts, wondering how best to describe his situation to this woman. “I’ve got a wife, actually.” He pulls out the ring on its chain to show her. “It can be dangerous in my line of work to have it on display,” he explains lamely before tucking it back into his shirt.

Ellen smiles. “Ah, well that’s good. Don't miss out on home and family, Mr. Mulder. I imagine with all the things you see, you need that refuge more than most.”

Her words hang in the air, a bit of sage advice from a woman he otherwise has very little in common with. But before he really has a chance to think about what she’s said, Sheriff Adderly makes an appearance, and it’s back to business. Ellen excuses herself to go check on their daughter, leaving the two of them alone to discuss the case.

Mulder remains seated at the table, staring down the sheriff with a knowing look. He’d begun to suspect—and now his suspicions are all but confirmed—that the man had been unfaithful to his wife, and it makes him feel sick. Here this man has it all; a loving wife, a sweet baby that they didn’t have to jump through a million hoops to get, and yet he’s willing to throw it all away for some cheap thrills.

He’ll never understand it.

The man is no more forthcoming about his knowledge of the case than he had been before, so Mulder lets it slide for now. The last thing he wants to do is show all his cards too early and spook him. He gives him just enough to leave him rattled. To let him know that he knows . 

He lets the unspoken threat hang between them until the sheriff folds, squirming away to take a shower, or so he says. 

He’s still seething in bitter disgust when Ellen returns, carrying her sleepy baby in her arms. It’s a well-practiced juggling act, Mulder can tell, as she goes about fixing herself a plate of her now lukewarm breakfast. With only one arm, she clearly struggles to transfer strips of bacon out of the pan, and Mulder gets to his feet.

“Here, let me help,” he says, joining her in the kitchen. What he’d meant was that he could help assemble her plate, but as he goes to reach for the spatula, he instead finds himself being handed a baby, and his eyes widen comically. “Oh, right,” he says, then plasters a forced smile on his face. Sure, this was what he’d meant to do all along. 

The little girl is heavier than he’d expected. Like a sack of flour, though with limbs jutting out everywhere. It takes him a moment to adjust, his hands holding her awkwardly beneath the armpits. 

“Hi,” he says conversationally, looking down at her like she’s a ticking time bomb that could explode at any moment. The baby just blinks at him, a blank stare on her face. “Okay,” he mutters to himself, lifting her to his hip and returning to the table. He makes every effort to not look like this isn’t the first time he’s held a baby in—well, basically forever, but he’s not sure he succeeds.

Ellen smiles across the table at him and digs into her meal.

“Do you have children, Agent Mulder?” she asks, “You and your wife?”

It still makes his heart flutter to hear someone refer to Scully as such, but he supposes that to Ellen, it really is that simple. Scully is his wife, that’s all she knows.

He’d always thought conversations like this to be so dull. ‘So, Dave, how’s the ol’ ball and chain? Kids staying out of trouble?’  But, now… 

Well, it’s different now that he actually has something to contribute to the discussion.

“Yeah, actually, one on the way,” he says, giving a self-conscious little smile. 

He’s never told anybody about this other than Skinner, but he supposes there’s no harm in telling this random woman in Vermont. It almost makes him feel… normal. Like he can relate to other people over the simple fact of his impending fatherhood. A shared human experience. A milestone in his life that doesn’t involve aliens, ghosts, ghouls, or any manner of cryptozoological entity.

“We’re adopting,” he further explains. “Only a couple months left till the birth mother’s due date.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Ellen exclaims, smiling up at him over her bowl of fresh fruit. “You must be so excited!”

“Very,” he says, looking down at the drooling baby on his lap. “We never really thought it was possible. That we’d ever—” 

He pauses, the shrill tone of his cell phone breaking into their conversation.

“Speaking of my wife,” he says, flipping open the device. “Hey, Scully. How’s the stakeout going?”

Her voice crackles over the other side of the line, drawing a genuine smile out of him. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that, Mulder, so that I can give you the good news I just received.”

His stomach does a flip. “Good news?”

He pictures her nodding, sitting in that grimy, cold room surrounded by surveillance equipment, somehow brightening it with her smile. “Krista called and we had a little chat.”

Mulder looks up at Ellen from across the table, where she’s watching him with a knowing smile. “Oh?” he says.

“Mm-hmm. And you know what she told me?”

Scully is extra cheeky this morning, huh? He misses her horribly. This is the last time he’s letting Skinner split them up for a case. After this, no more. He’s putting his foot down. What are they going to do, fire him?

“What did she tell you?” he asks, turning to instead stare at the floorboards, giving himself the illusion of privacy despite the constant watch of Mrs. Adderly.

“She told me the sex of the baby. Would you like to know?”

His heart thumps in his chest suddenly, its rhythm erratic. This, he hadn’t expected first thing in the morning. He hasn’t even finished his first cup of coffee yet.

“She finally found out?”

“Yeah, Krista said she was a lot more cooperative at this appointment than the last one,” Scully explains.

Mulder freezes.

“She?” he says, his voice raspy with awe. “It’s a girl?”

He hears Scully release a shuddering breath before her voice comes back, with all the telltale signs of happy tears that he’s come to recognize in the last few months.

“It’s a girl,” she confirms.

It’s a girl. He’s gonna have a baby girl.

“That’s– that’s amazing, Scully! That’s… wow!”

“I know,” she says. “I’m– You’re not disappointed, are you?”

“Disappointed?” he asks, furrowing his brow. “Why would I be disappointed?” 

Disappointed is the absolute last thing he’d be feeling right now. Elated is a better word. Maybe a little scared, but he’ll get over it.

“I don’t know, I just thought… You know, you talked about coaching little league, and I’m sure you want someone to watch basketball with you…”

He laughs. He can’t help but laugh. “Just because you don’t like basketball doesn’t mean other girls don’t,” he says matter-of-factly. “And have you seen girls softball teams, Scully? They’re brutal. You try getting hit by one of those giant neon yellow ostrich eggs at 50 miles an hour. I volunteered to practice with the girls once in high school. Almost lost an eye.”

“But what if she doesn’t like sports at all?” Scully asks, and he’d bet good money that she’s chewing on her lip right now, the way she does when she’s worried. “What if she’s on the chess team or plays the violin or the piano?”

Oh, Scully.

“Then I’ll learn all the names of her concertos and cheer her on at every chess tournament,” he answers simply. “Look, Scully, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you and I are both gigantic nerds. I think we’ll be prepared for whatever she’s interested in when she gets older.”

She . They can finally stop talking about her in abstract terms. A girl. A daughter.

“Your mom’s gonna flip,” he says when she doesn’t respond. Margaret Scully has a grandson, but no granddaughter. He can just see the little plaid dresses, frilly socks, Mary Jane shoes, and giant velvet bows in their future. She’ll be spoiled rotten.

“I can’t wait to meet her,” Scully says, sounding wistful. 

“Me too,” he agrees. “When I get back, we’re going out shopping again. I think maybe this time I’ll be able to hold it together in the clothes section.”

That earns him a laugh.

“I’m willing to bet it will go the same way as last time,” she teases back, and she’s probably not wrong. Just picturing this baby, a little girl like the one he’s holding now, has him emotionally on edge.

“I– I’ll talk to you later, okay?” he says, glancing up at the clock. “Let the thought of warm baby snuggles keep you from freezing your butt off.”

She sighs, the annoyance of her less than ideal assignment returning. “Thanks for reminding me, ” she intones.

They stay on the line a moment more, waiting to see who will be the one to hang up. Eventually he hears a soft click, and he smiles down at the phone in his hand. Goodbyes have never been necessary between them. Maybe that’s just another way they’re weird, but he likes it.

The baby in his lap gurgles, and he sets his phone on the table to turn his attention back to her. He sees her differently now, with the knowledge that he has a little girl on the way too.

“You’re going to be an amazing father,” Ellen says, eyes shining as she watches him.

Mulder feels his cheeks beginning to burn. “Oh. Thanks.”

“No, really,” she says more insistently. “You seem to care a lot already. And wanting to be involved… Well, that’s everything. Your wife is a very lucky woman.”

“I’m the one who’s lucky,” he says, and he truly believes it.

He’s the luckiest man on the face of the Earth.

~~~

wife guy / girl dad mulder says you get another chapter :)

Chapter 22/34 - pizza boxes

The sound of keyboards clacking fills the dimly-lit room. A greasy bag that once held at least a dozen cheap tacos from the place across town sits atop a stack of empty pizza boxes, not that the inhabitants of this particular abode pay much attention to that kind of thing. 

“Hey, here's something weird,” Langly says, looking up from the computer monitor, the unnatural light of it reflecting off his glasses.

“What? Is it Krycek again?” Frohike asks, crossing the short distance to lean over the other man’s shoulder. “What’s that little rat up to now?”

Langly adjusts the bright, warm-toned desk lamp to minimize the glare on the screen.

“No, just something strange in my sweep of government records,” he says.

“Mention of a virus? Shadow government stuff?”

Langly shakes his head. “It flagged a document mentioning Mulder and Scully's names.”

This bit of information piques Byers’ interest from across the room. “What agency? Homeland? DoD?” he asks, joining the other two at Langly’s computer.

“County court in Annapolis, Maryland,” Langly reads off the screen. “Dated December 24, 1999.”

“Open it!” Frohike demands impatiently.

It takes only a few seconds to hack the database, which is a little alarming. What would the public think if they knew how insecure county records are? But that’s a concern for another day. 

The document slowly appears on screen, and three pairs of eyes take in the information all at once.

“That's… unexpected,” Byers says.

“Married? Since when?” Frohike exclaims.

Langly looks up at him with a condescending glare and smacks the older man in the stomach. “Since Christmas, idiot, haven't you been paying attention?”

“Not that, stupid,” Frohike says, quick to respond with a slap to the back of the blond man’s shaggy head. “Since when are they an item? Did I miss something?”

“You seen a rock on her finger lately? I haven't,” Langly comments.

“Get Mulder on the phone, that little sneak owes us an explanation!” Frohike snaps, pointing a finger at Byers.

The phone rings a few times before it connects, the voice of their friend coming through on speakerphone.

“Now's not a good time, boys,” he says. There's some kind of noise in the background, someone speaking, but they can’t make out who it is. It doesn’t sound like anyone they know. 

“Mulder!” Frohike yells into the phone. “What gives, man?!”

“Yeah, bro, we'd have thrown you a bachelor party if we'd known,” Langly adds.

A sigh crackles through on the other end of the line, and Mulder murmurs something indistinguishable to someone before finding somewhere quieter to talk.

“How'd you find out?” he asks, sounding annoyed.

“Your marriage license record came up in one of our regular sweeps. No other threats, by the way,” Byers answers.

“Except maybe Frohike,” Langly jokes. “He might want to challenge you for her hand.”

Byers snickers.

“Shut up! I'm happy for them,” Frohike says, glaring at his friends.

Langly rolls his eyes. “You never stood a chance.”

“There's an explanation for this, I swear, now's just really not a good time,” Mulder says, insistent.

“What's there to explain?” Frohike asks. “You guys fell in love and got married without telling your best friends. No big deal.”

He’s not genuinely trying to guilt trip Mulder, but it does sting a little that they hadn’t said anything to them. Maybe just a little tiny guilt trip. A guilt excursion, if you will.

“It's not… really that simple,” Mulder says, his words hesitant.

“What do you mean?” Byers asks.

“I know you didn't knock her up, obviously, so what more is there?” Langly says, as delicate as a brick to the face.

“Well,” Mulder says, “I kind of did, in a manner of speaking.”

“Scully's pregnant?” Byers asks. This is shocking news. It should be impossible! “But—”

“No, Scully's not pregnant,” Mulder quickly corrects before the conversation can spiral out of control more than it already has. “But… we are expecting, actually. Hopefully.”

“IVF?” Byers asks.

“Not IVF. We tried that last year though, you're a little late to the party.”

Jeez, what haven’t they missed? Maybe the real conspiracy is whatever the heck is going on with Mulder and Scully.

“Then, what—?”

“We're adopting,” he says, interrupting them. They can almost hear his smile over the phone, all goofy and care-free. “There's a woman that selected us to adopt her baby when she’s born, so… I'm actually at this class for new parents with Scully right now. I should probably be getting back. Don't want the teacher to flunk me.”

“Wait wait wait,” Frohike says. “Adopting? How long have you guys been… you know?”

“Well we only started talking about it back in November. It's honestly moving pretty fast, but we're excited.”

“Not that,” Frohike says, waving his hands in the air. “You and Scully!”

“Oh,” Mulder says awkwardly. “Um, we actually aren't. A couple, I mean. If that's what you're asking.”

Frohike’s jaw drops. “You're kidding.”

“No, I'm not.”

“But you're married!” Langly insists.

“A formality.”

“The IVF!”

“Favor for a friend.”

“Yeah, right!” Frohike says with a laugh, sharing a disbelieving look with the other Gunmen.

“You love her, don't you?” Byers asks, sincerity breaking through his friends’ incredulity.

“If you're just gonna harass me, I'm going to hang up.”

Okay, so he’s done sharing for now. They’ll just have to try to get more out of him later.

“Mulder… what are we going to do with you?” Frohike asks, shaking his head.

“Listen, guys, I've got to go. We're learning how to change a diaper and I'd really like to not make a fool of myself, if at all possible.”

“Wait,” Frohike says. “Tell Scully congrats for us. We're happy for you, Mulder.”

“Yeah, we just think you're a complete idiot too,” Langly adds bluntly.

“Thanks, guys. We're really happy. Sorry I haven't been around, it's been crazy.”

Well, now at least they know why Mulder has been missing their poker nights and D&D lately.

“Don't worry about it, Mulder. Just—maybe tell us what's going on next time?” Byers suggests.

Mulder puffs out a laugh. “Sure, next time I marry my partner with the purpose of adopting a child, I'll let you know.”

Frohike points seriously at the phone, despite the fact that Mulder can’t see it. “Watch it, buddy, you're already on thin ice.”

“I'll talk to you guys soon,” Mulder says. “Oh, and if you're ever looking for me, I'm staying at Scully’s apartment now, by the way. I gave up my apartment.”

“Dude…” Langly says. There's something seriously wrong with those two.

“Alright, I gotta go. I'll tell Scully you say hi.” And with that, he hangs up, leaving the three amigos to take in everything they’d just learned.

“Aren't a couple…” Frohike grumbles, repeating his words. “They're a couple of idiots, I'll tell you that.”

Byers nods his agreement, and Langly shrugs. 

“Lucky kid, though.”

~~~

Lovely tag list ♡: [if you would like to be added or removed, let me know!]

@today-in-fic @ao3feed-msr @agent-troi @angegova @baronessblixen @calimanc @captainsolocide @clo-thespin @cutemothman @danasculls @deathsbestgirl @edierone @enigmaticxbee @figureofdismay @frogsmulder @gillian-anderson-in-the-tardis @hippocampouts @invidiosa @monaiargancoconutsoy @msrafterdark @numinousmysteries @primrose19 @randomfoggytiger @skelavender @skylarksong @stephy-gold @teenie-xf @the-redhead-in-a-dress @vincentsleftear

[anti-katsuki-lounge]

The MHA Fandom and How Minoru is written in Fanfics:

So today I wanna talk about a somewhat controversial topic. Let me preface this by saying that I am no means a Minoru Stan. I’m pretty neutral about his character but I completely understand the hate he gets due to his actions.

However, a pet peeve of mine is how people write Minoru in such a negative light that it becomes OOC, especially when they write Katsuki in an extremely positive light when both of them have done extremely shitty things. Let me break down some stereotypes that fanfic writers fall into when writing Minoru:

Homophobic/Quirkist Minoru: Something that is constantly done in MHA to villainize a character they don’t like is to make them either homophobic or quirkist when they aren’t in canon. Focusing on the homophobia part, Minoru’s a victim with this alongside other characters such as Neito and Inko. A lot of authors will write Minoru as this homophobic asshole who sprays out slurs and will bully whichever character(s) has come out. With Minoru, the idea that he’s homophobic comes from him being a sex obsessed person who’s always lusting after women. The thing is, Minoru displays absolutely no homophobic tendencies whatsoever in canon. You know who does? Katsuki. In one of the light novels, he asks Ejiro if he’s ‘into that’ with a disgusted tone when it was revealed Ejiro wore a dress once. Minoru on the other hand has never said anything negative about the LGBTQ+ community. For fics to have Katsuki be the one to defend the LGBTQ+ community and have Minoru be disgusted by it screams “let me villainize Minoru so Katsuki can look good”. In regards to whether he’d be quirkist, that’s also a resounding no. In fact, he apologizes for calling Mezou an octopus after hearing how he’s been discriminated against and tells Izuku that it was his bravery that inspired him rather than his quirk. Minoru also canonically has self confidence issues with his own quirk not being as flashy as other people’s so he’d be more empathetic towards someone who doesn’t have a quirk. Katsuki meanwhile bullied and suicide baiting someone who didn’t have a quirk because he saw him as beneath him.

Coward Minoru: Now, in canon, Minoru is more fearful than his classmates. However, fanon would have you think that he’d abandon his classmates to save his own skin. Canon once again disproves this. During the USJ, he was panicking, for a good reason mind you, but inspired by Izuku taking action even when he was afraid for his own life, he ended up aiding Izuku and Tsuyu in stopping the villains. During the Final Exam, he did initially cower against Midnight. A few moments later, he gathered the courage to not only go against Midnight, but to save his partner Hanta from her clutches. This proves that despite his fear, he wouldn’t leave someone as a result of it. You know who would leave someone? Katsuki. In the Final Exams, Katsuki refused to work together with Izuku to the point of admitting that he’d rather fail. It took Izuku sucking up to him to actually convince him to work with him. When it came time to rescue Katsuki, Izuku knew that he hated him so much that he’d never accept his hand, so he had Ejiro reach out to him instead. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather have Minoru as a teammate than Katsuki.

Now, does this mean I think fanfic writers HAVE to write Minoru in their fics? Absolutely not. Are fanfic writers not allowed to expel him? Again, no. Alongside Katsuki, Minoru’s the easiest character to expel. He’s constantly groping and harassing the female students. All an author needs to do is have one of the girls become so fed up with him that they report him to a teacher. Boom! Problem solved, and it didn’t even involve jumping through hoops to make a character look worse than they actually are. Another way you can remove him is have Shota expel him during the Q.A.T. Minoru, despite his fantastic score in the side step test, scored below the guy whose electricity based quirk can’t help him with any of the exams, the girl with an earphone jack quirk that faces a similar problem, and an invisible girl who struggled to do a pull-up. Shota could look at this, somehow notice him being creepy to one of the female students during the exam, and expel him for these reasons alone. If you wanna remove him from the story later, you can either have one of the girls get the teachers involved or you can say that Minoru decided to drop out of the hero course after experiencing the War Arc or something along those lines. Seriously, it’s not hard.

In conclusion, while I’m not a fan of Minoru, it bothers me how much people will butcher his character just to have a reason to shit on/expel him where there are perfectly reasonable ways of which they can shit on/expel a canon accurate Minoru. It also annoys me when people choose to make Minoru a worse person while simultaneously making Katsuki a better person despite both characters having done some shitty things. While it is Fanfiction and people can do whatever they want, it’s bad writing if you have to change someone’s personality to make them look bad to prop up another character, especially one that isn’t a good person. There are better ways of writing a Katsuki positive story that aren’t lazy and/or cliched.

[imashoe69420]

Can I request the rise bois having a crush on a human y/n but they think y/n would never like a mutant so they use a cloaking brooch to try and ask y/n on q date, but y/n quickly recognizes them even with the brooch 👉👈

彡★Rise!Bros X Reader Headcannons★彡

Pronouns: Gender Neutral (they/them)

Relationships: Dating

Timeline: Post-Movie

Warnings ⚠️: None

===================================

Leo

• It wasn’t that Leo thought you didn’t like him as he was. He was just trying to relate to you since you had so many human friends.

• When you two were hanging out, you’d often get a message on your phone from one of your friends asking if you can hang out. More often than not, you would leave the lair to meet them, leaving Leo to think about solutions to make you more comfortable.

• Okay, maybe he was a little insecure about being a mutant rather than a human.

• When you saw him in the cloaking brooch, your first reaction was to laugh out loud.

• “Aw, Lee…!” You said in between laughs. “You look so weird.”

• Leo felt a pang of annoyance as he jumped through hoops to get a cloaking brooch and may have the Hidden City police after him.

• “C’mon, don’t this rugged good looks translate well in my human form?”

• You giggled as you neared him and gently took the brooch off of his chest, Leo turning back to the lovable turtle he was.

• “I like you just the way you are, babe. Green skin, bald head and all.”

• Leo scoffed but hugged you tightly, lifting you off your feet and twirling around.

~~~~~~~~~~

Raph

• We all know that the red clad turtle is big. Like, really big. And spiky.

• You’d cut yourself on his spikes before and he always profusely apologized even though you were never mad at him.

• So one day, he thought to try out a cloaking brooch to see if he could reduce his spikes and size.

• It definitely reduced his spikes, but not his size.

• When you saw him, you loved it before he told you why he’d done it.

• “Raph, you don’t have to do that.”

• “But I keep hurting you and—”

• You grabbed his face and pulled him down to your own visage, taking the cloaking brooch off.

• “I love every part of you. Spikes and all.”

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

Mikey

• When Mikey put on the cloaking brooch, you loved the way his human form looked. Like, you’d obsessively ask him if he could put it on.

• After a while, Mikey grew to assume that you only liked him with the brooch on.

• He started to wear it more and more before you would even ask him.

• Eventually, you grew suspicious. It seemed like he would rush to get the brooch whenever you’d come into the lair.

• “Mike, you know you don’t have to wear the brooch every time I’m here, right?”

• Mikey was slightly embarrassed. “I know…! I just thought you liked it more than… my other form.”

• “No, Mikey,” you took the brooch off of his chest, turning him back into a mutant, “I love your human form. But I love your mutant form even more.”

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

Donnie

• Donnie was always insecure about your relationship. When he’d first met you, he had a cloaking brooch on, so he appeared human.

• It was only after the first date he revealed that he was a mutant.

• You didn’t care about his appearance and he was still hot anyways, but he would often put the brooch on when you two would hang out.

• One day, you thought it was a good idea to remind him again. When you arrived in his lab, he was working on another great invention. When he saw you, he quickly reached for the brooch, but you approached even faster.

• You placed a hand on the brooch and gazed up at him. “Y’know you don’t need to wear that, right?”

• He somewhat avoided your stare. “I know. I just…”

• “Donnie,” your hand went up from his hand to his bicep and you gave it a gentle squeeze, “I’ve told you already that I love you just as much as I love your human form.”

• “I know, but… you’re human. You’re used to humans. So why not look like one to make you more comfortable?”

• You sighed as you cupped his cheek. “You already make me feel comfortable, Dee.”

[russilton]

sometimes i get a bit annoyed by people saying "they are all nepo babies" when people try to criticise this issue in f1 (to be fair a lot of it isn't productive or just mean spirited) when lewis and esteban and their families had to work their way up from the very bottom. no they aren't ALL nepo babies and even if they were, it still isn't a good thing.

or even when people say "lawrence stroll's only being a loving father" when there are literally drivers like george on the current grid who had been snubbed in the past and almost lost it all because of him. like okay fine he loves his son but stop pretending its some great and noble act when he has hurt so many people.

You and I are very similar anon, every now and then I hold in complaining about this for too long and end up getting very grumpy about it. Just last night poor @jamesvowles got this text and then I ranted about this exact topic

I also get very rankled by ‘theyre all nepo babies so you can’t critique mine’. One- I sure as hell can, and I will rightfully critique all of the ways they were given privileged access to a sport. Two —There are also different levels of privilege— things like Carlos and Checo and Mick having parental connections that helped them get a seat are the definition of nepotism- but are still less than Lando’s dad buying his seat (while he did still preform fairly well in f2), or Lances dad buying an entire team for him.

And then theres the fact that some drivers got very very lucky to get access to support from outside funding- they had to get it on their talent providing them opportunities for connections and without it, they would’ve had to stop racing entirely. Lewis, George, Esteban, questionably Alex, and I’m sure theres several others I haven’t done the appropriate research on to site all had this. Lewis getting support from Ron Dennis, George getting support from Toto- these are privileged connections that allowed them to get to F1. They deserved that help, their parents gave everything to get them to that point.

What annoys me a bit about ‘theyre all nepo babies’ and ‘lance’s only crime is having a loving father’ is… those other drivers had loving parents too. Lewis’ dad working something like four jobs so they could afford his karting, George’s dad selling his small business and working two jobs and night shifts for George’s, Esteban’s family selling their home for him— I have opinions about how f1 pushes children and families to chase possible bankrupting and questionable parenting for the chance at being millionaires on the backs of young, young kids.. but you cant argue their parents didn’t fucking love them when they were sacrificing everything in their lives for their son to have a chance at their dreams.

The argument isn’t ‘lance’s dad shouldn’t have supported his children’s dreams’ its that these drivers with connected parents didn’t have to jump through extra hoops to get to f1, they had it paved for them, and the money they brought with them keeps them in their seats, while other drivers didn’t have that, and had their performance dropped, they would have been dropped too. They didnt get a chance to rest or make mistakes or risk losing a sponsor. The argument also isn’t ‘nepo babies can never be wdc’s’. Whether I like it or not, Max’s 3 questionable wdc’s amount to at least one total, your parents dont denote your talent. The problem arises when those parents directly hinder or harm the careers of other drivers in order to push their kid forward. Stuff like Esteban being kicked from racing point to give lance a seat forcing him to go a year without one, or George being kicked from PREMA with very little warning at a time he’s talked about desperately struggling with funding.

Those parents should not have had the opportunity to do that, it shouldn’t have ever happened. But where people get actually upset is when the fans of drivers who get that help don’t acknowledge that privilege, or the drivers themselves (like lando in particular) don’t acknowledge the privileges they’ve been afforded. Stomping your feet and going ‘you’re just mad you didn’t get that’ never diffuses a thing. I, and George himself even, have both said that even as a poorer driver, he got more opportunities as a white man than someone else would have. Both George and Lewis talk about how because they were men they had less to fight against than a female driver. Acknowledging your own benefits kinda kills the resentment you could hold against them for getting that help. Nobody should be expecting 24/7 grovelling realistically, but a mention every now and then would be nice, or just understanding those reasons are valid reasons not to like a driver. I can argue all I want that George doesn’t have a posh accent.. but for some people him being British is too much of a reason not to like him, and thats fine. On god, more George and Lewis left for me.

Yes this is the millionaire tax evader sport. Yes they could still be doing more to better the chances for less privileged drivers. Yes they are racing in countries with horrible human rights records with so little complaint… but ‘everything is fucked so what’s the point’ is a nihilist way of thinking, where as I would rather point at drivers like Lewis and George and going ‘if they can do it, so should you.’ Because that incremental change is what will lead us to a better over all

I am- MORE than sure there are nuances to this discussion I’m not covering here in my very subjective personal opinion on the matter at 11 am on a Monday morning, but rambling about it made me feel lighter and more chill about the whole thing, so I don’t really regret doing it, lol. This isnt a call for action, just a longwinded whinge. I’m British, I think everyone should have a whinge every now and then and they’ll be a lot happier.

[justallihere]

I️ LOVE and ADORE Xaden going from “I️ don’t care about you or your feelings 🙄” to “Why wouldn’t I️ come for you and take you home? 🥺”

It really reminds me of this post where someone made the commentary about Xaden refusing to coddle and be nice to Violet, even downright being an asshole about it

To giving her his flight jacket because gods forbid Violet be cold for the 2-3 minutes they would’ve stood in formation!

Love love love that growth for him, like yes king! Tell us how much you love her through your actions! Give her that flight jacket and everything!

Chapter 35 was such a GIFT! I️ loved it so much! From Mira and Xaden shelving their dislike for each other for V’s sake and just mother henning her! Loved Xaden taking care of her and reaffirming that she can be upset at the threat against her hair and the autonomy she would have been robbed of, had Aetos actually cut it. I️ love how gentle he was, making sure she was okay, even arguing with Tairn about it on the flight home because their whole dynamic in canon is just over protective dragon meets over protective enemy to mutually assured destruction to lovers, and amari give us mercy that Violet gets injured around either one of them.

I️ was so shocked and legit almost cried at the confession because bby boy X was NOT letting her think that he didn’t love her! Really gives a whole “Aretia could burn and I️ wouldn’t care as long as I️ had you.” vibe to it and I️. Am. Not. Okay!!! I️ am not normal or sane about this love confession! V is getting some HONESTY out of this man without having to jump through 5 million hoops or questions about it. X really just said it with both tiddies and his full chest!!

I️ also really loved the display of Rhi and Xaden’s conversation. He knows how much Rhi means to Violet, and having her best friend with her is the best thing for her! I’m so nervous and excited to see if you include a convo with the rest of the squad about her torture sessions and just showing how much they all love her! Cam was right! Everyone who knows Violet Sorrengail is a little bit in love with her!!

I’m curious if Violet is gonna think about how she basically begged for her mom to come with them to Aretia, when she was freed and I️ wonder what Xaden would have done if Lilith had actually planned to go with her daughter… thoughts and theories I️ suppose!!

God Alli, there are so many little things about this chapter that I️ adored and so little time to write about it! I LOVE this fic so much that I️ always am ready to read the next chapter immediately! So ready!! I️ hope this doesn’t pressure you too much but I️ did want to say that I️ adore this fic so much!! 10/10 would highly recommend!!

Also I️ hope my sleep-deprived ramblings made sense lol! Thank you for such a wonderful story and I️ cant wait for the next chapter 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

Xaden’s growth has been so fun to write. Just the little moments of his growing respect for Violet, realizing he actually likes her, falling in love—it’s been one of my favorite things about this fic

Thank you! I had a great time with the two contrasting sides of Xaden in this chapter: the version of him who loves Violet and will wipe her tears and do anything for her, and the version that is just an absolute asshole to anyone who isn’t her 😂 if your name isn’t Violet Sorrengail he really doesn’t give a fuck

There’s some squad bonding next chapter 🫶🏻

Violet will definitely be reckoning with that conversation with her mom at some point—Lilith said she’d come, but will she really? Xaden would let it happen for Violet, of course, but it wouldn’t be an easy adjustment lol

Thank you so much for reading and for this ask, I appreciate you 🩷🩷🩷

[theemporium]

Ooooooh I'm gonna use this opportunity to request an angst prompt with our boy steve harrington

“i didn’t realise i was such an inconvenience.”

thank you for the request, love! enjoy some angsty feels!!🖤

6. “I didn’t realise I was such an inconvenience”

.

Steve Harrington was having a shit week. 

Everyday this week he had woken up under the assumption it couldn’t get any worse, and it did. Every. Single. Time.

He lost his favourite jacket on Monday? His car would break down on Tuesday. 

He dropped his lunch and went the rest of his shift starving on Thursday? A bird shat on him just before he got into work on Friday and he had to use the staff bathroom sink to try to wash out what he could. 

Steve was just having a really shitty week and he just wanted it to be done and over with. 

By the time he got home on Sunday night, he was tired and he was grumpy and he just wanted his bed. He didn’t even care about the pang of hunger in his stomach, winter was unforgivable in Hawkins and he wanted a bath and his bed. 

Except just before he could even make it to the staircase, the shrill of the phone ringing echoed through the house and he quickly made his way over, his frustration evident in his voice as he answered. 

“What?” 

“Stevie?”

His eyebrows furrowed a little when your voice came through the phone. “Baby?”

“You haven’t left yet?”

Steve’s frown deepened. “Left what?” 

“The house.” There was a brief pause. “You said you’d pick me up after work.” 

He let out a small string of curse words, the conversation from earlier today hitting him. You had been talking about how the bus had been becoming more unreliable the colder it got, that sometimes you’d be waiting at the stop for over an hour before it showed up. Steve had scoffed and told you he would pick you up, that there was no way his girl was going to wait out in the cold. 

But his eyes found the clock and he realised your shift had ended forty minutes ago. 

“Shit, baby, I–” he let out a heavy sigh. “I forgot.” 

“It’s fine, Steve. I can wait a little longer.” 

He let out a disgruntled noise. “Can’t you get somebody else to pick you up? It’s late and I–” 

“Really?” He could hear the disappointment in your voice. “It’s like a ten minute drive, Steve.”

“Baby, I just got in and I’m tired and–” you cut him off before he got the chance to continue.

“I didn’t realise I was such an inconvenience, Steve, but you were the one who offered the ride.” 

Steve sighed. “I know but–”

“Never mind, I’ll just get the bus.” 

His brows furrowed together. “Are you sure?” 

“Yeah, I’ll see you at Dustin’s for movie night.” 

“I thought you were coming over tomorrow,” he said it like it was a fact. “Movie night is on Wednesday.” 

“I’m busy.” 

“Baby–” But the high-pitched ringing let him know that you had hung up on the other side. 

Steve had spent his whole relationship with Nancy feeling like he was begging for even the smallest of scraps. He would jump through hoops and put himself in uncomfortable situations just to spend time with her. And the times she shut him down, he remembered the pang of humiliation and embarrassment that overwhelmed him.

And now he had just stupidly done the same to you. 

His relationship with you was everything he wanted. It was by no means easy but no relationship ever fully was. But you understood each other and loved each other, and Steve finally met someone who could return the love he could give. 

And then he just had to go become the one thing he hated. 

Steve’s week just got a whole lot shittier, but this time he had no one to blame but himself.

.

[yanderecrazysie]

I hope you love brother’s conflict, it was a one of the shows that awaken the yandere kink in me.

So for my request can I have yandere subaru (my favorite brother) with a rival team reader. Like I know this boy is all about sports and basketball and he is pretty competitive in both anime and the webnovel. So how would he take reader despite being smaller, weaker than him beat him at basketball. Maybe after his defeat he forms an obsession in beating them so he unintentionally stalks them for a bit but only to learn their techniques and sports regimeb but as he observes how their actually like him, working hard for their passion. I can see him and reader being intentionally paired up (intentionally with subaru family backing the event) for a cross team sports bonding event

It was pretty good! I’m not usually into that kind of anime, but I could sense the yandere-ness so it was a fun watch! I kind of went off the request a little, hope that’s okay!

Also, I know nothing about basketball, so I tried to leave it vague. Let’s just pretend that boys teams play girls teams for some reason, okay?

Title: Taken By Surprise

Pairings: Asahina Subaru x Reader

WARNINGS: Yandere themes, slight misogyny

Summary: Subaru underestimated you and the attraction he feels for you.

30 seconds left on the clock.

Sweat dripped down Subaru’s face as he tried to get ahold of the ball. Stolen again by the pretty number 3. Her ponytail cut through the air as she dribbled the ball to the other side of the court and, before he could stop her, leapt into the air. 

The ball left her hands and sank through the hoop without touching the rim. The ball had just barely hit the ground when the buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the game and a heavy loss for Subaru’s team.

He had thought it would be easy to beat a girls’ team. Boys were stronger, after all. But the girls team was strong, especially their number 3. You.

Subaru watched as you high-fived your teammates, glowing with victory. He couldn’t help but feel jealous. That should be his victory that you stole. And he couldn’t figure out how you had done it.

There was something so graceful about the way you played. The way your body soared through the air, the way you landed after a jump, the way you ran across the court- it was all done in a way he’d never seen before.

It made him feel awkward and clumsy just watching you.

There had to be some sort of secret behind your moves. A secret technique that he couldn’t see in the excitement of the game. 

And he wanted to know just what it was.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Subaru was lucky that you attended the same college that he did. That way, he could end practice a little early with the excuse that he felt under the weather, and cut across the grass field separating the girls’ gym from the boys’.

He had to stand on a fire hydrant to see through the high windows of the gym, but it was worth it. He could spot you right away- your pretty hair tied back as you ran across the waxed floors, basketball bouncing beside you.

He couldn’t understand what technique you could possibly have that was better than his. You were a girl, smaller than him, weaker than him… What did you have that he didn’t? What magic did you possess to make you naturally so much better than him?

For one, you were lithe and quick, making it easy for you to steal the ball and cross the gym with it. You could duck under his lanky arms and outpace him easily. Two, you seemed intelligent enough to outplay him in some cases.

For some reason, he kept thinking back to the times you were close to him during the game. So close that he could feel your body heat. How almost adorable it was that you were trying to guard him when you couldn’t measure up to his size or strength.

Watching from this angle, he could appreciate your gracefulness even more. You were like a butterfly flitting weightlessly across the court, yet a force to be reckoned with once you got the ball. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee really fits someone like you. He thought.

Practice ended too quickly for him to figure out your secret. He knew, logically, that he should wait for tomorrow’s practice, but when you slipped out of the gym, smiling brightly as you waved goodbye, he couldn’t help but follow you. He lagged behind you, ducking behind hedges and cutting through front lawns, buzzing with excitement to see your secret routine.

Unfortunately for him, you went straight inside your house once you arrived, not stopping to mess around with the hoop attached to your garage. He considered going home, but something drew him nearer.

He checked through each window. Living room, kitchen, main bedroom, hallway, and, finally, your bedroom. Deep in his quickly-beating heart, he knew this is where he wanted to be. He took a position in the hedges and watched as you lay down on your bed and began to play on your phone.

This wasn’t what he had planned. You weren’t playing basketball, not even in mobile game form. And yet, here he was, watching you through the window like a creep. He knew he had crossed a line, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when you had such a pretty smile on your lips.

It was the first time he’d considered that his fascination with you had less to do with your basketball skills and more to do with, well, you.

And he wasn’t sure he could stop.

[theninthdoor]

https://theninthdoor.tumblr.com/post/721370039430807552/can-you-do-bad-sidesquestionnable-reading-for

I see you've done this! Tysm. May I please request the same of stray kids as well? Have a nice day!!

request: Stray Kids' questionable/bad sides again… before you read: make sure that you take everything with a grain of salt and put your common sense to good use! no human being is 100% angel; no one is perfect + some of these things we, ourselves, do or think of doing from time to time. still, if anyone is expecting idols to be some sort of perfect demi-gods, the internet might not be for you 💘 also, of course, i’m not claiming anything as facts. feel free to dismiss my interpretations, if you wish.

Bang Chan || knight of swords rx, the chariot: Domineering. Wants to lead + to feel the strongest, even if it requires some gaslighting. Lacks tact, at times. May miss some social cues without realizing. Uses rudeness as a way to mask his insecurities. Uses his career achievements as his whole identity.

Lee Know || the hermit, the world: Keeps too many secrets; really bad at communicating and being honest about his thoughts and opinions. Silence is always the solution for him, just not for everybody else. It's never him that has to change, but others; others must adapt to him, not him to them. A know-it-all, too.

Changbin || nine of wands rx, two of cups: He wants his friends/family/partners to have the exact same opinions and tastes as him. Plus, he can't stand feeling left out, so bet he's going to be jumping through hoops to be everywhere all time just so they don't have a chance to keep things from him - he must be present and informed, at all times! Changbin is also very paranoid and overprotective, has poor boundaries and may sometimes become quite co-dependent. He simply can't be alone for too long.

Hyunjin || knight of cups, justice: He knows how to sweet-talk someone to get whatever he wants. Hyunjin will become whoever you wish him to become in order to accomplish his own goals. He's well aware of his image + the of the power he holds over others, and he's not afraid of using it. Besides that, he also gets way too invested in things, even to the point of being completely unrealistic with his plans and expectations. Everyone is "the one" for him at least once.

Han || knight of cups, eight of wands rx: Loses interest very quickly; starts or buys things on a whim, but forgets about them overnight. In love with the idea of love, but doesn't feel like going through all of the hard work that relationships require. Often lets his emotions control him more than he controls them; definitely keeps his rose tinted glasses close by. But, again, soon he's onto the next thing (or person of interest)…

Felix || the hanged man rx, two of pentacles: He's never happy with what he has; always thinks others have it easier or better than him. Very impulsive; regrets his decision as soon as he makes them. Felix never learns… he'll make the same mistake a thousand times and still not understand what he's doing wrong. Keeps busy to avoid certain people/situations/issues.

Seungmin || four of pentacles, queen of wands: Greedy; what's his is his, and he's not going to share it with anybody. Way too proud. Likes attention and compliments a little too much. Materialistic; uses material things to get the attention/compliments that he's looking for.

I.N || the tower rx, nine of cups rx: Tends to sweep things under the rug instead of facing his issues properly. I.N's always expecting the worst, so quite often he might run away before the situation has had time to develop. Hates change more than anything - even good and necessary change! Might throw a big ol' tantrum every now and then.

(Disclaimer: All readings are alleged and for entertainment purposes only.)

[blainesebastian]

a dream is a wish your heart makes

words: 1,287 ship: austin butler x reader summary: (anon request) “sequel to Disney proposal fic”  notes: this is a small part 2 to ‘full of magic’, you should read that first :)  warnings: none tag list: @killerqueenfan, @karamelcoveredolicity, @elizabethrosecresswell, @gigisworldsstuff, @stylespresleyhearted, @rairaielv

You'd never consider yourself that much of a worrier, there's never seemed like much of a point. In your opinion, worrying is just gonna mean that you'll suffer twice, so, why bother? Clearly in all the times you've told yourself this, you were never planning a wedding—so what do you know?

You know that wedding planners exist and that maid of honors and family members usually help with this sort of thing, getting all your ducks in a row...because at this point all you feel like you're doing is putting out small fires for something else to pop up in your peripherals but. One of the mistakes you think you make is that you kind of insist on doing everything on your own. And so much of it feels doable? You make lists all the time and get shit done and only accept help when you absolutely need it—but then a year turns into five months and now you're at three and then one and...you're worried about a day that's supposed to be one of the most perfect in your life.

And maybe that's the issue. Too much pressure for a 'perfect' day and not allowing anyone to take things off your plate (or well, checklist). You can figure out most of this on your own, right?

Right...that's why you're drowning in a sea of paperwork on your dining room table and you've lost at least two mugs underneath somewhere. Swallowed up. You frown—you're beginning to forget what this table actually looks like beneath.

The thing is, everything major is booked—this is just the little things, which are somehow worse and more stressful. These are the placecards, the flowers, the reception favors, the small cards and giftcards for the caterers and other people who are gonna work to make this wedding perfect.

"What was I thinking?" You mumble, shifting papers around. Getting proposed to at Disney was one thing...but now getting married? Whole other can of worms.

Of course, it seemed like such a good idea at the time--why wouldn't it? You were also completely swept up in the romanticism of having a Disney wedding. Austin was willing to spend any expense, even though you insisted that you didn't need to. You had joked about having your wedding at Disney once and that was kind of the end of it, those comments became checklists, and those checklists became plans. To be fair, it's not that you're not excited...even though you're incredibly stressed, it's just...it almost feels like part of a dream. Though how could it not when you're going to get married in the most magical place on earth?

Admittedly, you love Disney—you've always been a huge fan even though it's taken you a bit to get there. You're definitely able to associate perfect memories with Magic Kingdom, given that's where Austin proposed to you. Being with him within itself feels magical, so—and you know how corny that can sound on the outside, but...you're not gonna deny that's how it feels. So how can you pass up that opportunity to continue it there?

There's this gazebo before the Boardwalk near the Beach Club resort and it overlooks the bay, the Swan and Dolphin and Yacht Club resort. It's simple, beautiful but there's so many hoops to jump through, I's to dot, T's to cross. You run a hand over your face, pinching the bridge of your nose as you close your eyes.

You feel rather than see Austin come into the room, his hand slipping along the back of your shoulders and running down your back. He leans down and presses a kiss to your head, a small shiver coursing down your spine as you catch a hint of his cologne.

"I keep having nightmares I'm gonna get buried under paper."

Austin chuckles lightly, squeezing your shoulder before slipping into a chair next to you. "You're gonna give yourself a migraine—you know we got other people to help you with this, right? Including me?"

You sigh a bit dramatically and tip your head back before rolling your gaze to your fiancé. "I know," You reply quietly, a soft smile tugging the corners of your mouth, "I just keep thinking about everything that needs done and I get tunnel vision."

He hums before nodding, reaching for a few pieces of paper aside. He knows you, doesn’t need to elaborate on that—he gets exactly how you’re feeling. But he’s also right. You can’t take utter control over all of this. For starters, there’s way too much to do that you can easily delegate to some other people to help and secondly, the last thing you want to do is associate your wedding with negative feelings of stress and general ickiness.

Alright, fine. You’ll get some help, stop trying to control everything, because it’s not possible anyways.

“I guess I just wanted everything to be perfect.” You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head as you push the chair back from the table. You turn your body, facing Austin, knowing how cliché that sounds.

You should know better, at this point, than to be a perfectionist—there’s no good reason to be. And yet it’s difficult to stop when those nagging thoughts come rolling in. Austin’s pretty good at shushing them, though, sometimes with a simple touch. He shifts slightly in his chair to take a look at you, brushing your hair over your shoulder in a fond gesture. He gives you this look which you know says—you worry too much.

“It will be.”

You crinkle your nose because…you know that Austin is an optimist but, “How can you know that?”

He holds your gaze for a long moment and before he speaks, you can tell how serious he is about the words that are going to leave his mouth, an emotion you can’t quite name in the depths of his blue eyes, “Because I’ll be with you.”

And despite the fact that there’s a slight glimmer of added mischief a moment later in his gaze, you know he wasn’t kidding. You laugh softly and roll your eyes, making Austin grin.

He takes your hand and squeezes, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, “What, you didn’t like that? I was gonna make it part of my vows.”

You playfully push his cheek with your other hand but he’s quick, grabbing it and using it as leverage to tug you closer, kissing you.

Needless to say, you definitely have a necessary distraction for the afternoon.

--

And it is pretty perfect, as if you had any reason to doubt or think otherwise.

You think one of the most surprising aspects is just how fast everything goes—all that planning and worrying for it to be over and done in the blink of an eye, in the flash of a camera bulb, a heartbeat.

You go back to where Austin’s proposed before you both leave Florida for your honeymoon, standing in front of Cinderella’s castle, looking down at the ring on your finger. A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, running your thumb over the underside of the band. The sky is orange this time, candied pink, as the sun dips down behind the soft blue and silver structure.

To face the future with another, who means more than any other, is to be loved.

You can’t help but smile as you feel Austin come up behind you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, your jawline and your cheek before you turn your head and your lips brush. Your thumb runs over his wedding band.

That’s definitely the magic of love.

--

The line in italics come from the Disney movie The Rescuers.