#((once again this is NOT A VAGUE and NOT ABOUT ANYONE!!!!!!!))

[writeriguess]

Can you write a cute Katsuki x fem reader fic where he finds her crying her eyes out after her best friend cut ties with her over some rumour that isn't true?

Not You Too

Katsuki Bakugo was halfway down the dorm hallway when he heard it.

A choked sob. Sharp. Raw. Like someone was being ripped apart from the inside.

His entire body froze.

That sound didn’t belong in this building, not now, not at this hour. Not when most of 1-A was either passed out or out on a late-night patrol. But he knew it wasn't just anyone.

It was you.

He turned so fast he nearly punched a hole through the wall in his urgency to find you. Your door wasn’t shut all the way — a crack of warm light cut across the dark floor, and when he pushed it open, the sight of you crushed something deep in his chest.

You were curled up on the floor by your bed, arms wrapped around your knees, face blotchy and red from crying so hard it looked like your lungs had given up. You didn’t even notice him at first. You were too far gone.

Katsuki stood there for a second, fists clenched at his sides, heart thundering like he’d just survived a villain ambush. The air felt too thin. Too tight.

“…The fuck happened?”

You jolted, eyes wide and watery. “K-Katsuki—”

“Don’t try to lie,” he snapped, voice low, but not angry. Not like he usually was. He moved to kneel in front of you, arms stiff. “Someone hurt you.”

You looked away, bottom lip trembling. And that alone damn near broke him.

“It’s—it’s stupid,” you whispered. “You don’t need to worry about it—”

“Try me.”

Your breathing hitched, and when you looked at him again, he saw it. Everything you’d been holding back. All of it poured out.

“It was Hana,” you said, voice shaking. “She… she told everyone she couldn’t be friends with me anymore. Said I was spreading shit about her behind her back. Said I was trying to turn people against her.” Your eyes filled again, spilling over. “But I didn’t, Katsuki. I swear to god, I didn’t say anything—”

“Of course you didn’t.”

You stared at him, shocked. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know you.” His voice cracked at the edges, and that scared him more than he’d admit. “You’re honest. You’re too good to pull some petty bullshit like that. Anyone who thinks otherwise is a damn idiot.”

Your lips trembled. Your shoulders shook. And you finally let yourself fall forward.

He caught you instantly, wrapping you into his chest like it was second nature. His arms locked tight around you — strong, warm, grounding — and for once, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

He just held you while you cried into his shirt, while his heart beat wild behind his ribs, screaming all the words he couldn’t say.

He wanted to tell you that you didn’t need her. That she didn’t deserve someone like you. That anyone who turned their back on you didn’t understand the worth of what they had.

But more than anything, he wanted to say he loved you.

Not in some vague, half-assed way. Not in passing. But real. Sharp. Bone-deep. The kind of love that made his chest feel too tight when you smiled. The kind that made him furious when you were hurt.

But you didn’t know that. And right now, you didn’t need that.

So he just held you tighter, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, thumb stroking gently through your hair.

“She’ll regret it,” he said eventually, voice like gravel and fire. “They all will.”

Your breath caught. “Why?”

“Because you’re the best fucking person in this whole damn place.” He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes. “And if they’re too blind to see it, then they don’t deserve you.”

Your gaze dropped to his mouth. Then back up.

You blinked. “Katsuki…”

“What?”

“…You’ve always been this good to me.”

“‘Cause I care about you.”

Your breath hitched again, but it sounded different this time. Like the air wasn’t so sharp in your lungs anymore.

“…I care about you too.”

He swallowed hard, eyes flicking over your face. He was so close. So stupidly close. And he wasn’t sure who leaned in first — maybe it was both of you — but the kiss was soft. Brief. Barely there.

When you pulled back, your cheeks were flushed, lips parted. But you weren’t crying anymore.

Katsuki exhaled slowly, voice rough when he said, “We’ll deal with the rest later. Right now, you’re staying right here. With me.”

You nodded.

And for the first time that night, you felt safe.

[kitkat13001]

✦ — 6. apocalypse

⋆.˚✮ prev ⟡ m. list ⟡ next ✮ 2.7k words

-> hitoshi shinsou x pro-hero!reader

✮ you and hitoshi are stranded, alone, as you wait for backup. tonight is the night that changes everything… ✮ tracklist: we hug now - sydney rose, drivers license - olivia rodrigo, bags - clairo, traitor - olivia rodrigo, apocalypse - cigarettes after sex, i know you - faye webster

you’re not sure how you ended up in the street in the middle of the night, or why it’s so foggy. you just woke up, and your brain’s still a little muddled. 

it’s cold, you think, rubbing your arms in warmth and semi-comfort. 

the street is eerily empty, even for whatever ungodly hour it probably is. some weird force keeps you moving along, drawing you up the street and to a building that you vaguely recognize. it’s buried somewhere deep in your memory, and even though it wasn’t really all that long ago, it feels like a lifetime since you’ve seen it. 

you’re drawn inside, not fully in control and led by some strange curiosity. 

“‘toshi?” 

he looks up from where he was standing at a desk nearby. there’s a mountain of papers in front of him, and his forehead is creased in a way you don’t like. 

his expression changes when he sees you, that little private smile that’s reserved only for you evident in his face. “hey. you’re late again.”

you are…?

“…right, sorry,” you agree, shaking your head and laughing nervously. 

“did the press get ahold of you?”

you can’t quite remember. you’re about to say so, but he shakes his head, mumbling something to himself. 

“doesn’t matter,” he says, to you this time. “we’re off to the mountains soon anyway. they won’t bother us up there, and the snow should be a nice change of pace. but make sure you’re actually packed this time, i don’t want a repeat of okinawa.”

his words spark up memories from deep inside your brain.

the snow…the mountains…farther back than that, to the beaches of okinawa. a mission, easily completed, extra time enough to lounge at a shitty beach hotel nearby. wearing hitoshi’s swim trunks after having forgotten your bathing suit. the smell of aloe vera and hitoshi’s pink, sunburnt nose. steam in the air from the hot springs, the taste of coconut water on hitoshi’s lips. 

he calls your name and you’re brought back to present, though his voice seems to echo in your mind. 

“you okay?” he asks, cracking a half-smile. if you hadn’t known him so long, he’d almost sound unbothered. 

his shoulder is warm against yours when he nudges you as you both sit against the desk. “i feel like you’ve been kind of off lately…”

you shake your head again, growing increasingly more nervous. there’s something else too, but you can’t place it. 

“i just…i don’t know, i guess i’ve been thinking.”

he snorts. “don’t hurt yourself.”

you don’t say anything in response to his quip, and he tilts his head in question. he’s struggling to hang on to that smile, even as he calls you a nickname you haven’t heard in years. “what’s the matter with you?”

he nudges you again as he says it, and your arm lights up with goosebumps.

“‘toshi, are you gonna stay an indie hero forever?” you ask abruptly, unable to stop yourself. you know how the rest of this is going to play out, but it’s like you can’t even control it. 

hitoshi blinks at you, taken aback by your sudden question. 

“i don’t know,” he says slowly, once he’s regained his bearings. his brow is creasing again, in that way you don’t like. “why?”

“i just…want to know.”

he mulls the question over for another long moment. the more time passes, the more your stomach twists. 

“i don’t know. maybe, i guess. i don’t think i want to work for anyone, and opening an agency of our own would be a lot of work. maybe one day though, like we said we’d do.”

it’s true that in u.a. you both had thought about maybe opening an agency together, like bakugou and kirishima would always talk about. but after graduation, it was all you two could do to stay afloat in the turbulent years of an early hero career. 

things have mostly evened out by now, but the plateau has given you time to think, about things you’ve never really considered before. 

“i’ve never wanted to work with anyone other than you,” hitoshi says, oblivious to your inner turmoil just now. “we said we’d make it big together or not at all.”

you can’t bring yourself to return the soft smile he offers. 

“i got a job offer with the lurkers,” you whisper. you regret the words immediately when you see the way hitoshi’s face falls, the way his pupils dilate. 

“what?”

your eyes drop to your lap, unable to face him as guilt creeps up your spine. 

“i…i got a call today. from edgeshot. he was really impressed with my work in kyoto. he said i could be a valuable addition to the team. and i think…i think i want to take it, ‘toshi.”

you may as well have told him you’re moving to the moon with the way he’s looking at you. 

you scramble to fill the silence that’s slowly suffocating the room. “he hasn’t mentioned anything about us yet, but i think we could get him to take you on! i mean, we make a good team and you’re a great hero, i’m sure we can figure—”

“you’ve given this a lot of thought, haven’t you?” 

you’ve heard hitoshi when he’s mad before. the depths of his anger are rare, but you’ve seen it when you’ve fought villains or dealt with asshole commission officials. 

this is worse somehow. the ice in his voice, it’s like you can feel him starting to slip away. 

“have you been planning this?” 

“no!” you reply indignantly. “i just got the call today!”

“but you’ve been waiting on it, haven’t you?” 

“on what?” you groan, clutching your head as you buckle under the weight of what’s approaching accusation. 

“an out.”

“you’re being ridiculous!” you exclaim, frustration building on the guilt. “and you’re projecting!”

his eyes narrow in a way that makes your stomach sink. “oh, i’m projecting? i’m not the one having delusions of grandeur!”

“delusions?!”

he scoffs, scathing. “right, ‘cause you’re magically going to rocket to number one if you take this job.”

“not if,” you snap. “when.”

he barks out an abrupt laugh of disbelief. “so you’ve decided!”

“i just feel like we were meant for more than this!”

“us or you?” 

you stare like a deer in headlights. you can’t say anything as he continues. 

 “‘cause i’ve been perfectly happy staying right where i am — with you. and i thought that was all that mattered.”

“it does matter, ‘toshi! but i…i…”

“you what?” 

hitoshi heaves a big sigh, and his next words seem almost painful to get out. there’s a strain on his voice that makes it hard to swallow the lump in your throat. 

“look, i know our pay is shit, and our hours are even worse. i know we don’t fly first class or stay in five-star hotels or get billboards with our faces on them. i know we barely make double digit rank, but i’m okay with that. because i have you. and if that’s not what you want anymore…” he shrugs, almost defeatedly. there’s a hollowness to his voice that makes you feel sick. “then i guess it’s better you go. just…just don’t expect me to follow.”

he looks like he wants to say something more, a deep longing hidden somewhere in those violet eyes. but all he says instead is, “congrats on the job. you’re going to do great, i know it…”

and just like that, he’s gone. 

you wake up in a cold sweat, chest heaving. you sit up, the covers beginning to feel a little suffocating. the dream had warped the memory a bit, but your subconscious sure managed to recreate the exact feeling of your stomach sinking, the anger and loneliness and desolation. you drop your head into your hands, scrubbing at your eyes, but the sight of hitoshi’s back as he left is burned into the back of your eyelids. 

you hear the sheets rustle as he turns, calling your name softly into the dark. 

“it’s nothing,” you say, like reflex. your voice is strained. “i’m fine, go back to sleep.”

you feel the mattress dip and see him in your peripheral as he sits up beside you, but you can’t bring yourself to face him. 

“tell me what’s wrong.”

the thing about hitoshi is that he has never once used his quirk on you. but he doesn’t have to, because anytime he tells you anything in that tone — soft, gentle but firm and secure — you can’t help but give in. 

“i had a bad dream,” you whisper, almost against your will. you’re mortified at the tears welling up in your eyes, willing them to stop. 

his purple eyes soften immediately and the sheets rustle as he scoots closer. 

“do you wanna talk about it?” he murmurs, fingers gently ghosting over your arm. 

the touch startles you at first and he draws back, looking guilty, until you whisper for him to continue. 

so he does. you don’t really know it, but you’ve got that same power over him. 

you both remain silent like that for a long time. you think you’d cry if you said anything else, and the idea of crying in front of hitoshi right now is humiliating. you know he wouldn’t judge you for it, but really that just makes it all the worse. 

after a while you let yourself lean on his arms around you, staring at the hem of his oversized sleeping shirt, at the defined line of his collarbone peeking out underneath. it’s a fragile silence, hitoshi waiting to see if you’ll say anything else. 

“it’s stupid,” you say in a shaky breath after a long moment. “i…i saw that night. the night you left. such a stupid thing to dream about, but i just…”

you trail off, the haze of nostalgia and exhaustion and loneliness catching up to you. you shrug helplessly and huff a desolate little laugh. “nightmares, right? never make any sense…”

the sheets and hitoshi’s hands are pleasantly cool against your flushed body, and you try to focus on that instead of the anxiety swimming in your gut. 

it’s another long moment before hitoshi speaks. “does this…happen often?” 

you could probably be embarrassed, but you’re too tired, and the steadiness of his arms around you feels like falling into bed after a long day. his embrace makes you pliant, the same way that being around him had always opened you up. 

“sometimes,” you admit after a while. “i’ve always had nightmares, ever since u.a., but i only see you every so often. sometimes it changes, but it always ends the same. your back to me, retreating away into the night.” you demonstrate with a vague hand gesture, palm to you upright, and then flipped away. “and me standing there all by myself in the middle of the street. i remember it so vividly…your face, the night, the…the betrayal in your eyes. the feeling of losing you…”

your eyes flick up to hitoshi, trying to read his pretty purple eyes. they’re soft and dark like polished amethyst in the dim room, low-lidded and yearning as they meet yours. 

“do you?” you ask softly, curiosity getting the better of you. “ever dream about me, i mean.”

he cracks the tiniest ghost of a smile. you feel the puff of air that leaves his nose, his almost-chuckle. 

“on the good nights. ‘f i’m lucky.”

his words conjure up an image that makes your heart hurt. hitoshi, laying awake in the unholy witching hours of the night, reaching for you in a dream and watching you disappear before his eyes. treasuring the smile he only sees in his dreams. 

“you wanna know a secret?” 

you look back up at him. there’s a wry look on his face you’re quite familiar with. “yeah.”

“every time i close my eyes i’m scared you won’t be there when they open.”

oh, if you thought you knew heartbreak…

you drop your head on his shoulder, speech muffled into his shirt when you speak in a helpless plea. “why would you say that to me?”

his hands brushing your hair back and resting atop your head is a small comfort. “‘cause i hate lying to you. and you have this way of making me say things i didn’t really plan on saying.”

the tears begin to well back up before you can stop them. your eyes are big and glassy when you look back up at him once more, lips dry and heart squeezing almost painfully. 

“i think i fucked up, ‘toshi,” you confess in a haunted whisper. “i think i fucked up really bad, and i’m really sorry.”

he gives a sad half-smile, probably more for your benefit than his own. why did he always do that? 

“‘s okay.”

“it’s not,” you insist, fists balling in his shirt as the tears begin to spill. “it’s not okay. i should’ve never let you go.”

hitoshi holds you as you cry, pulling you ever closer until not even a sheet of paper could fit between you. “it’s going to be okay,” he whispers into your hair, cradling you into him. “it’s okay now. things are different, but they’re going to be okay. and i’m here now, okay?”

you stay like that until you’ve cried yourself out. the whole thing is a blur of clenched, entwined hands and gentle fingers brushing away stray tears and the scent of lavender laundry detergent. 

you’re both horizontal now, face to face just inches apart. hitoshi’s arms are loose, but steady around you. 

you’re not sure what gives you the courage to do so, maybe the delirium of exhaustion, but you reach out to brush your fingers against his face. you sweep his bangs back, his skin soft and hair smooth under your feathery touch. 

“i missed your five-head,” you murmur, smiling to yourself. he snorts, though a matching smile tugs at his own lips. 

“you’re such a dork.”

you try to form a snarky reply, but sleep is quickly reclaiming you. your head buries itself in the crook of his neck and you’re out like a light, blissfully unaware of the way his arms tighten securely around you. 

you wake in a tangle of limbs to the sound of your phone chirping. 

the sound jolts hitoshi awake and you both scramble to untangle from the other as you lunge for the phone. he tugs the comforter by accident, and you both cry out when your heads collide from the clash. 

you fumble for your phone, groaning and rubbing your head when you pick it up. the buzzing doesn’t stop and you wonder if you’re still sleeping, but it stops when hitoshi picks up his own cell. 

familiar voices fill your ear and you wince at the volume of them. 

kamui and takeyama are screeching and passing the phone back and forth in a scramble to speak to you. they’re so loud you have to hold the receiver away from your ear. 

“are you safe?” kamui demands in that quiet, though caring and undoubtedly concerned tone of his. 

“yeah, ‘m fine.”

“where are you?” chimes in takeyama. 

“we had to hide out…? what the hell are you calling about this early?”

“it’s eleven in the morning…”

“who is we?!”

“are you with nighthide?”

“juicy!!”

“quiet, yu.”

the two of the bicker back and forth some more and you look over at hitoshi, who is also on the phone. if you strain your ears you can make out the quiet voice of aizawa-sensei. 

“huh?” 

hitoshi looks puzzled for a second before he glances at you just briefly. you flush and look away. 

“no, it’s…nothing,” he says into the phone, “just—”

you’re drawn back to kamui and takeyama, who have finally stopped bickering and are focused again on you. 

“we’re laying low until things blow over, edgeshot knows where we are and he’ll probably be in contact soon. just—”

“edgeshot hasn’t come into the office today,” kamui cuts in. 

your heart sinks into your stomach. “what?”

“we haven’t heard from him since last night. there’s patrols out everywhere looking for you but—”

“nishiya, tell them to turn on the news.”

“yuu, i’m still speaking—”

“now!”

the urgency in her tone startles you and you look over to hitoshi, who looks equally concerned with whatever aizawa is telling him. 

you both reach for the remote at the same time in what feels like slow motion, and that’s about when the building starts to come down. 

dividers by @/saradika-graphics, header by kitty with pics from pinterest!

taglist: @deadhands69 @frvv @cccandynecklaces @tokeposts @lover-no-lover61 @getvaccinated @accidentpronedork @crushmeeren @p4rkcha3w0n @cyberesc @bloomness @eloshifts @bythevay @cc1306 @nobodybutnnoorr @rikaroses (ask/comment if you’d like to be added!)

eep!! we’ve finally come about to almost the end 🥹🥹🥹 next chapter will be the grand finale. stay tuned and thanks for the support so far!! <33

[redroomreflections]

Something Like Peace

Secret Service Natasha and Presidential R

nothing like listening to the woman you're in love with talk about her husband.(atp i need to just fully develop this) Maybe I'm watching too much Scandal lately.

You didn't want to discuss this topic in the meeting. You didn't even want it to be an option that people considered. Yet here you were, one year away from your final year as president, and you were discussing reelection strategies. Someone had thrown the idea out there - remarriage. It left a bitter taste in your mouth. The senior advisors, donors, and political strategists sat with folders, charts, and polling numbers. Somehow, they'd all chosen to beat around the bush until this very moment.

"If you want to win reelection, Madam President… you’re going to need a husband."

Suggestions had been thrown around. Possible candidates who would make great First Gentlemen. Senators, congressmen, the former governor of a neighboring state, and the former Secretary of Education. All good men, and all not your type. The first gentleman would need to be someone you could trust. Someone you could be sure would do their job, but wouldn’t overstep their boundaries. Someone you could rely on. Someone you didn't want. You were not getting married again. Certainly not for love and certainly not for the country.

You allowed everyone to talk around you until Jennie Alba recommended an app.

“Let me get this straight. You want me to do some presidential version of Tinder to find a husband?”

A few coughs. Nervous glances.

You leaned forward.

“So I can parade him out in front of crowds and kiss him on the cheek like some state-sanctioned Barbie? Smile at the cameras while he whispers something vaguely condescending in my ear to prove that I’m warm? Approachable? Woman enough to lead?”

Someone tried to interject. You held up a finger.

“No. I’m not finished.”

You stood then, voice rising not loud, but commanding. The room went still. You needed to pace.

“You want me to trade my grief in for a photo op. With my husband not even being gone for the entirety of this run. You want me to water down my leadership so the public can sleep better at night knowing there’s a man in the picture, even if it’s all pretend. You want a storybook. A fairytale. The devoted widow turned blushing bride. And why? Because the country is uncomfortable with a woman who leads without needing to be led?”

Now you're pacing.

“I have stared down dictators. Ran a presidential election campaign all while coming home to breastfeed twins. I have buried my husband. I have raised three children while running this nation. And somehow, somehow, that’s not enough. You don’t want a president. You want a pageant.”

You stopped. Looking around at semi-guilty faces.

“You want a man to stand beside me so you can pretend he’s the reason I haven’t fallen apart. So you don’t have to admit that I did this without him. Without anyone.”

Silence.

Then, softer but lethal.

“I will not find a husband to make this country feel better about a woman in charge. I will not sell my life for your polling numbers. And if you think I need a ring to win this election, then you are the problem.”

You grabbed your folder. Stood tall. And left them stunned.

******

An hour later, you stood by a small table near the window, a framed photo in your hands.

It was him.

Your Andrew. Smiling in a way you only ever got to see. The kind of smile that made hard days easier, the kind that held up the world when yours was falling apart.

You brushed your thumb over the glass. Just once.

The door opened quietly.

Natasha stepped in, eyes scanning the room before settling on you. She didn't approach right away. She never did when you were like that.

“Just came to check in,” Natasha said softly. “Wanted to see if you’re well enough for me to go.”

You don’t turn around immediately.

“I’m fine.” You nodded to yourself. "You can go."

A beat.

“Do people ever ask you to get married?” you asked, still staring at the photo.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Can’t say they do.”

“Not for love. I mean for... appearance. For strategy.”

Natasha stepped closer now, careful with her tone. “No one expects that from me.”

You finally turned, the photo still in your hand. “Lucky you.”

Natasha watched you quietly. “Did they bring it up again?”

You laughed under your breath. “They want me to find a husband." You probably shouldn't have that conversation with your Secret Service agent.

"You know you don't need a husband, right? You're doing just fine on your own."

You shrugged.

Natasha tilted her head. "You are. And I'll remind anyone who tries to say otherwise. You are the president, and they should all be honored to serve you. You are enough. Husband or not. Ring or not."

"You should be my spokesperson."

"Only if it pays better," She joked. You cracked a small smile. "You miss him."

"I do," You nodded, holding the frame tighter.

Natasha watched your hands.

"When's the last time you went out?" she asked.

You raised an eyebrow. "Out where?"

"I don't know," Natasha shrugged. "Anywhere. Out."

"I have work. A country to run."

"But when's the last time you've gone out for something other than a rally or a meeting?"

"Well-"

"I'd start there," Natasha nodded. "If you're looking, of course."

"I'm not." You could tell there was a moment Natasha regretted speaking.

"Why not Maragrat Cannon? I mean, she was so miffed that you hadn't called her back." Natasha began. "Even gave you a raving review."

"You weren't supposed to listen to that conversation," You mumbled amusedly. Maragrat Cannon was an FBI chief you'd had a brief fling with months ago. Your first fling since Andrew had died. She had been nice, but it didn't last.

"We don't usually eavesdrop, but we were worried about her tone," Natasha teased. "You don't need her. Or a man."

"Thank you," You replied. "But I'm fine. Truly."

"Are you?"

"Yes."

Natasha nodded once, the kind of nod that meant copy that guard up, posture straight. Back in secret service mode. She took a small step back.

But you weren’t ready to let her go.

“Do you think it’s too soon?” you asked, your voice low.

She turned, surprised by the softness in it.

“For what?” she asked.

“To… move on. To be open. To even think about someone else.”

Natasha studied you. Not the President. Not the strategist. Just you, tired, grieving, holding your late husband’s photo like it still steadied you.

You swallowed. “Andrew just died. Sophia barely looks at me. My approval rating is hanging on by a thread, and I haven’t had a moment to just… be. So maybe this is a ridiculous question, but I just—” You trailed off. “I don’t know who I am if I’m not holding it all together.”

Natasha’s gaze softened.

“I think it’s not about too soon,” she said finally. “I think it’s too heavy. You’ve been carrying everyone’s grief on top of your own. And people forget that you’re not a statue, they forget that your heart’s still breaking too.”

Your lip quivered, just barely. You pressed it together to stop it.

Natasha took a slow step forward. Not too close. Just enough.

“If you’re asking if it’s too soon to feel again, to want peace, to laugh for real…” She shook her head. “No. It’s not.”

You blinked quickly. “Even if Sophia hates me?”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Natasha said it without hesitation. “She’s hurting. And she’s trying to figure out where to put it. Right now, she’s putting it on you because you’re the one person who will still be there after.”

You stared at her.

And Natasha, still in uniform, still technically on duty, gave you a small, honest smile.

“You’re allowed to be human. Even here. Even now.” Natasha watched you for a reaction. If you were any other person, she would have broken professional protocol and begged to go back to her room. She wouldn't have cared about feelings or questions or anything outside of her scope of practice.

But you weren't just any other person.

And Natasha wouldn't break protocol for just anyone.

"Thank you," You breathed, smiling at her.

"You could tell me about him," She offered.

"Oh, no, I shouldn't," You shook your head. "I'm sure you have somewhere to be."

Natasha shrugged, "Not right now."

"Don't you have a family?"

"I don't have much going on." She admitted. "Just waiting on my boss."

You sat down on the edge of the couch, the picture frame still in your lap. The room felt too big, too quiet, too late.

“You know the public story,” you said after a long pause, your fingers tracing the edge of the frame. “The headlines. The photos. The speeches we gave while standing next to each other. The ‘power couple’ fairytale.”

Natasha didn’t interrupt. When you gestured, she moved to sit in the nearby chair, close enough to listen, far enough to respect the space.

“But what they never printed,” you continued, your voice soft and distant, “was how we met in a politics and public policy seminar sophomore year. He was cocky. Smarter than me in ways that irritated me. And when he got up to argue about the ethics of foreign aid, I realized I was either going to strangle him or marry him.”

Natasha smiled faintly.

“We fell in love slowly. But completely.” You looked down at the photo. “I got pregnant with Sophia right after graduation. We were terrified. I thought my life was over. He told me it was just beginning.”

Your voice cracked, but you didn’t stop.

“He believed in me before I believed in myself. Always said I could lead a revolution and be home for bedtime stories. He loved my ambition. Never once made me feel like I had to shrink to keep him comfortable.”

You looked over at Natasha now.

“He wasn’t just my husband. He was my equal. My best friend. My center.”

There was a long beat of silence.

“I miss the way he laughed at his own bad jokes,” you added, more to yourself than to her. “And how he’d read every single draft of my speeches, even when he was tired. He always circled the metaphors in red pen. Said I used too many.”

Natasha let out a small breath of laughter. “That sounds about right.”

You gave her a teary smile.

“I keep waiting for the part where it hurts less,” you admitted.

Natasha’s voice was gentle. “Maybe it doesn’t hurt less. Maybe it just… stops being so loud.”

You nodded slowly.

“I didn’t expect to tell you all of this.”

Natasha shrugged again. “I didn’t expect you to ask me to stay.”

You looked at her, then really looked, and for the first time, you didn’t feel like the President. You felt like a woman sitting in a quiet room, talking about the man she still loved, with someone who saw her.

“Thank you,” you said again, quieter this time.

Natasha leaned back slightly, her posture relaxing, just barely.

“I’m still waiting on my boss,” she reminded you.

“Then you can stay.”

[temis-de-leon]

Roommate romance - 500 F.C.

Characters: Simeon x gn!reader (newly established relationship)

Main Masterlist

500 followers masterlist

Requested by: Romance Anon

CW: Human AU where MC is living with Purgatory Hall gang instead of the brothers. There's one kiss and that's it. Simeon and MC briefly discuss their relationship. Lucifer and Luke are mentioned and Solomon appears right at the end.

A/N: took me 4 months to write 500 words and then I wrote 1.5k just today 🤡

.

The loud bang of the main door closing echoed across the apartment, pulling you out of deep slumber and into the darkness of your room.

You were sweaty, and the bedsheets clung to your skin as you tried to sit up in search of your phone, but the battery was completely dead. There was no way of telling the hour, seeing as the blinds were also completely closed with no string of light peeking through, but you had a vague idea of who could’ve gotten out of the house so early.

Luke was the only one who would leave in the morning while everyone else was still asleep, if the subsequent silence meant that, so it couldn’t be later than 7 a.m.

Thankfully, his school was closer to the house than their college campus was, and the preteen had insisted many times on his maturity and independence, so there was no need to have anyone chaperone him. Simeon was probably fast asleep in his room at the far end of the hallway, and you hoped Solomon would be as well, but the chemist was most likely still experimenting in his room, or worse, the kitchen. Knowing him, he would only go to sleep after breakfast and not wake up until lunch.

To each their own, you thought to yourself, lying down once you were satisfied with your deductions.

However, although you were still too tired, you couldn’t fall asleep again.

Your eyes burned after days and days of pulling all-nighters and drinking enough caffeine beverages to give you a heart attack, but no matter how deep you breathed, how quiet everything was or how quickly your body sunk onto the mattress, routine had settled in several weeks prior and was insisting on you getting up to study.

Study what, anyway? You passed everything!

Sadly, though, after what was probably fifteen minutes or so, but felt like much, much more, you were still wide-awake and restless, turning and fussing under your heaviest comforter and wondering with childish pettiness if you would be fast asleep if Luke didn’t let go of the door when he left. On the other hand, feeling irritated at a kid going to school was not very nice, so you just allowed yourself to mumble some profanities as you aggressively pushed the bedsheets away; finally got up, covered your body with a blanket, and walked out of the room without bothering to open the blinds.

Perhaps the overused sofa cushions would give you the comfort you needed to rest a little more.

So, dragging your feet and trying not to trip over the blanket, you walked down the hall purely by memory and barely glanced at the countless pictures decorating the walls. Familiar, motionless eyes stared at you while you moved. Luke was in most of them, either living his normal life or celebrating milestones, but Simeon, Solomon, and you were also there, and so were the rest of your friends: colleagues from the academy and the brothers’ former family.

It was a weird little group, you had to admit, but they had welcomed you with open arms, so you couldn’t (and wouldn’t) complain.

And it wasn’t that bad anyway.

Sure, no one entering adulthood would ever expect to live with a mad scientist, a world-renowned novelist and his younger pre-teen brother, but would you have it any other way?

You ate delicious food almost every day, there was a little guy in your corner hyping you up without asking, and you had a tutor who, although a bit deranged, sure knew a lot about various aspects of life.

All in all, you had a pretty comfortable life.

And a pretty comfortable couch.

The last thing you thought before falling asleep again was that Solomon wasn’t in the kitchen.

Thank God.

.

.

But the time you woke up, the sun was high and up and the living room glowed in the early morning sunlight, specs of dust floating over your laying body and Luke’s plants opening their flowers as if also preparing for the day.

Sadly, the strident noise of falling clutter coming from the kitchen pulled you away from your stupor, momentarily stopping your heart and making you sit up like a spring. A whispered string of complains followed right after, but you couldn’t recognize the voice pass the rhythm of your heartbeat in your ears.

It was either Solomon or Simeon, obviously, but you knew perfectly well who you wanted it to be.

Taking a deep breath, and patting your chest to set it back to normal, you got up and regally wrapped up the blanket around you, just like you had done hours before. Thankfully, the wooden floor kept your feet warm in your way to the kitchen.

“What is this doing here…?” you heard the voice.

Your pulse quickened again, gait suddenly clumsy with excitement.

You peeked around the doorframe, trying not to trip over the blanket, and stared shamelessly at Simeon’s back.

He was already wearing his suit, sleeves rolled up to the elbows as he bent down over the counter to study the air fryer. It was a simple one, cheap enough for you to buy at the supermarket without second thought or remnant guilt, but the poor man was clueless around technology.

The day you found out he wrote on a typewriter because he couldn’t understand his laptop was the day you laughed so hard, you had to hide in a distant corner to calm down.

Smiling at the memory, you silently walked in his direction and threw your hand back, ready to slap his ass.

Fortunately for him, your reflection on the cabinet’s glass spoiled your plans.

Simeon stood up immediately, turning around with a know-it-all smile and both hands in his hips.

“You’re insatiable, aren’t you?” he murmured in a low tone, aware of Solomon’s presence in his room nearby.

His words sent a pleasant tingly sensation to your tummy, and you couldn’t help but smile with giddiness.

“What can I say?” you shrugged, innocently. “You were in perfect position”

Simeon chuckled at your words. Biting his bottom lip, he checked the empty hallway and slowly placed a hand in your lower back, pulling you towards him. His lips lightly brushed the corner of yours, receding and smiling with complicity for a second before closing the distance again. He embraced your body with both arms, letting you only one hand to hug him back and trapping the other under the blanket.

He tasted like tea and powdered sugar.

Thankfully, your stomach wasn’t empty enough to disrupt the moment.

Your boyfriend…? Your friend… Your roommate- kept kissing you with the same gentleness one would hold a glass sculpture with. A set of fingers curled around your nape without pressure and another traced the length of your spine, sometimes making you shudder against him and tightening the hug. An occasional hum or a stifled groan interrupted the silence on occasion, and so did a couple of car horns in the distant traffic, but there was nothing that could possibly pull you out of the moment.

Or so you thought.

Until his alarm went off.

He disappeared from your side immediately, hurriedly pulling his phone out of the pants pocket and fighting to turn the horrible sound off.

“What do I do?” he asked frantically, tapping everywhere in the screen but the button. “MC, what do I do??”

“First of all, relax” you ordered him in return, grabbing his phone directly from his hand and flawlessly turning it off. A shameful expression covered his face by the time you gave it back to him. “It’s literally just a button. In the centre of the screen. We’ve talked about this, Simeon”

“I know, I know” he chuckled, scratching his neck in embarrassment. “I promise I’ll learn how to do it… eventually”

“You better, because I’m not always going to be here to turn it off for you-”

“How so?”

The interruption brought your attention back to him, and, if not for his cheeky expression, you would’ve taken it seriously. Instead, you lightly punched his shoulder and went to grab his jacket.

“Why are you leaving so early, anyway?” you asked, changing the direction of the conversation.

Thankfully, he went with it. Talking about the implications of your unestablished relationship should be done after lunch and a fulfilling nap; not right after waking up and being kissed until near stupidity.

“Lucifer was invited to an art exhibition by one of his and Diavolo’s friends” he explained, fixing his cufflinks before slowly getting out of the kitchen, waiting for you to follow. “He thought it could interest me, so I’m going. I’m meeting him at his house and then he’ll drive us there”

“And ‘there’ is…?”

“Half an hour away, but don’t worry. I’m having lunch with him and then I’ll be home way before dinner. No chance for you to miss me” he smiled, looking at you adoringly as he walked towards the entrance door.

You followed blindly, still wearing the blanket around you and collecting the dust on the floor without care. You half expected him to give you a quick kiss before leaving, but that wasn’t what happened.

Instead, he stopped, his fist closing carefully around his keys, and turned around with a serious expression. His voice was low and soft when he talked again.

“I’m thinking about telling him about us… If that’s okay”

Your eyebrows raised in surprise, and you blinked repeatedly.

“Telling Lucifer?” you stammered, half confused and half stoked. You weren’t even sure if Simeon thought about an ‘us’, let alone telling his closest friend.

“He’s still important to me” he explained, and then rolled his eyes with a small smile. “And you’re pretty important to him”

You chuckled, making his smile grow wider.

It was true.

“Why Lucifer, though? Why not Luke?”

“Well…” he sighed, then shrugged and scratched his neck again. “I don’t want to overwhelm him. It’s the first time he’s living with people other than family and he’s just getting used to his school’s teaching system. You’re his best friend and I’m his brother; I know he’d be happy for us, but I think we should wait a little bit. I don’t want him to think our relationship will change anything”

“It won’t” you reassured him immediately, but he just smiled and moved to gently grab your arms.

“Are you completely sure about that?” he whispered.

You pursed your lips, deep in thought.

Sharing a home was one thing. Sleeping in the same room when Solomon and Luke were both out of the house was another. Starting a formal, committed relationship was completely different.

Would you still treat Luke as a friend in a few months, hopefully still dating his brother? Or would you treat him like another sibling or a role model to follow? Worst of all, if you broke up for whatever reason, would you be able to stay amicably or would you rather move out and damage the friendship you had with the pre-teen?

You couldn’t lie to yourself, let alone Luke.

“Not really” you finally confessed, looking down.

Two fingers moved towards your face, softly lifting your chin until you were looking at Simeon again. Then he cupped your cheek, and your heart felt incredibly full.

“Let us discover this for ourselves first” he pleaded, bending down to kiss you again, as lovingly as before. “Once we figure it out, we’ll tell whoever we want”

You chuckled, and instantly frowned in confusion.

“Why tell Lucifer, then?” you asked once more.

Simeon smiled, not saying anything before grabbing a ticker coat from the rack and turning to open the door.

The answer hit you like a truck.

“You bastard!” you laughed, hopefully not too loud. He laughed in return as he stepped into the hallway. “You want him to know you were the one who got me!”

I love you, he mouthed before finally closing the door.

You smiled at the door, hearing his footsteps disappeared as he walked towards the elevator.

“Damn”

You jumped, startled by the voice.

Appearing from the shadows like a cryptic, Solomon nodded at you as a greeting. He was sipping something from an incredibly ugly mug, but it was his smirk what was making you stare at him in silent, deep horror.

“I knew you guys were screwing around” he chuckled, bumping your hips with his as he walked right past you. “Asmo owns me money”

.

.

Taglist: @ilovecandys2010 @ollieoven @kingofspadesdelusion @whimsybloom @mia4gotcookiez

[butmakeitgayblog]

Oh yeah!!!! I have few words, mostly not very censured, to describe my feelings about the comments. Now I understand why ADS does not publish anything about his personal life. This comment exactly summed up my thoughts

Well, not to catch strays on my own blog here but I agree with about... eh, 85% of that 😅

It is weird that people keep bombarding her with "I thought you were gay 😩" type comments just because she played a lesbian once. Like, the girl has said she's straight, her friends have said she's straight, and most importantly: man, people really have GOT to learn to separate fiction from reality. Actors are not their characters. It's concerning the amount of people who can't seem to make that distinction, and not just with her. It's reoccurring theme in celebrity comments sections, and it's disturbing.

The part about Eliza. Pfft. Lol. Lmao even, absolutely the worst example to use in this situation. Like, I can't stress that enough. Bob sucks and has always sucked AND he's abusive, and Eliza not only was implicated in those allegations, but she also started acting like an ass toward her LGBTQ fans after getting with him. So yeah no. They've recieved trolling and hate, but for deserved reasons. Anyone who was mad about it due to character/fandom shit, again, needs to get a grip on reality. Beyond that, they were criticized for legitimate reasons.

I know some people have issues with her and the ugly frog man for different reasons that I'm not getting into here because none of it is actually known as fact nor based on any allegations other than made up ones by "fans", just rumors and guesses, but again I think that really crosses a line of appropriateness just as much as harassing someone for not being gay. We don't know these people. We don't actually know what goes on in their lives and we do not know their day-to-day actions. Assuming you know personal things based off of vague timelines and heavily curated IG posts is at best immature and naive, at worst delusional. Stop it. It's not healthy.

And lastly, all of those comments pale in comparison to the ones that literally post as though they know her personally. Like stalker type comments. Comments that fully show these deranged people have made up an entire relationship with her in their heads, and now feel slighted as though she's somehow betrayed their "relationship together". These people need to be on a fucking watchlist, and I'm very serious about that. Someone on her team should be watching her comments and doing strategic blocks instead of letting that shit run rampant because there's several of them, and shocking, they're all cis men who talk about being violent to him and sexually violent to her. Like, someone on her team? Lock that shit up, what is she paying you for.

Anyway long story short, she does deserve to be happy and even if you feel whatever way about her having a boyfriend (one she's had for 2 fucking years like omg this is not new they haven't exactly been hiding idk why this is such a sudden Thing now), acting like a fuckhead in her comments section isn't going to do anything other than make you look crazy. Just be normal my goodness

[baixue-temple]

A take I keep seeing is that Yue Qingyuan never ever doubts that Shen Qingqiu is in the wrong, and only wants to enable whatever he's up to when... I don't think that's true in the slightest!

And that the tragedy lies in that he knows he's in the wrong!

I believe what we see instead, and what personally makes their whole (vague hand waving) Deal all the more interesting, is that he actively knows that what Shen Qingqiu is doing is harmful for him, himself, and others around them.

But his nature is ultimately to be the calm mediator at best and self-appointed whipping boy at worst, and it slowly grinds him down until at the very end of PIDW he is left questioning if he can even do it anymore -- and then comes back anyway.

We see that pretty early in everyone's favorite scene where Shen Jiu threatens to brick a kid in the face (affectionate)!

Yue Qi tells Shiwu "oh he's just joking" but it's pretty obvious that he's just trying to defuse the situation before it gets worse. He absolutely knows that Shen Jiu can and will beat the shit out of this kid, so he puts himself in between them physically and verbally before that can happen, even when Shen Jiu kicks and steps on him in the process.

(I see you, foreshadowing)

It's interesting how in the intro to this, Yue Qi definitely had a more authoritative tone with Shen Jiu that slowly degrades over the course of the Extra.

The next time we see him so openly forceful is at the Pavilion:

This is a side of Yue Qingyuan that I have seen referenced in fanworks probably only enough times to count on my hands: a Yue Qingyuan who's openly mad and frustrated at this bullshit.

And honestly for good reason! He doesn't know Shen Qinqiu's issues with the dorms -- his only context is that a head disciple was found at a brothel where he's presumably having sex, severely injured a martial sibling, and nearly got into another fight with another head disciple. It's, uhhhhhhhhhhh not a good look for anyone involved, and Yue Qingyuan knows who's primarily at fault even as he tries to cover for him:

Once again, he is does not think Shen Qinqiu is being victimized here. He directly thinks and tries to persuade him that if he didn't pull this shit, he could maybe even be friends with Liu Qingge, if he bothered to try.

I personally felt like there's also an undercurrent of "why are you behaving so recklessly" because at the time, they are still disciples. Shen Qinqiu even notes directly later that "luckily" the Qing Jing peak lord likes him. What would it mean if the lord didn't like him? Would he still be a head disciple? Would he even be allowed to remain in the sect?

Yue Qingyuan seems to be taking this into consideration too; he worries about Shen Qingqiu not having any social support:

He has a lot of anxiety about Shen Qingqiu being happy in the sect! Even when Shen Qinqiu is all but guaranteed to be the next peak lord and probably not at risk of any of these things being an issue, Yue Qingyuan wants to be reassured that he's getting fed and housed properly.

But this is not to say that the state of their relationship isn't wearing on him.

An interesting note later on in this scene is that he sighs in the caves while Shen Qinqiu is talking to him in Everyone's Favorite Trauma Caves. ™. Compare to the Water Prison scene where it's noted that Yue Qingyuan is not one to sigh like this very often. It's an indication that he's starting to hit his emotional limits:

These two scenes where Yue Qingyuan is increasingly upset and quiet is an interesting comparison to the very first part of the extra where he has to tamper down a smile, where he's telling Shiwu that he's just joking, where he's talkative and promises to take Shen Jiu somewhere fun instead. The energy of that early section feels so much more light-hearted, much more "ahhh I know he's misbehaving but it's okay I can handle it :)", a feeling of affection for this scraggly stray cat that he loves.

But then that loving energy begins to slowly drain from each following scene until we come to this:

Rock bottom. Yue Qingyuan has hit the point where he doesn't know if he can defend him anymore.

He's considering that Shen Qingqiu really did murder Liu Qingge. I think he genuinely doesn't want to believe it -- but Shen Qingqiu's spiral of self-destruction has gotten to the point where he doesn't know if he would or not, and if he can defend his actions either way.

Phew!

This is Yue Qingyuan at his absolute lowest. It sucks man, it hurts! Facing off against the person he loves the most, trying to get some reassurance that he didn't kill their martial sibling in cold blood, that he feels some remorse over what he's done all these years, and getting nothing.

Once again, Yue Qingyuan is not thinking that Shen Qingqiu deserves to do these things, or that others are misinterpreting him.

This is bleeding heart, big brother vibes, earnest Qi-ge coming to terms with the idea that all his years of loyalty may ultimately have been for nothing and gotten people under his leadership, some that he cared about, killed or abused along the way.

But even then.

EVEN THEN!

He wants Shen Qingqiu to prove him wrong!

There's a really great meta from @chuckduckling about how contradictory Shen Qingqiu's words tend to be, and probably nobody knows this better than Yue Qingyuan when his guilt isn't clouding his judgement.

I've seen other folks take this Xuan Su convo as Yue Qingyuan saying earnestly "I deserve to let you kill me".

But I think it's a test.

He's just heard Shen Qingqiu say all these horrible things, that nothing could've gone different, and that especially he can only be happy when others around him are unhappy-- Hey wait a minute

He didn't take that jab seriously back then, and he doesn't want to now. So he offers Xuan Su to Shen Qingqiu and says, "Prove it. Prove to me right now that all you want is to hurt others, kill me since you hate me so much".

And when Shen Qingqiu doesn't do it, that's enough for Yue Qingyuan to decide that he's not entirely lost. He's still heartbroken for sure. But he still tries to alleviate his pain, to help him live a little longer. He's not giving up on him yet.

As he leaves, Shen Qingqiu thinks that he's finally driven the man away -- when in reality all he did was give him one more thread of hope to hold onto.

All in all... this is a long-winded way of saying that for me Yue Qingyuan gets a big disservice when he's flattened down to "he's always down to clown for Shen Qinqiu's crimes, he never questions his Xiao-Jiu!" when the text shows us that in actuality Yue Qingyuan knows from day one of their reunion that Shen Qingqiu is increasingly harmful to himself and others. But his guilt and love won't allow him to just sever the cord and walk away like others might.

That's the big irony of it all: Shen Jiu thinks Yue Qi forgot about him and abandoned him, while Yue Qi is silently trailing behind him trying to pick up the pieces because to him this silent loyalty is his penance.

By the end, it's become an ouroboros of self-blame and guilt for Yue Qingyuan. For every action he perceives himself as allowing Shen Qingqiu to do, he has an extra obligation to stay by his side, each one getting bigger and bigger in scope until finally he's at the point where he realizes it's out of control.

Shen Qingqiu gives him the out from that cycle.

Yue Qingyuan chooses to come back again.

I find a Yue Qingyuan who sees all his flaws but chooses him anyway, out of love or guilt or whatever combination of both, is so much more interesting and complicated than a Yue Qingyuan who doesn't see anything wrong at all.

It means he saw the trap being set a long time ago and stepped into it anyway.

[chu16a-blog]

Drabble – You licked what?

Pairing: Benji Dunn x reader

Summary: You and the team are out for a drinks after a mission. YOu end up with some sauce next to your lips. Benji is going to help you with it.

Warning: Still don't own mission impossible, benji dunn and this picture.

Part II

You licked what?

The mission had been a success, and not the usual barely made it out alive, let's not talk about it until the trauma sets in kind of success. This one had been clean. Sharp. No civilian casualties, no fires (unless you counted the one small explosion, which Benji insisted was "controlled"), and the data was secured. For once, there were no immediate follow-up operations, no dead drops or double-crosses.

So, when Ethan suggested grabbing drinks to celebrate, a rare luxury in their line of work , everyone said yes.

You all found yourselves tucked into a corner booth of a dimly lit, slightly too loud pub, half-eating, half-drinking, and all in varying stages of exhaustion.

Benji sat beside you, already two drinks past his usual limit, his cheeks pink and eyes wide in that innocent, slightly unhinged way he always looked when he'd had a bit too much. Across from you, Luther and Ethan sipped their beers like war-hardened veterans. Which, to be fair, they were.

Benji slammed his hand lightly on the table, startling a nearby basket of fries. "I do stay calm under pressure!"

You tried not to laugh. You really did. But it came out anyway, a snort hidden behind your drink.

“Sure, sure. Like that time in Vienna when you were so stressed you walked straight into a glass door.” You said.

Benji’s eyes went wide. “That door was invisible!”

Luther snorted. “It’s called a clean window, Benji.”

Ethan grinned. “Alright, alright. But at least you didn’t break your nose like last time you tried to do a fancy roll.”

Benji’s face went beet red. “That was one time!”

Benji crossed his arms, clearly offended. “Look, I can disarm a triple-encrypted, fingerprint-synced thermobaric device with ten seconds left on the clock. That’s calm. That’s cool.”

“Yeah,” you said, biting back a grin, “but only if there’s no sneaky glass doors or rogue floors around.”

Benji crossed his arms, clearly offended. “Look, I can disarm a triple-encrypted, fingerprint-synced thermobaric device with ten seconds left on the clock. That’s calm. That’s cool.”

“Yeah,” you said, biting back a grin, “but only if there’s no sneaky glass doors or rogue floors around.”

Benji opened his mouth, ready to defend his entire legacy, but you shoved a fry into your mouth before he could say anything. A drop of sauce, something spicy and red, landed right near the corner of your mouth, just shy of your lip.

Benji, mid-rant, blinked. “Uh—hey. You’ve got—something. Right there.” He gestured vaguely toward your face.

You blinked back at him. “What?”

“There’s, like… sauce.”

You wiped your cheek. “Here?”

“No, no the other side. A bit lower.”

You tried again, even more off-target.

Benji groaned, leaning forward with a drunken giggle. “Okay, you’re hopeless. I’ll just—let me…”

And before anyone could process the movement, he reached out and gently dabbed at the corner of your mouth with two fingers.

Unfortunately for him, you misread his intention entirely. You grinned and without thinking, or maybe fueled by your own level of inebriation, you wrapped your lips around his finger and sucked the sauce off.

Benji Dunn.exe has stopped responding.

Across the booth, Ethan nearly choked on his beer.

Luther muttered, “He’s gone.”

Benji yanked his hand back like you’d electrocuted him. “You—Why would you do that?!”

You laughed so hard you nearly fell into him. “You said I had sauce!”

“I didn’t think you’d—mouth engage! What was that?!”

You leaned into his side, still giggling. “I dunno. Thought you could handle it. You’re calm under pressure, right?”

Benji opened his mouth. Closed it. Turned bright red.

“You can’t just do that!” He muttered, flustered and completely unable to meet your eyes.

Ethan, still wheezing, raised his glass. “To Benji. Calm, cool, and completely defeated by one seductive fry.”

“It was unexpected!” Benji yelped, throwing his hands up. “There’s no training manual for that!”

Luther added, “Next time, maybe bring some gloves.”

“Admit it,” you teased, bumping your shoulder into his. “You liked it.”

As the laughter died down and the night wore on, Benji slowly lifted his head again, eyes meeting yours with a shy, crooked smile.

“Okay, fine. I might like have like it a little.”

You leaned in close, almost nose to nose. “I know.”

He blinked. “How?”

You winked. “Because you didn’t pull your finger away immediately.”

Ethan clinked his glass against Luther’s. “Place your bets. Two more missions before one of them figures it out?”

Luther nodded. “They’ll probably kiss by accident before they realize.”

“Wait, what?” Benji squeaked.

You just laughed harder.

[osmanthusoolong]

As I see the vague tendrils of the latest indignation about bi people existing, being vocally bi, and thinking that it would be cool to have more bisexuals, I’m reminded of how absolutely fucking skin-crawling it is when people sneer at bi women and are aghast at their “~availability to men~”. And, once again, find myself sincerely hoping that anyone who uses that phrasing explodes badly, or at least stays far away from me forever

Absolutely disgusting behaviour, also being bisexual fucking rules

[tomkaulitzssgirl]

FOR THE PERSON THAT ASKED THIS: “Tom has a gf for 2 years and they live together. One night she years weird stuff around the house, she tries to ignore it but can’t. She wakes tom up and suddenly there are men in their room. Turns out tom is a undercover agent and these men wanted revenge. They grab her and take her away. She’s obviously heart broken because she doesn’t understand any of it. (Tom was it behind her back). Then tom saves her but she’s very sad and angry about it because he’s kept it hidden. So they have a fight (they do make up, maybe smut?) “

THIS IS FOR YOU IM SORRY I LOST THE REQUEST!

SHATTER | TOM KAULITZ

you and tom had been together for two years.

and not the flimsy kind of two years — the real kind. the kind where you could finish each other’s sentences, and argue over who left the toothpaste cap off but be curled into each other thirty minutes later like nothing ever happened. the kind where every little thing was shared: playlists, hoodies, toothbrushes, dreams.

you lived together in a small, sunlit apartment on the fourth floor of a quiet building just outside the city. your mornings started slow, tangled in sheets and soft kisses, and your nights ended with his arm draped over your waist and the low hum of the tv still playing in the background. you loved him more than you’d ever loved anyone, and he made you feel so safe, like nothing in the world could touch you.

tom was… mysterious sometimes. but never in a way that worried you.

he’d told you when you first got serious that he worked freelance — “independent contracts,” he called them. he was always vague about the details, but you figured it was tech stuff, maybe music work on the side. he was creative, always had random hours, and took calls in another room. but he made good money, and he always came home to you.

always.

sometimes late. sometimes tired. but he kissed you like he meant it, touched you like you were breakable, and looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

so you never questioned it, not once.

until that night.

⸻

it was just past 2:30am when you woke up.

you weren’t sure why at first — the room was dark and still, the air quiet except for the soft spin of the ceiling fan and tom’s steady breathing beside you.

you rolled over slowly, still half-asleep, and that’s when you heard it.

a faint creak.

your brows drew together. it wasn’t the usual groan of old pipes or the wind against the glass. it was something else. sharp. intentional.

you sat up slightly, your heart beginning to thrum — not fast, just a little quicker than it should have.

probably the neighbor’s cat, you told yourself, but then came the second sound.

a soft click, like a door being closed. or opened.

your breath caught.

you stared into the dark. the hallway beyond the bedroom door was pitch black. your ears strained for any sound, eyes wide now, your mind racing.

then — the sound of a footstep.

your blood ran cold.

no.

no, it had to be your imagination. you were half asleep. paranoid.

you leaned over and placed your hand on tom’s chest.

his skin was warm. calm. still.

“tom.” you whispered, gently shaking him.

he stirred, blinking slowly. “mmh… what’s wrong, baby?”

“i heard something,” you said softly, urgently, “down the hall.”

he blinked again, sitting up now, his entire energy changed. not groggy. not confused. alert.

“stay here.” he said immediately, voice low, firm.

“what—wait, tom—”

but he was already up. shirtless, in his boxers, and moving toward the edge of the bed.

he bent down and pulled something from under his side of the bed frame.

your stomach turned cold when you saw what it was.

a gun.

you froze. you didn’t know he owned one.

you hadn’t even seen him hold one before.

“tom, what the hell—?”

but before he could answer, the bedroom door slammed open.

two men burst in — masks, black clothing, tactical boots. it felt like time slowed.

you screamed. tom moved fast — so fast — knocking one back with the butt of the gun, grabbing the second by the collar and throwing him hard into the dresser. a lamp shattered. glass flew.

“run!” tom yelled, but you couldn’t move.

another man appeared at the door — tall, broad, carrying something heavy.

and then you felt arms around you, rough and forceful, dragging you backward off the bed.

“no!” you shrieked, kicking, fighting, reaching for tom as he fought to get to you. your fingers almost touched — almost.

but then the blow came — something hard to the side of your head — and the world slipped sideways, lights fading, tom’s voice echoing in your ears as everything went black.

you woke up cold.

your head throbbed. the air was stale and metallic. your arms ached — tied behind your back with something tight and rough, biting into your skin.

you tried to blink the haze away, but the room around you was barely lit — dull concrete walls, no windows, just a single bulb hanging above your head, swinging faintly like it had been disturbed.

the silence was loud. where was tom?

you tried to remember everything, but it came in jagged flashes — the masked men. the fight. tom with a gun. the way he moved. the way he yelled your name. the way they ripped you from him like it was nothing.

and now… nothing.

no rescue. no answers. no him.

a sharp breath tore from your lungs. your chest tightened. panic clawed at the inside of your ribs.

“hello?” your voice cracked, “someone—someone help!”

no answer.

just your own voice echoing back at you.

you didn’t know how long you sat there — hours maybe. knees tucked to your chest, heart in your throat, head pounding, eyes sore from crying. you tried not to think. you tried not to feel.

but the worst part wasn’t the fear. it wasn’t even the pain.

it was him.

tom.

because he lied to you.

because he wasn’t who he said he was.

because none of it was real.

was it?

when the door opened, your eyes widened with horror at the sight. the man that had took you there, the one who held you while the other hit you, was walking towards you, a cruel smirk twisting his lips like he’s been waiting just for this moment. his eyes glint with mockery as he leaned back, crossing his arms.

“well, well,” he drawled, voice thick with sarcasm, “the princess finally wakes up.”

you tried to pull away, but your limbs wouldn’t obey. your heart pounded, the fear knotting deep in your stomach.

before you could say anything, he slapped your cheek hard enough to sting, and the sharp pain snapped through your daze.

“didn’t think you’d last this long,” he sneered, “thought you’d cry and beg by now.”

your throat tightened, and you swallowed hard, trying to hold onto whatever little strength you have left.

his hand shot out, hitting you again — not enough to break skin, but enough to remind you who’s in control.

your vision blurred with tears, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break.

then, suddenly, the sharp crack of a gunshot ripped through the room.

a flash of light. the bang rattled your bones. smoke poured into the room, and men flooded in — not the ones from before. these wore black and grey gear, helmets, night-vision.

the man’s face twisted in shock and pain as he slumped back, eyes wide. he fell down, the hand he had brought on his chest was now full of blood.

the door flew open, and tom stepped in, eyes burning with fury. “motherfucker, stay the fuck away from her.”

he moved fast, going to kick the man in his ribs as he was slowly dying.

your body tensed again. your eyes squeezed shut.

and then you heard his voice getting closer.

“move—move! i’ve got her!”

you gasped as he dropped in front of you, breathless and wide-eyed, blood streaked across his temple. he didn’t hesitate — he ripped the ropes off your wrists like they were paper.

“baby, baby—fuck, are you okay?” his voice broke. “you’re safe. you’re safe now.”

you looked at him like you didn’t know who he was.

because you didn’t, not anymore.

back at the safehouse, hours later, you hadn’t said a word since he pulled you from that room.

not during the helicopter ride. not when he wrapped a blanket around you. not when he tried to explain things you couldn’t even begin to understand.

he brought you inside like something precious — still barefoot, still shaking, wrapped in one of his hoodies. he set you on the edge of the bed and crouched in front of you, gently brushing your hair back.

“baby,” he said softly, “you’re safe. you’re with me.”

your eyes darted toward him… but didn’t stay.

you kept looking around the room. like you didn’t trust the walls. like something might come through the shadows at any moment.

you still hadn’t spoken.

he grabbed a water bottle and twisted off the cap, handing it to you.

you didn’t take it.

your hands were limp in your lap, knuckles red from the rope burn, your face… empty. like you were floating three feet outside your body.

“okay,” he said gently, placing the bottle on the nightstand, “that’s okay. you don’t have to talk yet.”

he sat beside you slowly.

you didn’t look.

didn’t cry, didn’t lean in, didn’t even blink when he whispered your name.

just a ghost in a body that used to be yours.

he got scared after ten minutes.

not the kind of scared he was trained for — guns, violence, adrenaline — but this. the silence. the stillness. the shell of the woman he loved sitting next to him like she didn’t know him anymore.

he stood across the room, pacing. running both hands down his face. finally, he turned to you.

“please,” he said, “say something. scream. hit me. just something.”

nothing.

his throat tightened.

“i can’t fix this if you don’t come back to me.”

still nothing.

his hands were trembling now. “you’re scaring me.”

your lip twitched, the smallest movement.

he turned fully, hand hovering near yours. “please. just look at me. even just once.”

slowly… you did.

your eyes met his.

and the look on your face shattered him.

because it wasn’t angry.

it wasn’t relieved.

it was broken.

the kind of broken that says why didn’t you come sooner?

the kind that whispers, i didn’t know if you were real.

the kind that aches, i don’t know how to be me anymore.

then your voice came out low. hollow.

“how long?”

tom froze.

“how long have you been lying to me?”

he swallowed hard. “since we met.”

you laughed. cold. “right. of course.”

“it wasn’t supposed to go this far,” he said, stepping closer, “i wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you. it started as cover—then it stopped being that. i swear to god, everything after that was real.”

you shook your head slowly, the weight of it all crashing in.

“you told me you worked with music. late nights. contracts. i thought… i thought you were just—”

“normal?” he finished, gently. painfully.

“yes.”

he knelt in front of you. his hands reached for yours but hovered there, unsure. like he knew he didn’t deserve to touch you. “i didn’t tell you because i wanted to protect you.”

“and look how that turned out.” you whispered, pulling your hands back.

his jaw clenched.

“they came into our house, tom. they dragged me away. they hit me. tied me up. because of you. and you never even gave me the choice to know what world i was living in.”

his voice cracked when he spoke again. “i’ve never hated myself more than i do right now.”

you looked at him — really looked at him. broken, blood-streaked, still kneeling in front of you like a man begging for forgiveness he didn’t know how to ask for.

and god, you still loved him.

and god, you hated that.

your breath shook. “you don’t get to be my home and my danger, tom. pick one.”

he stood slowly, chest rising with each breath. “i pick you.”

you blinked, tears welling. “it’s not that easy.”

“i know,” he whispered, “but i’ll spend every second proving it’s real.”

silence.

then another question. the one that hunted you the most.

“who are you?”

he was quiet for a long moment.

then he walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from you, elbows resting on his knees. he exhaled like the truth was heavier than the gun he’d carried.

“i’m in a crew. underground. we take contracts — high-level, high-danger. sometimes intel. sometimes… people. i’ve run weapons. drugs. taken lives. i’ve done it all.”

he paused. “i started as a runner. now i’m the one they call when shit needs to be cleaned up.”

you stared at him, chest tight, unable to look away. he keeps going.

“i make people disappear. i deal, but only to fund the other side of it — the real work. i take out people worse than me. traffickers, warlords, corrupt officials, men who hurt women like—”

he swallowed. “like the ones who took you.”

his voice was raw now. “i kept it from you because i knew you wouldn’t understand. i didn’t want you to see me as the monster they do.”

you blinked hard, your voice a whisper.

“but i do see it now. and i don’t know what to do with that.”

he nodded slowly. “i wouldn’t either.”

your body trembled — from the cold, from the fear, from the ache in your chest that nothing could reach.

and then finally, softly, you said:

“just… lie down. i can’t be alone tonight.”

he didn’t say anything. just climbed into the bed behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist like he used to. his chest pressed to your back. his nose in your hair.

your body was still. tense.

but after a while, your breathing evened.

you shifted just a little.

and your hand found his.

he froze.

not because he didn’t know what to do — but because it was you reaching for him.

your fingers slid over his knuckles slowly, like you were remembering the shape of him.

he turned his hand, lacing his fingers with yours. he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder.

“you still with me?” he whispered.

you nodded, barely.

“can i touch you?”

a pause.

then, softly — “please.”

something about the way you said it cracked him open.

he moved slowly. carefully. reverent.

his hand slipped under the hem of the hoodie you were wearing — his hoodie — and rested against the bare skin of your waist. you weren’t wearing anything under it. his breath caught.

not because of desire.

but because of how close you still let him be.

how much you needed this too.

he shifted, guiding you gently onto your back, eyes locked with yours the entire time — watching, making sure.

his hand came up to cradle your face, thumb brushing the curve of your cheek. your eyes didn’t leave his. there were tears in them — not fear. not confusion. just need.

you whispered, “i want to feel something that’s real.”

his chest caved.

“you’re real,” he said, voice tight. “this is real.”

his lips met yours — slowly at first. soft. grounding.

then deeper. hungrier. like he needed to kiss away everything that had happened.

like he needed to remind you who he was under all of it.

your hands gripped the front of his shirt, holding him to you. his name left your lips in a breathy whisper — fragile but full of life.

he kissed your neck, your collarbone, every scar his silence had left behind.

his hands slid beneath the fabric, mapping your skin like a language he hadn’t spoken in too long.

every touch said i’m sorry.

every kiss said i’m still yours.

you arched into him, desperate for something — closeness, safety, him.

and tom held you like he knew how much you’d lost.

like holding you was the only thing keeping him together too.

your hands gripped his shoulders like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth.

tom hovered above you, barely letting his weight rest against your body. his eyes were locked to yours — as if he couldn’t afford to look away, like if he did, you’d vanish again.

your legs wrapped slowly around his waist, drawing him closer, and his breath stuttered at the feel of your skin against his.

he was quiet — looking at you like he was worshipping you.

his lips brushed your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. every kiss was a promise.

“you sure?” he whispered, voice thick.

you nodded, your breath shaky, your voice barely there. “don’t make me feel like i’m still gone.”

his chest tightened, and he slid his hand up your side, under the hoodie — fingertips skimming your ribs, your waist, like he was memorizing you all over again.

he leaned down and kissed your collarbone, slow and grounding. “you’re right here,” he murmured, “you never left me.”

you tilted your chin up. “then show me.”

tom exhaled like the words had hit him dead in the chest.

and slowly, so slowly, he let his body press against yours. his skin met yours — hot, trembling, careful. his hips settled between your thighs, guided by your soft pull and the quiet desperation in your eyes.

his body pushed forward gently — close, so close — and you felt him fully now, warm and solid and real. your lips parted, a breath catching in your throat. it wasn’t pain. it wasn’t fear. it was relief. a rush of sensation that grounded you in your skin.

his hand came up to cradle your face. “i’ve got you,” he whispered again, “you don’t have to hold anything anymore.”

you didn’t.

your body moved with his, soft gasps escaping your mouth as he rocked into you — slow, deep, careful. like he was trying to make you feel every part of him without overwhelming you.

your fingers slid into his hair. he kissed you like he needed to say everything he hadn’t been allowed to before.

“you’re safe.” he kept whispering.

“you’re here.”

“i love you.”

with every slow movement, every gentle touch, tom felt the weight he’d been carrying—the guilt, the fear, the loneliness—start to unravel, thread by thread.

it wasn’t just your body he was holding; it was your pain, your trauma, your shattered trust. and with each soft sigh you breathed against him, a part of his own brokenness mended.

his hands trembled not from desire but from the sheer relief of feeling you there—real, present, alive.

he kissed your skin like a prayer, like an apology that words could never fully say.

his voice, husky and low, murmured promises meant as much for himself as for you:

“we’re going to get through this. together.”

you clung to him, and he held you tighter, memorizing the way your breath caught, the way your heartbeat faltered and steadied again beneath his chest.

usually, when tom and you made love, it was electric—wild, urgent, like a storm about to break. fingers digging in, heated breath, gasps that turned into moans. the kind of rough that left you both breathless, tangled, and dripping with want.

but tonight… it was different.

there was no rush. no sharp edges. no fire that scorched.

instead, it was passion in its quietest form.

and for tom—used to taking control, to the raw edge of roughness—this tenderness was new and terrifying. but it was also exactly what he needed.

because in that softness, he found a deeper kind of fire. a fire that didn’t consume, but comforted. a fire that burned steady and true.

as the sensation built, tom’s grip tightened just enough to ground you, his lips brushing against your ear as he groaned low and raw, his voice thick with need and tenderness.

“you’re mine,” he murmured, over and over, as if saying it aloud would make it true forever, “always mine. i’ll keep you safe — with me. always.”

you trembled beneath him, a soft moan slipping past your lips, your fingers tangling in his hair as you clung to those words — the promise, the safety, the love.

he kissed your temple, whispered a shaky, “i’m sorry,” like it was a prayer, a vow, and you let yourself melt into him, your voices and breaths rising together in perfect, fragile harmony.

when it was over, you lay tangled in each other’s arms, the weight of the world softened by the warmth between you, knowing that, for this moment, you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

after, you both lay tangled under the soft glow of the bedside lamp. tom’s hands never left you—sometimes tracing lazy circles on your back, sometimes just holding you like you were the most fragile thing on earth.

his touch was gentle but desperate, like he was trying to memorize every inch of you, every breath, every heartbeat.

“you okay?” he whispered, voice low and thick with worry.

you nodded, but didn’t speak. you still felt numb—like the trauma clung to your skin, invisible but heavy.

tom tightened his arms around you, burying his face in your hair. “i’m so sorry, baby. for everything. for not telling you. for putting you in danger.”

his voice cracked, raw with guilt. “i should’ve kept you safer.”

you felt his tension, the way his body trembled with fear—not for himself, but for you.

“i’m here,” you whispered finally, “you saved me. i’m with you.”

he lifted his head and looked at you, eyes shining with unshed tears. “it scares me,” he admitted, “losing you… i can’t lose you.”

you reached up, brushing your fingers over his cheek, steadying him as much as he steadied you.

“we’ll get through this. together.”

he pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your lips, slow and sure.

and in that quiet aftercare, with his arms wrapped around you like armor, you both found a small piece of peace—a fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, the worst was behind you.

[sincerely-sofie]

Something has been bothering me about the “once you pass through the gate you will never leave” rule that the Hostess has. It doesn’t make sense as a rule for the living to stop anyone from trying to resurrect someone cause it seems that people forget what’s beyond the gate when resurrected (I hope I remembered that correctly). So their rule, even if Firn wanted to respect it, would just be forgotten. So their rule could only really be enforced in their domain, but at that point it’s like telling a bunch of pigs not to fly. Why make a rule that no one in their domain can break in the first place?

I’m probably just over thinking this.

Also, for a more simple question, is there anyone that Narinder has recognized in the afterlife?

You’ve gotten it exactly right! The Hostess’s most important rule can only be recognized within her realm, yet she retains her fury when it’s broken by someone innocently unaware of it. It’s up for debate whether her vicious anger at resurrection is due to her infuriating powerlessness to voice the laws of her domain to those capable of breaking them and feeling distraught over that, or if it’s because she’s bitter because that someone took away a soul she sees as part of her collection.

As for if Narinder has recognized anyone in the afterlife— There’s been many.

Ratau asked him for news about Firn, and when Narinder refused to provide any, he knew something was horribly wrong.

Jooryn saw him across a room and collapsed to her knees, laughing and shaking, because she had been present when Firn was hauled from the afterlife and knew who was the one behind it— and seeing that wretch in this realm meant that her friend had finally been freed. Narinder would avoid her for time uncounted before finally complimenting her weaponsmithing.

Perhaps the most upsetting of the encounters Narinder had with familiar faces in the afterlife was the one with someone he only vaguely recognized. She was a pleasant woman with nothing especially notable about her. But the family resemblance was strong. After all— Aym had the same laugh, and Baal the same smile. And it was after he realized this that he refused to face the woman again.

[asmallvoiceinthewind]

And we’re done with the book. Thoroughly enjoyed it once I got over how trope-y it was, but again it IS the trope. Loving this format of beblogging all my thoughts out in the format for all 30 of you who will see it, might keep this up with future reads.

Don’t know why I ever expected anything less, but the book was much more enjoyable than any of the spinoff movies I’ve ever seen. Wild that a book from 100 years before I was born held up so damn well. I highly recommend the audiobook format.

Weird take away, but the second half of the book really felt like a call of Cthulhu/delta green game and I absolutely loved that. Five vaguely related protagonists coming together to reason their way through killing a incomprehensibly evil creature. Exquisite

Once again, Ol’ Van Helsing seems to have way more knowledge about vampires anyone else in the group. I got a kick out of him using communion wafers to solve all of their problems. By the end of the book I was picturing him with pockets full of ground up wafer dust that he would throw around like pocket sand. Interesting character, they should make a prequel movie about him, oh wait….

So I’m reading Dracula right now for the first time, I know I know, it’s 2025 it’s not a new book but I’m having such an interesting time reading/listening to this one. I’m a quarter of the way through so far.

I need to constantly remind myself that this Dracula fella is not in fact just a walking obvious trope and J. Harper isn’t missing son’s obvious clues (granted until Dracula’s wives show up) Dracula just is THE trope. He’s HIM.

I know it’s not supposed to be a funny book, but reading it for the first time especially after seeing Nosferatu just feels so delightfully unserious

[egophiliac]

A-anime?

you know, sometimes I forget that Twst is actually an isekai that starts with the protagonist getting run over by an inexplicable horse-drawn carriage. and every time I'm reminded is a delight because that's AMAZING.

also. look. okay. there's a lot of very fun stuff in the trailer but I am obsessed with that Crowley surprised pikachu face. me when I spend all my keys and gems literally hours before they announce overblot SSRs and drop the anime trailer:

[radpool]

I can't remember all the times I tried to tell myself

to hold on to these moments as they pass

- counting crows, a long december

detail below the cut (and wolverine angsty musings in the tags lol)

[cquackity]

dsmpblr is such a hateful toxic place (at least what i see of it now and have seen in recent months) and i really regret the part i had in making it that way. i miss that spark and magic and earnest connections that i doubt i will experience again

[tactful-kind-daedra]

The quiet remained even as they made their way towards Emmet's home. Mostly for lack of things to speak about, and the fact that they were still specifically in a public settling. It may have not been an enclosed corner of a restaurant, but there were still enough people about, casually going about their business. It would have been easy enough for someone to overhear them, even unintentionally. So, it just seemed the safest to keep their oath of silence until the safe enclosure of the apartment.

Daedra could vaguely recall how to reach there, but she wasn't a huge frequenter to the twins' living space. Apartment complexes were still new for her, as she really didn't socialize closely with those within them. Lots of doorbells and intercoms and even people working the main lobby of it...

So it was only when Emmet undid the lock of his door and invited her and Lulu inside, did Daedra find her own voice again. "It's all right, Emmet! Afterall, this was a quick change in plans, so it's not fair to put that on you," the redhead assured, stepping in to set the bag of food containers in the small kitchen space. "Usually everyone has to do some last-minute tidying before anyone comes over!"

Once again, with her smile and casual words, she was trying to make this all seem mundane. Ordinary - that there was nothing wrong or off. Would it change much of anything? Impactfully - no, but atleast it wasn't drawing so much attention to it. So she prayed, atleast...

"Water is fine for me and Lulu - we're not very exciting! Here--" Seeing him pull some plates and other items, Daedra offers her hands to him. "-why don't I get these plated for us, while you pick out what we can watch! Though, if it's something informative, you might have to pick something pretty simple! I'm quite sure children who enjoy trains will know heaps more than I would!"

Train enthusiasts of any age were nothing to scoff at when it came to their favorite subject!

Emmet was quietly appreciative of both the smile and silence his friend offers him at that moment. While he was dying to converse and talk himself normally this wasn't a normal situation. For once the younger twin just wanted to sit quietly and focus on remaining calm. He didn't want to shut down into a panic attack right then like his instincts were demanding.

Eevee figured that his trainer was in need of the quiet support so he gave it via content purring as he was pet. If only there was more he could do. Though it seemed that his purring and Emmet's petting of his fur was in fact helping the man calm down as he slowly untensed and his mind started to blank and quiet while he focused on the background noise around them.

Once their food arrives and everything is sorted out and paid for Emmet nods to his friend, "yeah, let's." His smile is small but at least it isn't forced. He looks over as Lulu looks ready as well and leads the pair out of the restaurant and down the street towards his and Ingo's apartment. It's a nice building in a rather lovely location with a park nearby and close to one of the subway's entrances, a prime location that the twins had been stoked to score when home hunting.

He leads them up to his unit and unlocks the door to a somewhat cleaned apartment. It wasn't mess but there was evidence of things having been just thrown haphazardly about, namely Emmet's coat and hat, his work shoes, and tie. Ingo's were naturally missing from the coat rack by the door and that causes Emmet some pain. He gently sets down Eevee as he goes to pick up the pieces of his uniform.

"Sorry for the mess... Please make yourself comfortable. Emmet'll get the plates and silverware." His voice is tight again and he looks uncomfortable speaking but he doesn't let it bother him as he places the items back where they belong after taking his shoes off. Once done he heads into the kitchen part of the shared living space to grab some plates and the eating utensils. "Oh did you want anything to drink? We've got... uh... water, pecha and oran berry juice, and some soda... Coffee?"

[transryanguzman]

“people think eddie’s gay because of his bad relationships with women and that’s problematic” is honestly the most bad faith interpretation of why people headcanon and/or think of eddie diaz as queer.

the way his relationships with women have been is a factor in some of those headcanons (especially when discussing compulsory heterosexuality but that’s a whole different can of worms) but it’s far from the only one and it’s not even the main one for a lot of people, it’s just one of the easiest to point to. (esp the way eddie and ana were written, imo, however not so much with marisol and the whole kim situation, which is clearly about shannon and how he needs to get over this big bump in his life, but i digress).

i just get tired of people deciding everyone who thinks there’s a good case for eddie being queer must be Problemtic™️ or only thinking about their otp or whatever.

the fact of the matter is some queer people do have really complicated shitty relationships until they come to terms with their sexuality and it isn’t problematic or harmful to say that. hold people accountable, for sure, but people - even queer people - are complicated and messy and confused and shitty and implying that it’s problematic or even homophobic to headcanon/think of a messy, complicated, confused, broken person as queer is, quite frankly, offensive.

also it’s so interesting to me that it’s problematic to think Dating A Man might do some good for eddie, if he’s queer, but it’s okay to think dating tommy has helped to heal some parts of buck, that figuring out this part of himself actually did help heal him.

because shockingly, figuring shit out about yourself can help heal you.

it’s the same problem i have with people talking about eddie’s isolation and how some of the discourse around that makes me feel weird because why is the only way for eddie to heal to be isolated away from everything he loves but that’s never been the case for literally anyone else on the show.

idk man. some double standards exist around eddie and it’s weird. if you don’t think eddie is queer that’s fine but it’s insulting to trying and twist queer eddie headcanons into some kind of problematic thing because some of us actually relate to him and the reasons why we think he’s queer are because of that. so.

this is one of those posts i feel like i should probably leave in the drafts but the whole thing has been itching me wrong for a while. i’m sure 0 people will agree with me and that’s fine. i just need to get it out.

*if you use this post to hate on tommy/bucktommy/lou/or bucktommyblr you will be blocked*