#How to write a ball

[inky-duchess]

Etiquette of the Edwardian Era and La Belle Époque: Ball

This is a new set of posts focusing on the period of time stretching from the late 19th century to the early 20th Century right up to the start of WWI. I'll be going through different aspects of life. This series can be linked to my Great House series as well as my Season post and Debutant post.

Let's throw a ball, my darling. It is the age of elegance and opera gloves. Etiquette during these events was as intregal as the music. So let's delve in and dance the night away.

Preparing to host a Ball

Balls in this period weren't just little get-together with a little music in the corner. These were large productions and required the entire household to pitch in. The ballroom would have to be cleaned, chandeliers would need polishing. Any large halls would need to be cleared of any furniture to accommodate a large crowd. If throwing a ball, you need to set aside more rooms than just the ballroom. You will need a room to store any cloaks, coats and hats (a valet and lady's maid would have charge of this), a room for refreshments and sometimes a room set up for any other entertainment such as cards. The dining room would also be needed for a supper (yes, suppers are expected). A ball requires the best of the best. Musicians would be hired, the kitchens will be slaving all day, butlers will be decanting the best wines and select the finest liquor, and rooms made up for anybody thinking of staying the night. The kitchens will have to prepare light snacks as well as the late supper, so everything must be cooked at exactly the right time and kept in optimum condition until needed. A red carpet would be laid from the front door right down to the pavement with an awning to keep the worst of the weather off. Invites should be sent out a few weeks prior and should attempt not to clash with any other event, you may compete who has the best ball but you should never force guests to snub another to go to your ball. Servants should be prepared for a long night, so they may dine earlier in the day to sustain them. Footmen would wait outside to open carriage doors and direct guests to the door. The butler would have to greet them, announce their arrival (not by order of rank but simply in the order they arrive) in the hall and then toward the coat rooms to relieve themselves of any coats or hats. These balls were very expensive affairs. Between food, drink, entertainment, their clothes, wages and getting their house up the snuff, a host could expect to fork out thousands if not more. Alva Vanderbilt's great costume ball cost her $6 million in today's valuation ($250,000 in her era).

The Hosts on the Night of the Ball

The hosts of the ball should be ready to recieve guests promptly. The lady of the house should be downstairs an least an hour before kickoff to check the work of the servants and provide last minute commands. The hosts would wait in the hall and greet guests. The butler will announce every guest while valets and lady's maids take charge of any coats. After guests have shed their coats, they would then greet the host, usually exchanging a few words and thanking them for the invitation before being escorted into the ballroom. The hosts would usually begin the ball themselves or if there was a guest of honour, they would allow them to open the ball. Dancing is only meant to begin with the invitation of the hosts. If there's music playing, it's not an invitation to dance. Hosts have a duty to ensure everyone is having a good time. They will be expected to dance and ensure people are partnered.

Guests

Guests are expected to arrive in a certain time frame. Balls usually begin quite late into the night, usually around 10pm. It would do no good to arrive too early and ride to arrive midway without a viable reason. There may have been a previous event, such as a theatre engagement or an opera so if you are coming from there and everybody eksevgas arrived on time and you show up late, you had best apologise. Guests must only attend if they have been invited by the hosts. You can't just rock up to a ball and expect to be admitted. If a guests wishes to have a friend who is a stranger attend the ball, they can request for the host to invite them. Guests will arrive by carriage or on foot if they live nearby. If arriving by carriage, one must allow for appropriate space between coaches and room for them to pull out. Also, it is a good idea to remind your driver when to collect you. Guests are always expected to greet the hosts as soon as they can, thank them for the invitation and be courteous at all times. Guests should not comment negatively on anything the hosts have provided such as the food or music, it's better to reserve opinion until another less public event. Guests are encouraged to mingle but strangers must be introduced by a mutual acquaintance or even the host. Wandering off through any section of the house not designated as part of the ball is prohibited as is sneaking off into the gardens. Also if one expects to stay for the night (say you live far away and have travelled to get there) you must have requested it of the host a few days at least before.

Dancing Etiquette

Dancing is one of those things in this era that isn't just a pastime but a ritual. Men asked women for the privilege of a dance, a waltz perhaps. Women would not ask a man. Women would have dance cards where gentlemen could request to partner them for certain dances. If a woman has turned down a gentleman for any reason but has no designated partner for the dance, she must sit that particular dance out. A lady should limit dances with the same partner lest it be a root of scandal: it is not considered terrible to dance two dances with the same partner but questionable if you were to dance with the same partner for multiple dances in a row. It is frowned upon for a lady to reject a dance partner when it is his honour after accepting him earlier. And also highly insulting for a man to spurn a dance partner he has sworn to dance with. It is usually customary for the man to ask whether his partner would like a refreshment, wherein he can escort her to find it. They may chat until the next dance whereupon he must excuse himself with a bow and relieve her of his company so she may dance with her next partner. When supper is announced, the last partner is ecoected to escort his lady into the dining room.

Timeline of a Ball

As stated above, Balls usually start around 10pm (but can be held earlier). Once all the guests have arrived and the hosts enter the ballroom, the dancing can go on. Around 1am there would be a light supper. Small refreshments such as canapés would be available throughout usually offered by footmen stationed around the house. Servants would stay up around the clock to unsure that everything runs smoothly, fetching drinks and later after the ball studying up. Balls would end about 3-4am, whereupon carriages would return to fetch guests and ferry them home. Guests staying would head upstairs. Anybody staying over would be treated to a breakfast in the morning.

Theme

Many balls were themed. Themed balls were usually announced months in advance to allow costumes to be made. A guest should not arrive without having paid attention to the theme as it not only can show poor time management but may be seen as an insult to the host. All guests were expected to adhere to theme where it be a "servant's ball" where they would dress as servants or even a Costume balls are all about extravagance but it's better to rein yourself in (we're side eyeing you, Kate Strong). The grandest costume ball of all time was of course Alva Vanderbilt's grand affair of March 26, 1883. Costume balls were very expensive affairs, with some guests spending up close to thousands of pounds/dollars on their looks. At one ball in 1893, the infamous Bradley-Martin affair, guests spent nearly $400,000 on their costumes - during a particularly bad financial crisis. The overall party cost $10 million.

Dressing for a Ball

Dressing as you know from the previous post is a large part of etiquette of this era. The right costume for the right event is paramount if one wants to make the right impression. Newspapers often wrote about who wore what so it was important to dress your best.

Men must wear a suit or tailcoat, always black. A ball is white tie so he must dress accordingly. He would arrive with a top hat which he would surrender to a valet. He would keep his gloves on when dancing.

Ladies are encouraged to wear a gown usually of a subtle colour with with a décolleté that leaves the upper arms snf shoulders bare. A woman's gown was important as it not only helped her stand out.

A sensible woman for goes her heels and wears pumps to dance as she will be on her feet all night.

Tiaras are beautiful but when dancing all night, it's perhaps best to pick the lightest or go for a simpler headpiece such as a feather or a broach. Wearing a heavy tiara all night while dancing will give you a migraine (it's painful).

Also it's better not to over accessorize. You don't want to be mid spin and all your pearls go scattering across the floor or catch a bracelet in your partners' jacket. Minimalism is best.

A woman may even chose to decorate her gown with fresh flowers.

How to Behave at a ball

Gloves are to be worn at all times when dancing. You only remove your handling food or playing cards. White gloves are preferred but light shades can be forgiven. Gloves for women are worn to the elbow, men's to the wrist.

No lady should arrive at a ball without an escort, either an older woman or a family member.

Men who come to the dance and are unwillingly to dance despite being able to should stay away (I'm not kidding, this is in several etiquette books)

Married couples are not expected to dance together but it is not barred.

A man should always be careful of his lady's train and that of any other. Do not stand on them.

Outward PDA is not permitted. A kiss on the hand or kiss on the cheek is permitted, as is a hand tucked into the crook of an arm but one must swing out of people.

Don't hurry onto the dancefloor (even if it is your song)

When a gentleman seats a lady at the table, he must offer her thanks for her favour.

If a lady does refuse to partner a gentleman but then dances that dance with another without prior agreement, the gentleman is expected to restrain himself from confronting her. He is permitted to never offer her a dance again if this happens.

No lady should ever be unaccompanied at any time. They should have a companion or an escort to make sure they are kept in the loop at all times.

If dancing a set, your choices must be made swiftly and wisely.

A gentleman is without saying barred from going into the women's coat room. That's a no no, stay out of there.

If a gentleman wishes to partner a woman he doesn't know, he must have a mutual friend to introduce themselves and if they don't have one, the host would be on hand to introduce them.

When attending a ball, it's better to avoid heavy topics of conversation. It's better to stick to neutral smalltalk. No party is enjoyable with people standing on soap boxes.

When dancing, good posture is not only favourable but stops the body from any undue movements.

Try not to join in when the dance is midway or almost over. Be prompt.

If your partner is missing, you should not replace them. You should sit the dance out.

The hostess is in charge of ensuring that her female guests are provided with a partner if they wish to dance and gave not been asked.

If a man accompanies a woman to the ball, he's expected to dance with her on her first and last dances of the evening.

If one invites a lady to a ball, a carriage must be provided to ferry her.

Popular dances of the era

Waltz: The Waltz is seen by many as a reserved dance nowadays but in this era it struck many as a questionable dance because of how close the couple must get. It is a simple dance, requiring 6 steps all with a "box step". It's an elegant and popular dance of the time. A gentleman or whoever is leading should place their hand on the waist of their partner and their partner should rest their hand upon their shoulder.

Cakewalk: The Cakewalk had it's beginnings with enslaved peoples on American plantations. It was a satire poking fun of white plantation owners, mimicking the way they behaved at their own balls. It was later adopted into white society who did not get the joke. It was a group dance where multiple couples set themselves in a square (men on the inside), stepping and strutting to the music. In some instances, a cake was awarded to the most impressive couple which gives the dance it's name (also because it was a piece of cake to perform). The Cakewalk is seen by many as the seed of many of the jazz dances that would dominate the 20s.

Polka: A Polish dance. It requires 3 swift steps followed by a hop. The music is at is 2/4. The couples circle about the dance floor.

Krakowiak: A Polish dance for multiple couples. The leading male dancer (from the first pair) leads the steps for all the couples, and on approach to the band must tap his geeks and sing an improvised verse to his partner, the rhythm the band must match. The couples break up to form a circle. The leading couple will remain before the band. The couples would then dance around the room during the rest of the tune.

Mazurka: This is a lively dance, with it's beginnings in Polish folk dance. Couples gather in circles. The dance requires music with a forceful accent on its second beat, in time at 3/4 or 3/8. This dance has no set figure, relying on the skills of the couple yo improvise. However there are over 50 different steps.

Redowa: A Czech dance. The dance begins with a closed position, their clasped hands pointing the direction they will dance. A leader (the first couple) will take a slight leap around his partner with their left foot tmfollowed by a gliding step with their right. This foot must be pointed, the left leg slightly bent and the back straight. The next set turns the leader about toward the front line again, their left leg is now forward and straight, the right now bent. The left leg is now meant to tuck beneath the right leg with is extended backwards. Another leap to the right leg finishes the pattern. The next couple, the follower, begins movement on the early beats where the leader makes moves on the second set of beats

Castlewalk: The leader moves forward while their partner goes backward. The partner is guided around the room, the leader's arm around their right side under whilst their lest hand rests on the leaders opposite shoulder. Their other arms are clasped, held aloft. The leader begins on their left foot, their partner on their right. They will move with gliding steps, stepping on each beat of the music. They will dance in a circle, moving about the room with other couples, their circle gradually growing smaller and smaller on three very quick turns.

Quadrille: The Quadrille is an older dance but still very popular in Gilded Age America. It is made up with a series of 4-6 contredanses (country dances). The Quadrille is a group dance, made up of sets. The standard Quadrille is five parts, the Viennese contains six. Each section is danced with a combinations of figures. A combination was a set of steps and movements. Examples would be the ladies chain (chaîne des dames) or the two hand turn (tour de deux mains).

[updownlately]

how could i ever (treat my baby that way)

| leah williamson x reader | angst | 4.7k | inspo: never keeping secrets by babyface | a/n: got this ask a long ass time ago and it's finally gone somewhere. this is part one to a two part fic! (read part ii here)

~~~

You’d think that between the chilly air coming out of the air conditioning in the room and the freezing cold drink in your hand that you’d be comfortably cool, body not overheating despite being in a slightly crowded bar. 

You hoped that would be the case, just like it had been many times before. Yet, the way your body was burning right now contrasted your prayers, unusual for you, yet not surprising given the circumstances.

You knew you were pissed, could nearly feel the steam coming out of your own ears before your emotions could even make themselves known. It sucked, having to accept your fate, letting yourself get more and more agitated at the sight in front of you, hand tightening on your glass, fingertips white. But that’s all you could do, invisible rope holding you back, keeping your hands tied, the artist no other than the one you loved.

Letting your eyes drift over to the blonde, your blonde, in the middle of the dance floor, your jaw tightened. 

You knew she was yours, the two of you having been together for over a year now. You knew she was yours, your apartment being the one she resided in the most. You knew she was yours, ‘I love you’s’ whispered in the mingled breathes you shared late into the night. You knew she was yours. So why didn’t it feel like it?

Your unwavering gaze, almost like two laser beams, focused on your girlfriend, mentally begging her to look your way, to see the hurt in your eyes.

Taking a deep breath to try (and fail) to calm yourself down, you quickly downed the rest of your drink, thankful to have gone the sober route tonight. You didn’t know what drunk you would’ve done in all this hurt, and you surely didn’t want to find out.

Contemplating whether you should swim your way through the sea of people to the bar, you waited. You waited, and waited, and waited, pleading to the universe that she would meet your eyes.

She didn’t look. 

Not a single glance was sent your way.

She didn’t care. 

Shaking your head, anger quickly turning into disappointment, then sadness, you stepped out of where you were in the corner, having preferred to stay back by the booth as the rest of the girls enjoyed their night. 

Making your way over to the bar, you ordered yourself a water, hoping it would soothe the ache in your chest. 

Downing half of it as soon as the bartender passed it to you, you turned, eyes once again finding purchase on your girlfriend subconsciously.

You watched as she danced with the Chelsea player unashamedly, almost proudly, as if she didn’t have a girlfriend to go home to at the end of the night.

Naive and infatuated, you had never bothered to consider the difference between private and secret back when the idea was suggested to you. Now? Now you utterly resented the distinction between the two words.

Feeling the hair on the back on your neck rising however, you blinked out of your thoughts, quickly zoning back into real life, scanning the room for the cause before ocean eyes met yours. 

Leah.

The blonde was finally looking right at you, the girl in front of her continuing to dance in close proximity, her eyes closed- too gone with the music, to notice her distracted partner.

Raising an eyebrow in silent question, you waited.

You waited for a reaction, an apologetic smile, a mouthed sorry. Something to show she realized how her actions were hurting you. Anything. 

You waited a second, then another, and then another. 

Instead you got nothing, a continued blank look shot your way as she continued looking at you, head tilted.

You were well aware you didn’t have to say much, nearly a year of being in a relationship, a little over two of living together meant she knew you- quite well too, if you had an opinion on the matter. 

In this moment though, it felt like not enough. 

All the memorized takeout orders, her awareness on how you liked your coffee, what your moods were and how to best comfort you in your lows- her knowing all of that didn’t matter if she couldn’t understand how absolutely heartbroken you felt right now, watching her keep away from you, dance with another body that wasn’t yours, marking a win that you both shared, but only one of you were celebrating.

It didn’t matter if she didn’t realize she was hurting you. 

Bringing your drink towards your chest, you ducked your forehead down, letting the cool glass bring you some reprieve to your growing headache, no doubt caused by heartache. 

Wanting nothing more than to leave, teammates be damned- this night was over for you long ago- you placed the glass back on the bar top, thanking the woman behind it once again before heading over to the team’s table.

Quickly grabbing your coat, confident that Leah could find her way home- not out of malice but with the staggering number of your shared friends, teammates, and rival players in the club- you bid adieu to Steph and Kim, the only two by the table, citing a tired body as your excuse. 

Exiting the stifling atmosphere and slipping into the cool air, you took a deep breath in, forcing your shoulders to relax in an attempt to convince yourself you were okay. 

Well aware that Leah’s eyes had followed you out, you committed the sound of only your footfalls in the late night into memory, eyes stinging, shaky breaths escaping you. 

Beginning the trek home, your apartment not too far, you let yourself get lost in your thoughts. 

~~~

It’s much, much, later when you hear the unmistakable jingle of Leah’s keys by your front door- three forty-three am to be exact. 

You weren’t surprised to hear her here. It was very much expected in fact, the blonde spending nearly all her days and nights here since quarantine started, not bothering to move out once you had made things official. 

Sighing at the fact that you hadn’t slept a wink since you had reached home, not for a lack of trying but for having to console your dejected heart, you internally groaned at the thought of dealing with a drunk Leah. 

Putting your grief aside for the time being and rising out of bed, you rubbed the tiredness out of your eyes and padded over to the kitchen just as Leah stumbled into the entry hallway in front of you. 

Taking in the sight before you, you sighed warily. 

The blonde looked absolutely disheveled- hair matted to her forehead but sticking out everywhere, heels in her hand, and exhaustion pouring out of her eyes.

Watching her stagger blindly towards the island, you quickly put an arm around her waist, leading her to sit on a barstool as you silently grabbed her some water.

Placing the glass in front of her, you turned, planning to head into your shared bedroom to get a set of clothes for the midfielder to change into when her groggy voice interrupted your actions, derailing your thoughts.

“You left early…”

The accusatory tone wasn’t lost on you, your defences immediately going up. 

Baffled at how it was your behaviour being questioned, you shook your head in shock. 

“I did,” you state matter-of-factly, turning to face her. 

You paused for a second, waiting to see what the blonde would say next, already on edge from the rollercoaster of emotions from today.

“Why?”

The question put you in a state of incredulity, your anger and hurt resurfacing.

“Why? You’re really asking me why?” Your voice came out louder than you would’ve liked, given the time, but you didn’t pay much mind. 

“Leah, you spent the whole night getting cozy with another girl. The whole night! While I was there! And you’re asking me why I left early?”

“We were just dancing…it’s not like I was making out with her in the middle of the dance floor.” The slurred words combined with the eye-roll from the defender had you shaking your head. “It was completely platonic.”

You couldn’t believe this.

“You’re joking right? Or did you get a concussion mid-game that I don’t know about?” 

“Relax... just because you can’t go a few hours without me doesn’t mean I have to do the same.” 

The slurred words coupled with the nonchalant tone with which Leah expressed herself caused you to lose your breath for a second, mind baffled.

“Did you-,” collecting yourself for a second, you asked her, “…did you just call me clingy?”

Swallowing hard in the silence that followed, you felt your stomach sink.

“You’re really calling me clingy?” The shakiness in your voice made itself known, disbelief becoming apparent.

“It was friendly.” You watched as Leah turned her body away from you, choosing to rest her head on the cool countertop in order to find some relief from her probable headache.

“Was it? You want me to go fucking drape myself all over Millie the next we go out with the United team? Let me know if you feel ‘clingy’ then?” Voice rising more than quiet words once more, you took a step back, trying to put space between you and the other girl. 

“Oh come on it wasn’t that big of a deal…” 

You would have agreed it this hadn’t happened so often, so many times in the past- tonight being your tipping point.

There had already been multiple team events where the blonde stayed the furthest away from you, never bothering to celebrate your goals with you, avoiding any physical contact, almost as if it burned her to be near you. Hiding away any photos you took together, platonic or romantic, in her phone, them never once leaving her library. 

You didn’t know how much more of this you could take, really. 

Ignoring that she couldn’t see you, you shook your head at Leah. Clenching your jaw, you decided to forego taking care of the blonde like you had planned.

“Great, then neither will be you going to bed alone tonight,” you scoffed. 

You saw the midfielder immediately shoot up into a sitting position from her slumped state, eyes wide, body tense.

“We haven’t slept apart since the pandemic, you know that,” her timid voice echoed in the dark apartment.

It was true. You’d both had gotten lucky since and had even been paired up for the handful of times the team had stayed in a hotel, the only time spent apart being during international breaks.

“Well I feel like I was too clingy earlier so I wanna give you space now, since you so clearly crave that.”

“Babe…” 

Well aware that you were too upset to think rationally, you continued ignored Leah’s pleas. Turning on your heel, you started to make your way to grab your pillow and head to the guest room, choosing to kick yourself out rather than disturb the midfielder.

Hearing footfalls behind you, you shook your head as you continued on your path.

“Leah, go to bed. I’m sleeping alone and that’s final.” Your voice came out cold, almost stoic.

The blonde reached for your hand, fingertips barely skimming yours as you harshly pulled your arm to your chest, cradling it.

“Leah I fucking mean it.”

Shoulders dropping, the blonde dejectedly agreed, too out of it to protest again.

Hearing a lack of footsteps behind your own as you made your way across the hall, you shuddered as your heart sank deeper, the weight in your chest settling torturously.

Why did love hurt?

~~~

You didn’t know it but Leah’s miserable the next few days without you. She’s well aware she’d put her foot in her mouth far enough, dug her own grave, but she misses you terribly anyways. 

She misses your hugs in the morning and how you’d let her cuddle you as you cooked breakfast. She misses your kisses and the way you’d randomly just come sit with her during your free time. She misses you being around her, you always hyper, your energy infectious, always brightening her moods. She especially missed your mere presence, you now never spending more time than needed in the same room as her now, instead electing to leave for practice much earlier than needed, picking up takeout and eating in your room, doing anything and everything to ensure you both would never cross paths for longer than a handful of seconds. 

The distance between you had been so noticeable that it didn’t take the team long to catch on, the way you didn’t gravitate to Leah at every given chance during training a stark contrast to your regular shenanigans. 

It had gotten to the point where the team had even been too scared to ask you directly, your frustration clear enough on the pitch with how hard you trained, interactions with the rest of your teammates minimizing as well.

It’s why Beth and Lia had quietly confronted Leah, both uneasy at what had changed between you both. 

“You two okay? She keeps avoiding you at practice, and to be honest, it’s slightly worrisome…” Lia’s voice trailed off as her, Beth, and Leah made it back towards the locker rooms post-practice.

Taking a quick look over her shoulder, not finding you trailing behind, Leah faced the Swiss captain, voice dropping lower. 

“Yeah, everything’s fine. She’s just going through some personal stuff. She’ll be okay…”

The ‘I hope so’ went unsaid, but the way Leah’s pitch rose at the end of the statement had the two other player’s eyebrows raising in silent question, thoughts they both chose not to voice on the tip of their tongues.

Nodding in response, the trio continued their walk in silence, no one wanting to push too hard.

Unsaid or not, all three knew that nothing was fine, Leah more so than the others, and it scared her immensely. 

~~~

Stress clear on her face, Leah sprinted off the pitch after the game against Chelsea, chasing you down the tunnel before the rest of the team had even left the field. 

Catching up to your tired body, she grabbed your hand and pulled you in the opposite direction to a more secluded spot, uncaring of how drained you absolutely were.

Too tired from the past few days to refute, you let yourself be pulled.

When the blonde figured you two had made it far enough down the tunnel to talk without being heard, she quickly turned on her heel, stopping and looking at you, face screwed in displeasure. 

“What the fuck was that on the field today? Why were you so aggressive?! You got carded for fuck’s sake- you don’t get carded…ever!”

Sighing, barely scrounging up the energy for the conversation, you closed your eyes, pulling your arm away from her hold.

“I played the game. That’s what I did. Fouls are part of the game,” Your voice was rigid, no fight in you, not after how horribly you’d been sleeping as of late, the argument from nights ago not only affecting the blonde. 

“You played dangerously, that’s what you did! You were irresponsible, careless, and…and reckless! Not to mention selfish! Do you know how much of a difficult situation it would’ve been had you got a red? And with the way that referee was calling fouls, it’s a miracle you didn’t!” 

You could’ve gotten hurt. The words go unsaid.

By now the blonde was nearly yelling, face red from frustration.

Please just let me go.

Biting the inside of your cheek to stay calm, you sighed again.

“Game’s over either way. I didn’t get a red and we won…I don’t see a problem here.” Your voice curt, you made a move to step past the midfielder.

You didn’t get far however, the other girl’s hand coming to grasp your wrist to prevent you from stepping away any further. 

Stopping briefly in your tracks, you didn’t turn. You couldn’t. You couldn’t because if you did, she’d see the tears that were threatening to fall, heart exhausted. 

Instead, you shake your head, tugging your arm out of her grasp and bringing it to cautiously wipe away the few tears that had escaped. 

Watching your figure walk away, Leah’s face fell at your lack of care. 

Dejectedly, she followed you, a fair distance away. Making her own way to the change rooms with a flurry of thoughts in her head and an ache in her chest, she swallowed the lump in her throat.

She couldn’t even blame anyone but herself. 

~~~

Entering the locker room, Leah took a quick look around, the rest of the team nearly showered and changed out of their kits, save for you. 

Ignoring Lia and Katie’s questioning, the blonde walked over to her locker and began to get ready to shower.

Lucky that this was a home game, Leah knew she could take her time.

Taking a quick shower, she tried to casually wait for you to finish up- well aware that you were trying to drag out your own shower, hoping that you wouldn’t cross paths with your girlfriend (ex?- you didn’t really know.) 

The Gunner relented however, making up a lame excuse at Beth’s plea for her to join her on the walk out.

Patiently sitting, nearly alone in the locker room as she watched the rest of the girls file out, she waited. 

She waited as the patter of water ran longer than usual. 

She waited as she slowly heard it come to a stop, an eerie silence consuming the room.

She waited as you finally stepped out minutes later, wet hair tied in a messy but, club gear resting comfortably on your frame. 

She waited as you realized she was still here, eyes widening as a quiet fuck escaped your lips. 

Patience wearing thin now, she stood up, her own bag forgotten as she made her way to you. 

“Listen-“

You didn’t even let her finish though, instead cutting her off before another word could be said, your hand held between you to keep a distance. 

“Honestly? Save it.”

“No, but-“

Shaking your head, you slipped past her, beginning to quickly throw your dirty kit and toiletries into your kit bag.

Silence covered the room for a moment, only the noises of you angrily packing your kit bag to be heard. 

It didn’t last long however, timid words cutting through the tense atmosphere. 

“I’m sorry.”

You froze in your spot at your words, your sweaty jersey just barely dangling in your hands as you inhaled sharply.

Collecting yourself, you shook your head, Leah’s words meaning nothing to you. 

“Okay.”

The blunt, one word reply of yours hit Leah harder than she anticipated, this not at all how she was expecting this conversation to go.

Swallowing hard, she stepped around you, coming to a stop a short ways away, standing between the door and you. 

Wringing her hands nervously, Leah’s voice came out meek, eyes nearly downcast and heart pounding.

“Is that all you’re going to say?”

Laughing darkly at the other girl’s words, you stopped your movement again, turning around with your hands resting on your hips, a cold look in your eyes.

“What else do you want me to say?” Clenching your jaw, you gave Leah a blank look. 

“I-…”

Raising her eyes to meet you, the skipper straightened her back out, nerves rising as she took note of how rigid your posture was- how distant you were from her despite only being a few feet apart.

As you realized she wasn’t going to say anything, you decided to confront her on what had been on your mind throughout the second half of the game.

“You wanna explain what I heard at half-time? Because I’d really love to hear how you plan to spin this one on me this time…”

The deer-in-headlights look you got in return let you know she knew exactly what you were talking about.

At half time, just as the players were headed back in, a young fan had nearly begged Leah to sign her jersey. 

Never one to say no to a supporter of women’s soccer, much less of Arsenal and a young teen, Leah had quickly veered off, making small talk with the girl as she signed and posed for a photo.

Everything had been smooth sailing really, in fact, you watched the whole interaction with a smile on your face as you approached the tunnel.

Too bad good things never lasted.

Just as Leah had been ready to walk away from the stands, the young girl had innocently asked the question that had changed your whole mood.

The high pitched voice asking whether you and Leah were dating had easily carried over to you, repeating in your head since, a broken tape recorder you just couldn’t turn off.

What stuck with you however, was the Gunner’s response- the immediate scoff, zero hesitation or regret on her face as the words ‘absolutely not…she’s not my type’ escaped her. Words that were followed by a shrug and a cheeky grin that haunted you for the second half. 

You always had a feeling you weren’t good enough for her, your insecurity a topic of conversation for many nights in the past- nights where the blonde spent countless hours convincing and proving otherwise. 

Now though? Now it all felt like a lie- recollections of all those middle-of-the-night cuddles and hushed conversations making your heart heavy with the way her denial of your relationship came so quickly, so easily. 

Maybe this wasn’t meant to be, not as much you had wished it was.

Since the start of your relationship, when going out, whether it was with the team or just the two of you, Leah would distance herself from you, never sitting beside you even though she claimed you two were the bestest of friends. Choosing to be anybody else’s partner during media days. Hell, even going as far as standing on the opposite side to you during pre-match photos. And you’d be lying if you said it didn’t twist the knife in your chest just a little bit more each time that it happened.

If you were honest, you didn’t know how much bigger you could let the gaping wound get, unsure of whether your heart could handle another twist.

It’s why your next words physically hurt you to say, your voice quiet, its echo ringing in your ears.

“if you’re really that embarrassed of me, maybe we shouldn’t even be together…”

A shiver runs through your spine as you continue to look at Leah.

The admission feels heavy, the bright lights of the room unable to lift the somber mood in the slightest.

You can see a shuddering breath wrack her body at your words, and you can feel the distance between you two growing, mere feet feeling like hundreds of metres, goosebumps rising as the room grows significantly colder.

The reply comes slow, but the intensity, the anger, the defence in her voice at the words nearly knocks you back.

“It’s not like that…” 

The words are emotion laced, Leah’s head tilted to the side as her eyes search your face for any indication of what’s on your mind.

“Really? Then what’s it like? Is it just going to be you denying our relationship till the end? Is it just going to be you getting cozy with another girl and calling me clingy and overreactive? Is it just going to be you claiming you’ve done nothing wrong? Telling Lia that I’m going through something?” 

Shaking your head, a wry smile crossed your face. “Don’t be surprised- at least Wally cared enough to make sure I was doing okay, y’know? Something you haven’t asked me once.

“I didn’t know if you wanted me near you…” The timid admission had you shaking your head, displeased with her response.

Pinching the bridge of your nose, eyes closing as you tried to hold back your frustration, you spoke.

“Thats the issue Leah….you just don’t fucking know. You don’t know what you want. You don’t know how this relationship is going to work. You don’t know when you want to tell everyone we’re together. You don’t see how much it hurts me every time you deny that we are anything more than teammates, even friends! You just so happen to not know you’re breaking my heart each and every goddamn day!”

Chest heaving in frustration, you swallowed hard, you ears heating up in embarrassment of your outburst, eyes going everywhere but to the girl in front of you.

 It’s as you contemplate your next words that the blonde sees your anger turn to sadness, eyes dropping, shoulders sinking.

“You know what? I think- I think we’re done Leah.” 

Your voice was a whisper, the words strained, almost as if it cut you to say them.

“I can’t do this. I really can’t…”

“Wait no…”

You shook your head, barely any energy left in you. 

“How many times Leah? How many times are we gonna go back and forth like this? How long do I have to wait for you to get on the same page? It’s nearly been a year for fuck’s sake.”

Taking a deep breath, you grab your bag, your eyes firmly trained on the floor as you side step Leah and take off to your car, not once looking back.

If you had though, you would’ve seen the broken way the taller woman stood at the exit, eyes damp, body rigid in shock, fists clenched at her sides as she struggled to process what had just happened. 

Being snapped out of her daze at the slam of the door shutting by its own weight, the blonde came back to reality, the weight of your words finally sinking in. 

Swallowing hard as the alarm bells went off in her head, she turned on her heel, yanking the door open and running to follow you.

You are nowhere to be found though, she makes her way to the carpark, just to notice you pull out of your spot, not an ounce of hesitation in your actions. 

Hearing a pair of footsteps beside her though, ones that were most definitely not yours, Leah tensed at the thought of another person’s presence where you should be standing.

Glancing over to see Lia, the English captain tightened her jaw, closing her eyes in an unsuccessful attempt to hide just how broken she felt right now. 

“She told me to give this to you- said something about having an issue to attend to…” The words came out quiet from Lia, your set of keys for Leah’s home in her hold, dangling in the space between the two national captains, nearly mockingly.

Voice dropping an octave, Lia decided she had enough of the wait, eyes growing in concern at her counterpart’s disheveled look.

“Leah what’s going on between you two? She seemed pretty upset leaving…”

Swallowing, the Gunner knew she had her chance to come clean, to finally admit to herself that she hurt you, more than she ever thought she would.

Instead though, she didn’t- the idea of saying out loud that you left her too unbearably painful to speak into existence.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged instead, schooling her own expression into a somewhat relaxed one, “we didn’t talk much in the locker room, she seemed pretty stressed in there.”

Raising her eyebrows, Lia didn’t seem to buy it but she didn’t push and Leah didn’t know whether to feel relieved or not.

Grabbing the keys firmly from the Swiss’ hold, Leah turned towards the locker rooms once more, this time not bothering to wipe her tears as they fell, glad for the lack of footsteps behind her. 

With no idea as to where you went or when you would be back, she had no option but to wait and hope it would be soon- soon enough that she could rectify her mistakes and make you hers again- the best thing she ever had, gone, just like that.

~

(read part ii here)

[simplyavatrice]

"sorry, theological grandstanding just...really annoys me."

[darling-zain]

✮ ↳ The Show Must Go On ↰

♡ yandere! actor x gn reader♡

tw/cw: slight obsession, nothing too detailed

authors notes: first work and i wrote this in one sitting...it's okay we're fine ♥ also i may have based him off of myself and i will probably do that with a lot of my ocs! my bad i'm just a theater kid who likes to write

➼ yandere! Actor who first only knew you as one of the stagehands, always flitting back and forth behind the curtains.

➼ yandere! Actor who didn't even know your name until you got promoted to prop manager.

➼ yandere! Actor who never knew how every character that he played fell in love with someone at first glance, but as soon as you walked onto the stage and started giving out your orders, it was like the heavens had shone their light upon you and you only.

➼ yandere! Actor who was infatuated with everything about you. Your responsibility, your assured nature, the way you'd sternly correct him when he messed up his lines because he "should be reading off his script, not off my face".

➼ yandere! Actor who was always on top of his game, one of the best actors in his region, yet when you looked at him with your concentrated eyes it was like he was a rookie again.

➼ yandere! Actor who would be stuttering and tripping over his words on purpose just to get you to come up and read it with him, your warm body so close to his that he could almost taste the perfume you were wearing.

➼ yandere! Actor whose heart raced whenever you praised him, even a simple "good work today" would give him butterflies.

➼ yandere! Actor who knew that opening night was approaching, so he worked day and night to memorize his lines. The excited smile on your face when he was able to perform the whole dress rehearsal without flaw was something he'd never forget.

➼ yandere! Actor who, standing behind the curtain on the first day of their showing, suddenly started to shake. He's been in the industry so long that he forgot what it's like to have pre-show anxiety, and he doesn't even know how to deal with it. Suddenly, a warm hand is put on his shoulder.

"You're shaking." You point out, turning him around to face you. "Why? Are you feeling alright?" You place the back of your hand on his forehead to feel his temperature. "You're not warm, so you're not sick..." You think about it for a second, looking him in the eyes with a warm smile. "Are you...nervous?"

Aurelian doesn't speak, instead, he just nods. He's ashamed of you having to see him like this, the Aurelian Yavuz, getting jitters right before the opening night of one of his most popular shows.

"Hey, look at me." Your voice is soft, yet commanding, forcing him to look into your assuring eyes. You place both your hands on his shoulders, gripping them firmly to help ground him.

"You've done this show countless times before, and we've read the script together so many times that it should be burned into your brain by now." He laughs slightly, a sign that your motivation is working.

"You're one of the best actors I've ever worked with, and one of the most dedicated as well. You've spent so many hours reading, fixing, and editing this performance so that it's just right and absolutely nothing could go wrong. Am I correct?"

He nods again, making you click your tongue.

"Use your words. Am I correct, yes or no?" Your firm tone makes it hard for him to disobey, especially when you look at him with those fierce eyes.

He gulps, taking a deep breath before responding.

"Yes, you're correct. I've done so much to make sure that this show is perfect, so I have no reason to be nervous." He stands up straighter and walks backstage, adjusting his costume in the mirror. "Plus, I know that you'll be watching, so everything will be okay~." He winks at you from the mirror, making you chuckle.

"Exactly. We behind the curtain will be making sure that everything goes smoothly, so all you have to do is go out there and do what you do best." The lights start to dim as the audience applauds. You pat him on the back and adjust his collar for him.

"The stage is yours, Auri." you nod at him as he takes a deep breath, walking out onto the large wooden stage to loud cheering. His voice booms through the stage, and soon enough, the show is over. The cast takes their final standing bow and walks back to their dressing rooms. Aurelius makes a beeline for the lighting booth where you are usually sitting; he bursts through the door backstage, only to find your seat empty.

"What...?" he looks around for any trace of you, but it's like you've disappeared. He takes a seat in your chair and waits for what seemed like hours to him because of how tired he was. 15 minutes after the show ends, he hears your voice from outside the door. he gets up to open the door, but as soon as he does, the door opens with a creak. There you are, standing in the doorway with a coffee in one hand and your bag in the other, looking up at him surprised.

"Auri, why haven't you changed? Everyone's already leaving, you should go too-"

"You weren't watching." He cuts you off, looking at you with cold, dead eyes.

You look at him confused, setting your bag down on the floor. "What are you-"

"Why weren't you watching?"

[popponn]

a boyfriend package. [itoshi rin x reader]

summary: itoshi rin is good at soccer. itoshi rin is not good at jokes and cheering up, but for you, he tries anyway. (aka, you are stressed and rin is there.)

notes: this fic had so much thought but the main is "if you have itoshi rin on your side you could probably do anything". to everyone at uni and school, good luck. warning: other than minor curses, none. fluff, reader's gender unspecified, post canon au, reader is a student struggling against exams & essays.

“You are not done yet?”

You, a student who had probably resembled a zombie more at this point, lift your head up from the materials you were supposed to finish within two days. There were certainly other problems you were facing, however, you had no strength to gaze at them at the moment. Instead, you landed your eyes on your boyfriend, leaning against the doorway of your room with two cups of store-bought coffee. Which was hilarious—Itoshi Rin, a solid football career, an aloof reputation which was very true, and no educational deadline because of said football career.

Wait—does Itoshi Rin even drink coffee?

Your brain couldn’t really remember that piece of information.

It could curse out your very lovely and handsome Rin out of envy though. You wished him a very slow internet connection until your freedom next week.

Hearing how the voices in your head had started complete nonsense, you shook your head and returned your focus back to the wall of letters that didn’t seem to have an end in front of you. It would be better for you to save your words and thoughts for this seemingly unending hurdle, instead of using it to say things about the very kind Rin who bought you coffee.

Though, you did remember what one of his friends posted on Finestagram yesterday. A picture of a bunch of guys having fun outside. A hand around his shoulder in an act of friendliness and a very clear time that was spent pleasantly. Without pressure too, on top of that. Fuck—you tried not to cry—you are so jealous of them.

“Hey, did you hear me?”

Oh, right.

You forgot to reply to him.

“Not yet,” you smiled bitterly, “there are still some more left.”

Which was an understatement. Around two thick piles of papers awaited you.

As it was, Rin didn’t even bat an eyelash at your response nor to the faraway look you gave to the tower of books on your desk. He, however, did put a cup of coffee right beside your left hand. On that cup, a smiling mascot with a peanut shape said something about enjoying your time. You didn’t know if the correct choice to that was to bawl or to laugh like a madman.

You were half-asleep after eight hours of cramming and your brain felt like it was burning. In the end, even a tear or a chuckle was a bit beyond your capability at this point.

“…hey,” Rin said again, flatly. A hand awkwardly placed itself on one of your shoulders.

“You sure say a lot of ‘hey’ today,” you noted, leaning your head, slotting it on his stomach. His muscles were hard, but the proximity did comfort you. “…what is it though?”

“…if I drive, and you say ‘stop, deer’,” Rin began awkwardly, out of nowhere with a voice that trembled slightly as if he was under an incredible weight, “I will say ‘yes honey’.”

You stopped breathing at what he just said. No matter how scattered your brain was, you immediately snapped him a bewildered look. You knew you were on the verge of insanity, but Rin—

“What.”

You had been dating him for two years and more and Rin—as much as you love him—is definitely not a joke guy. Did he got possessed? Was it because he drank coffee?

As you ransacked your brain for an answer, you watched an explosion of red on Rin’s face reaching his neck. As that hue stayed on his face, unbudging, Rin’s face turned sour and darkened as he muttered some violating insults that seemed to be directed at Bachira and Otoya.

You raised an eyebrow at that. “Rin. What? Huh?” you repeated, trying to grasp the situation. “Who put you into this?”

You knew you were risking your study in what could end up being a prologue to two murder cases, but that joke was bad enough that it restarted your brain. You would risk a 4-hour delay because honestly what could make Itoshi Rin joke—

Oh.

As the silence between Rin and you stretched, you realized how he seemed to lose the courage to see you in the eye. A red face that was as bashful as it looked like a face belonging to a terrible stomachache patient, yet the comforting pressure Rin gave to your shoulder as he rubbed his thumb—suddenly, it was as clear as day.

This fine dumbass of yours was trying to cheer you up, it seemed.

You laughed out loud at that—perhaps a bit too high-pitched with too much wheezing. However, imagining Rin taking a page from his friends’ books—fuck you hate those words so much still right now but yet—just to cheer you up, it is adorable. And, Rin seemed to accept your ugly chortles as his eyes finally moved to you again.

“Did—” you wheezed again, your whole body still shaking as you pressed your chin to his hip. The smell of Rin’s detergent was your preferred fragrance, widening your smile even more, “—did Bachira and Otoya put you into this? Is that why you cussed them out?”

“Don’t come up with your own conclusion,” Rin scolded with a tone that spelled out relief and fondness.

“Then, what is it? Tell me—you just made a joke. A pun. That’s something,” you teased. In the back of your mind, a heavy static was still present, yet you really couldn’t mind their presence with Rin beside you like this.

Rin grunted and messed up your head, looking down at you with a look that was certainly too soft for his cold & cool guy brand. “Shut up. That’s none of your business.”

“Aw, come on! Tell me!” you protested. Rin shook you off as you started to try and pull his cheeks with your grubby hands. Walking away, he pulled a stool that he had left behind in your room after his tenth visit to your house many months ago.

“No,” Rin said curtly, leaving no room for protest as he tapped your laptop screen lightly. “Now get back to studying.”

At the reminder, it was your turn to wear a sour glum on your face. “Ugh.”

He glared half-heartedly at you. Bumping a knee against your chair slightly. “Don’t fucking say ‘ugh’.”

“But…” you wanted to say that you still wanted to tease him a bit more. You wanted to just do something with him a bit longer. Returning to the passage of curses meant that you couldn’t do that.

Rin looked at you for a moment. You couldn’t fathom what went through in his mind as you glanced at him. However, whatever it was, it pushed Rin to get his face closer to you.

Then, before you could even react to it, Rin pressed a light kiss on top of your forehead.

It was soundless in the way it was surprising. Your eyes were wide as Rin pulled away and returned to his previous position. This time, the red hue and his inability to look you in the eye returned. Looking towards anywhere but you, Rin perched his chin on top of his palm.

“Hurry up and study,” Rin ordered once again. “I will accompany you today, so stop whining.”

There was a prime chance for you to tease him about not practicing instead. Yet, for a solid 30 seconds, all your brain had become was a mush and an incoherent noise. Rin probably should take some responsibility and you should demand so—

Yet, you could only smile and return to your study. Hooking your ankle with one of Rin’s just so you could feel him close still.

“You owe me a kiss and a treat after this.”

“I bought you coffee already.”

“Oh, Rin—come on, I need motivation—”

“Fucking finish it first.”

Afterward, you pulled out a miracle by finishing everything within 3 hours and the rest was history.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Try Morse Core. Women Love Morse Code.

[First] Prev <--> Next

[crystallizsch]

before may kills me with more twst updates i need to get this out of my system

i refuse to end this month without (making an attempt to) giving jamil’s luxe couture justice

[drawnfamiliarfaces]

i... wrote a smol fic (っ´▽`*)っ

also!!!!! If you haven't seen it - shoutout to first ever published fic in Ninja Showdown/My Immortal Soul tags - Lustrous Red by @missadmyre !!!

[r-g-d2]

COSMIC BEINGS DRAWINGS DUMP‼️

I love cosmic beings

These losers

these- uh- funny guys(?? too bc they DESERVE, THEY NEED, MORE LOVE 🫵

srsly I need more Cosmo and Orbo content...

Request!

Them playing games :))

Funny request hah

.

The original request was first image, But I- uh- Took the idea and got the second heheh

they ar so dumb

Mini Kheiros/Sammy I did while talking to a friend

he such a goober ngl, I like him, But I still dont learn how to write his name oof-

___

Kinda, special drawing

The VA of Cosmic Owl passed away some days ago and I just knew two days ago... I- Rlly was sad, But I already expressed all lets say- So I just wanted to do a simple thing, "simple" bc like I just said, I already expressed all the day I knew, But anyways- you know- I needed this..

Still I dedicate not just this one but all the drawings of Cos in this post to this man.. 💛🦉

Just that 💛

___

Ok hope you like all drawings!

This post took me so loong! dang-heh-

And I just wanna say- I'll disappear next month, kinda- again- bc I ALMOST didn't post for all this month- DANG, ehem- since Im starting school and I just wanna see how I go w it, So Im probably not gonna post in kinda loong time

Just that! :))

I dont have much more to say or show Byeee!!

💛

[valeriianz]

Here’s another half-formed dreamling fic with them stuck in a snow storm while flurries currently whistle past my windows (and cover my screens in white).

Dream, sitting on the floor of his kitchen, surrounded by candles because the power is out, and sipping a glass of red wine. He’s bundled in a blanket and desperately failing to conserve battery on his phone, by texting Hob, who’s also lost power.

Dream slouches back against his oven, of which the burners are on to give off some blessed heat (thank God his oven is gas), while he reads the latest message from Hob, lamenting how bleeding cold it is in his own apartment, a newly renovated chrome building on the edge of the city, where everything, including the heat, was electric.

Dream mourns for him, even though Hob makes light of the situation with his witty texts and flirtatious hints of how Dream could warm him up.

They’d only been on a handful of dates, not yet fallen into bed together… Dream awkwardly explaining to Hob that it took a while, if at all, for sexual attraction to form within a new relationship. Hob had, surprisingly, taken it in stride. Becoming patient and thoughtful, always communicating, and never pushing Dream’s limits. 

It was refreshing, and– to Dream’s complete surprise– he’d found himself falling hard for the other man. Who knew a simple acknowledgment to boundaries would get him so wound up? His pulse quickened with every smile Hob gave him, his stomach tying itself in knots whenever Hob would take his hand, and his brain completely shutting off when Hob would kiss him. Chaste things that had progressively turned more and more heated with every encounter. Promising something more and more each time they met.

Currently, the sounds of his windows rattling from the flurries outside fill his dark apartment, along with the flutter of the open flames on his stove, and the quiet drip, drip, drip of the kitchen tap (to prevent frozen pipes, Dream had learned that lesson the hard way last winter).

After about an hour of texting Hob, Dream nearly halfway done with the bottle of wine, he receives a text that makes his heart jump.

So, what if i told you im actually outside your building?

Dream stood up so suddenly the candles around him nearly snuffed themselves out.

He yanked on his boots and pulled on his oversized winter coat, stumbling to his front door and marching down the stairs of the apartment complex he resided in, the age of which you could smell in its walls, see in the cracks and warps in the wooden floors. He made it down to the entrance and pulled open the door, the ice cold wind smacking Dream in the face immediately.

But then he saw a smudge of brown in the whiteness approaching. Dream kicked down the snow that had piled up at the door and waded forward in knee deep snow to meet Hob halfway and help him past the threshold.

Once the door slammed shut behind them, Dream took a proper look at Hob.

“You look like the abominable snowman.”

Hob laughed. He was absolutely covered in snow, piled high on his shoulders, his boots, even on his eyelashes.

“I feel like one.” Hob said, his voice cracked and breathless.

Once they’re back inside Dream’s apartment, and Hob’s outer layers have been stripped off and hung in the shower to drip dry, Dream sets off to boil water on the stove top for tea.

They sit on Dream’s couch, sharing a blanket and sipping tea while Dream admonishes Hob for coming out in the middle of a storm. What was he thinking?? To which Hob just shrugs and curls his nearly numb fingers around the hot mug, snuggling even further into Dream’s side and sighing.

“Worth it, to see you.”

“You’re insane,” Dream says, but smiles through it. 

Hob’s skin glows with the orange and yellow flickering of the candles, his features softening and barely noticeable in the limited light. But Dream knows them by now. Knows the curve of Hob’s thick, dark eyebrows, down to the scruff of his jaw, and back up to the prominent shape of his nose. He’s always handsome, but right now, shadowed in soft light and his cheeks still pink from the cold, he’s lovely. And Dream can’t help but set his mug down, taking Hob’s as well, and kissing him.

His lips arm warm from the tea, and he tastes of lavender and honey, and it makes Dream want. Want to climb onto Hob’s lap and crawl inside him. Make a nest for himself– warm and safe and cared for under Hob’s breast bone. There he could listen to the rhythmic beat of his heart, how it thunders now, under Dream’s hand as he caresses down Hob’s sweater and gets teasing fingers under the hem, touching the soft flesh of his hips and stomach.

Hob moans into his mouth, making Dream’s skull vibrate and he nearly gives in, something dark and unknown swirling in his lower belly that drives his fingers to press harder, feel the texture of Hob’s skin, the smattering of hairs at his stomach, but he forces himself to slow down, to take it easy, to enjoy and luxuriate in what they have now. 

Hob, miraculously, follows along. His own hands cupping each side of Dream’s head and only getting his fingers in his hair, matching Dream’s pace, kissing back with no intention of more unless Dream initiated. Moving his mouth at Dream’s pace, breaking apart and nudging his nose and lips under his jaw and nuzzling behind Dream’s ear and making him shudder pleasantly.

“Dream, Dream…” Hob mumbles, seemingly content in just kissing, just holding one another. “I could do this for hours.”

Dream grips the hem of Hob’s sweater, holding tightly as to prevent himself from ripping it off Hob. Another time, very soon, he knows. Dream has every intention to give into the temptation that is Hob Gadling, but the waiting is so much more fun. The anticipation, the slow understanding of his own feelings brimming up to the surface, will be that much more satisfying when he’s certain Hob will reciprocate them.

Hob just might love him back, right now. But Dream waits. Though, he does allow himself a confession:

“I could do this forever.”

[solarpunkani]

PROGRESS!!!!!!

[dykeomania]

...bro, no. okay, see this is the fucking problem [pulls down mic, TW, SA ment] if you are at any point writing anything "dub-con" or "cnc" and the reader is like, completely incoherent, completely unagreeing to everything that's happening, doesn't fully know what's happening, and at no point during the fic do you disclose or hint or underline that this was some kind of consensual agreement (and/plus) there is no aftercare, that is not cnc. that is not dub-con. that is r*pe. you just wrote a fanfiction about r*pe.

[clusterbuck]

let heart hold true

2.4k , T // eddie comes out to christopher. things snowball from there.

“Hey, bud,” he says, leaning on the back of the sofa. Christopher tilts his head back to look at him. “What are you watching?” 

“It’s called Heartstopper,” Christopher says. “Everyone at school is obsessed with it.”

“Yeah?” Eddie says. “What’s it about?” 

“Mostly it’s just people being in love with each other,” Christopher says, wrinkling his nose like he’s not yet sold on the concept. “Want to watch with me?” 

“Sure,” Eddie says, rounding the sofa and settling into the opposite end. “You’ll have to catch me up, though.” 

Christopher tells him the names of the three girls on screen, and then the scene switches to two teenage boys in what looks like one of their bedrooms. They kiss, and before Eddie can stop himself, he lets out a soft huh.

“It’s 2023, dad,” Christopher says, shooting him an unimpressed look. “Boys can kiss boys.”

Eddie blinks. “I—Chris, I know that.”

Christopher relaxes a little, and Eddie laughs. “You were ready to fight the good fight, huh?”

“I was just going to tell you,” Christopher informs him. “In case you didn’t know. Dylan at school said his dad didn’t know.” 

read it on ao3

[darkxsoulzyx]

I’d like to think that while some of the time, the one not in control of the body takes a fat nap. However, I also like to think that the times when they *aren’t* asleep, they talk to each other often. Usually, they like to bounce ideas off each other, come up with different schemes, and even give each other advice mid- job ^^

[dazais-guardian-angel]

Chapter 110 is 13 pages long welcome to hell!!! so in a lot of ways this is just more fuel for a theory that I've had for a few weeks now, that's only gotten stronger with each recent season 5 episode, which is that the last episode of the season is gonna end on 110, and that Asagiri/Harukawa and Bones have been collaborating to make this happen, specifically because it's a major turning point that would be the only good place to end the season on.

When we started getting especially long chapters again (like from 25-35ish pages, with the exception of 107.5, the last two being some of the longest we've ever had), at first I just assumed that Asagiri/Harukawa got freed up from some other obligations they'd been having to cause the extremely short/half chapters, like promotional stuff for the anime/Beast movie, or working on light novels. But then 109 happened, with the "supposed" death of Dazai, and heavy emphasis at the end on how literally everyone is at their lowest point right now, and I got to thinking. 11 episodes is a strangely specific number for an anime season -- why not 12, or 13, or even 10, like you'd usually see? Why have we gotten suddenly gotten two 35 page chapters out of nowhere, that's almost unheard of at this point? They're both beautiful chapters, don't get me wrong (as always), and maybe A/H simply just didn't want to cut them in halves because they felt like the full emotional impact wouldn't hit/that there were no good cutoff points in them, but you can't deny that it's surprising, after all the shorter chapters we've been getting. Why has the anime been going at such insanely breakneck pacing for the most part ever since around the Sunday Tragedy chapters, even more so than it has in the past? So much so that it feels dangerously close to overtaking the manga?

Well, maybe, just maybe, it's because..... Asagiri decided a long time ago that whatever happens in 110 is the only point that feels "season finale"-worthy enough, in an arc that still isn't anywhere close to being completely wrapped up, and so both the manga and the anime have been specifically coordinated to reach that part within 2 and a half weeks of each other?

I've seen a lot of people now think season 5 will end with 109, and as much as my sadistic side would find that hilarious, I honestly don't think they'd do that and realistically don't want it to happen; it'd be so cruel to cliffhanger the anime for years like that, and just doesn't feel like a season cliffhanger BSD would do, a series that is ultimately hopeful and uplifting. Seasons 2 and 3 had a positive, conclusive ending; the only reasons seasons 1 and 4 didn't was because they're technically not really full seasons of their own, and are more like the first cour of another "season" that also came out that same year (seasons 1 and 2 both aired in 2016, so they're more like one big season, and seasons 4 and 5 have both aired this year, so they're also more like one big season, again taking into account how episodes 12 and 50 are not satisfying finales like episodes 24, 37, and hypothetically, 61, are). I really can't see season 5 ending with Dazai and Fukuzawa's supposed deaths, Sigma being unconscious and maybe close to death, Atsushi being vulnerable and limbless again, everyone we love still vampires, and the entire world being basically doomed; that's just too depressing and not like BSD at all. However, having said that, if it doesn't end there, there really isn't any good place to end the season before that, either, that feels in any way satisfying or like a finale at all. And so, to me, that only leaves after 109: chapter 110.

I think things are really gonna turn around next chapter. Like I said, everyone is at their lowest point right now, it cannot possibly get any worse, the framing of Dazai, Fukuzawa, and sskk at the end of 109 is telling us that; this is the time for the heroes to finally start winning again, with Aya being so close to pulling out the sword, and for all the thematic reasons other people have talked about to death that I don't need to go into here again. This upcoming chapter being so short again makes a part of me wary of 110 being "the one", so to speak, I won't lie, but at the same time, it's very possible that it needs to be that short because that's all the final episode of the season will be able to reasonably fit in, since it's already gonna be VERY close if they do make it all the way to 109. And at the end of the day, I don't doubt at all that Asagiri and Harukawa can make these the most monumental and game-changing mere 13 pages ever if they wanted to; a chapter does not at all need to be extremely long in order to be an important and impactful one, even if short ones we've gotten in the past haven't felt the most important.

An additional thought I've had, though this is much more crack territory than all this already is, is that since we know from Anime Expo that a Stormbringer movie at some point is highly likely (judging from Asagiri's reaction when someone brought it up), it's possible that chapter 110 and thus the final episode will involve the long-anticipated return of Verlaine and/or Adam, or at least some other major reference to Stormbringer, that would naturally and smoothly lead into a Stormbringer movie to explain things to people who haven't read the novel. It would make a lot of sense, especially since the s4 OP has the Old World sign behind Chuuya, which might be a hint that this has been in the works ever since seasons 4/5 were first in planning with Asagiri. We also know that Dazai and Chuuya's voice actors apparently struggled to record their lines together this season, which probably relates to 101 and possibly 109, but it could be 110 too.... I could be very wrong, as I'm no expert on this kind of thing, but I kinda doubt they would bring Chuuya's actor in for just the vampire growls, and Asagiri placing heavy emphasis on Chuuya's importance this season in that one interview gives me the impression that he's talking about much more than just 101/109. But that's the least solid evidence I have, that's just mostly based on vibes I get.

So basically, I think a lot of factors -- the unusual episode count, how close the anime is to catching up to the manga with three whole episodes left, the seemingly arbitrary recent chapter lengths, and the climactic events of 109 -- can tell us that 110 might be a very, VERY big deal. Again, there's of course no way this arc is anywhere near close to being finished, with so much left to address and resolve, but since it is currently incomplete in the manga, unlike the previously adapted arcs, if the anime was going to adapt it at all, they'd have to find a place that feels satisfying enough to end this season, knowing there won't be more anime for a long time after this, and so I think they specifically planned for that, from both Bones' and A/H's sides. 10 episodes might not have been enough to reach that point, but 12 or 13 might have been too many it wouldn't have been if Bones actually decided to slow down and let the story breathe the way it needs to, but this post isn't meant to criticize the anime, so maybe 11 was just right. And maybe Asagiri and Harukawa specifically pushed to make recent chapters longer than usual, in order to make sure that the manga reached the story content in 110 the monthly release right before season 5 was to end.

Is this just copium? Absolutely. Am I going to look like an absolute clown in two days when this post ages like milk? Probably. But the evidence is There, so let me just enjoy my delusions until Sunday, okay 🥂🫡

[ace-of-clubs-and-diamonds]

And here’s Blood Fest Week 3, with the keywords “twisted” and “fixation” and the prompts “traps” and “rage”!! “Traps”, of course, got me thinking about Saw. And since I’m down terribly bad for Amanda and have seen appallingly few fics for her…. well, why not? Underrated characters are kind of my signature anyway.

Hope y’all enjoy! <3

~

Too Late I’m Dead

AO3 link: Here

Pairing: Amanda Young x AFAB Reader

Rating: Explicit, NSFW

Word count: 5,160

Content warnings: Gore, mentions of self-harm (both in the Jigsaw trap context and the more typical context), trauma, PTSD, angst, discussions of disability (since a lot of Jigsaw traps are disabling), Saw is its own warning, smoking, alcohol consumption, flirting, kissing, making out, biting, vaginal fingering, friends to lovers, as is Saw tradition gay shit goes down in the bathroom, reader is AFAB but gender neutral

“Hi everyone. My name is Brandon and…. I’m a Jigsaw survivor.”

A subdued chorus of Hi Brandons echoed around the small church room. You barely even bothered to mouth the words. The gesture felt about as empty as the tipped over plastic water bottle you’d discarded by your chair some time ago. There was coffee at the sad makeshift snack table too, as well as a box of pastries that looked a few days past their prime, but you figured you didn’t need the caffeine to make you any more jittery than you already were. Your leg was bouncing enough as it was.

“It’s been about a year since uh. Well.” Brandon smiled nervously and made a vague, fluttery gesture with his hands. “Well. You know.”

A quiet, obligatory response from the other people – a murmur, a nod of heads. You stared at your bouncing knee.

“I’ve made great progress with my recovery. My knees have healed really well. I can fully walk on them again, even run if I’m careful. My dog Rex doesn’t really like it when I’m careful though.” He laughed fondly. A couple others offered the obligatory chuckle. “They hurt if I get too eager with stairs. Or if it’s too humid. But it’s going really well. I’m really, really proud of the progress I’ve made.” He nodded, as if assuring himself.

He’d had to break both his knees in order to get out of his trap. Was in a wheelchair for months and only recently started moving around without it. Or so you’d been told.

You weren’t sure you’d be able to break your own knees.

“Somedays, though.” Brandon looked away from the loose circle you all formed. Blinked rapidly. “Somedays, it feels like I haven’t made any progress. Somedays it’s hard. Really hard. And it feels like I didn’t survive that trap. Or if I did, some part of me got left behind.”

Everyone else was nodding, some with sad, understanding smiles on their faces. Your own pulse thundered in your ears like a distant, approaching storm.

“It’s really hard to have hope on those days, but…. what else can I do?” He shrugged, a helpless smile on his face. “Give up? Wallow around in my own misery? I can’t live like that. No one can live like that. Not forever. You just have to choose. You have to make a choice, just like the choices we made to be here. You have to choose to live. You have to choose hope. Or else you just can’t survive.”

You shot to your feet, heartbeat pounding in your ears, chair scraping back. Every face in the room turned to look at you. The church felt too small. Your ribs felt too tight. You felt too…. seen.

Who was he to judge you for wallowing in what you’d fucking gone through?

You spun around and bee-lined for the exit.

The cool city air against your face was a relief as you barged through the church’s double doors. But you stopped in your tracks as you spotted someone else already there. A woman was sitting on the church stairs. She twisted around, eyebrows raised and half-hidden by the choppy, irregular bangs across her forehead.

“Uh. Hey,” you said, somewhat awkwardly.

She paused, as if uncertain. Of what? You weren’t sure. “Hey,” she eventually said back. Then, after another pause, she twisted further around, a frown crossing her features. “Is the meeting over?”

“No. I just needed some air.” Fuck, you needed something to calm yourself. You dug around in your jacket pockets until you found a lighter and a cigarette. “Um. Do you mind if I…?”

She stared at the cigarette in your hand with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher, but eventually shook her head no. You internally shrugged and lit up. The first drag uncoiled the tension that had built up in your muscles, and you breathed the smoke out on a relieved sigh.

The woman glanced between you and the church doors. “Having fun in there?”

Did she know? The place didn’t exactly advertise, but it wasn’t exactly a secret either. You scanned her face. She looked vaguely familiar, but you couldn’t quite place her. Had you seen her in the meetings before? “Oh, yeah, lots. You know. Fun therapy shit.” Supposedly, anyway. It was supposed to be some sort of Alcoholics Anonymous shit, but instead it was for the few survivors of an active fucking serial killer. Jigsaws Anonymous or whatever the fuck.

“Must be going well if you’re out here,” she said dryly, resting her chin on a propped-up fist.

You shrugged, taking another drag. “Well…” Did you really want to tell her about how Brandon’s words had hit just a little too close to home? How they’d made you feel too small, as if the sticks you’d used to prop up your fragile post-trap reconstruction of the world had suddenly snapped, and the weight of it all was now bearing down on you? She was a stranger waiting outside the church. She could’ve been some Jesus freak for all you knew.

Not that she really looked like one. Not with the sheer red shirt over a black bra and fishnet undershirt, or the combat boots, or the sheer exhaustion around her eyes.

She looked less like a Jesus freak and more like you did on the days you could bear to look in the mirror.

So you just shrugged again. “It can be a lot,” you said. “What about you? What’re you doing out here?” You hesitated. “There’re still seats open if you wanted to…”

“No thanks. I’m good.” She offered you a close-lipped smile. “I’ve heard enough of the sob-stories.”

Yeah. You could understand that.

She didn’t look like she was going anywhere, and you didn’t exactly have plans of your own. So you gestured to the stairs next to her. “Mind if I sit?”

“Be my guest.”

You sat to her right so the wind wouldn’t blow cigarette smoke into her face. The smooth grey stone steps were wide enough that it didn’t feel quite so awkward sitting in silence together. Even though you could feel her analyzing you as you took another puff.

You blew the smoke away and smirked dryly at the cigarette. “Think Jigsaw’s gonna put me in another deathtrap for smoking?” You ignored the tightening in your chest as you said the words. Ignored the tremor of unease. Surely it wouldn’t be enough. Surely lightning wouldn’t strike twice.

“He wouldn’t do that.” She said it with such simple certainty, as if it was an inarguable fact. Even still, you found yourself stubbing the cig out and searching for a trash can to toss it into. You didn’t want to just flick it into the grass. Maybe Jigsaw would get you for littering. Maybe he was really passionate about saving the planet.

Who needed to be God-fearing with the possibility of Jigsaw watching your every move?

You shook the thought off. Introduced yourself to the woman. You smiled awkwardly. “Um. I’d offer you my hand but my, uh–” Personal hell “–Trap involved a hand thing so. I’m not a big fan of handshakes these days.” It had taken a long time for the nerves to repair themselves in your hand. A long time and a shitton of agony and medication and physical therapy. You still hadn’t totally gotten rid of the tremor. Fine motorskills were still harder than before.

Before. That.

But the woman just gave a rueful, understanding sort-of smile. Funny how people smiled so much in the presence of trauma and pain. “Amanda. I still have trouble going to the dentist sometimes.”

Shit, that’s where you knew her from, wasn’t it? You’d heard of her, read about her before, seen a clip of her punching a journalist square in the nose when she tried to follow her. All the photos you’d seen had been such shit quality that you hadn’t recognized her immediately.

Amanda Young. The person who killed a man and rummaged around his guts to free herself from the machine hooked into her jaws. The first person to walk away from a Jigsaw trap. The first survivor. In a weird, fucked up way, it was almost like meeting a celebrity. A celebrity for the most depressingly specific thing possible.

You weren’t sure whether it would make things weird to bring that up. So you just nodded. “So. What’re you doing here then? Are you waiting for someone?”

“Mm no, not really.” Amanda scraped at the chipped black polish on her nails. “I just like to come here sometimes.”

You stared at her. Something about her reminded you of a deer, twitchy and ready to bolt at the slightest sign of danger. Or maybe not a deer. Deer looked like they’d snap in half if the wind blew too hard. Amanda…. did not. She was twitchy, but for some reason you got the feeling that she was just as likely to start kicking as she was to start running

Permanently caught between fight or flight.

You went with freeze, yourself. Or wallow, as Brandon had put it. Anger and embarrassment burned against your ribs.

“Hell of a place to visit.” You weren’t sure if you meant it as a light-hearted joke or a deadpan remark. The words came out somewhere in between.

“You’re one to talk.” She finally turned to you. It was the first time she’d actually met your eyes, you realized. “You actually believe all this bullshit?” she asked, gesturing to the church.

“Not really,” you admitted. “My therapist wanted me to go. Said it would help me to be around others who understand what I went through. That it would help me get closure or something. I didn’t want to. But he insisted.” You shrugged. He’d pestered you about it until you finally gave in a few weeks ago. He thought it would be good for you. Would help you heal. Really, it just made you want to fling yourself out of one of the church’s fancy stained-glass windows.

Amanda gave a derisive snort. You almost took offense until she said, “Half of the time these therapists don’t even know what they’re talking about. It’s a bunch of bullshit, too.” She propped her cheek on her fist again, giving you a side-long grimace. “People don’t change until they have to. Or until they’re forced to. A bunch of psychoanalyzing isn’t going to do anything.”

You…. strongly disagreed. But the slim scar peeking out from her sleeve kept you from saying that. “Bad experience with a therapist?” you asked, flicking your gaze away.

“It never really worked for me.”

“What did?” you asked cautiously.

She paused. Thought about it. Stared at you with an intensity that had you wondering what the hell was going on inside her head. Until eventually, “Jigsaw.”

You blinked. Stared. Tried to figure out how to respond to that.

She thought…. Jigsaw helped?

You didn’t want to judge. Fuck, that was exactly why you’d stormed out of the church. You were self-aware enough to realize that. Different things worked for different people, and different people responded to trauma in different ways, but….

The church doors squealed open. You both shot to your feet and turned around. Your fellow Jigsaw Anonymous members were leaving, the meeting over, spilling out from the doors with all the speed and excitement of molasses being poured out from a jar. You stepped to the side to let them come down the stairs. Amanda did the same, arm brushing yours, and you wrestled the urge to jerk away. You weren’t sure of the last time you’d actually touched someone, or the last time someone had touched you, aside from the gentle but coldly professional hands of doctors and emergency personnel. It was as startlingly foreign as it was familiar.

Amanda seemed completely unaware of your clashing emotions as her gaze locked onto something. You followed her stare to Brandon slowly making his way down the steps. A man with sandy-blond hair and a cane was with him, chatting, the both of them completely oblivious to either of you.

Did she know them? She was staring at them with such an undecipherable intensity and it was the only explanation you could think of. You glanced at the two men again, then back at Amanda. No… she wasn’t staring at them. She was staring at the blond man specifically.

It really wasn’t any of your business, but you couldn’t help but ask, “Do you two know each other?”

“Sorta,” was as much of a response as you got.

Once Brandon and the man reached the bottom of the ramp and went separate ways, Amanda turned back to you. It was just the two of you on the stairs now. And it was a little embarrassing how flustered you were just by her proximity. For fuck’s sake, you didn’t even know her.

Maybe your therapist was right. You did need to get out and be around people more. So you could remember how to fucking act normal again.

“Well.” Amanda bumped her arm against yours again. This time deliberately. You were pretty sure the facial expression you made was not a normal one. “See you round.”

Then she shoved her hands into the pockets of her cargo pants, hopped down the steps, and just. Walked away. You stared after her for longer than necessary.

She was impossible to get a read on. Weirdly confrontational, weirdly evasive, and weirdly magnetic anyway.

You kind of hoped you’d see her again.

She didn’t appear for the next few meetings you obligatorily dragged yourself to. It wasn’t until about a month later that you found her sitting out on the steps again. When you, again, had rushed out to clear your head when the room got too small.

“Hey stranger,” she said, tone somewhere close to teasing. It made you smile. Just a little.

“Hey,” you replied, approaching the stairs. And again, you gestured to the space beside her. “Mind if I join you?”

“Be my guest.”

And so you developed a bit of a routine. She appeared on the steps about once a month, for a reason she never shared and that you never really minded. You would sit on the stairs with her, and the two of you would shoot the breeze. It was a comfortable, casual companionship born from a common factor and convenience. It was never anything very deep. Neither of you were there for therapy, not really. You kept it light, casual. That was the point, wasn’t it?

At least until one day when Amanda was standing by the stairs before the meeting had even started. You didn’t bother to hide your surprise as you approached her and exchanged your usual heys.

“You coming in today?” you asked.

“No. I thought we could head somewhere else.” She tilted her head at you. There was a playfulness to her expression, her smile. A playfulness that made you both a little bit cautious and a little bit excited. “Somewhere a little more fun. Unless you want to stay here. For therapy.” She pointedly lifted her eyebrows at you as she said therapy.

You glanced at the church doors behind her. Really, talking to her about anything but the fact that you were both Jigsaw survivors had done a lot more for you than going to these stupid fucking meetings had.

“Only if you promise not to put me in a death game for smoking,” you joked. Or tried to, at least. It really wasn’t that funny. You winced at yourself. But Amanda, to her credit, just linked her arm through yours. You almost preened at the friendly touch.

“Deal,” she said.

She ended up taking you to a bar. A gay bar, more specifically. You were a bit surprised she’d clocked you so easily but never said a word – but then again, neither had you about her. So you supposed you couldn’t be too surprised.

From there, your casual companionship escalated into something much more like a genuine friendship. You got to know each other properly. You talked about your personal lives and hobbies and interests. You even talked a little bit about Jigsaw, and everything after that. You told her how you’d been struggling with insomnia and how you’d lost your job when you stopped showing up. Because of, y’know, being stuck in a deathtrap. And being too terrified to set foot outside your door for a while after. You told her about the new job you’d gotten and struggled to adjust to. And you told her about your hands.

Nails through the palms Jesus-style. Because according to the hoarse voice on the tape that now haunted your nightmares – “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop”. She’d winced as you told her the story one evening. You’d winced as you’d recollected it. The pain shooting through your fingertips, up your arms, into your very fucking bones. The squelch of blood and muscle, the way you hadn’t been able to stop from screaming or the tears from spilling as you twisted and ripped your hands free of the metal spikes.

It was a miracle they didn’t introduced any infections into your bloodstream, the doctors had told you. A miracle.

You told Amanda how your hands still shook, were still a bit weak. How some days they were worse and some days they were better. And how fine motor skills had become hard now, whereas before you’d taken them for granted. God, had you taken them for granted. You’d been able to write your name, use a knife and fork, all that shit, so damn easily.

It had taken a lot of getting used to.

Amanda has just listened and nodded her head. Understanding. Not offering the grating sympathy people so often flung your way, all the while looking uncomfortably unsure of what to do with your presence and your hands and your experience and your trauma. But Amanda understood. Because of course she did. She knew what you’d been through and where you were coming from.

And she’d even smiled a bit mischievously, glancing down at your hands on the bar counter, and said, “Well, if you ever need help with anything, I’m pretty good with my hands. I could always lend a finger or two.”

Maybe it was the little smirk on her face, the glint in her eye when she said it. Maybe it was the loneliness and then the sudden friendship. Or maybe you’d just been a little too buzzed, but her words had remained lodged in your mind as you tried to go to sleep that night.

Amanda had shared things about herself, too, in the time you’d spent together. It had taken a little longer for her to open up – she was a bit slower, a bit more cautious. She seemed a lot more eager to listen than to do the talking. And you couldn’t fault her for that. But eventually, you learned that she worked as a mechanic, knew a lot about fixing and building machines and shit like that. She had a pet guinea pig that she’d acquired entirely by accident. His name was Pigeon. Her favorite color was red, her favorite bands were Nine Inch Nails and Hole, and her favorite movie was The Princess Bride. Her dad was a piece of shit she hadn’t seen in over a decade, and her relationship with her mom was strained at best. She was an only child.

You’d also learned more about her Jigsaw trap. How she’d become a drug addict in prison, how she’d woken up in a Jigsaw trap for it. How the little puppet with swirls on its cheeks had rolled out of the darkness on a tricycle and told her that she’d survived. And how she’d ended up in a trap a second time, a hellish prison of a house with several other people, most of whom had died.

The news had nearly brought your drink back into your throat. Lighting did strike twice after all. He did pick the same victims more than once.

God, maybe you really did need to quit smoking.

Amanda had placed her hand on your arm. Touch gentle but grounding all the same. And she’d assured you that that wouldn’t happen to you, Jigsaw wouldn’t choose you again. He had no reason to. She said it so confidently, and you so desperately wanted to believe her. That you wouldn’t be taken a second time. Or that she wouldn’t be taken a third. Not that she seemed too concerned about it.

That was the strange thing about her. When she told you about what had happened, she stared down at the counter. Her hands shook a little bit. The memory terrified her.

And yet…. she had this fixation on the idea that Jigsaw had helped her. The trap had gotten her off drugs. It had put her on a completely different path in life. Rather than dying from a drug overdose, she’d gotten clean. He saved me, she’d said, eyes wide and earnest and afraid.

You’d fought against the urge to argue that, to say No, he didn’t save you, he almost killed you. The idea of Jigsaw possibly helping – all while you struggled to sleep and were plagued by nightmares as you did, while you struggled to make your handwriting legible, while you fought the urge to bolt back home as soon as the sun started lowering in the sky? The idea felt like swallowing glass.

Had Jigsaw ever made anyone do that?

But you didn’t say any of that to her. People dealt with trauma in different ways. You supposed this was just her way of dealing with it. And it wasn’t really hurting anyone, so who were you to judge?

It certainly didn’t stop you from going to the bar with her regularly. It didn’t stop you from laughing with her, from getting close to her both emotionally and physically till the edge of your seats were almost touching and your arms were practically interlinked.

It didn’t stop the spark of warmth in your chest when she offered a genuine smile. Or the electric feeling that shot through your veins when she traced her fingers over your knuckles one night, after the conversation had lulled and your drinks had gone lukewarm.

“I wanna try something,” she said, voice soft enough that you would’ve missed it had you not been sitting so close your thighs were pressed together.

Eye contact right now would’ve been like staring into the sun. So instead, you stared at her hand on top of yours. Her knuckles were scratched up as if she’d gotten into a fight. “Sure,” you said slowly. “What did you have in mind?”

Amanda turned to you. You cautiously met her gaze. Christ, it really was like looking at the sun. Warm and beautiful but intense. Burningly intense.

Confusion turned to shock as Amanda hooked two fingers into the neck of your shirt and tugged you closer till her lips were hitting yours. You must’ve made a noise of surprise, because she drew away almost immediately. It was all you could do not to chase her and ask why did you stop? A small crease appeared between her eyebrows and she opened her mouth. And God for a second you thought she was going to apologize, when in fact she really didn’t need to because holy shit.

“Oh thank fuck,” you blurted. “You were flirting with me.”

Concern turned to surprise. Then Amanda laughed, the sound pure relief. “Yeah, I was. Did it take you that long to figure it out?” she teased.

“Uh.” Your face warmed. “Maybe.”

She grinned, then grabbed you by the shirt and kissed you again. Gentle but insistent. Her other hand curled around your nape. You didn’t know what the hell to do with your own hands until one curled around her back and the other ended up braced against the bar counter.

The bar counter. Right. You were very much in public. Sure, it was a queer bar, but it was still public.

So you reluctantly pulled away. Amanda looked confused for a moment before you said, “Hey, maybe we should… do this somewhere else?”

She blinked at you. Then, wordlessly, she wrapped a hand around your wrist and pulled you off your seat. She dragged you past the other patrons and tables – it was a quieter night, so you didn’t have to fight through a sea of people – and pushed through one of the bathroom doors, yanking you in with her and locking the door behind you.

“There,” she said. There was a look to her eyes, a look that made your heart stumble and your entire body go warm. “We’re somewhere else.”

This time when she kissed you, you let her fully take the lead. You slid your arms around her and melted into the kiss, sighing against her. It just made her more eager. She prodded at your lips with her tongue, slipped inside with a sweet little moan that had your heart racing. Sent your head spinning. You backed up till you hit a wall, dragging Amanda with because fuck you weren’t breaking this kiss. Not as she was getting to know you with her teeth and her tongue. She tasted like alcohol and peaches, smelled of loam and sweat and faintly of men’s store-brand bodywash. It was heady, intoxicating. Addicting.

Her hands slipped under your shirt. You shuddered at the exposure to the overly air-conditioned bathroom. Shuddered harder at her warm touch roving across your skin, the slight drag of fingernails over your stomach. Amanda broke the kiss with a wet smack as your muscles tensed underneath her.

“You’re so cute,” she teased. She dragged her fingernails over your skin again with just a little more pressure. You arced into her touch. Fuck. Fuck.

You wished you could come up with some kind of response. Something to convey just how much you were aching for her, both emotionally and physically. How badly and how deeply these emotions were running through you. But words were currently beyond your grasp.

Amanda leaned in and nibbled at your neck as her fingers slid past your waistband and teased the edge of your underwear. You clamped your teeth down on your bottom lip. Heat swirled through your veins, in your stomach, at the base of your spine. You moved your hips a little, just a little, to urge her on. Nails dug into the soft flesh there. A whimper escaped.

“Mandyyyyyyy.”

“Yeahhhhhhh?” She was all mischief and smugness as she looked back up at you. It just made you more desperate.

“Mandy. Please?” You gave her your best pleading look.

“You’re so impatient.” She said the words lightly, playfully. But she must’ve been impatient too, because she was pushing your underwear down. When her fingers brushed against your clit, you gasped and dropped your head back against the wall. Fuck, God, yes, right there –

“You sure you only just figured out I was flirting with you? You seem pretty fucking wet already.” She punctuated her words with a slide of her fingers against you. Because yeah, you were fucking wet. It would’ve been a little humiliating if you weren’t so achingly desperate for her touch.

“Yeah, well.” You drew in an unsteady breath as she circled your clit. A teasing touch that wasn’t quite enough. Fuck, it was impossible to form a coherent thought. “You’re just…. really fucking hot.”

It was hardly eloquent. But her breath puffed against your neck in a laugh. And you figured it would do for now.

She kissed the hollow of your throat, firmly rubbed her thumb against your clit. You practically bucked against her. Her other hand hooked under one of your thighs and lifted, and you threw your leg around her waist. Let out a moan at how it changed the sensation. “Yeah, like that,” Amanda breathed. “Just like that.” She said it as if you were touching her, as if she wasn’t the one doing all the work, wasn’t the one making you writhe and whimper and leak over her precise fingers.

Christ, you hadn’t felt this good in a while.

The pace was languorous, exploratory, testing what made you shiver and dig your nails into her shoulders and gasp for breath. As if she was intent on taking you apart and finding out exactly what got you going – a machine to figure out and put back together. Slowly, slowly, but in a way you savored, you felt the tension inside of you building up and coiling tight like a spring. You were quivering. Your clothes clung to your sweat-sheened skin. The music spilling into the bathroom from the bar wasn’t quite enough to cover the ragged breathing and wet, rhythmic noises, and it just made the whole thing feel even dirtier. Especially with how Amanda was panting against you, as if she was getting off just from you getting off and fuck it made you clench.

When she picked up the pace, you weren’t able to stop the gasps and moans that spilled out of you, the way you panted and pleaded her name. The sound of her fingers squelching against you had you burning. And when your release hit you cried out, clenching, shaking, clinging to Amanda’s shoulders and digging your nails in as you rode out the high. She didn’t stop, didn’t relieve the pressure against your clit. White hot pleasure burned through your body till tears pricked at your eyes. Distantly, she said something. Soft, sweet words that didn’t quite reach your ears as they rang from the intensity of your orgasm.

She only stopped when you went limp against her. Only pulled away from the mess you’d made – that she’d made too, really – to wrap her arms around your hips and kiss you, deep and slow, as if trying to commit you to memory. You lazily brushed your tongue against hers. Your muscles felt like taffy, worn out in the best way.

“You were right,” you said when you parted. “You really are good with your hands.”

Amanda grinned so widely and genuinely that you couldn’t stop yourself from capturing her lips again. Fuck. You might’ve been a little bit in love. Or maybe that was the post-sex endorphins talking. You weren’t sure. You didn’t particularly care either way.

“I think I owe you an orgasm,” you said.

Amanda brushed her nose against yours. For the first time since you’d met her, she actually seemed truly, fully relaxed. As if she’d properly lowered her guard just now, just in this moment, just for you. “Maybe next date.” The words sent a flutter through your chest. Next date. There’d be a next date. “But first,” she said, moving away to grab some paper towels, “we gotta get you cleaned up.”