#That is probably going to happen to a few of them

[andhumanslovedstories]

There was an interesting situation at work recently. I'm gonna keep it vague for privacy, but basically the husband of a patient threatened to shoot hospital employees after he perceived they were ignoring his wife's situation. Which, looking at the case, people were like, yeah, this patient was in prolonged discomfort and had delayed care over multiple shifts due to factors that weren't malicious but were careless. Basically, the task that would have helped this patient was classic "third thing on your to do list." It had to be done, but it didn't need to be done urgently. The impact of not doing this task likely wouldn't be felt on your shift. The work of doing this task would require the coordination of a couple different people. Very easy to just keep pushing it back, and because it wasn't an emergency (until it was), it just kept being pushed back.

You could do a root-cause analysis of the whole thing (and we have) to really break down what happened, but ultimately the effect was the same as if the neglect had been malicious. I'm sympathetic to the husband, as were a lot of people in this situation, because, yes, hospital staff dropped the ball in a way that meant the patient was in unnecessary pain and discomfort with delay of care for over a day, despite multiple requests from patient and family to address the situation. The husband reacted emotionally to a situation where he'd felt helpless and ignored. Institutional neglect ground away at him until he verbally snapped.

And the way he snapped was to tell staff, "I'm going to come back with a gun and shoot you all for what you've done." Which is about as explicit a threat as you can get. Does he get to keep visiting the hospital after that? How do we be fair to him, to the patient, and to the staff? He probably didn't mean it. Right? But how do you ignore a statement like that? If he does come back and commit a shooting, how will you justify ignoring his threat? But does one sentence said at an emotional breaking point define him? How much more traumatic are we going to make this hospital stay?

A couple years back, I worked on a floor a few hours after a patient had been escorted away for inappropriate behavior--by the way, you can't imagine how inappropriate the behavior has to be for us to do that. I have never seen another case like this. That patient said he was going to come back with a gun and shoot nurses that he identified by name. This didn't come to pass. Whether that was because the patient didn't mean it or changed his mind or was prevented or simply was not mentally coordinated enough to follow through on the plan, I don't know. I do know that shift fucking sucked. I remember the charge nurse telling me that it wasn't our jobs to die for our patients. If there was shooting, she told me to run.

There was another situation recently involving a patient in restraints. I despise restraints. I think the closest legitimate use for them is in ICUs for stopping delirious patients from ripping out their ventilators, and that should still be a last resort. I discontinue restraints whenever I inherit them, and I am very good at fixing problems before restraint seem like the only solution. Having said that, I work in a hospital that uses restraints, and so I am complicit in their use. Recently I walked into a situation involving restraints with zero context for what was happening, just that there was a security situation involving a patient who had been deemed for some reason to lack capacity to make medical decisions. They were on a court hold and a surrogate med override, which means they cannot refuse certain medications. The whole situation was horrible, and I've spent the days since it happened thinking about every way I personally failed that patient and what to do different next time.

At one point, the patient called one of the nurses a bitch, and the nurse said, "hey cmon, that's not nice," and the patient replied, "if you were in hell, would you call the devil a nice name?" And yeah! Fair! It is insane to expect people who are actively being denied their autonomy to be polite to us as we do it.

Then there was another patient on the behavioral health floor who got put in seclusion. It's so frustrating, by the way, that staff put them in seclusion because it would have been extremely easy to avoid escalating the situation to the point that it got to. But the situation did escalate, and by the time the patient was locked in a seclusion room, they were shouting slurs and kicking the walls. Other patients were scared of the patient even when they were calm because the patient talked endlessly about guns, poisons, bombs, etc. When I checked in with the patient in the seclusion room, they called me a cog in a fascist machine just following orders. And I was like, yeah. Fair.

Another patient: one night when I was charge nurse, I replied to a security situation where a patient trapped a staff member in the room and tried to choke her. The staff member escaped unharmed. She told me later that the patient had been verbally aggressive to her all day, but she hadn't told anyone because she knew he was having a bad day, she didn't want to get him in trouble, and she didn't think anything was actually going to happen. She said, "Patients are mean all the time."

And another case: I had a different patient with the ultimate combination of factors for violent agitation--confused, needed a translator, was hard of hearing so the translator was of little use, in pain, feverish, scared, withdrawing from alcohol, hadn't slept in two days, separated from his caregiver who had also just been hospitalized--the whole shebang. He shouted at us that we were human trafficking him and could not be reoriented to where he actually was or that he was sick. I tried all my usual methods of deescalation, which I am typically very good at. I could not get him to calm down. He had a hospital bed where the headboard pulls out so you can use it as a brace during compressions. He ripped that out and threw it at the window, trying to shatter the glass. At that point, with the permission of his medical surrogate and with help from security, I forcibly gave him IV medication for agitation and withdrawal. He slept all night with a sitter at his bedside to monitor him. I pondered when medication passed over the line into chemical restraint, but I stand by the decisions I made that shift.

Last one: I had a different patient who was dying who had a child with a warrant out for arrest. We didn't know for what, and no one investigated further because no one wanted to find out anything that might prevent this person from visiting his dying parent. Obviously, "warrant for arrest" could mean literally anything, although it was significant enough that security was aware of the situation and wanted us aware as well, but I was struck by how proactively the staff protected his visitation rights and extended him grace. Everyone was very aware of how easily the wrong word could start a process that would result in a parent and child losing the chance to say goodbye to each other.

In the case of the husband who threatened a mass shooting, you'd be surprised how many of the staff advocated for him to keep all visitation rights. After all, the patient wanted him there.

Violence--verbal, physical, active, passive, institutional, direct, inadvertent, malicious--pervades the hospital. It begets itself. You provoke people into violence, and then use that violence to justify why you must do actions that further provoke them. And also people are not helpless victims of circumstance, mindlessly reacting to whatever is the most noxious stimuli. But also we aren't not that. You have to interrupt the cycle somewhere. I think grace is one of the most powerful things we can give each other. I also think people own guns. Institutions have enormous overt and covert power that can feel impossible to resist, and they are made up of people with necks you can wring, and those people are the agents of that unstoppable power, and those people don't have unlimited agency and make choices every day about how and when to exercise it. We'll never solve this. You literally have to think about it forever, each and every time, and honor each success and failure by learning something new for the next inevitable moral dilemma that'll be along any minute now and is probably already here.

[pucksandpebbles]

𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒃𝒊𝒕 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒔, 𝒒𝒉⁴³

browse my other 𝑞𝑢��𝑛𝑛 ℎ𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑒𝑠 fics here

a blurb in which, Quinn and you are keeping your relationship as secret as possible but after a difficult night on the ice, Quinn knows that you are the girl for him even if his family has no clue about you two

a/n : hello hello! do we like the new graphics, I've been experimenting a bit and this is the final iteration i think.

I've been procrastinating recently and this is what came out of it, god I love an older man. always remember to show love and don't be a silent reader - I love your thoughts and without y'all I probably wouldn't be writing so thank you. also i won't apologise for british terminology and spellings okay or any of the mistakes made as a result of lack of proof reading

love you all, peace :)

wc : 1,3k

The air in the stadium was electric, the buzzing of the fans as you sat amongst them - knees pressed close to the glass as you looked out onto the ice to where Quinn was standing. Stick in one hand, and head gear in the other, his damp hair was pushed back and looking the way that it always did when he had been running his hands through it over and over. You pushed against your knuckle joints, feet tapping on the floor, he swallowed deeply, Adam's apple bobbing. He took care to not let his little nervous ticks show on the ice, but you could spot how his fingers periodically clenched and relaxed around his stick. He was looking over at you, watching you carefully as he stood there and you leant back in your seat a little, shaking your head. He was too goddamn obvious.

You gave him a wide eyed look. Communicating the situation, the stakes. Usually, when you came to home games, he could fixate on you all he liked - a passing glance on a stranger, a wink at a fan. Tonight, however, you knew that his family were in the stands, looking down on him who was looking at you. You’d already tried to make yourself scarce for the week, tidying away your belongings in the apartment and refraining from texting your boyfriend every second of every day. The longing burned like something deep in your chest.

Breath quickening in your throat, you scrunched your eyebrows in close as your gazes met. He wouldn’t tear his eyes away from you, and you wouldn’t be the first one to break. 

There was a whole stadium closed in on the two of you, you felt the spin of the stadium and the energy pulsate but both of you were fixed on each other, letting everything else fall away. He watched you through the entirety of the national anthem, all the way until puck drop, talking with his teammates but letting his eyes stay on where you were sitting - gnawing on your closed knuckles anxiously.

Both of you had agreed you wanted to shield your relationship from everyone and everything, no exceptions. It was a matter of keeping your something sacred from being polluted and corrupted, until you knew, until it was the right time, until everything was stable. You knew from Quinn that Jack’s relationship was going through a rocky period, and Luke had his own problems with finding dates, and Quinn - ever the older brother - didn’t want to add to any of that, come waltzing into everyone’s lives with a new ‘somebody’.

Puck dropped. In the blink of an eye, and the game was on. You could hardly watch how the puck pinged across the ice, too nervous to take your eyes from Quinn, who had managed to lock into the game. Watching him fulfil his role of captain on ice, and one of the best defenders in the league, never really got old; you came to most home games, and a few away ones too, sneaking into hotel rooms, and meeting him back at home after games. He threw chirps across the ice, chasing the puck towards you and passed you a smile as he skated by. You smiled back.

Quinn was on the other side of the rink to you when it happened. Which meant, of course, that you had the best view in the house when he got high-sticked. The opposing players stick came up and struck Quinn right in face, just above the eye, in the browline, it drew blood almost immediately and he went down. 

You shot to your feet, unable to do anything, just watch as blood dripped dark red onto the pure white ice, the sight brought your hand to your mouth. He was pressed against the board, sat on the ice slowly pulling himself up as players rushed over. Then, amongst the angry words clearly being exchanged, chirps thrown around, Quinn grabbed a fistful of the players jersey, tugging harshly at the neckline and that’s when the punches started. A cloud of players crowded your vision of the ensuing fight and a referee rushed over. You shoved your knuckles in your mouth and the crowd roared around you. 

A referee pulled Quinn out of the hoard, blood dripped down the right side of his face and rivulets collated around the side of his mouth but his smug grin did nothing to calm your racing heart, even when he looked right at you - meeting your eyes, not tearing away even as a referee yelled at him. He shouted back but the referee tugged at him, directing him with his hands towards the box as Quinn wiped away the blood on the side of his face, panting with exertion.

Quinn didn’t get any more ice time after that. You watched him as best that you could from your obscured seating on the bench. It pained you that you wouldn’t be able to see him after the game, touch the wound gently, dab at it with rubbing alcohol and hold him in your arms.

As you were getting up to leave, a text popped up on your phone screen, from Quinn - your breath caught in your throat. He was asking to see you, come to the medical room to meet.

You rushed there, a member of staff with a knowing glint in her eye led you through, avoiding the others wandering the halls. Pushing your way into the room slowly, you saw Quinn sat on the bed, plaster covering his wound. His head immediately snapped towards you, and you rushed forwards to draw him into a deep hug.

His body wrapped around yours, both you pressed as close to each other as possible and your head buried into the little nook between his shoulder and neck.

“Baby,” he murmured into your warm skin.

You sighed into his hold, “Quinn.”

Drawing back, you inspected the traces of dried blood on his eyebrow and the flakes still present on his cheeks.

“I’m okay.”

“I was so worried,” You breathed out heavily, voice wavering.

He smiled softly, arms circling around your waist, “I know.”

“What am I doing here Quinn, where is your family?” You questioned, a jolt of panic rushing through your body.

He shook his head reassuringly, in his usual captainly way, “Waiting elsewhere. I just needed a moment with you.”

You relaxed into his hug and let you two meld back together, embracing in the silence and cold detachedness of the medical room. Breathing in his familiar smell, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in until there was no space between you - he rocked you a little, murmuring sweet reassurances for what seemed like hours.

When he pulled away, his eyes were wide and concerned, despite the fact that he was one with blood on his face and a bruise forming on his arm, and who knows where else. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered and you nodded, pulling your spirit together and back from the embrace.

You breathed out, trying to stay strong, “Will you let me know when I can see you?”

“Yes,” he swallowed, watching as you stepped away, “I love you, okay?”

You pulled open the door, nodding sternly, “I love you too,”

The corridor was cold and silent as you walked through it, save for the way your heels clicked against the hard surface. You forced your heart to harden over again, retreat back into its shell, shield your emotions. 

Quinn had his head in his hands, something had to change, and he was going to make sure it was him. He wanted you there forever, always by his side, he needed to make sure that you knew that. He needed you to be his. There was a ring box hidden in his locker for a girlfriend that his family had no idea about, but he had never been more sure of anything in his life.

[kathleenkatmary]

I really think it depends on the situation. If there's already a conversation happening where people are disagreeing with each other and they're doing it respectfully, then yeah, I think it's okay to jump on in. If it's not being done respectfully then it's probably best to just not engage at all. And of course, if the OP has asked for opinions, or you know them to be someone who welcomes different opinion and enjoys engaging in discussion, that's fine.

But if none of those things are true... well, I think it still depends. If it's a pretty common opinion within fandom, I don't think there's anything wrong with going to your own blog and talking about what you think. But if it's one that's not particularly common where it would be pretty obvious who you were responding to, then it's probably best to just leave it alone. Unless their take is like, horribly offensive in a way that's bigoted or based in really hateful mindsets or something like that.

I do think, though, that if someone blatantly mistags something (like putting anti-ship posts in a ship's tag, or shippy posts in an anti-ship tag, stuff like that), then that person does kind of lose the right to being treated according to respectful fandom etiquette, and you'd be totally in the right to rip their garbage takes to shreds.

As far as whether to to use replies or reblogs... I have no idea. I've never really found there to be too much difference when it comes to this kind of thing. Replies are good for when you want to respond to something but you don't want the whole post blasted out for all of your followers. So I suppose if your mindset is something along the lines of "I want to respond but I don't want a bunch of other people on my side of the fandom seeing it so that it won't result in a dogpile". But I feel like if that's the thought process behind it then it probably is just best to not respond at all.

EDIT: I also think that it's really important to pay attention to how an OP has tagged something. If someone has been careful to tag things in a way that it was clearly only meant to be seen and engaged with by certain parts of the fandom, then I do think it's pretty shitty to respond to it. While I am generally of the mindset that if someone is putting something on social media they're putting it on a public forum and they shouldn't get upset if people reply in disagreement, I also think the whole point of careful tagging like that is to make it less public, and that should be respected. I do feel like it's worth taking the few extra seconds to go back to the original post to see how it's tagged before responding.

And in general I just have very little respect for the "well people are too sensitive these days and if they can't handle a little disagreement on an opinion they post then they're just too sensitive and trying to isolate themselves from any disagreement and that's just bad etc etc." Because we have no idea what's going on in anyone else's lives. What they do and how they act on tumblr is just a small part of who most people here are, and there's just no way to look at how they act on tumblr or engage with fandom and know anywhere close to enough about them to make those kinds of judgement. For all we know, that person might deal with disagreements and different opinions all day with grace and respect, and they like their fandom hobby to be the one place where they don't have to deal with that. There are all kinds of reasons that a person might not want to engage with different opinions when it comes to fandom, and in most cases you're probably never going to know enough about that person to know why, or to make some kind of "well they just can't handle anyone disagreeing with them so they shouldn't be posting online" assessment.

So many people act like this whole "people just can't handle others disagreeing with them" idea is like, THE big problem of fandom, or even just online discourse, but I think the biggest problem is how little respect people are willing to extend to others. People will come up with so many excuses to just not have to treat someone else with even just a little bit of respect, and to frame themselves as still being in the right.

i actually need to know people's thoughts on this because at least in my experience the answer to this has drastically changed since i was on tumblr in the 2010s and its driving me fucking insane

*im talking about fandom takes specifically. not someone being horribly evil about a real-life issue or or blatantly factually incorrect. literally just harmless fandom disagreements or differing interpretations of a text/character/etc.

[mitchipedia]

Yep, I'm faceblind

Faceblindness, technically called prosopagnosia, is the inability to recognize faces. I think I first learned about this condition in 2019, in this Washington Post article, and I said, “Yes, that’s me!” I often fail to recognize people I’ve met before.

Lately I’ve been second-guessing my self-diagnosis. While I often fail to recognize people, that is usually not the case. Usually I do recognize folks.

Last week, I listened to this interesting episode of the Revisionist History podcast, which talked about faceblindness and its opposite — super-recognizers, with extraordinary ability to remember the faces of people they’ve met once briefly, or even just seen in a photograph for a few seconds years before.

The podcast shownotes included two links to tests for faceblindness:

troublewithfaces.org Cambridge Face Memory Test

The first test asked questions about my opinion of how well I recognize faces. I scored 65. The test result said that people who score below 70 may have “developmental prosopagnosia” (whatever that is). I considered this test non-definitive.

When I took the second test, holy crap did I score terribly!

The test was in two rounds. The first round showed dozens of faces of people who appeared to be white men, with their hair and ears cropped away from the photos. This is important because faceblind people often look at hairstyles and ear shape as clues for facial recognition. All the men had approximately the same skin color — again, skin color being another gross clue that faceblind people can use to identify faces.

The first batch of photos showed one face at a time, three views — full face, turned a little to the left and a little to the right. I concentrated on the shapes of the chins. One face had a cleft chin, another a pointy chin, another a round chin, another seemed to have a featureless chin.

I thought I maybe did OK on that round of questions.

The second round of photos was different.

For each of the second round, the test showed six of those hairless, earless faces, and asked me to memorize them. Then, the test showed three faces, and asked me to pick the one that had appeared in the previous array of photos.

After going through one or two of those questions, I grinned, because I had absolutely no idea which face appeared in the previous series. The faces did appear different from each other. But I was unable to fix in my mind how they were different. The instant the faces disappeared from the screen, the visual memory of those faces disappeared from my mind. I was guessing entirely at random.

The results page told me that the average score on the test was 80%. A score of 60% or lower “may indicate facebliindness,” the test results page said. My score was 35%.

I am weirdly pleased and proud of this. If I’m going to fail a test, I want to fail spectacularly badly.

So how is it that I am able to recognize faces most of the time? The same way everybody with faceblindness does: Contextual clues. I remember hairstyles, height, build, glasses, skin color, people’s habitual clothing styles. Facial blemish.

Location is a big clue. If I’m expecting to see a person in a particular location and time, I can usually recognize that person.

The other day, I arrived at a dinner in a private room of a local restaurant. I was early — the second person there. I instantly recognized the person who arrived before me. I recognized her skin color, complexion, the shape of her face, her hairstyle. In a social group where many of us wear T-shirts, she is usually dressed nicely — that was a big clue. And she was one of a half-dozen people I expected to attend that dinner. I recognized her easily and greeted her warmly.

Now imagine the same restaurant, if I did not expect to see this woman. Same woman, dressed the same. She recognizes me and greets me — and that’s probably going to be the way it happens, because I am probably not going to recognize her if I am not expecting to see her. In that circumstance, as we talk, I might recognize her voice, which is distinctive. I’ll pick up on clues like her dress, hairstyle, shape of her face, height and so on. Likely she’ll drop a hint in the conversation by mentioning the community association we’re both on the board of. Given that information, I can often recognize a person. And maybe she doesn’t drop that hint, and we talk for a few minutes and then Julie asks me who she was and I say, “I have no idea.”

How do I cope with the disability of faceblindness?

I deal. It’s all I know. It’s not a disability at all. I have led a successful, even privileged life. I have my compensation mechanisms and I do fine.

On the other hand, I have been an introvert my whole life, and have strugged with that, and I think my faceblindness has something to do with that.

But as far as I know, there is nothing I can do about being faceblind, so I live with it and am grateful for my many other blessings.

[farfromharry]

Rejection

Summary: Your head over heels for your friend Lando but he doesn’t feel the same way about you, will that ruin your friendship?

lando norris x reader

w/c 1147

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Y/N had been in love with Lando Norris for years. He didn’t know it, she kept it pretty hidden, but she was truly head over heels. She was waiting for the day she might be able to confess her feelings, but she had no idea if she’d ever have the guts.

Lando was everything she wasn’t. He was confident, cool, and outgoing. Admittedly he intimidated her, but was equally intoxicating. She couldn’t get enough of him. However, every moment spent with him was another moment she wished he was hers.

She was in her own dreamworld. Y/N never could have anticipated that he wouldn’t feel the same way about her.

They were at a party when it happened, she didn’t even know what for this time around. It felt like there was always some sort of party happening when you were friends with Lando Norris.

Y/N couldn’t tell you who’s apartment it was, but it was nice, big. Whoever it was had money and no problem with strangers in their home. She found herself sticking to her friend’s side most of the night. It was mainly Lando, following him around while he chatted to people she’d never seen before, people he apparently knew. She just stood there and smiled, laughed when she was supposed to. He didn’t mind, he even tried to actively include her in conversation where he could. She appreciated it.

There was only so much forced smiling she could take before she decided she’d had enough. She needed some fresh air and a break from the booming music.

She placed her hand on Lando’s arm, smiling softly at him. This one was a genuine smile. Her joy was always real when she was with him. “I’m gonna go get some air,” she whispered. She didn’t want anyone to think she had disappeared without saying goodbye.

His eyes fell on her and she could have sworn she saw them sparkle. “Want me to come with?”

He looked happy. She didn’t want to pull him away from having fun. She would be fine on her own.

“No, it’s okay. I won’t be long.”

Y/N made a beeline for the balcony she’d spotted earlier in the night, feeling grateful when the cool night air met her flushed skin. Even being around Lando made her flustered. She needed to calm down before she saw him again.

Speak of the devil. He must have known she was thinking about him.

The door to the balcony opened and he laughed loudly as he made his way over to her. He wasn’t tipsy exactly, but he had a little buzz from the alcohol, much like herself. A few more drinks and he’d probably be gone though.

“It’s crazy in there.”

She hummed. “Nice out here. Quiet.”

He stood beside her, mirroring her position of arms on the railing as they looked at the stars. They were so close their arms were touching. She wouldn’t admit how much it made her heart race; even such a simple touch.

He smiled. “It is.” Then his head turned to look her way and he nudged her slightly. “The company’s not bad either.”

She hadn’t meant to kiss him, it had just kind of happened. He had looked so handsome in the light and she had thought they were having a really sweet moment. She could never have anticipated how a simple mistake would ruin so much. If she had she wouldn’t have done it. Y/N thought it would be like in the movies. The two friends who had been secretly in love with one another the whole time, kissed and finally admitted their feelings. Movies like those always had a fairytale ending and she thought she was going to get one of her own.

Lando didn’t kiss her back. In fact, he gently pushed her away, grimacing for her to see. Her heart sank, deep into a pit in her stomach. She knew she’d fucked up. “Oh god.”

He felt like a monster. “No.” Y/N was an angel, one of the greatest people in his life. There was nothing wrong with her. She was kind, beautiful and he could only imagine that she would devote herself to him. But he just didn’t feel that way about her. Maybe he was broken. This was going to make her spiral. “Y/N, I’m sorry.”

Her eyes were already watering and her heart was aching. She couldn’t even look at him. Never in her life had she felt like such an idiot. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. Her bottom lip trembled and she quickly got to her feet. She couldn’t stay here, not when she knew he would be pitying her all night.

Carefully, he grabbed her wrist, hoping to stop her from leaving. “Y/N, please. Let me explain.” He would get on his knees and beg if he had to.

This was exactly why she had kept her feelings bottled up for so long. She had a gut feeling that he didn’t feel the same and it had been a lapse in judgement that led to her making a move. She regretted everything. She had lost it all. She looked like a kicked puppy standing there in front of him, her heart slowly breaking. How could he have been so cruel?

She looked… desperate, for something he couldn’t give her. Desperate for his approval, desperate for him to say this was a misunderstanding, desperate for him to love her.

“It has nothing to do with you. You’re amazing— perfect even.” The compliments were just to soften the blow, she could hear the but coming from a mile away. “But, I don’t feel that way about you. I do love you, but as my friend. I’m sorry.”

Whatever was left of her heart shattered. It was the pity that killed her in the end. She could see him drowning in it and she didn’t know that she could take it. Before he could even speak a word, she was tugging her arm out of his grasp and running out of the room. The humiliation was eating her alive.

This time he watched her go, knowing he had just contributed to fucking up one of the best friendships he had ever had.

It took a few minutes for his brain to catch up to what had just happened. He followed the path she’d taken, heading back into the party and trying to spot her face in the crowd. He wasn’t having much luck with it.

Max found him first, grabbing his arm and stopping him from going anywhere. “I just saw Y/N leave in tears. What the hell happened?”

He sighed. He was stone cold sober now. This was quickly turning into the worst night of his life. “Oh mate, I fucked up.” What the hell was he supposed to do?

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[asce-of-hearts]

Good Grief

Contents: When Toji got hired to kill a seemingly innocent woman, he didn't expect cupid to shoot him in the heart instead.

more Toji content here

TAG LIST

WC: 6.3k

WARNINGS: TOJI WANTS TO KILL YOU FOR A WHILE (ITS HIS JOB), TOJI BEING DOWN BAD, INTRUSIVE THOUGHTS FROM TOJIS BEHALF WRITTEN LIKE THIS, SMUT!!!!!! SMUT SMUT SMUT SMUT, STRANGERS TO LOVERS!!! PENETRATIVE SEX, DOGGY STYLE, MATING PRESSES, AGAINST THE WALL, ORAL (RECIEVING), FINGERING, SQUIRTING, PRAISE, RAW SEX, BREEDING KINK.

Toji expected an easy job when he got this call.

How hard could it be? You were young, you didn't expect it. You were a woman who had the bad luck of having a bitter ex who put a target on your head. It wasn't your fault, really, but there was so much Toji could do when he had already accepted the cash and spent it all in horse races. It would be swift, it would be quick, it would be dealt with in the blink of an eye. You would stop breathing, and your funeral would be held a few days after, probably.

The street was crowded, providing a nice camouflage for him. He only needed to pretend to bump into you, and he would shoot in that second. You wouldn't even feel it. He tries to find you in the ocean of people, eyes scanning for faces amongst faces. And then, he sees you, completely oblivious to what's about to happen. Shit, you have such a pretty face.

It's not your fault that you're completely his type. It's not your fault he's about to put a bullet through your abdomen.

He walks closer, taking his time. Not knowing why guilt is bubbling inside his stomach. He has done this countless times before, he has killed people much younger and much older. And yet, this time, he feels like he shouldn't be. How idiotic.

His plan falls into action before anyone can react. Your bodies touch in an "accidental bump" because he pretends he can't see you. His fingers reach for the trigger, and the gun gets stuck. He curses under his breath as you take a step back. You're about to give him a mouthful, for sure.

"Hey!" You gasp, looking at his shirt, and he swallows, hiding the gun as best as he can while unsticking the trigger. He really needs this job, he really, really does. "We like the same band." Your words hit him like a truck going a thousand miles per hour. His breath hitches, and he stops toying with the trigger. His brows furrow, just a little, completely out of his control.

"They're shit." He spits out, curt. And you give him a grin, eyes crinkling at the corners. He prevents the blush from rising to his ears as he clenches his knuckles inside his pockets until they're white.

"That's why I like them." Oh, he could marry you right there. He could kneel and propose with that same bullet he was about to put through your pretty skull. He could, he could, he could. But he won't, instead, an enigmatic smile plays on his lips, even if it ends up looking more like a grimace because of his scar. You offer him a much kinder look, much less sharp than he could ever aspire to look at anyone. "I'm ___." You stick your hand out, an awkward gesture. He feels about to faint, his hand strangely clammy as he takes yours. He completely engulfs your little fingers, he could break them if he wanted to.

"Toji." Only his name manages to slip out of his lips. He doesn't know, he really doesn't know how or why or when, but he feels so uneasy next to you, so small. He doesn't know you, he doesn't have to know you, he could end this quickly and disappear from your life, even if your ghost would haunt him in the corners of the room he slept in at night. But he finds himself unable to. You're a vision, you're a blessing, you're everything he could've asked for. Or at least he thinks so, at least his heart tells him that. Does he even have a heart? He doesn't know, he can feel it pounding inside his ribcage, taunting him, making fun of his lack of self-control. Since when has he become like this? Women have never been a problem for him. So why? Why are you?

And when did he ask for your number? And when did he get your number? And when did he agree to walk with you towards God knows where? He doesn't know. And to be honest, he doesn't quite care.

The fact that you're capable to talk and talk and talk and not have him register even half the words should be studied. He should be studied. He can only stare.

You're pretty, too pretty actually. The way you style your hair, the way your body moves, the way you talk with your hands while talking with your mouth. Yeah, you're enticing. He can't help it when his eyes dart downwards, at the pair of perfect tits that bounce a little every time you jump excitedly while recalling something.

And he's great at pretending. Really, he is awesome at pretending he's listening. Just a few "yeah's" and "what else, doll?" are able to have you rambling for another eternity. Your voice is a nice background noise, manages to keep his darkest thoughts at bay. And also, distracts him from the fact that he can't kill you at this little cafe, and that he's probably going to have to intimidate the cashier into letting you both go for free, because... he doesn't have a penny to his name in that moment. Or better yet...

"Hey— Sorry for interruptin'," His voice is a little gruff in that moment. You nod, as if forgiving him. How pious. "You ever had a drink and run?" He asks, giving you a lazy grin as he pushes his chair a little. You give him a puzzled look.

"A... A what? Is that like a special drink or—?" He lets out a dry chuckle, then takes your hand.

"You take a drink," He pushes your almost empty cup closer to you, his eyes scanning the cafe until he finds a viable route. You take a sip, cocking a brow as you put the cup down. Then, he lifts you up from your chair with ease, you choke a gasp. "And then we run."

You don't even register the moment in which your feet have left the ground, or when you're blocks away from that cafe. Your eyes are very wide, and then he sets you back down on the floor once you're inside an alley way. It seems to have happened in mere seconds, in the blink of an eye. He wears that same lazy smile, leaning against a wall as he crosses his arms.

"Guess... guess that was my first." You mumble, suddenly red in the face as Toji cackles at your reaction, peeking through the corner to see that nobody has followed you both. Nobody has, which is relieving. "Great first impresion, Toji. But you could've asked me to pay."

The playful tone of your words makes him feel something strange, and get hard underneath his pants. He clears his throat, taking advantage of the darkness of the night to subtly hide his problem. He shrughs.

"Thought you girls hated that," He says, wrapping an arm around your waist as he pulls you out of the alley way. "Now, in my... chilvarious pursuit. I intend to walk you home." Your giggle is enough of an answer for him to continue walking alongside you, guided by your little form, until you stop on your tracks, eyes very wide.

"I forgot my purse in there."

Well, shit.

Using his... abilities to help you break into your own home has Toji now granting you two favors in a day. Getting you home safe and not killing you. Two more than he has ever granted anyone else.

It's funny, really. How you have escaped death today. In another time, another place, another universe you're dead, bleeding out on the ground, and haunt him with your lifeless eyes whenever he closes his. Fortunately or not, that didn't happen. But it could, it should.

Your apartment is small, cozy. There's not much to see, nothing particularly valuable to steal, but it's yours, and that makes it certainly special, even if he would never admit it.

"Please, take a seat. I'll bring you a glass of water." You say, kicking off your shoes as running to the kitchen to pour two glasses of water. You gulp down yours quickly, as if you were agitated or short of breath. He's more languid in his actions, slowly surveying the place, looking for threats or weapons, for someone to pounce at him and cut his throat. He finds none, the only disturbing thing being a scale figure of a little dog with eyes that are too big for it's head. Staring at him, defying him, taunting him to finish the job he started. Your figure plopping down next to him over the sofa the only thing that pulls him out of his disturbing thoughts and menacing whispers.

"Thanks." His voice is gruff, and those words roll out of his tongue unnaturaly. He feels strange, out of place. But he takes the cup you've given him with gentle hands. "You don't mind me staying for a while, do you?" He gives you a tired smile with half lidded eyes. Maybe in that time he'll be able to muster enough courage to finally end you. Mercifully, maybe he'll choke you to death, crushing your windpipe will certainly be easy, quick and swift. You'll be dead before he even finishes that glass of water.

Then again, the cup is already half empty when he sets it down. And you're still breathing, chatting at him about something he didn't entirely listen to.

"Let me kiss you," Your words take him by susprise, tensing. You chuckle at this, hands coming to cop a feeling at his muscles. You had wanted to do this for a while. "You took me on a date and took me home as well. You clearly deserve a reward." You tilt your head to the side, like a puppy. Cute.

"Kissing s'my reward?" He grins, dark thoughts buried for now. "Thought I deserved more than that. Guess I better be on my best behavior if I want anything else next time." He purrs, leaning closer. You cup his face with his hands, feeling the sharpness of his jawline. And press a soft, open mouthed kiss. Barely a peck. You both let out an airy laugh, eyes closed, deepening the kiss.

"Well... you haven't taken me out for dinner yet..." You murmur, and his hands trap your waist, rubbing soft circles over the clothes skin with his thumbs.

"You want us to leave without paying once more, princess?" He croons, slowly setting you down over the sofa. Your pretty form sprawled out for him. Legs spread, threathening to wrap around his waist, and face a little flushed. He takes a good moment to look at you, really look at you. The prettiest thing he's ever laid eyes on. His eyes flash with something strange, regret, almost anger. And he shakes his head. "No. Sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"I want you to do it, Toji." You say firmly, taking your shirt off. Breasts exposed, falling to the side as you set yourself back on the sofa. "Please. I- I won't mind..." You avert your gaze, biting your finger. And he takes a deep breath. Rough, calloused hands come to rest over the swell of your breasts. He gives them a little squeeze, smiling to himself when he hears the smallest gasp leave your lips. "Stop teasing." You whisper, and he finally takes his shirt off.

"Sorry, doll. Didn't mean to keep you waiting," He sighs, slowly pulling down your pants, you lift your hips to make it easier for him to do so. Your panties already wet with slick, a little stain making itself visible. He grins, showing that row of perfectly aligned sharp teeth in the faintest yellowish color. He sticks his tongue out, and liiiiiiicks at your clothed cunt, sucking at where he thinks your clit is. Earning himself a moan of his name, and his hair getting pulled with roughness. "Eager for me, mama?"

"I told you to stop playing." You hiss, and he tears your underwear this time. Shreds of cloth falling all over the place as he places both of your thighs parallel to his ears.

"M'not, and I ain't fucking you today," Another looooong lick all over the expanse of your slick. You shudder. "But I'll make you cum. After all... I promised to be on my best behavior. Didn't I?" His words are slurred, whispered against your heat. And he dives in, arms perfectly securing his grip on your legs. You can see the muscle flex every time you try and jerk back from his expert touches, keeping you in place. He sucks at your clit, eating you out like a man starved. It starts slow at first, allowing you to ride his face comfortably, grind all over that perfectly straight nose. And then, it becomes sloppy, animalistic. He spits at your hole, a thick glob of translucid saliva that travels downwards until it lands on your other winking hole, his tongue invades your insides. The muscle fucking you with expert presition, knowing exactly where to aim. Your g-spot getting grazed and teased in a maddening way. Your eyes have rolled back, your fingers digging into his scalp as you moan and whrite under Toji's embrace.

He goes back to your clit, making out with it even more eagerly than he did with you. Kissing and smooching and puckering his lips so he won't ever let go of that precious little skin pearl. Your head is spinning, circles in your eyes as Toji completely devours your pretty pussy.

"Cum for me, ma. Think I can make you- hah-" He smiles when he seas your chest heaving as you try and catch your breath in that brief second of respite he has given you. "Think you can squirt all over my face?" He doesn't let you answer, two fingers driving themselves inside your gummy walls, not asking for permission. You howl, throwing your head back and lifting your hips as he starts to finger fuck you roughly. "Whatever. I'll see for myself." He hisses, spitting over your clit again. Fingers fucking you, tongue suctioning. His pace is relentless, completely ruthless. He's aching for the complete destruction of any thought that could form that isn't related to him or his ministrations. And finally, you feel the know in your stomach unraveling quickly, without warning.

"Cummingcummingcumming!" You repeat like a mantra, squirting all over Toji's face. He opens his mouth wide, catching as much of it as he can inside his mouth. Once satisfied, he licks his lips, and cleans his mouth with his arm while shooting you a lusty glare.

"Think we can make that two, doll?"

"I didn't kill her," He plants himself in front of the man who put a target on your back. Like a child about to be scolded, even if he could break that fuckers neck if he wanted to. For now, he has self restraint. "It didn't work."

"Well, make it work!" He barks, and Toji feels his self restraint slipping further and further away. "Get inside her house and kill her. Just don't fuck her. You hear me, Toji? Do not, fuck her."

"Alright." He murmurs, walking away with a cloudy mind.

Now he really has to fuck you.

"You scared me. For a moment I thought you just wanted a quick fuck and then you would ghost me."

Well, you were half right. He had tried to ghost you. To forget about you and your beautiful face and your heavenly cunt. But he couldn't, he ended up tossing and turning thinking and thinking and thinking about how your stupid ex could have gotten another assassin, another pawn to get rid of you. In that same moment, you could be dead. Someone stabbed you, shot in the head, in the stomach, holes piercing through your skin like it's soft, melted butter. He can't stop thinking about it and he ends up calling, just to hear you, to make sure you're still breathing.

"Nah. I'm not that type of guy." He flashes you a lazy grin, crouching a little so he won't hit himself in the head as he enters your little place. He takes a good look at you. You're wearing a worn out shirt of a stupid band he also likes, your hair is a little messy, you're only wearing some shorts that barely fit and your tiny toes are exposed to the cold floor. He wants to groan. You're exactly his type.

Instead, his large hands meet your face, cupping it gently. And he presses a soft smooch to your forehead. Barely there, enough for him to smell your shampoo and feel the softness of your skin. So different from him, so perfect in his arms, so everything he has ever desired. The knife, poisoned and sharpened, forgotten somewhere inside his pockets. And he sighs, defeated, resigned. He isn't killing you. He has decided.

"I'm gonna fuck you so hard tonight." He says with all the seriousness in the world, green irises digging holes in your head from how intense his gaze is. And your eyes widen, appalled, flustered. A dumb, shy smile appearing on your face.

"Ah-... Alright then." You muster, closing the door as you guide him to your room.

"Just stick it in, Toji. I'll be fine." You have been pleading for him to hurry up ever since you entered the bedroom. And he has refused, because he knows that his size is... considerable, to say the least. "You act like I'm a virgin who has never, you know. I'll be fine, I swear."

"___," He tries to be patient, forcing a smile. "You might as well be one, because trust me, you haven't seen a cock like mine."

You pout, glaring at him. Cute.

"Is it a meter long or something?"

"It is," He deadpans, and for a moment you short circuit at the curtness of his words. Then his gaze softens again. "No, but its big. And it'll hurt if I stick it in right away. So, you'll quit insisting, and you'll let me get you ready to take all of me like a good girl. We clear?"

Your pride would never let you admit that being called that stroke a chord it shouldn't have. And you fold, immediately, with a loud sigh.

"Fiiiiiine," You pull down your shorts, giving him full access to your cunt. Already slick, just making out with him gets you all wet, how embarrasing. He would never tell you that his boxers are exactly in the same state, embarrasingly flooded in pre. "Can you still hurry up?" You whine, and his face meets your pussy in that instant. Mouth delving into his favorite meal without any other care in the world. He's warm and he's strong, and you're lost in the sensation of having his mouth sucking at your clit, toying with his tongue in the process. Multitasking, how quaint.

Your legs over his shoulders has become his favorite thing, specially since it involves you crushing his head with your thighs. He doesn't care about the lack of air, at how his lungs burn as you pull him deeper and deeper and never let go of his hair as he continues to eat you out, tongue delving inside your little hole. He alternates between long, languid licks all over the expanse of your slick and tongue-fucking you like he was born with that exact purpose. His hips hump the mattress, aching for some sort of relief inside his trousers, underwear completely ruined right now by how much he's leaking from the angry, red tip of his clothed cock. He grunts and groans as he continues, his job isn't done until you cum at least twice inside his mouth, or over his face. His eyes closed, concentrating as you continue to pull at his raven locks. And finally he feels it, or rather hears you scream his name louder than before. Tensing, his ministrations stop, but his hands come to rest over your hips, steading you as you ride your first orgasm.

You breathe heavily, eyes wide and seeing stars as you recover from the intense sensation. Your grip on his hair loosens, and then tightens once more as his fingers enter the equation this time. The slick sounds of your wet cunt recieving his digits with all the joy in the world almost make you cringe, a reminder of what you are doing, and with who.

"W-Wait— I— S'too—" He hushes you, his fingers pumping in and out of you quicker, his tongue circling your clit as he wears the dirtiest grin.

"Shh, easy there. Can't you see she's enjoyin' this too much? Wouldn't want her to miss out on another biiiiig o," His words are slurred as he talks to your cunt in the most pussy-drunk way possible, spitting at your hole before curling his fingers, making you throw your head back and arch your back. "See? You're enjoying this soooo much, dirty girl. You don't want me to stop, ever." He growls, lips meeting your clit once more, and sucking. The combination of his thick fingers fucking you like he hates you and his tongue sucking the soul out of you through your clit makes your head spin, you almost feel dizzy, almost feel out of it, almost feel like you're about to have a heart attack. But you don't, instead, you squirt again. All over his face, coating his upper body with your precious slick. And Toji recieves it gladly, opening his mouth and sticking his tongue out like a whore, drinking you.

This time he allows you to catch your breath. Two orgasms in a row aren't an easy task, even for him. He won't admit it but his hand is just a little tired, and his cock aches like never before. But he has to wait, he must—

"Toji," Your voice comes out in a wheeze, out of breath. But somehow, in some way, you sound angry. "If you don't fuck me right now I will ride you until you're cumming blood." You hiss, and he grins.

"Don't treathen me with a good time." He whispers, stading up and pulling you towards the end of your bed. He flips you over, making you yelp and he spanks your ass, once. "And don't talk to me like that," He spits at your pussy, a little gaped now, ready to accomodate him and what he described as his 'considerable manhood'. You wonder if its really that big, maybe he just has a big ego. So you turn your head to the side, just enough to get a good view of him taking his pants off. Belt falling to the ground with a loud clank, and then he kicks off his pants. You're met with a bulge, a tent, and you suck air through your teeth as his cock is freed from its confinements. Big? Big is an understatement, that thing is monstrous. Menacing and tall, slapping against his washboard abs once as it bobs up and down, threathening to rearrange your insides.

Oh, you can't wait.

He pumps it twice, as if it could get any bigger, any harder. And spreads your hole open with his free hand, spitting again, you can feel his spit traveling all the way down. He aligns his cock head with your entrance, making you tense.

"Easy there, I already told you..." He murmurs, hands steadying your hips, or rather trapping you in place. "It won't hurt if you relax. Come on, be strong for me, ma. Didn't come all the way here just for you to dip out at the last second."

"Hold me." You can only murmur, only plead. And his gaze softens, his body bending until it falls over you like a protective blanket. His abs against your back, his breathing behind your ear. A shaky breath escapes your lips as the head smooooooches the wet entrance to your cunt, and slooooowly pushes in. The sensation is foreign, but not unpleasant, he stays there for a while. Because if Toji moved further, he would've cum on the spot.

"Heh, s'like I'm mountin' you..." He murmurs, one hand traveling to rub the expanse of your stomach in a soothing motion. A part of your brain is relieved, the other wishes it would travel further downwards to toy with your abused clit. "We... We have two options, mama. I can thrust it in quickly, in one move, or I could take it slow, let you get used to it. The one you feel most comfortable with, don't want you to end up with a punctured lung or something because I did the wrong thing." You know it is physically impossible for his cock to pierce in that deep, but oh, does it feel like it could in that moment. You try and think, try and form a coherent sentence, organize any thought that could appear in your mind aside from Toji mounting you like a bitch in heat.

"Please," You whimper. "Just fuck me, Toji. Just fuck me." You plead, and if he's something, that is obedient. So, with a lick to the shell of your ear, he thrusts it all the way inside. The motion is quick, forceful, it passes all the restraints your pretty, tight pussy could've had. His cock now nestled deep inside, hugged by your warm walls. He feels like he's in heaven, no pussy should feel this good. But then again, you're exactly his type.

The second thrust is slower, languid, testing the waters.

"Look, she doesn't wanna let go," He can feel your walls gripping him so tight it almost hurts, not wanting him to pull out. He goes back to standing as he keeps you bent over your bed, legs shaking as he presses your lower back against the mattress, keeping your in place. He pulls back until only the tip remains inside, and then he thrusts it back inside. You moan loudly, and he grunts when your insides tighten even more. He has lost any and all restraints, mental and physical. He is now fucking you, mounting you like a dog mounts a bitch. His hands are busy roaming over your body, finally one settling around your waist to have an anchor, something to help him fuck you harder, faster, better, and the other trapping both your wrists with ease. His head is spinning, little hearts in his pupils as he blows your back out like nobody has ever done before. Completely enamoured by the way your ass recoils and ripples every time his pelvis meets the soft expanse of skin. He's a man possessed, possessed by carnal thoughts and desires, and for a strange ache in his heart he decides to ignore in that moment. There's more thing's to take care of right now, like seeing how hard he can make you orgasm, and how many rounds he can go until he's cumming blood.

Lots of things to figure out.

You lay there, next to him, naked and spent. Your breathing slow, your skin littered with bruises and bite marks. Your legs haven't stopped shaking, even while asleep. Your back faces him as he props himself on one elbow. Rough, calloused hands coming to caress your naked skin, eliciting little goose-bumps. He smiles to himself.

He could kill you in that moment, actually. It wouldn't be hard. You're so small, so weak. He could really just... press a little too hard on your chest and break a rib, puncture a lung, watch it as you gasp for air, plead for him to help you, only for him to not do it. To just... look at you like nothing is wrong. But he won't, he can't.

Fuck. He really wants to see your face when you orgasm now.

Toji tosses the cash right at the feet of your ex.

"I'm not doing it."

"What?"

"I'm not killing her." He deadpans, standing tall. Eyes cold as he stares at the man who almost made him miss out on the best sex of his life, with the woman who he wants to spend the rest of his miserable nights with.

"You can't do this," Your ex hisses, your ex, how did he fumble so hard? How could he ever loose a woman like you? Stupid motherfucker. "You can't do this! I want her to die! If I can't have her then nobody can! Go and kill her in this instant!"

"Well, too bad," He shrugs. "Already had her for quite a while." He grins, looking away as he rememorates all the times he made you scream and moan under him. At how you were crying when he was finished with you, and maybe he was too, cock oversensitive from how good it felt to be fucking your warm walls.

"You did not," He screams at Toji's words. "You did not! I'll kill that whore myself. I'll ki—" The words are cut by a gunshot, right between that man's brows. And Toji crouches down, retrieving the money.... and stealing some more from his wallet, because he can. Finally, he tucks the gun away, and pulls out his phone, dialing someone.

"Remember you said you wanted me to take you out for dinner?" He says, trying to remember any nice place he knows.

"I... I guess so. Why?" Your voice distorts through the line, making you sound like a little squeaking mouse.

"Well, get changed. I'll be there in a while."

"I thought we were leaving without paying again."

"Nah, I had the cash this time." His hand finds the small of your back, guiding you outside the restaurant. Nothing fancy, just a good sushi place he knew. It feels like the first official date, intended to be romantic, to be a moment for the two of you. How many weeks has it really been since you two met? Since Toji decided not to kill you. Well, too late for worrying about that, his stomach is full, you're both a little drunk, and your apartment is quiet. In what seems like seconds you're already in your room, making out as he spreads your legs over the bed. Your dress lifted until the skirt is only hanging around your waist, and Toji's hands grope at your breasts over the fabric, making you moan and gasp between sloppy kisses and tongues dancing against each other. He peppers wet kisses all over your jaw and neck, biting over your collarbone, peppering little marks that'll stay there for a while. How he wishes it could be forever.

He pulls the dress down, looking up at you with lusty eyes as he lowers his body, his mouth quickly finding your nipple and giving it a looooong lick all over the aureola, then sucking, just barely, enjoying how the other hardens between his fingers. He keeps licking and sucking at your tits, alternating between lewd slurps of your skin to full on suckling. His hand travels downwards, rubbing your clit over your panties. Useless pieces of fabric that get in the way of his favorite little pussy. He would rip them apart, but he's trying to play nice this time. After all he promised to be on his best behavior. He tugs at the hem, as if asking for permission to tug them down. You only give him a shaky gasp in response, and so his hand is finally able to find its designated place. Fingers that rub slow circles over your clit, then flick it gently, you throw your head back, and Toji uses your hair as leverage to pull your head upwards once more.

"Wanna see your face, ma. Want you to look me in the eye when you cum," He smiles. "You'll forgive me for not eating you out today? I just can't think of anythin' other that splitting you open on my cock. Making you squirt all over me again." He says with a ragged breath, as if he was agitated just thinking about it. His fingers pump in and out of your hole at a steady pace, then remain inside, pressing and taunting at your sweet spots as they curl against your g-spot. You nod, mouth agape as sweet moans continue to pour out of your lips, music to his ears.

When he feels like he has spread your pussy enough, he pulls his fingers out. Licking them clean with the lewdest grin.

"Y'know, I kept thinking about fucking you in missionary, but I didn't want you to think I'm boring this early in our relationship," You squeak when he lifts you up, easily manhandling you. Your body hairs stand when the cold wall presses against your back, making you shiver. He keeps looking at you with that intense stare he has, as if he wanted to devour you whole just with a look. His hands steady you by grabbing your ass, your legs hanging uselessly against either one of his shoulders. And you're aware just of how obscene the situation really is. Your legs will be disgustingly sore by the morning, you're sure of that. But its no use worrying about that right now, not when Toji's cock is pressing incessantly against your folds, rubbing himself over them to coat it with your slick, which drips out of your cunt like a leaking faucet, little droplets pooling at the floor. You feel like a slut, so wet just from getting a little manhandled by this absolute mountain of a man. Your mouth falls into a little 'o' once the tip tries to push past the resistance of your little hole, easily due to the amount of slick you're producing. It slides inside in a swift motion, half way. And you already feel knocked out, like he really has punctured a lung or another internal organ. And he, oh, he feels like his heart is about to jump out of his chest and crack through his ribs with just how pretty you look all fucked out on his cock.

"You're tearing me apart." You whine, mewling as he thrusts forward, burying his cock all the way inside. He looks downwards for just a moment, seeing the little bulge that protrudes from inside. He's there, buried to the hilt, and a manic grin appears over his handsome features, scar widening as he does so.

"Oh, I am," You feel like the hole apartment building shakes from how hard he's thrusting, veins popping up from the sheer strenght of his grip on you. "And you're looooving it. Aren't you, sweet girl?" You feel like your head is spinning at his words, squirting again in what feels like a split second just from how deep he's reaching. Your eyes wide, mouth agape and brows furrowed. This is what he wanted to see, that gorgeous expression when he made you come undone under him, when you were starting to get fucking stupid just from recieving his generous twenty-eight centimeters inside your aching hole. You're over the moon, he's over the moon. And your cunt? Your cunt is overstuffed, overjoyed, overeverything as he fucks the orgasm out of you, completely drenched in your essence.

"Is it too early to tell you I've always wanted the first one to be a girl?" He says, hips moving at a steady pace, red imprints of his fingers left all over your thighs and ass cheeks. You feel like the air is being knocked out of your longs, until all you can breathe in is the masculine scent of sweat and cheap cologne that comes from his body. "You will give me one, right, ___?" He asks, practically whimpering at the idea of knocking you up, of making you his. And you nod, breaking him completely.

The wall is forgotten as you hit the mattress. He spits at your hole, hands on the underside of your thighs as he folds you in half, like a pretzel, and slides himself inside you once more.

"Yes, Toji! I- I love you!" You whine, and he cums inside. Raw, unfiltered, moaning as he pours all of him inside. But it's not enough, clearly not enough, when his cock still stands tall and proud, aching to make sure you don't leave this bed if you aren't pregnant.

"I love you, I love you, I love you," He repeats like a mantra, lost in his thoughts. "I'm gonna make you pregnant, I'm gonna take your last name and our children. Oh, our children," His voice breaks as his mouth falls agape, practically drooling as he sees the overstuffed results of his ministrations. His cum overflowing from your cunt, and he still needs more, needs to pump you full of his kids. "With my eyes, and your nose, and your everything." Another load escapes him, how pathetic, how silly, he's cumming so fast and so much just from thinking about your future together. He's a man possessed, a man in love.

The bump is small, barely noticeable. If you wear one of his shirts it almost seems like you aren't pregnant. But he insists on rubbing it every chance he gets.

The last couple months of domestic bliss have tamed him, made him gain a few pounds as well. He's like a big cat, an enormous black panther that curls to your side every chance it gets. And you couldn't ask for anything more. Standing next to the kitchen counter, snacking on whatever craving your body decided it needed this time, and his hands leave your body for a moment.

"Would you look at this," He starts, and you turn around to find him with a ring in hand. A golden band with a small gemstone in the color of his eyes. And you almost jump from the surprise, stumbling backwards. He chuckles. "Jesus, woman. You're acting like I'm pointing a gun at you."

Your face heats up, brows furrowing.

"Can't you be normal for once?" You say, tears already pooling at the corners of your eyes, and he sighs. Nodding as he gets in one knee.

"___, will you marry m—" You're jumping over him before he can finish the sentence. Answering with a tender kiss pressed over his lips as he slides the band over your ring finger.

siiiiiiiigh, my first longfic in a while. hope you enjoyed this c:

have a great day/night

TAGGING: @sunnymmoon  @lilithlunas    @eroscastle @goldenglow149 @lurexin @stranger00001 @kitzusune @mizzhellsingsstuff @lakxcpsta @coolnekochan9961 @notreallyablogger @lilyalone @oliviathatgirl @hannas16 @mimihaitani @raxshall @ayn-yurbestie @janeisnotonline @architectofsuffering @mrstraffy @thatoneweirdkidattheplayground @poopooindamouf @samstrav @yutterfly @staarflowerr @nanamiswife @majissunshine @privthemis @starberryzos @waywardfanwinner @darlingken @tenaciousavenueavenue @l-lailiy @bluemailhiot @kaylarilla @snowsilver2000 @nutz4nainaiiii @mallowryblog @whatupbishs @vex-ria @amayaaaxx @sofi4dsam @moemeowsalot @lazypostfandomer @lovelycharaaa @jinxatdawn @arminsxseaxshell @suna-yoshihara @claymoreshaze @sol4rm00n

[mysterymachine67]

SO, i want you to hear me out.

i have to remember all my stuff for re, but let's say we have Leon when he's still just starting out as a cop before he even goes to raccoon city and our beloved reader is a captain in the police department. Leon is a little tired after it all, filing cases and spending nights at the station. eventually the reader catches Leon while he's finishing up documenting a case and they finally get to talking. sooner rather than later they discover they share a couple hobbies and slowly they begin to talk. Leon is stressed and who else but the captain of the station is going to help him and reward him for his hard work?

PAIRING -> Leon S. Kennedy x M!Reader

SUMMARY -> Leon’s new, a rookie. He does his best, stays late to do and catch up on work, and is one of the best men you got even for him to be new. What happens when he finally gets to have a full conversation with his captain?

NSFW. MINOR’S DNI.

I wanna bite him.

You’ve only known him for about a month and he’s already your favorite. Yes, you’re well aware you shouldn’t be picking favorites, but he stays late, gets papers done quick, and does things he doesn’t need to be doing until a whole month. Meanwhile all the other “older” cops think they get an extra week to do something just because they’ve been there longer. Which was not true whatsoever.

Back to Leon, you’ve spoken to him a bit. Probably not as much as you should, but the thought counts. As far as you know, he’s a hard worker and is dedicated to do his best. But you can also see that he try’s a bit too much. You’ll need to tell him he can take a step back every once in a while.

It was another night, Leon already knew he was gonna have to stay a few extra hours. Sighing he opened up a folder, taking out the notes and documents that were inside. He took a quick look at the papers, going over them yet again. Just as he was about to pull another thing out of the folder, he heard footsteps. Which immediately alerted him. Turns out the footsteps were yours, you were getting ready to leave the station and go home. With you standing there, looking at Leon without saying or doing anything, it was beginning to get awkward. Soooo, you spoke up. Clearing your throat first. “Well,” you begin, starting to walk up to him. “I think we haven’t fully gotten to know each other.” He stared up at you, blinking a few times before responding.

“Oh! Uh..” Leon started, but never seemed to finish. Not knowing what question to ask or how to start off. He stood up, though. Holding his hand out to shake yours, which you did as well. You then started a conversation, first asking a question then following up with a statement. Which this went on for at least fifteen minutes. The both of you going back and forth, asking questions about one another; finding out that you had some things in common and have similar interests. The conversation was sweet, interesting. Yet it took a turn when you got closer to him. It was friendly, not purposely meant to intimidate him or anything. He continued to look up at you, struggling to keep his composure. Why the hell was this so difficult? You kept up the conversation, tried to. You, yourself were starting to get a little amped up. You couldn’t stop stealing looks at his lips, which was a problem. You were his captain, not his fuck buddy.

The sexual tension between you guys was so obvious and strong, but neither of you made a move. That was until you couldn’t take it anymore. Your thoughts ran through your mind and eventually went down to your cock.

He was a stressed out, tired, hardworking man. If you two were to do something, this one night probably wouldn’t mean anything. He needed something—someone to help him. Being not necessarily pent up but in need of some sort of relief. And you were there with him, alone, in an empty police station possibly flirting with him. Yeah, this wouldn’t mean anything, right? Wrong. Things escalated, you moved things out of the way on his desk. Once in the clear, the two of you moved back. Lips connected while grabbing at each other. When he got close enough, he sat himself up on his desk. Hands then coming up to the sides of your face—holding while the two of you kissed. You angled yourself, pressing against him in a way that he could feel you’re hard-on. “Mm..” he groaned, muffled by your lips. Should he be doing this? Absolutely not. Is he going to do it anyway and savor this moment? Yes.

“Y’feel what you do to me? God—“ you huffed, against his mouth. “You work so hard—fuckin’ perfect.”

Leon whined, shifting his position so that he could wrap his legs around you and pull you impossibly close. His hands went down to your belt, starting to quickly undo it. After that was out of the way he started on your pants. Which in the process you bucked into his touch without even realizing. You captured his lips again, this time the kiss was nothing but tongue and teeth. The two of you needed each other so bad you kept messing things up. Fumbling with taking off clothes, knocking things over, accidentally forgetting to do something. But in the end, he still got your cock shoved into him as if he was gonna disappear within seconds.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The sweet, sweet sounds that left Leon’s mouth were heavenly. Mouth open, eyes shut, and head back against the table. His legs were wrapped around your waist, purposely squeezing to pull you closer to him—get your cock deeper than it already was. “Such a hard worker, aren’t you? The moment you got here you worked, ‘n worked, ‘n worked.”

Leon whined, dick jumping and twitching at your words. He clenched around you—beginning to squirm. God, he was pretty. The way he reacted to your touch, praise, and whatever else you gave him. The sheen of sweat all over his body made him glisten in the dim light. Which just added onto the list of things that made him fucking beautiful. You dragged your hips back slowly, then pushed forward at the same pace. Your thrusts were slow, yes, but you made up for it by making sure you were deep inside him.

When you sped up your pace Leon cursed under his breath. The brutal pace catching him off guard.

“Shit!”

“Nothin’ you can’t take.” You cooed.

He breathed out a whimper—legs twitching. You leaned down over him, pressing your lips to his skin. His eyes were shut, it was all beginning to be too much. Your cock pushing into him at a relentless pace, your words, your touch. His dick leaked and throbbed—begging for some sort of attention. But it all felt good. It was something he deserved for working so much, so hard. “Oh- ohh..” Leon moaned. He clenched around you, gripping your cock. It caused a low groan to crawl from your throat. Your lips trailed up and up, pressing a kiss to his collarbone before sucking a hickey. Then moving on to his throat, forcing him to move his head up.

In a few minutes, Leon’s back was arching, his hands gripped the edge of the table he was on, and he was moving his hips up into the air as he came. Spurts of white shooting from his tip, and onto his chest; staining that area white. He huffed, chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. It didn’t help when you kept thrusting into him, even when your hips started to stutter and fuck up the rhythm you’d set. He began to squirm. A whine slipping from his spit slicked lips.

You moaned, hips jerking as you finally came. You filled him up with your cum, and watched as it soon started to leak and drip from his hole. He felt so full. Stuffed with your cock and your cum. “Fuck..” he whispered. It was silent for a few seconds, well, aside from you two trying to control your breathing. But once you got ahold of it, you leaned back down and whispered straight into his ear.

“We ain’t done.”

[mitraoki]

hai! how does mydei react when reader gets hurt and tells him its not deep? 🤞🏻

lean on me (mydeimos x reader)

note; HI ANON!!! thank you for your request hehe <33 this is an interesting take,, let's move on to something lighter now shall we 🥹 i definitely needed this after writing angst so thank youuu >w<

masterlist. (check in profile if requests are open!)

cw; mentions of reader being hurt, wounds

i feel like if you were to fight alongside with mydei long enough, he would grow to trust you more. but getting there was a process.

you're not immortal - he is. and each injury you get means there's no turning back. it either heals completely or it leaves a scar behind. scars absolutely do not matter to him but it's the warnings he gave you beforehand.

oh but when you tell him it's 'not that deep'? mmm no he's not buying that.

the first few times it happened, he wanted to rush over to you when he heard a pained groan from you, but you managed to convince him when you swung your weapon towards the enemy.

which you THOUGHT he bought it - war is over, you're back in okhema, in the infirmary and he's dashing. the crown prince is full speed ahead towards you.

yes, i do see him scolding you too. something along the lines of:

"i told you to be careful! what part of 'careful' did you not get?"

"i know i should've let you stay back in okhema. you've still not recovered from your previous injury, have you?"

"what did i tell you about charging headfirst? we kremnoans make sure to observe. watch the enemy with intent before we charge!!"

"what happened to being around my field of vision?"

"mydei, you said a lot of the things but you certainly did not say that."

you watched as his ears go red because he probably said it in his mind.

"besides, it's not that deep," you reassured him, only to have him feel something snap inside of him.

"excuse m- did i hear that right? this- " he pointed towards the very - and most definitely - deep wound in your arm. "this isn't deep?!"

you ended up chewing your lip, embracing the rising tension in the air as he waited for you to get bandaged up by hyacine.

the sun was setting, the bustling streets of okhema were now growing quieter and the two of you walked home (hand in hand, he needs it) in complete silence. not until he decides to break it.

"you say it's 'not that deep', and yet you held my hand the entire time you were getting patched up."

whipping your head towards him, you felt your face growing hotter.

"i just needed support! from my partner! what, holding your hand's wrong?"

"oh! support just for your injuries, i suppose?!"

"mydeimos!" you stopped dead in your tracks, baffled at his words. "what in- what are you even talking about?"

he took a few steps ahead of you before he sighed, shoulders slumping.

".....lean on me when you can, y/n," he continued eventually, slowly turning to face you, just inches apart from each other. "not just when you tend to your wounds. be it on the battlefield, down to the troubles you face."

walking up towards you, he clasped his hands in yours and brought them towards his chest.

"tell me when, or where it hurts. stop shying away, stop hiding things from me. when i made a promise to be with you in every waking second, i meant it within every inch of my heart and soul."

mydeimos will never admit it, but it should be true that kremnoans have romance coursing through their body like their lives depend on it.

all created content belongs to mitraoki. no reposts/remakes are allowed.

[aftersome-system]

🌸 - Somewhere between 150 and 200 total, yes I consider it to be a lot

🧩 - probably?

🍧 - Newt was probably the "true" core, but it was the 2 of us (Newt & Gamz) co-hosting as long as I could remember, but he went dormant around 2015 and I've been the host ever since and hopefully indefinitely.

💞 - Yeah, so as far as I know it's incredibly complex with different districts, but I only have access to an area I call The Corridors. For a while I didn't think I could access the inner world at all, but I recently discovered otherwise in trauma therapy.

💧 - I like to explain it like a vehicle; sometimes I'm in the driver's seat alone. Sometimes I'm in the driver's seat with a co-pilot. Sometimes I'm the co-pilot. Sometimes there's people in the back seat who are chatting or observing but not driving. Sometimes I'm forcibly shoved out of the driver's seat and out of the vehicle and when this happens I have no idea what went on with the vehicle while I was out of it.

🍀 - I just talk to them in my head? Or leave notes for them if I can't reach them.

🍡 - Sometimes we use role labels but it's more of a "if the label fits, use it" and less of trying to "figure it out" or force labels that only kinda fit.

🌺 - Me (Gamz) and Puppy. Least often I could list a fuckgillion alters who appeared once and never returned during traumatic periods in our life.

❄️ This is a hard one, every few years as we go through life stages? It was me, Newt, Scarlett and Ginger in high-school, then after school ended it was mostly me, Puppy, Jewn, Fig and Amon, then after a traumatic event last year now it's mostly me, Puppy, Lottie, Lita, Amon and Pumpkin.

🥝 Puppy and I switch multiple times a day; otherwise it's maybe once or twice a week? Since rn we don't really have anything going on and barely leave our apartment so there's not many triggers, negative or positive

🪷 - Sometimes; different alters have different levels of difficulty to maintain a co-front with. Littles are usually pretty easy to co-front with.

🌷 - Its inconsistent

🌧️ - Not really? Everyone sounds different but no one has gone out of their way to find a voice clip that sounds like them.

🌱 - A few; MLP:FiM, Homestuck, Monster High, etc. Mainly comfort media from childhood/early tweens when we were going through some rough shit.

💐 - I'm the host. Puppy is the co-host. Amon and Fig used to be co-hosts until our traumatic event last year.

🍃 - only The Corridors and I have to put effort into going there.

💗 - If I feel like I *have* to clarify, I'll say traumagenic

🌿 - Some

🍬 - We have 3 out of body partners, no one is allowed to date outside of these partners unless they're inner-system relationships. No one is allowed to have sexual relations with anyone besides our wife.

PLURAL ASK GAME!! ⋆˙⟡

⊹ ࣪ ˖͙͘͡★ get 2 know ur sys!!

!! this post is for everybody! u may use this regardless of origin/beliefs, just remember to follow ur own dni

🌸 - how many alters do u have? do u consider yourself to have a high headcount?

🧩 - do u have any subsystems? if so, how do they work?

🍧 - are there any alter(s) who u would consider the “core”? if so, are they the host?

💞 - do u have an innerworld? how complex is it?

💧 - how does fronting work for your system? do u have a “front room”?

🍀 - how do u communicate with ur headmates?

🍡 - do u use alter roles/labels? which ones do u use?

🌺 - who fronts the most? who fronts the least?

❄️ - how often do ur hosts/fronting patterns change?

🥝 - how often do u switch?

🪷 - do you co-front with other alters often? is co-fronting easy or difficult?

🌷 - how long does it take for u to switch?

🌨️ - do ur alters have specific voice claims for what they sound like in headspace?

🌱 - do u have any introjects? what are their sources?

💐 - do u have any hosts? co-hosts?

🍃 - if u have an innerworld, can u see into while you’re fronting?

💗 - do u use any origin/-genic terms? what are they?

🌿 - do u have any npcs in your headspace?

🍬 - has ur system created any rules ur alters are expected to abide by?

[ilostmygenderalongwithmydignity]

Saw a post yesterday talking about how BFTC is super ooc, since wdym the Batkids would ever willingly become Batman?? And first of all, true. Batman is a punishment for them. SECOND of all, it made me think of a scenario where they’re all arguing about it, and it’s gotten to the point where everyone else has decided that Jason is the most Batman-shaped among them, so he just

“If you force me into the Batsuit I will shoot the Joker in the face in front of as many witnesses and cameras possible.” And surely, surely that will excuse him from Batman-duty, but then-

Dick slowly turns to look at him, a thoughtful expression on his face. “You should use Alfred’s shotgun.”

So then all of the mostly-unsupervised Batlings are planning what’s basically a public execution, and even Cass isn’t arguing bc she knows what it feels like to die and she CHOSE that fight to the death, but Jason never got a choice, and suddenly they’re compiling old rogue plans because if they combine a few it’ll probably be actually successful-

In the aftermath, after Jason has dramatically left the scene, they have Dick stroll over, nudging the Joker with one foot as if to check if the man who just got blasted in the face with a double-barrel shotgun could be anything but dead. Nightwing makes a statement that boils down to “oh you know how alternate universes and time travel can be,” and the Batfam basically blames it all on Gun Batman even though it was literally just Jason.

After that, they have Alfred draw names out of a hat. None of them are going to argue with him, since as shaken as he still is, he’s in charge while Dad is gone. They also have him decide who gets to be Robin, which boils down to “who was the best behaved this week” (criminals don’t know how to react when it’s Jason or Dick, used to a tiny kid. The duo of Cass as Batman and Jason as Robin only happened once, but no one in Gotham’s underworld will ever forget it).

When Bruce comes back, none of them tell him about the fact that the Joker is dead. In all honesty, they’re so used to him being dead that they… well they sort of forgot. He ends up chatting with Jim, the man fondly complaining about how he’s pretty sure the forced interaction as they had to all pretend to be the same person and keep their stories straight meant the communication skills within the family skyrocketed while he was gone. Bruce isn’t sure how to feel about it, but that gets forgotten when Gordon makes a reference to the Gun Batman Incident with a roll of his eyes.

Bruce isn’t even sure if his kids simply let an alternate Batman go feral on the Joker, or if it was one of them.

None of them will tell him.

In the footage, Batman looks up from the Joker’s corpse, and simply says “I am vengeance.”

[bucketgetter535]

No Margin for Error: Chapter Eleven

CW: Non-explicit smut but like… idk

WC: 4.1k

Notes: what’s uppp… just for reference after this chapter Azzi has 312 points in the championship and Paige has 313…

The hotel suite was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner, which wasn’t doing nearly enough. Singapore heat had a way of clinging, even after you peeled yourself out of the fire suit, even after the cameras stopped flashing and the champagne dried sticky on your skin. It lingered, like a fever.

Paige sat curled on the couch, hair still damp from the shower, one leg tucked up under her. Her body buzzed. Not the kind of buzz you wanted after a win, not the adrenaline rush or the pride, though those were there too, somewhere underneath. This buzz was too sharp. Behind the eyes. At the base of the skull. Pressure, not joy. Her head throbbed every time she turned it.

She closed her eyes for a second and pressed the cool glass of water to her forehead. It didn’t help.

The race had been hellish, if she was honest. And she’d won. She’d won. She’d outlasted everyone, including herself. But now her skull was pulsing like it had its own heartbeat, her limbs hollowed out and wrung dry. Hydration, maybe. Probably. But also… she knew.

The concussion. Belgium. She had been fine. Was fine. Mostly. Sort of. But ever since then, long races under extreme conditions sometimes stirred something up in her head that she didn’t like.

She wasn’t going to tell anyone tonight. She would feel better in a few hours. Probably.

There was a soft knock on the door, then the gentle click of it opening. Azzi stepped in like she belonged there, because she did.

“You’re acting weird,” she said, not unkindly.

Paige cracked one eye open. “Am I?”

Azzi crossed the room, barefoot and in a tank top, her curls damp with either sweat or water from a shower. Paige couldn’t tell. She perched on the arm of the couch. “You didn’t even answer your phone when I texted you three trophies and a champagne bottle.”

“Sorry,” Paige said. “Think I’m… dehydrated. Or something.”

Azzi frowned. “You drank like four liters after the race.”

“Guess I needed five.”

There was a pause, the kind where Azzi was clearly trying to figure out what was joke and what wasn’t. Paige didn’t help her out.

“You were incredible,” Azzi said finally, quiet, the words resting gently in the air between them.

“Yeah,” Paige said. “I think I left my soul in Sector Two.”

Azzi smiled at that, a little, but she didn’t laugh. She watched her a second longer, then said, “You really don’t look great.”

Paige shrugged. “I’ll be fine.”

Azzi touched her arm. “You sure?”

No, Paige thought. But also, yes. Because she’d survived worse. And also, it wasn’t like this wasn’t manageable. It was. Just inconvenient. Just something she had to work around.

“I’ve decided I’m going on vacation after the season,” Paige said suddenly. Her voice sounded faraway even to her.

Azzi blinked. “What?”

“I don’t care what happens. Where I finish. Where you finish. I’m going somewhere with no cameras and no helmets and no screens. Somewhere boring. A forest. A beach. I don’t care.”

Azzi tilted her head, watching her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Paige said. “I’m cashing in. You wanna come?”

Azzi hesitated just long enough that Paige opened her eyes again and met her gaze.

“Where we going?” Azzi asked.

Paige smiled, faint and real and tired. “Somewhere with air conditioning.”

Azzi snorted. “Deal.”

The air was still heavy. Paige’s skull still pulsed. But Azzi was there, and the room was dim and quiet, and tomorrow would come soon enough.

For now, Paige leaned back against the cushions and let her eyes fall closed again, Azzi’s fingers brushing over her arm like an anchor.

She’d won Singapore.

She didn’t feel good. But she’d won.

–

The air in Singapore had barely cooled by the time Paige boarded the flight out. She didn’t even bother changing out of her team polo, still damp with sweat along the collar. Her suitcase was half-zipped, and her sunglasses stayed on even in the dimly lit lounge. She wasn’t going home. Not yet.

The meeting had been set quietly. Private jet, neutral ground. Somewhere in Europe. Her agent had called it “a conversation.” That was how they always started. Paige knew better.

She arrived late morning, escorted through a side entrance of the hotel like a visiting monarch. Red Bull had rented the top floor. Of course they had.

Christian Horner greeted her in the hall like they were old friends. Helmut Marko nodded once, expression unreadable behind dark lenses. Paige’s agent gave her a brief look, measured, careful, and said nothing.

There were others in the room, too. Quiet assistants. A lawyer. One of the marketing execs who only appeared for big moments.

They got to it quickly. No soft pitch, no fluff.

One of their drivers was retiring at the end of the season. Everyone knew that.

What no one knew yet, and what Horner made abundantly clear within the first five minutes, was that they didn’t want to replace him with a junior. They wanted someone ready. Fast. Clean under pressure. Capable of championships.

They wanted her.

“Ferrari’s a great team,” Horner said, seated comfortably across from her. “You’ve thrived there. Nobody’s denying that.”

“I’m leading the drivers’ championship,” Paige said, not smiling. “We just locked up the constructors’ before the season’s even over.”

Horner nodded like she’d said something fascinating. “And yet you agreed to take this meeting.”

Paige didn’t answer.

Her agent did, voice calm but edged. “We agreed to take this meeting because we don’t make enemies lightly.”

Helmut spoke for the first time. “You’re still very young. You’ve had a long plan. Steady development. Measured decisions.”

Which was true. Paige had never made the jump too early. Not from karts. Not from F3. She’d passed on the first round of F2 contracts. She had played the long game. And it had worked.

“But at some point,” Helmut said, “you stop building. And you start choosing where you want to plant yourself.”

Paige folded her hands in her lap. “I like where I’m planted.”

Horner gave a dry smile. “Do you?”

She paused. Because yes. She did.

But the room wasn’t interested in that.

“The thing about Ferrari,” said the marketing exec, finally chiming in, “is that you’ll never not be the other driver. You’ll always be the outsider.”

“I don’t care what they call me,” Paige said.

“But it matters who you win with,” Horner added. “Legacy. Identity. And let’s be honest—this year is different.”

The subtext crackled in the silence that followed.

This year was different.

Because this wasn’t just about championships. It wasn’t just about speed.

This year, Paige was fighting for the title against the other half of Ferrari’s firepower. Azzi.

“We know your… situation,” Horner said delicately. “It’s no secret that you and your teammate are well…close.”

Paige looked up. “Say what you’re tryna say.”

Another silence.

Christian exhaled like he was trying not to be rude. “You’ve become a brand together. You and Azzi. We don’t care about that. Honestly, it’s good PR. But what we want to offer you is something Ferrari never can. You won’t share the spotlight. Or the strategy.”

Paige’s jaw tightened.

“We can build a car around you,” Helmut said. “We can build a team around you.”

That was the pitch.

Not just a seat. A kingdom.

Paige stayed quiet.

Because the truth was, it wasn’t that simple.

Ferrari hadn’t always been easy. But they’d been loyal. They’d taken her as a teenager and given her time. They’d backed her when no one else would. They’d let her come into her own without turning her into a media puppet.

And more than that, she and Azzi worked.

Sometimes they screamed at each other in debriefs. Sometimes they shared headphones on long flights. But they worked. Together, they were lethal. They made each other better. And this season, this insane, beautiful, brutal season, they had carried the prancing horse all the way to the front.

Red Bull couldn’t promise her that.

“Thank you for the offer,” Paige said finally, tone flat. “It’s a lot to think about.”

Christian stood, extending a hand. “We’ll give you time. But not too much.”

As the meeting ended, her agent touched her elbow and walked her out in silence. Only when they were alone again did Paige finally speak.

“I’m not leaving her,” she said.

“I know,” her agent replied.

Paige looked out the hotel window, down at the quiet street below. The road to the championship had never been simple. But this? This was something else entirely.

The world wanted a winner.

They just didn’t care what it cost.

–

Paige was sitting on the edge of Azzi’s hotel bed with her fingers curled around the corner of a thick envelope—stamped, printed, signed. It was heavier than it looked. Not physically. Psychologically.

She hadn’t told Azzi she was bringing it.

Hadn’t even meant to open it.

But now it sat between them like a third presence in the room, a neat stack of papers tucked into a branded Red Bull sleeve, the unmistakable shimmer of a contract that could rewrite her entire life.

Azzi didn’t touch it. She just sat cross-legged across from her, still in her practice kit, damp from the late Texas heat.

“I knew they were talking to you,” Azzi said. “Didn’t know it got this far.”

Paige nodded, eyes on the wall.

Azzi picked at the hem of her shorts. “What’s the number?”

Paige blinked, then laughed under her breath. “That’s the first thing you ask?”

“You weren’t gonna say it,” Azzi said. “So yeah.”

Paige reached back and pulled the top sheet out of the envelope, holding it up for Azzi to read. The number was in bold near the bottom of the page.

Azzi gave a low whistle. “Okay.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t even know contracts had that many zeros,” Azzi muttered.

Paige smiled. “I didn’t either.”

The number had hit her harder than anything in the meeting. Not because she’d been thinking about the money. She really hadn’t. But Red Bull had clearly decided they were done playing coy. They weren’t offering her a seat. They were offering her a team.

Paige leaned back on her palms. “I wasn’t gonna take it.”

Azzi looked at her. “But now?”

“I don’t know,” Paige admitted. “It’s not just the money. It’s the timing. The way they talk to me, it’s like I’d be the only priority. No strategy compromises. No split marketing. No teammate they’d ask me to share a podium with unless I wanted to.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Wow. That last part sounded personal.”

Paige gave her a look. “You know what I mean.”

Azzi just smiled faintly.

Paige ran a hand through her hair and stared at the ceiling. “I’ve never been in a championship fight like this. And I don’t even know if it’ll happen again. What if I lose this one and everything changes? What if that offer disappears?”

“You’re not gonna lose,” Azzi said softly.

“Maybe not. But maybe I will.” Paige looked over at her. “You’re not exactly slow.”

Azzi shrugged one shoulder, humble like she didn’t know she was a two-time world champion.

The silence between them wasn’t tense. It was familiar. Weighty in the way only real decisions could make it. Paige knew Azzi wasn’t going to beg her to stay. That wasn’t who she was. But if she looked close enough, she could see it: the little line of tension in Azzi’s jaw. The flicker of worry behind her dark eyes.

And just like that, the door opened.

Azzi’s voice changed instantly. “Mom!”

Katie walked in with two plastic bags from some overpriced natural grocery store, followed by Jon and Jose, who were loudly arguing over something irrelevant. Paige stood up immediately, smiling before she even meant to.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Katie said, pulling her into a hug. “You look tired.”

“She’s always tired,” Jon announced.

“She’s probably hungry,” Jose added.

“I’m fine,” Paige said, laughing. “It’s just hot.”

Katie looked around the room like she already knew a conversation had been happening. She didn’t press. She just set the bags on the counter and said, “There’s fruit, coconut water, and those snacks you like. Azzi didn’t tell me what you wanted, so I guessed.”

Paige’s heart swelled in that stupid way it always did around the Fudds.

Azzi moved to help unpack, but Jose immediately ran over to show her something on his phone, and then they were all talking. Family noise, overlapping and alive. Paige stepped back to take it in.

It hit her then, quietly: this was the part of the circus that had never felt like a circus. This hotel room, this noise, this warmth. It felt like a place she could exhale.

Azzi caught her eye across the room. For a moment, Paige forgot all about the contract. About Red Bull. About anything outside this circle of light and sweat and easy familiarity.

Later, maybe even much later, they’d come back to the envelope.

But for now, it sat unopened on the bed. Forgotten, if only for a little while.

–

The stars were already out by the time Paige slipped into the booth next to Azzi at the quiet little steakhouse tucked off a side street in downtown Austin. There was still the faint thrum of post-race energy in the city. The hum of engines long cooled, the street crowds slower now but still lingering, still watching. But inside this booth, it felt almost ordinary.

Almost.

Azzi had changed out of her fire suit and into a black crop top and jeans like the race had never even happened, hair slicked back and cheeks still flushed. Her medal hung from a thin strap on her purse like it was just an accessory. Paige, who was still feeling sweat-sunk and vaguely shell-shocked from the race, looked across the table at her and almost laughed.

“Why do you look like you didn’t just spend two hours lapping me?”

Azzi smiled. “Because I didn’t lap you.”

“Could’ve,” Paige muttered, picking up the menu.

Azzi leaned on her elbow, casual, smug. “I thought about it.”

Paige rolled her eyes but couldn’t help grinning.

The race had been brutal, though, not for its chaos, like Singapore, but for the sheer helplessness she’d felt from the first practice lap to the checkered flag. Azzi had just been better. From the start. Her car, her lines, her timing. It was all crisp and fluid and annoyingly flawless. Paige, on the other hand, had spent the whole weekend feeling like she was playing catch-up in a game that had already ended.

And then there was the five-second penalty (track limits, her own fault) and the fact that the podium only became hers because of someone else’s time drop.

“You’re still third,” Azzi had said afterward in the cooldown room, standing in front of the fan with sweat running down her spine. “That’s podium.”

“Yeah, barely.”

Azzi turned, a smirk curling her mouth. “Five seconds isn’t barely. That’s a whole nap.”

Now, sitting across from her and listening to her chat with the waiter about sides and sauces, Paige was reminded again of just how frustratingly easy Azzi could make things look.

Tim and Katie sat to Azzi’s left, flipping through menus and politely asking for wine recommendations. Katie looked relaxed, hair tied back, a soft cardigan over her sleeveless top. Tim had the same calm air as always, quiet pride tucked into the corners of his posture, a man who didn’t speak often but never missed anything.

And Paige, despite knowing them both for a while now, despite being their daughter’s girlfriend, still found her palms getting clammy every time she looked at them.

“You okay?” Azzi asked, nudging her foot under the table.

Paige nodded quickly. “Yeah. Just…tired.”

Katie smiled across the table. “It’s okay to look tired after a race like that. You both held your own out there.”

Paige smiled, then cleared her throat. “Azzi won by, like, twelve seconds.”

“That just means she was overdue,” Tim said mildly.

Azzi grinned. “Thank you.”

Katie’s gaze slid gently to Paige. “And you kept it together, even with the penalty. A lot of drivers would’ve let that mess up the rest of their race.”

Paige tried not to melt into the booth. “Thanks, Mrs. Fudd—I mean, Katie.”

Azzi stifled a laugh into her napkin.

Dinner unfolded in soft waves after that. Warm bread and slow conversation, a few stories about Jon and Jose, who had opted out of the meal in favor of exploring “the nightlife,” as they put it, though Azzi had muttered something about “probably just looking for free Red Bull merch and girls who know how to pronounce Verstappen.”

Paige relaxed gradually, laughing more easily as the meal went on. It helped that Azzi kept touching her under the table. Just little brushes of her knee, her hand settling on Paige’s thigh for a second too long, a teasing graze of her pinky against Paige’s when the waiter brought dessert menus.

It was subtle, like always, but grounding.

By the time they were stepping out into the night, full and a little tipsy from a shared glass of wine, Paige felt almost like she could breathe again.

Azzi tugged her hand gently as they walked. “You were so nervous back there.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You definitely were.”

Paige sighed. “Your mom talks like she’s reading me.”

“She kind of is,” Azzi said, grinning. “But she likes you. She really likes you.”

Paige looked over. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. She told me.”

“Good,” Paige muttered, then added under her breath, “’Cause I’m kind of in love with her daughter.”

Azzi glanced sideways at her, her smirk softening into something quieter.

“I know,” she said.

And Paige smiled, even though her chest felt tight with everything she still hadn’t decided. Red Bull. The title fight. The end of the season barreling toward her like a freight train.

But right now, walking through a warm Austin night with Azzi’s hand in hers and the stars blinking overhead like nothing was wrong, it didn’t matter.

At least not yet.

–

The hotel room was still dim, curtains pulled mostly shut against the Mexico City morning. Their flight had been pushed back again—something about weather over Austin—so the urgency to get up had slipped out of the room hours ago.

Azzi was still in bed. Paige was, too, stretched out across rumpled sheets, half beneath the covers, her bare legs tangled with Azzi’s.

Neither of them was in any real rush.

“Happy birthday, baby,” Azzi said, voice low and still laced with sleep. She was propped up on one elbow, watching Paige with a lazy kind of adoration.

Paige cracked a small smile, still not fully awake. “Thanks,” she mumbled, voice thick. Her lashes fluttered, but she didn’t open her eyes yet.

Azzi leaned in and kissed her cheek, then her jaw, then lower. “Big twenty-three,” she murmured.

“Mhm.” Paige rolled toward her slightly, smiling against the pillow. “I feel old.”

“You feel hot,” Azzi said, casually. “And spoiled.”

Paige’s laugh came out quiet, shoulders lifting under the sheets. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mm, not today. Today I’m thoughtful,” Azzi said, shifting downward, her mouth brushing along Paige’s collarbone now. “And you, birthday girl, don’t have to move a muscle.”

Paige blinked her eyes open then, just barely. “Azzi…”

But Azzi was already under the sheets, already working her way lower with slow precision. Her hands slid up Paige’s thighs, spreading her gently, confidently. There was no question about what she was doing. No pause. This was for Paige. Because it was her day, and because Azzi wanted her to feel it.

Paige let her head fall back, mouth parting as she exhaled.

“Relax,” Azzi murmured against her skin, voice muffled but steady. “I’ve got you.”

And she did.

The rhythm she set was patient but relentless, like she had all morning to give. She read every reaction without needing words. Every breathy sound Paige gave, every twitch of her fingers in the sheets, Azzi responded to it all. Adjusting pressure. Deepening her hold. Making it known: this wasn’t casual, not today.

Paige didn’t say much (not that she could have anyway). Her hands gripped the sheets tighter as the heat built, slow and consuming, and the only thing louder than the pulse in her ears was the soft, consistent way Azzi kept her anchored. Kept her right there in the center of it. Until it broke. Until Paige was gone under it all.

And Azzi didn’t move.

She didn’t let her drift too far. She stayed between her legs, hands wrapped around her thighs, mouth still pressed gently against her, as Paige came back down.

Only then did she finally surface, resting her chin on Paige’s chest, eyes bright and calm.

“Happy birthday,” she said again, voice light now. “Still feel old?”

Paige gave a breathless laugh. “No,” she whispered. “I feel wrecked.”

Azzi grinned. “Good.” She crawled back up beside her, pulling Paige in so her head tucked under her chin. “That was the first gift.”

Paige didn’t even have the strength to answer. She just curled closer, letting Azzi hold her in that quiet morning light.

–

The hum of the jet was low and constant beneath Paige’s feet, a background rhythm she was used to by now. Different cities, same altitude. But this time, nestled into the leather seat with Azzi’s knee brushing hers, it all felt… slower. Softer.

Maybe it was because they’d had to leave that hotel bed too soon.

Maybe it was because her birthday had started better than she ever expected.

Or maybe it was just the altitude making her heart do weird things.

Either way, Paige found herself leaning a little closer than usual. Her fingers brushed against Azzi’s on the shared armrest. Then again, this was Azzi’s jet, and it wasn’t like there were cameras around. No engineers. No PR managers with overly polite smiles. No mechanics tossing glances their way when they walked a little too close in the paddock. Just the two of them, a flight crew that already knew the deal, and a sky stretching wide above the clouds.

Azzi turned to her, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly. “You okay?”

“Mhm.” Paige nodded, then, after a moment, rested her hand on Azzi’s thigh. Casual. Sort of.

Azzi blinked, but her eyes softened almost immediately. “You sure?”

Paige gave a quiet little smile, the kind she usually reserved for podium ceremonies and weird late-night FaceTimes with her younger brother. “Just didn’t wanna leave the bed yet.”

Azzi chuckled under her breath. “Oh. That’s what this is.”

“Shut up,” Paige muttered, a hint of pink brushing the tips of her ears. She leaned her head briefly against Azzi’s shoulder, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Azzi’s arm went around her without a second thought, warm and easy.

Paige wasn’t usually like this. In fact, she’d built a reputation for being a little hands-off in public, even in private sometimes. Cool, composed, never too much. The kind of girl who opened doors and paid the bill but didn’t always reach for a hand unless she really meant it.

But right now? Her thumb was tracing lazy circles over the seam of Azzi’s jeans. She was pressed in close like she couldn’t bear the few inches of space that might sneak in between them. And every time Azzi’s arm tightened slightly around her shoulders, she felt steadier. Like her body was remembering something her brain hadn’t caught up to yet.

“You’re really sweet today,” Azzi said after a minute. Not teasing. Just an observation.

“It’s my birthday,” Paige mumbled.

“Mm. Gonna milk it all the way to Mexico?”

“Maybe.”

Azzi laughed again, this time deeper, head tipping back against the seat. She squeezed Paige’s waist gently. “Good. I like this version of you.”

Paige shifted just enough to press a kiss to Azzi’s shoulder through the soft cotton of her hoodie. “Don’t get used to it.”

Azzi’s voice was warm. “Too late.”

They stayed that way for most of the flight, drifting in and out of light sleep, the kind of half-rest that came when the sky was too bright and the cabin too quiet. Every time Paige moved, Azzi adjusted without saying anything. Reaching for her hand, brushing her thumb across Paige’s knuckles, curling into her like they’d been doing this for years.

Maybe it was the calm before the storm. Mexico always felt like the beginning of the end. Just four races after that, and everything would be decided. Titles. Futures. Contracts.

But Paige wasn’t thinking about any of that right now.

All she could feel was Azzi’s steady heartbeat under her palm and the way her own body felt okay for the first time in what felt like months.

Safe.

Soft.

Loved.

And for once, she let herself have that.

Even at thirty thousand feet.

[cassiemaebarnes]

Birthday Bucky!!

Bucky x reader

It's my birthday, so you know I had to write some Bucky fics🥳 Couldn't decide on a plot, so I wrote three mini ones :)

Total Word Count: 5,916

(was going to add a bucky gif but this one was funnier😂)

Today was your birthday, and as you got out of bed, you couldn’t help but smile. You have always loved your birthday.

You always felt so self-centered whenever you thought about it, saying you loved a day that was all about you. But in reality, you just loved being celebrated for once.

As you made your way down the compound hallway, you expected a few “happy birthdays,” and maybe even a card, but not much as you walked into the kitchen for breakfast.

But when you stepped in, you were met with a few “good mornings” and a “if you want coffee you’re gonna have to make more.”

You hid the disappointment on your face, but as you started a new pot of coffee, you tried to convince yourself that it was okay. It was early, they just woke up, and it probably wouldn’t register until later anyway.

But when later came, there was still no mention of your birthday.

Not in training, not at lunch, not in the afternoon meetings, not even when you were chilling in the common room that evening, some of the other Avengers coming in and out, making casual conversation.

That’s when you started to think, maybe they planned something bigger than you thought. Maybe – just maybe – they had a surprise party planned for you. Maybe they’d order in from your favorite restaurant, or just have a cake.

But as the others started drifting in and out of the kitchen, warming up leftovers or making something themselves, you knew that wasn’t happening either.

Finally, everyone had eaten and made their way back to their rooms. And you were still sitting on the couch, hoping someone would remember.

But no one did.

You tried not to let it bother you. You haven’t even known them a year, it’s been a while since you talked about your birthday last, and it’s not like you expected them to remember anyway.

But you couldn’t help the tears that started to leak from your eyes when you realized how alone you felt.

You didn’t have any other friends or family left. No one else that would have known. No calls or texts.

You could have just told them, but you didn’t want to seem like you were looking for attention. Didn’t want them to feel like they had to make a big deal out of it. Didn’t want to make them feel bad that they forgot.

But all you wanted, all day, was just to hear someone say “happy birthday.”

You didn’t know how long you sat there, staring at the wall, tears slowly streaming down your face, but you didn’t hear the footsteps approaching until it was too late.

“Y/n?”

You jumped and looked up.

Bucky was standing over the couch, eyebrows furrowed and arms crossed.

“What?” you said, quickly swiping the backs of your hands over your cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

You forced a smile, shaking your head a little too quickly. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

Bucky didn’t move. “You’ve been sitting here for a while.”

“I was just…relaxing.”

“In the dark?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

You gave a half-hearted shrug and looked away. “Didn’t feel like turning the lights on.”

He came around the couch, hesitating for a moment before sitting at the far end, giving you space. His voice was gentler now. “You’ve been crying.”

“No, I haven’t.”

He gave you a look – quiet, patient, not pressing, but not buying it either.

You sighed, eyes on the coffee table. “It’s stupid.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “It’s not stupid if it has you this upset.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, debating. He didn’t need to know. It wasn’t his problem. But the words slipped out anyway, soft and strained.

“It’s my birthday.”

Bucky blinked. “Today?”

You nodded once.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, guilt flashing in his expression. “I wish you would’ve said something.”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, waving it off with a tired smile. “I didn’t want to make it a thing.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, but you cut in again, trying to redirect.

“I think I just…missed my family a little more today, that’s all.” You gave a shrug like it was no big deal, like that was the full truth. But he could see it in your eyes – that wasn’t the whole story.

Still, he didn’t call you out on it. He just nodded slowly and said, “Well…happy birthday.”

Something in your chest loosened at that. It was small, and a little late, but it was something.

You smiled, a little sad but a little grateful too. “Thanks.”

You stood up after that, brushing your hands against your sides as if to shake the weight of the day off with the motion. “I’m gonna head to bed.”

“Alright,” Bucky said, watching you go.

You gave him a small nod before walking out of the room.

--

A little while later, you were sitting on your bed, legs tucked under you and a book open in your lap, though you hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes. The earlier conversation with Bucky kept replaying in your mind – his quiet apology, the way he’d said happy birthday like it actually mattered to him. You told yourself not to dwell on it, that he’d just felt bad.

Then came a soft knock on your door.

You looked up, startled. It wasn’t that late, but still – unexpected.

When you opened the door, Bucky was standing there.

“Hey,” he said simply. “Come with me.”

You blinked. “What? Why?”

He just motioned you to follow him. “You’ll see.”

You hesitated, half-suspicious, half-hopeful. Your brain tried to tamp down your expectations, but your heart didn’t listen. You followed him anyway, barefoot down the hall, trying not to get your hopes up.

When you reached the kitchen, the lights were on – and the room wasn’t empty.

The rest of the team was there, scattered around the counters and table. There was a lopsided cake sitting in the center, icing smudged in some places and candles poking out at awkward angles.

Everyone turned when you walked in, and in near unison, they said:

“Happy birthday!”

You froze.

Apologies immediately followed. Tony started with some dramatic excuse, Steve gave you a genuine “I’m so sorry we forgot,” Nat muttered something that sounded like guilt hidden behind dry humor, and even Sam offered a sheepish, “You should’ve said something, we would’ve made a big deal, you know that.”

You smiled, overwhelmed but somehow lighter than you’d felt all day. “It’s okay. Really. I didn’t tell anyone, so...it’s not your fault.”

Your eyes drifted to Bucky.

He was standing a little off to the side, arms crossed, but there was a small smile playing on his lips as he watched you take it all in.

“You did all this for me?” you asked softly, your eyes locked on his.

He shrugged, like it was nothing. “Didn’t want the day to end without someone celebrating you.”

The warmth that bloomed in your chest was almost too much to process. You wanted to say more, to tell him how much it meant, but your throat felt tight.

Instead, you stepped closer to the cake as someone started lighting the candles, the room filled with flickers of golden light. You stared at the glow, the soft hum of voices around you beginning the birthday song.

You looked up, just before you blew out the candles, and your eyes found Bucky again.

He was already watching you, that same quiet smile on his face.

You smiled back – grateful, full-hearted – and made your wish.

I want every birthday to feel like this.

And then, you blew out the candles.

When your alarm went off in the morning, you just turned it off with a sigh.

It was your birthday.

And while that should be a good thing, you’ve never really liked your birthday. You didn’t know why exactly, but you just always seemed to end up crying.

You knew some family and other people would text you, wishing you a happy birthday. But you knew for a fact there wouldn’t be any parties happening at the compound.

This was your first birthday as an Avenger, and you made sure not to make a big deal about when your birthday was. So you hoped that you would have an attention-free birthday.

But that lasted all of 30 minutes.

You went down to the kitchen for breakfast – successfully, with no “happy birthdays.”

After sipping on coffee and grabbing a protein bar, you made your way to the training room before everyone else, always preferring to get some extra warm-ups in before it started.

When you walked in, Bucky was the only other one in there, stretching.

He said hey, you greeted him back, then you started to walk to the other side of the room.

“Happy birthday.”

You froze.

How the hell did he know it was your birthday?

You slowly turned around, eyes wide. “What?”

He froze now, too. “Oh…is it not your birthday?”

You just opened your mouth, then closed it again, trying to figure out how he would know.

“No it is,” you answered, taking a couple steps toward him. “But how did you know that?”

He furrowed his eyebrows, standing straight up now. “You mentioned it once.”

You narrowed your eyes, taking a few more steps toward him. “When?”

He raised an eyebrow, looking at you like you were crazy. “Uhh…I don’t know. Why?”

You stared at him, still baffled. “No, seriously. When did I say that? I don’t remember ever telling you.”

Bucky just shrugged, like it was obvious. “You mentioned it once – maybe a couple months ago? You were talking to Nat about what time of year you hate the most or something. You said your birthday always sucked.”

You blinked. That did sound like something you’d mutter in passing without thinking anyone was really listening.

“But…” you hesitated, still a little thrown. “You remembered that?”

Now it was Bucky’s turn to look confused. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

You opened your mouth again, searching for an answer, but the words felt heavy in your chest. “I don’t know,” you said finally. “It just…surprises me.”

He tilted his head. “Why?”

You gave a small shrug, suddenly feeling a little silly. “I don’t really like my birthday.”

That seemed to catch him off guard. “You don’t?”

“Nope.”

He folded his arms across his chest, watching you now with real curiosity. “Why not?”

“I don’t really have a reason,” you said, looking down at your feet and giving a small shake of your head. “It just always ends up being a bad day. I try not to expect much, and then it still somehow manages to suck.”

There was a pause, and then Bucky said, in a tone that was so matter-of-fact it stunned you, “Well…I’ll make sure it isn’t a bad day for you.”

You looked up sharply, eyes meeting his. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t saying it to be polite.

He meant it.

For a second, you didn’t know what to say. You were used to people brushing your feelings off or awkwardly changing the subject – not promising to make it better.

“…Well,” you said after a beat, the sincerity of his words warming something deep inside you, “thank you.”

You gave him a small, almost shy smile, then turned away and started walking toward the mats. The sound of your shoes echoed softly as you crossed the room to your usual corner to begin stretching.

A few moments later, the rest of the team began to file in – Steve and Sam mid-argument, Natasha sipping coffee like she hadn’t slept, and Clint yawning dramatically as he tossed his gear bag to the side.

But even with all the noise and movement that followed, you still felt that quiet flicker of warmth from earlier.

Because for once…maybe your birthday wouldn’t be a bad day.

--

After training, you headed straight back to your room, muscles sore but heart still unexpectedly light.

The hot shower helped clear your head a little, washing away the sweat and leftover tension from earlier. You changed into a fresh hoodie and leggings, combed your hair, and just as you stepped out the door to head downstairs for lunch, you noticed something.

A small gift bag.

It was sitting neatly right outside your door. Pale blue with silver tissue paper poking out the top.

Your eyebrows knit together as you bent to pick it up, glancing down the hallway like someone might jump out and take credit.

No one did.

You stepped back into your room, set the bag on your bed, and carefully opened it.

Inside was a small card, simple but clearly handwritten.

Hope this one doesn’t suck. Happy Birthday.

– Bucky

You huffed out a surprised breath – half-laugh, half-scoff – as your heart tugged in your chest.

Beneath the card was a small, thoughtful gift. Your favorite kind of tea, a book you’d mentioned in passing weeks ago, and a sleek new knife – something practical, but still somehow personal.

Your fingers brushed over the items as you smiled, something soft and unguarded breaking through your usual quiet shell.

You were still smiling when you headed down to the kitchen.

But when you stepped in, your eyes widened. Lining the counters were containers and boxes from your favorite takeout spot – steam rising from fresh dishes, a spread of every comfort meal you loved most.

“Whoa,” you said, blinking. “What’s going on?”

Tony glanced up from where he was stacking plates. “Just lunch.”

You eyed the food again, mouth already watering. “Is there a reason you ordered from here?”

“Bucky requested it for some reason,” he said. “Which was weird because I didn’t think he liked this place.”

Before you could react, you heard footsteps. Bucky walked in, hair still damp, wearing a clean t-shirt and joggers. He looked relaxed – and when his eyes met yours, a quiet kind of warmth passed between you.

You met him halfway, smiling as you spoke. “Thank you. For the gift. And…everything.”

He gave a half-shrug, obviously downplaying his efforts. “Figured you deserved it.”

You looked at him for a moment, then lowered your voice a little. “Did you tell the others? About today?”

He shook his head. “No. Wasn’t sure if you wanted me to.”

You paused, touched by how seriously he took that small boundary. And maybe a little surprised by how much that consideration meant to you.

After a breath, you said softly, “No. I didn’t.”

He nodded, respectful and unbothered.

Then, as if on cue, your stomach growled. You both cracked a grin.

“Let’s eat,” he said.

And together, you walked over to the counter, grabbed plates, and started filling them side by side.

You were lounging in your room later that afternoon, scrolling aimlessly through your phone and trying not to think too hard about the day – how unexpectedly good it had turned out – when your phone buzzed.

It was a text from Steve in the group chat.

Hey guys, team dinner at 5 tonight. Don’t miss it.

You frowned slightly, sitting up. That wasn’t unusual – team dinners happened all the time – but the phrasing was oddly formal. Still, you figured it was just one of those days where Steve decided to be overly responsible.

A few hours later, when it was almost 5, you started making your way downstairs.

But when you stepped into the kitchen, you stopped dead in your tracks.

Everyone was already there.

“Happy birthday!” they all chorused.

Your eyes went wide. A huge cake sat on the counter – frosted perfectly, with your name in bold letters and candles already placed, ready to be lit.

You didn’t say anything at first, completely stunned. Your gaze immediately flicked to the one person you were sure had something to do with this.

Bucky was leaning casually against the island, arms crossed, a smug little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looked almost too pleased with himself.

You blinked, still processing, before shaking your head with a quiet laugh. “You guys…”

“Why didn’t you tell us it was your birthday?” Natasha asked, hands on her hips like she was genuinely offended. “You know we celebrate birthdays around here.”

Sam pointed a chip at you. “Yeah, what the hell, y/n. I would’ve made my world-famous brownies.”

“Tony would’ve gone overboard with decorations,” Clint added.

You let out a soft laugh, feeling your cheeks flush with both embarrassment and joy. “I don’t know…I just didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

“You don’t have to,” Steve said, “but we will.”

The room chuckled, and you couldn’t stop the smile spreading across your face. “Thank you, really.”

“Don’t thank us,” Tony said, waving a hand. “Thank Barnes.”

You glanced over at Bucky again.

He just shrugged like it was nothing, but the slight pink in his cheeks gave him away.

“Wait, wait,” Sam cut in, grinning wide now. “You don’t even know. After lunch, this guy went full sergeant mode.”

“I’m serious,” Clint chimed in, pointing dramatically. “He went door to door like some birthday vigilante. Told all of us the plan, gave assignments.”

“He picked out the cake himself,” Natasha added with a smirk. “Wouldn’t let anyone help. Said he had it handled.”

Bucky looked vaguely horrified as all eyes turned on him. “You guys are so dramatic.”

“You were literally ordering people around,” Bruce said mildly. “It was kind of impressive, honestly.”

You couldn’t stop laughing now, covering your mouth as you turned to Bucky again. “You did all that?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but at you. “Didn’t want your birthday to suck.”

Your smile softened, and you took a step closer. “Thank you,” you said again, quieter this time.

He finally looked at you, and the look on his face – slightly shy, slightly proud – made your chest tighten in the best way.

“Anytime,” he murmured.

--

Dinner was loud, messy, and perfect.

Everyone gathered around the big table, plates full of takeout and mismatched drinks clinking together. There was endless banter – Sam complaining about the spice level, Tony bragging about some invention no one asked about, Nat calmly stealing fries off Clint’s plate without looking up.

At some point, the others subtly shuffled chairs and swapped spots so that, somehow, you ended up sitting right next to Bucky.

You didn’t say anything about it.

He didn’t either.

But you felt the slight brush of his knee against yours under the table, and the warm little flicker in your chest told you it wasn’t a coincidence.

After the meal was finished and people were groaning about being too full, Tony dramatically declared it was “cake time,” and Bruce lit the candles while Steve dimmed the lights.

Everyone gathered around the kitchen island, and you stood at the center, cheeks burning as they sang the happy birthday song in varying levels of pitch and enthusiasm. You caught Bucky watching you again – eyes soft, a faint smile on his lips – and just before you blew out the candles, you gave him a grateful look.

Your wish was simple: Let every birthday feel like this one.

Afterward, everyone dug into the cake and ice cream, cracking jokes about sugar crashes and fighting over middle slices.

Eventually, as plates were scraped clean and the sugar haze started to settle in, Steve asked you a question.

“So, what’s the best birthday gift you’ve ever gotten?”

You blinked, thinking. “Hmm…probably when I turned seven. I wanted this purple bike. Like, really wanted it. I talked about it nonstop for months.”

Bucky leaned his elbow on the table, quietly watching you as you spoke.

“My parents acted like they had no idea what I was talking about – kept saying it was too expensive, I was too small, I’d grow out of it. And then boom – there it was in the living room with a giant bow on it. I think I screamed.”

Everyone laughed as you smiled at the memory.

You went quiet for a moment after that, then glanced down at your plate, voice a little softer. “But…I think today might be the best one yet, actually.”

There was a pause.

Then, a collective and heartfelt chorus of “Awww” went around the table.

“Well, we’re glad we could finally celebrate it with you,” Steve said, lifting his glass of soda.

“And we all know who made it happen,” Natasha said, eyes sliding toward Bucky.

You laughed as the teasing began again.

“He organized this whole thing,” Sam said with mock awe.

“Birthday commander,” Clint added. “Ten-hut!”

“Oh, shut up,” Bucky muttered, slouching a little in his seat, clearly embarrassed but grinning all the same.

“You picked a damn good cake, man,” Tony said, patting his shoulder.

You turned toward him, bumping your shoulder gently against his. “You really did.”

He just gave you a sideways glance and said, quiet but sincere, “Told you I’d make sure it wasn’t a bad day.”

And as the night drifted into laughter and stories, you couldn’t help but think – he really did.

Your alarm goes off with a soft chime, cutting through the quiet warmth of you and Bucky’s shared room at the compound. You barely have time to register the sound before Bucky's lips are on you – pressing kisses to your cheeks, your forehead, your nose. He peppers your face with affection, slow and sleepy and smiling against your skin.

You laugh, soft and muffled in your pillow, tilting your head just enough to catch his eyes. He’s already grinning.

“Happy birthday, doll,” he murmurs, voice still husky with sleep.

“Thank you,” you whisper back, your heart flipping the way it always does when he looks at you like that. You reach for him and press a kiss to his lips – slow, lingering, and just enough to make him hum contentedly against you.

You stay like that for a little while longer, tangled up in sheets and each other, letting the day stretch out ahead of you. You know training is coming, but right now, the world is just you and him.

Eventually, reluctantly, you both get up and start getting ready. As you pull on your training clothes, you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. The day ahead is already playing out in your mind – lunch with Nat and Wanda, getting your nails done, some much-needed retail therapy, and then dinner with Bucky tonight. A proper date night.

You're still smiling when you and Bucky head downstairs to the kitchen, your fingers brushing against his as you walk. The moment you step through the door, a chorus of voices greets you.

“Happy birthday!”

Everyone is already gathered around, mugs in hand, grinning. There’s a card on the table, standing upright like it's been waiting for you. You pick it up and open it, your chest warming at the familiar, chaotic mix of handwriting and doodles. Everyone signed it.

Bucky moves around the kitchen, making your coffee like he always does. He sets your mug in front of you before you can even ask, the steam curling between you as he leans down to kiss the top of your head.

“Sit,” he says, already grabbing ingredients. “Birthday girl doesn’t lift a finger.”

You roll your eyes fondly but take your seat, watching as he whips up a batch of your favorite – chocolate chip pancakes, golden and fluffy and stacked high. He even adds extra chocolate chips, just the way you like.

Breakfast is warm and sweet and full of laughter. It’s everything you love about mornings at the compound – only better, because Bucky keeps sneaking glances at you like you hung the moon.

Once the plates are cleared and coffee cups drained, Bucky stretches, then offers you his hand. “Ready for training?”

You groan half-heartedly, but your fingers curl around his anyway. “Let’s get it over with.”

As you head to the training room together, you’re already counting down the hours until lunch with the girls, your date with Bucky, and whatever else the day might bring. Because so far, it’s perfect – and you’ve got a feeling it’s only going to get better.

--

Training is tougher than usual – either Steve's in a particularly bad mood or you're just too giddy to focus. Probably the latter. Even Bucky, usually dialed in and sharp, keeps sneaking glances at you between sparring drills. At one point, Nat elbows him with a smirk and whispers something that makes him roll his eyes, though the blush on his cheeks gives him away.

By the time you’re done, your muscles ache in that satisfying way, and your hair is sticking to your neck. You shoot Bucky a grin as you part ways in the hallway.

“Quick shower, then I’m off to be spoiled.”

He leans in, presses a kiss to your temple, his metal hand curling gently around your waist. “Good. You deserve it. Have fun with the girls.”

You take a quick shower, letting the hot water ease the tension from your shoulders. You towel off, slipping into the outfit you picked out just for today: something cute but comfy, perfect for brunch and window shopping. Then, you put on some makeup and grab your purse.

By the time you step out of your room, Nat and Wanda are already waiting for you by the elevators.

“Birthday girl is ready,” Nat declares, linking her arm through yours.

Wanda grins and hands you a gift bag. “Just a little something to start the day.”

Inside is a new shade of lipstick Wanda swore would look perfect on you last week, and a new knife, obviously from Nat.

You blink back the sudden warmth in your eyes. “You guys…”

“Don’t get all sappy on us yet,” Nat smirks. “We’ve got mimosas to drink.”

You all pile into one of the cars and head into the city. Lunch is at your favorite brunch spot – outdoor seating, the smell of fresh pastries and coffee in the air, the sun warm on your face. The three of you toast with fruity drinks, laugh too loudly, and share everything from pancakes to avocado toast. Nat insists on ordering a dessert for the table – something with caramel and ice cream – and you nearly fall into a food coma right then and there.

After lunch, it's nails and spa. The place Wanda picked is chic and relaxing, with soft music and cucumber water and cozy chairs. The three of you sit side-by-side getting your nails done, flipping through magazines and comparing colors. You go for a soft birthday-pink with a little shimmer, while Nat chooses a dark red, and Wanda surprises everyone with a glittery teal.

“You have to take a selfie with Bucky tonight,” Wanda says, examining your finished nails. “I need to see his face when he realizes how ridiculously in love with you he is.”

You laugh, heart fluttering, because yeah…you already know he is. And you’re so gone for him, too.

Shopping comes last – mostly browsing, a few impulse buys, and Nat pretending she doesn’t care while picking out a killer leather jacket. You grab a candle that smells like fresh linen and vanilla, and a sweater you know Bucky will love seeing you in.

As the sun starts to dip lower, painting the sky in warm golds and oranges, you all head back to the compound. Your bag is full, your heart is fuller, and you can’t stop smiling.

And now, all you can think about is what comes next: dinner with Bucky, just the two of you. You already know he’s planning something – he’s been too quiet about it not to be. And whatever it is, you’re more than ready.

--

The elevator doors slide open, and you step into the compound with Nat and Wanda, arms full of shopping bags and your cheeks still warm from laughing. As you walk into the common room, you spot most of the guys sprawled out on the couches – Steve with a book, Sam mid-argument with Tony over something on the TV, and Bucky, who jumps up the moment he sees you.

He crosses the room in a few long strides, not even pretending to play it cool. His eyes scan you first – head to toe – then he’s reaching for the bags in your hands.

“Let me get these,” he says, voice low, eyes soft.

You open your mouth to protest, but he’s already taking everything out of your arms like it weighs nothing. And then he kisses you – right there, in front of everyone. Warm and slow, his hand cradling your jaw like you’re the only thing that matters.

Sam lets out a dramatic groan. “Damn, man, give us a warning next time!”

Tony whistles. “She leaves for a few hours and you act like she’s been gone for a week.”

Bucky doesn’t even blink. “Jealous?” he tosses over his shoulder, still entirely focused on you. “C’mon, doll. Let’s get ready.”

He carries everything up like it’s his job, and honestly, maybe it is. By the time you reach your room, he’s already setting the bags gently on the bench at the foot of your bed.

You step into the bathroom while he heads to the closet, the quiet tension of the evening starting to build. The outfit you picked for dinner hangs by the mirror: a dress that makes you feel effortlessly beautiful, the kind Bucky always lingers on a little too long when you wear. You slip into it, your freshly done nails shining against the fabric. You add a pair of earrings and swipe on Wanda’s new lipstick before stepping out of the bathroom.

Bucky is waiting for you in a suit, and when he turns around, his breath catches.

“Wow,” he says simply, eyes locked on you. “You look…”

You smile. “So do you.”

He takes your hand and kisses it – like you’re in a movie, like he does it without thinking. “Ready?”

“Definitely.”

The drive to the restaurant is quiet and peaceful. He plays your favorite playlist in the car, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh. The city lights blur past the windows as he takes you to a place you’ve never been, but that looks straight out of a romance novel – high ceilings, flickering candles, soft piano music playing in the background.

He holds every door open. Pulls out your chair. Orders your favorite wine before you even ask. You try not to grin too obviously, but it’s hard. He’s doing the “perfect gentleman” thing to an almost suspicious degree.

Not that you’re complaining.

The dinner is beautiful and amazing, course after course of rich, expertly made food. But the whole time, there’s this energy underneath it all, buzzing beneath Bucky’s smile. He’s trying to be chill, casual, but you know him. You can tell something’s going on.

He keeps checking his watch.

His phone buzzes once, and he flips it over quickly.

He’s got that subtle, telltale edge of nerves that gives him away more than he realizes.

You’ve helped plan enough surprise parties for the team to know the signs. And you have a pretty good idea of what’s waiting for you when you get back to the compound. But you don’t say anything. You let him play it out. Let him have his moment. Because whatever he’s planning – whatever he’s got up his sleeve – you already know it’s going to mean the world.

And for now, you’re perfectly content to sip your wine, smile at Bucky across the table, and enjoy every second of your perfect birthday night.

--

Dinner winds down with a shared dessert, a quiet toast from Bucky, and the kind of silence that feels full, like neither of you wants to break the spell. But eventually, he checks the time and pays the bill with a small, almost secretive smile.

“Ready to head home, birthday girl?”

You nod, your heart already thudding with quiet anticipation.

The drive back is filled with soft music and stolen glances. Bucky’s thumb strokes over your knuckles as he holds your hand the whole way, and that tension you’d been feeling at dinner – the almost playful, charged energy between you – still lingers, stronger now. You know something’s waiting when you get back. You just don’t know how much.

The elevator doors open with a soft chime, and you’re met with darkness.

The lights on the floor are off – eerily quiet, especially for the compound. Bucky pretends like he’s surprised too, furrowing his brow in mock confusion. “We pay the electric bill this month?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Maybe Tony forgot.”

Then, the lights come on, and everyone jumps out from behind the couches, kitchen island, and even the hallway walls, yelling in unison:

“SURPRISE!!”

Confetti rains from the ceiling in a shower of glitter and paper streamers. A banner stretches across the room that reads “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” in big, glittery letters. Someone sets off a mini party cannon and Sam cheers like a mad man.

There's a massive cake waiting on the table, lit with candles, next to a spread of ice cream and a stack of mismatched bowls. The scent of frosting and sugar fills the air, and the sound of laughter is instant and infectious.

You laugh, loud and unfiltered, spinning toward Bucky with wide eyes. He’s already looking at you, hands in his pockets, that proud, satisfied smile lighting up his whole face.

You step in close and lean up, wrapping your arms around his neck. “You did all this?”

He grins, just a little bashful now. “Maybe I had some help.”

You kiss him – soft and sweet – and whisper, “Thank you. This is perfect.”

The next hour is a blur of warmth and chaos. The team sings a hilariously off-key version of the happy birthday song, with Tony making dramatic hand gestures like he’s conducting a symphony and Thor booming the final line so loudly the windows rattle. You blow out the candles, and Bucky’s standing right behind you, hands gently resting on your hips as everyone cheers.

There’s cake and ice cream and drinks, gifts exchanged, and stories shared.

At one point, as you're sitting on the couch with Bucky’s arm wrapped around you, Nat asks, “So, were you actually surprised?”

You raise your brows, give a little shrug, and smirk. “Well…I kinda had a feeling.”

The whole room erupts in laughter – even Bucky, who leans into you with a mock groan. “I knew you were onto me.”

The night winds down slowly, and people start saying goodnight one by one. The confetti's still in your hair, your lipstick’s worn off, and you’ve never felt more full – of cake, yes, but also of joy.

Eventually, Bucky stands, offering you his hand again, his eyes darker now in the soft lighting. “C’mon, doll,” he murmurs, slipping a hand to the small of your back as he walks you to the elevator. “I’ve got one more gift for you.”

The way he says it – low, intimate, voice curling around the words like a promise – sends a slow, warm shiver up your spine.

You smile as the elevator doors close behind you.

And when you get back to your room, it’s the best gift yet.

The night ends not with laughter, but with whispered words, tangled limbs, and the kind of closeness that feels sacred.

A perfect birthday, wrapped in love – and Bucky.

Bucky Taglist: @winchestert101 @herejustforbuckybarnes @avengemepercy @buckyslove1917 @nelachu2423 @iyskgd @navs-bhat @starstruckfirecat @yes-ilovetowrite @bonnyclydecat @rnurse-kole @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes

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Author's Note: promise I'm not trying to ask for attention😭 but if we're birthday twins, happy birthday! And if not and you come back to this on your birthday, happy birthday :)

[zenniaphoenix]

In universe, I really like Zoe. Even if she has a lot of similarities with other characters, I think her vibe is fun. From a Doylist perspective, though, I think introducing Zoe was a poor narrative choice. I think the slides above are a good explanation of how she compares to other characters, but you’re missing a crucial part of the fandom history that explains how we got here.

Zoe was brought into the story as a replacement for the role that was originally written for Chloe, before Astruc decided not to give Chloe her planned redemption arc. (From what I’ve heard, Astruc basically didn’t like the number of fans that were excited about Chloe’s anticipated redemption arc, or how they talked about it, and decided to scrap it because of that. I’m not searching out the tweets where Astruc said as much right now, but I do remember seeing and probably reblogging them). That’s part of why there are so many sets of dolls with the core four and Chloe as queen bee, even though she didn’t spend a lot of time with the bee miraculous. You can also see that in earlier drafts of the story, like the PV, the character Chloe was based off of was meant to be part of the main group as a friend and a hero. It seems like the plan for Miraculous Ladybug was to give Chloe a redemption arc somewhere around seasons 2-4.

So like… yeah of course Chloe and Zoe have a ton in common. In terms of their role in the overall story, they’re functionally two different versions of the same character. I never particularly cared about Chloe as a character, and I like Zoe better, but the mess this show has made of using Zoe as a replacement for Chloe rather than the sort of person Chloe could grow into with time is disappointing. Practically, Zoe is Chloe, a few steps closer to healing.

They both love fashion. Chloe seeks out prestige in what she wears, and Zoe enjoys decorating herself with art pieces that express who she is and what she cares about.

They both want to have acting roles. Chloe butts into every single audition in the show insisting on being the lead. She feels strongly enough about it that if she doesn’t get her way, she sometimes shuts the whole show down. Zoe has opened up about the fact that she wants to be an actress, and taken steps towards that goal, but she tries not to hurt people in the process.

They’re both wanted their mom’s approval. Chloe will do anything to get it, and has been shown a few times that that doesn’t work, but didn’t learn from that. Zoe’s decided that she’s not going to get it, and she might as well look somewhere else for emotional support.

They both seek out Marinette and Ladybug’s approval. Chloe goes to unreasonable lengths to make it look like she’s a hero like Ladybug, even going as far has putting people in danger so she can save them. She doesn’t usually get Ladybug’s approval, and throws a lot of tantrums about it. She’s still done the right thing sometimes anyways, but not when Ladybug happened to be watching. (Marinette doesn’t owe her forgiveness, but that doesn’t stop a lot of heroes from giving forgiveness. I kinda like the subversion here, but Chloe could have still have a redemption arc without earning Marinette’s approval or friendship, which would be equally subversive of the trope and honestly more interesting). Zoe just gets Ladybug’s approval as a baseline. She almost looses a bit of it, but gains it back within the episode.

Zoe gets a crush on Marinette, a girl who was nice to her when she didn’t have to be. And frankly, a lot of Chloe’s early bullying of Marinette looks like a childish, hair pulling to get attention kind of crush.

Zoe has a strong sense of justice, that’s a little bit more attuned to things that hurt her personally, but she’s learning to recognize things that hurt other people. Chloe has a stubborn sense that things shouldn’t be unfair to her, but doesn’t notice or care when other people are hurt. She has the potential to grow towards stubbornly standing up for her sense of justice if that changes.

Chloe puts up walls to keep her ego from being hurt. And those walls have hurt a lot of people. Zoe is learning to stop hiding who she is, but still occasionally does it by default. She’s still trying to move past the guilt of having been a mean girl before, and figure out who she can be when she’s nice to other people and herself.

Zoe is Chloe’s redemption arc, but the writers skipped the hard bits, where they have to convince the audience she’s really changing.

It feels like Zoe’s crowding the (former) mean girl space because… she is. She’s the foil to Lila that Chloe was supposed to be (as an actress, as someone who struggles to show up authentically), and having just the two characters in that space would have made a lot more sense in the story. And ironically, by having Zoe show up late and take up the space of a main cast member without earning it, a lot of people didn’t react well to her, and thought she fell flat, which was the same concern they probably had about a Chloe redemption arc.

For example: the scene where Andre tells Zoe he wanted to be a director would have hit very different if it was with Chloe, slightly after her lowest point, when she’s just starting to figure out how to be nice to people. For her to have an opportunity to see her dad as a person and understand why he isn’t happy as mayor, and force Chloe to weigh that against all of the privilege that having the mayor as her dad has given her, and decide whether she wants to support her dad being happier or her life being easier. Could she give up being the mayor’s daughter, a core part of her identity and the main weapon she uses against the people who she feels have wronged her, for her father’s sake? That scene would have been a much more impactful one than “oh hey step?-dad, nice to meet you on the roof, it’s neat that we have similar hobbies. I see you regret not following your dreams so I’m going to follow mine.” Even if Chloe botched that one opportunity to be a kinder person, it would have been interesting to watch her try. To fit well with Miraculous’s episode format they’d probably have her realize she was wrong over the course of an akuma fight against her dad, so they could write Chloe messing up and show her learning from it. Which is a thing characters on this show get to do every single episode, but not Chloe. Chloe never gets to learn, and introducing Zoe as a replacement for a Chloe redemption arc really cemented that decision. Having characters who can never be redeemed in canon is okay, but seems a bit mixed up to decide a kid can never improve in a kid’s show about learning to manage your emotions better.

[starkeymeow]

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT chapter twenty-one, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, everything that happens after katniss n peeta win, announcement about the quarter quell !

main masterlist | series ml | tag list | previous next

the capitol hasn’t been quiet since katniss and peeta won the games. there are celebration parades, commemorative fashion drops, parties thrown in honor of “true love,” and new candies named after their kiss. the capitol is buzzing with affection for them. but for you, everything feels off.

you haven’t seen finnick in weeks. you haven’t heard johanna’s laugh in even longer. not at a party, not on a screen, not in a passing car or a balcony three floors above yours. and it’s not like they’re avoiding you. it’s like they’ve disappeared. the only victors you’ll ever see are the ones in district two.

since the suicide pact, everything has changed. most people haven’t noticed, not the way you have. but you know.

it wasn’t an act of love. it was an act of defiance. and snow saw it, clocked it immediately. same as you.

you’d felt it before, long before this.

when you were a kid, like five, maybe six, you remembered a riot outside your apartment. there were signs, a lot of yelling, peacekeepers had to come in and shut it down. when you asked your dad what it was for, he told you to keep your eyes down and never talk about it again.

when you were eight, there were whispers about a lot of “accidents” in the training academies, like explosions, deaths, or weapon malfunctions. the adults would call them accidents at least, but in retrospect, you would wonder if some may have been sabotage or staged to cover up conflict within the ranks.

even when you were ten, a merchant girl at the edge of the market slipped you a small roll of paper with no words, just a black circle with a line drawn through it. you still don’t know what that meant. but she was gone the week after.

even back then, the undercurrent was there. district two isn’t known for open rebellion. you would wonder over time if people would throw down subtle, coded, or hushed signs of dissent.

so now, when katniss and peeta refuse to play the final card of the games, you know what you’re watching. you know what it looks like to people with nothing left to lose. it’s hope. and hope, to snow, is a dangerous thing.

but snow doesn’t lash out at them, at least not publicly. not yet.

he uses you. both you and rafe.

your interviews drop off, your sponsors grow cold. you still show up at events, still wear the gowns they send you, still wave from the balcony, but your presence feels like something half-forgotten. they don’t promote you like they used to. they don’t glamorize your victories. you wonder if this is a good thing.

but rafe notices it too. the cameras stay on him longer than before, but only to watch. not to admire or to celebrate. they’re there to monitor.

it’s like you’re being measured, like they’re waiting for a misstep. like a conversation too long with the wrong person, or a word out of place. one breath of rebellion in your lungs and they’ll close the cage door for good.

you haven’t heard from your dad in months.

your mom sent a message a few weeks ago, said someone was following her when she walked to work. said it was probably nothing, just her imagination, but she locked the door anyway. she told you not to worry. told you to stay quiet, just like dad did when you were younger. everything just feels wrong.

you don’t sleep well anymore. you check the windows too often. you don’t go out unless you have to. and when you do, you wear the persona the capitol gave you.

rafe’s been thinking about moving his family into victor’s village. he brought it up once in passing, said it might be safer. said they’d have better food, better medicine, more warmth. but he didn’t do it. he wouldn’t. not because he didn’t trust you, but because he did. and too much. said it wasn’t your job to carry his family too. said you shouldn’t have to bear any more weight than you already do.

you didn’t argue. but you would’ve said yes in a heartbeat.

and through it all, you’ve never met katniss or peeta once. you’ve watched them on television, seen them in the crowd at events you’re both required to attend, you’ve even sat rows away while they stood on the victory tour stage and spoke about cato and clove with scripted grief.

you’ve wanted to speak to them and reach out. just something, especially now that you know what they’ve gotten themselves into. you just wanted a nod, a signal that they’re not alone, that you see them. that you understand.

but you never do. rafe told you not to.

it wasn’t to be strict or control you, but he said snow doesn’t want the old victors mingling with the new ones. he doesn’t want the stories overlapping, the connections forming. said if you talk to katniss or peeta, it’ll be taken as something more. like something dangerous.

because if one victor defies the capitol, it’s a fluke. if two do, it’s a pattern. and if four start talking?

it’s a movement.

but now the quarter quell is coming. the seventy-fifth games. it’s a milestone and a warning at the same time. every person in panem knows what that means. every twenty-five years, the capitol chooses to remind the districts just how deep their control runs. not just with the games, but a twist. it’s a message. a punishment.

you’ve lived through regular reapings before. hell, you literally survived one, but this is different. this has history in it. every person in the country who’s lived long enough has witnessed or participated in a quarter quell. everyone has their story about where they were when the last one happened. your father once told you he watched the fiftieth games from the square, saw haymitch’s face flicker across the screen, bloodstained and unrecognizable. there were twice as many tributes that year. twice as much death.

you remember what they taught you in school. the twenty-fifth quell required the districts to vote on who to send into the arena. some thought it would breed solidarity. it didn’t. it bred silence.

but now, it’s your turn. your generation’s turn. the seventy-fifth is coming. and you can’t help it, you’re nervous. the capitol is being tight-lipped, which only fuels the rumors. everyone’s got a theory.

some say this year, they’ll reap out of the usual age range, like nineteen-year-olds, twelve-year-olds. others whisper about siblings being reaped together—brother and sister, side by side, one heart breaking twice over. you’ve heard one that says the capitol might reap descendants of those who participated in the first rebellion. it's far-fetched, but not impossible. the capitol collects blood samples every year for the reapings. you wouldn’t be surprised if they already had the family trees mapped out, tucked away in some database, ready to be unsealed the second president snow snaps his fingers.

the weekend arrives quiet and slow. rafe’s family pulls up to victors village just as the sun dips low, and snow’s announcement looms.

you've been nervous, but you welcome the distraction.

his dad is the last to show, as expected. he’s the kind of man whose presence is like a winter gust. it’s cold, sharp, and calculated. he doesn’t say much when he arrives. just a nod at rafe, a once-over at you, and then he disappears into the guest room like he owns the house. the visit isn’t really about him, anyway. it never is.

rafe’s stepmom spends her first hour pretending to be helpful, offering to dust shelves you already cleaned, to organize cabinets you know are spotless. sometimes you think she thinks you can’t take care of yourselves sometimes, as if she actually gives a fuck. you catch her peeking into the laundry room when she thinks no one’s looking. rafe pretends not to notice. you let her do her rounds. eventually, she gets bored or satisfied, whichever comes first, and starts talking about her neighbor’s new garden and the rising price of bread. she’ll definitely be gone by tomorrow night. ward will be too. they just do their routine check-in and call it a day.

but his sisters . . . they’re different. they always are.

sarah and wheezie come barreling in like the house belongs to them, arms full of overnight bags and snacks. sarah wraps you in a hug before she even says hello, and wheezie flops dramatically onto the living room couch like she’s home from war. rafe watches it all unfold with a smile, muttering something about regretting this already, but you can tell he’s happy. this is the version of him you like best: soft-voiced, gently bullied by his sisters, just a little bit easier to breathe around.

you and sarah talk in the kitchen while rafe sets up extra blankets and pillows. it’s always the same, sarah asking about your hair, about food, about the boy she’s been secretly seeing and isn’t quite ready to tell her dad about. she asks how you’re doing in that quiet, honest way only sarah can. and you smile, trying to dodge the real parts. you tell her not to worry, that it’s nothing she needs to carry. and sarah, like she always does, believes you, but not entirely.

when the house quiets hours later, it’s wheezie who shows up at the door to the living room, voice small and curious. she doesn’t knock. she just leans in and says your name, like it’s a secret.

“what’s it like?” she asks, standing at the door. “being a victor.”

you look at her in the low light. she's smart, sharper than most, and too observant for her age. you can tell she's been thinking about it for a while now. maybe she saw something in your eyes, something no one else caught.

you want to lie. you want to make it sound like something glorious, something she can point to and dream about. but your silence says more than words could.

wheezie frowns. “is it bad?”

you run your fingers through your hair. “it’s just . . . not what people think.”

she just nods, doesn’t really ask anything else.

rafe finds you both asleep like that in the morning, wheezie’s arm draped over your side, your face smushed up against the pillow. he doesn’t say anything. he just watches for a second longer than necessary, then goes to make coffee.

the announcement comes tomorrow.

the house is quiet now. by nightfall, sarah and wheezie are tucked away in the living room again with half-finished cups of tea and a blanket fort they never finished building. they’d both fallen asleep mid-conversation, heads tilted toward each other on the couch.

you smile softly, easing the blanket up around their shoulders before shutting off the light and tiptoeing down the hallway.

rafe’s already asleep. or he looks like it, at least.

his back is to you at first, covers tugged high on his shoulders. you close the door behind you and move to your side of the bed.

you slip beneath the covers gently, careful not to shift the mattress too much. but the second you settle, pulling the blankets up to your collarbone, rafe exhales low and turns. he rolls onto his side, one arm finding your waist like it’s muscle memory. the other slides beneath his pillow. you end up pressed against his chest, nose brushing his sleep shirt, his breath warm at the top of your hair.

you smile, so he hums, and that’s all it takes. you know he’s awake.

you whisper, “i thought you were asleep.”

“was trying,” he mumbles, voice still rough from whatever half-dream state you just pulled him from. “but my nerves suck.”

you nod slowly, letting out a breath through your nose, the same way he does when he’s trying not to think too hard. “yeah. i get it.”

you don’t say more. you just lie there, but when you finally tilt your head back to look at him, he’s already watching you.

he’s beautiful. even in this light, maybe especially in this light. his lashes are unfairly long, the lines of his face softened by sleep but still so sharp it hurts to look at sometimes. his hair’s buzzed now. he said it was for “low maintenance,” said it like a joke, like he was some high-end model who couldn’t be bothered with styling products. but you remember him saying once, just once, something quiet about how hair holds memories. and then he shaved it all off two days later.

it suits him. really suits him.

your hand comes up to touch the side of his face. he leans into it automatically, eyes slipping shut. your thumb strokes over his cheekbone, and then you reach higher, fingers dragging across his buzzcut. it’s soft and bristly. your palm settles against the top of his head, and you sigh.

“are you nervous about tomorrow?” you ask, still looking at his hair.

he opens his eyes and stares at you, like he’s waiting for the punchline. “uh, yeah. obviously.”

you huff out a breath and roll away from him, burying your face in your pillow with a quiet groan. he watches you, something soft pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“hey,” he says. “don’t. c’mon, we don’t even know what it is yet.” you don’t move, but he keeps talking. “it’s probably gonna suck, yeah. but we’ll get through it. we’ll mentor the strongest ones, right? that’s how this works. we save one kid. maybe two if we’re lucky.”

you know he’s joking but a part of you wants to correct him. president snow will never let that happen again.

you shift slowly, turning back over to face him. he’s already there, one hand resting lightly on your hip, fingers draped over the curve of it.

“we’ve done it before,” he says. “just don’t think about it tonight. not until they say it out loud.”

you know what he’s doing. it’s distraction. he’s not wrong.

you narrow your eyes at him a little, then roll them, leaning in until your lips find his. the kiss is slow at first, just a press of mouths. his fingers curl against your skin, and then his hand comes up to cradle your face as he deepens it, tongue slipping past your lips, pulling you closer.

but you smirk and grab his jaw, grip firm, and pull him back before he can really get carried away. he blinks at you, eyes heavy-lidded and dazed, lips parted like he was in the middle of a sentence.

you raise an eyebrow.

“did you brush your teeth?”

there’s a pause, like his brain short-circuits. his eyes narrow just slightly like he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking. the realization washes over him slowly, that weird cocktail of she’s kind of serious, but also . . . not really. because of course you’d ask something like that. because you do care—but also? you don’t. not enough to pull away for good.

his grin starts lazy, crooked. he leans back in, nose brushing yours. “you’re so stupid,” he murmurs.

you smile too, lips already parting to meet his again, and this time, when he kisses you, it’s deeper, slower. his hand slides down, finding the hem of your shirt where it rests at your hip, fingers curling there like he’s memorizing the shape of you. then he moves, hand slipping beneath the fabric, palm warm against your skin as he drags it up, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

the morning comes later.

you make your way into the living room with the tea kettle still steaming in your hands. you step barefoot onto the rug, your eyes flicking up to take in the rest of the room.

sarah’s already curled into one corner of the couch, legs tucked up beneath her, palms wrapped tight around a mug. she looks nervous, biting at the inside of her cheek every few seconds. wheezie’s leaned forward at the edge of the opposite couch cushion, elbows on her thighs, eyes locked onto the television with a kind of intensity that practically borders on obsession.

rafe, meanwhile, is pacing behind the couch. you can tell by the way his jaw is clenched that he’s been upset for a while. his fingers twitch at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them as he mutters something under his breath.

“they should be here,” he snaps, a little louder now, stopping in his tracks. “this is the kind of thing wh— where families are supposed to show up. ours should be here.”

sarah looks up slowly. “rafe . . .”

he doesn’t look at her, but he hears it in her voice.

“you know dad can’t be here. he’s not allowed to leave base anymore for—”

“i know that,” rafe says, “i know. but rose? she could be here. but she’s not. again.”

sarah’s lips press together, the argument already finished in her mind before it begins. there’s nothing left to say that she hasn’t said before.

you quietly refill both your mug and sarah’s.

you don’t speak either, not yet, but when you lean forward to place the kettle down, your shirt pulls slightly. you don’t notice, but rafe does, his eyes catching on the thorns etched into your spine like they’re blooming right out of your skin. it pulls something in him, stops him mid-step. he exhales through his nose and slowly rounds the couch, not saying anything as he drops down into the cushions between his sisters.

he’s just there to be close. wants to be there.

“some guys at school were saying they think this year they’re gonna make it, like, career tributes only,” wheezie says suddenly, almost like she’s been waiting to say it, like she needed to fill the silence. she’s still flicking through channels on the remote way too fast for anyone to follow.

sarah gives her a sharp look. “that’s stupid.”

“is it, though?” wheezie counters, not even glancing her way. “they haven’t done that before. would probably make a good show for the capitol.”

“they’re not gonna do that.”

“you never know,” wheezie says, clicking to yet another static-heavy channel. “they do something worse every time.”

“they’re going to show it on every channel, wheeze. stop it.”

wheezie gives her one of those deadly little sister looks and tosses the remote at sarah’s lap like fine then, you do it. sarah rolls her eyes but doesn’t say anything else.

you settle down onto the floor in front of the couch, nestling in between rafe’s legs without needing to ask. his hands find your shoulders like it’s instinct, thumbs pressing slowly into the muscles there. you lean back against him more fully as you watch the screen.

it’s like right on cue: the screen flickers. all the channels go dark for half a second before one clean hologram feed takes over.

the crowd is massive, packed into the grand capitol square where they usually hold the tribute parade. you can barely make out the edge of the platform, the massive podium in the center. the camera zooms in until all that’s visible is the upper half of president snow.

his voice comes in smoothly, already mid-introduction, like this has been planned and rehearsed more times than you could count.

“—thank you for coming out to join us here today,” snow says, smiling just enough for it to be unsettling, “we are reminded of the sacrifices that have shaped panem. of the victories. of the blood that feeds our soil. and of the peace we now enjoy.”

you feel rafe’s thumb pause on your shoulder blade. wheezie’s entire body is still. sarah leans forward, her tea untouched, and you just stare at the screen.

“ladies and gentlemen,” snow finally begins, “this is the seventy-fifth year of the hunger games.”

you don’t blink or breathe. your knees bend slightly as you rest your forearms against the tops of your thighs.

“it was written in the charter of the games,” snow continues, face beaming like he’s reading holy scripture, “that every twenty-five years, there would be a quarter quell to keep fresh for each new generation the memory of those who died in the uprising against the capitol. each quarter quell is distinguished by games of a special significance.”

sarah’s breath hitches next to rafe. wheezie’s lips move without sound, mouthing the words like she’s trying to read them ahead of him. meanwhile your heart skips, because something about the way snow says special significance doesn’t feel procedural.

“and now, on this, the seventy-fifth anniversary of our defeat of the rebellion, we celebrate the third quarter quell as a reminder . . .”

his pause is calculated. his breath easy.

“. . . that even the strongest cannot overcome the power of the capitol.”

your stomach folds in on itself. your brows furrow as you tilt your head slightly, mouth parting like you’re about to whisper something to rafe, like you’re about to ask what does that mean? but the words never come, because then he says it.

“on this, the third quarter quell games, the male and female tributes are to be reaped . . from the existing pool of victors!”

the sentence hits like a body blow.

your vision goes quiet. there’s no ringing in your ears, no sound at all. your face doesn’t change at first. you’re not even sure it can. it’s blank, stuck in this space between disbelief and knowing exactly what was just said.

your fingers twitch as you feel rafe’s hands slip off your shoulders.

you’re trying to sit up straight but your body won’t move the way it’s supposed to. your palm reaches out for the coffee table like it’ll help you remember how to breathe again, like if you just touch something real that you’ll wake up from this. but nothing wakes you up.

sarah’s sobbing openly, no hesitation. her hand flies to her mouth and she leans into the couch cushion as if she might pass out from the force of it. wheezie just stares at the screen, stunned.

you’re on your feet, though you don’t remember standing. the room tilts.

“y/n—” rafe chokes out, voice low and shaky. it’s not really a plea. it’s a reflex, like he can’t help himself. like saying your name out loud might stop you from walking away. but his throat closes around it.

you don’t look back. you can’t. the nausea builds so fast it’s like your stomach turns inside out. your hand covers your mouth but it’s too late, your legs move before your brain can even catch up, bolting through the kitchen doorway. your feet skid against the floor and you barely make it to the sink in time.

you throw up hard. your arms brace against the metal of the basin, body jerking forward with each heave. your mouth tastes bitter. your knees threaten to give.

you spit, cough, then hang there, trembling and breathless. everything smells like mint tea and bile. everything hurts.

you can’t go back.

your mind says it like a chant.

you can’t go back. you can’t.

you survived, you did your time, and you paid. you promised your mother you’d never—

a sob catches in your throat and tears rip down your face before you can even register the burn. your hands grip the edge of the sink tighter, knuckles bone-white, until that too gives out. your palms slide and you fall down to the floor, your hip knocking the cabinet, back curling up as you pull your knees to your chest.

you cry painfully, the kind that shakes your ribs. from the other room you hear rafe shouting your name again.

“rafe,” sarah’s voice tries to hold him back, “just stop—!”

and then something shatters in the living room. glass, probably. maybe ceramic.

you flinch at the sound and tuck your face deeper into your knees. you don’t care what broke. because the only thing that really matters—your life, which has already been taken from you—is already in pieces.

between you and enobaria, one of you has to go back into those games.

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @sukunasmuse @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14 @amterasuu @theteenagementality @maggscr @hey-you22w @delilah22pbp @hayleynott @silkenthusiasts ++

[rosiesdisneydrama]

I'm honestly not sure how the in-universe timeline works out. But I'm not sure that the first episode of the show was Dipper and Mabel's first day in Gravity Falls. I think it was included! Since the ep showed them arriving, but I don't think finding Journal 3 and the Gnome Attack happened on the first day.

While narrating the episode, Dipper implies that they been there for a little while by the time he finds Journal 3. As he's explaining how he and Mabel ended up in Gravity Falls, he says that he was having trouble adjusting and that he'd thought being there would be the "same boring routine all summer". He doesn't say anything specific at that time, like "we've been here a week" or something like that. But I think even Dipper would have needed a few days of the same thing before he'd call it a routine.

(Although, the Pines Family seems to be full of drama queens so it's possible that he could decide that it was boring in a single day.)

The ep also does at lot of quick-cut events, like several of Mabel's attempts at flirting and her date(s?) with "Norman". And it feels like those werw actaully spaced out over a longer span of time than just their first day?

Idk, to me it feels like the first episode was actually condensing a few days into a single episode for the sake of getting everyone up to speed.

But, that also makes the twin's idea of running away and reporting Stan to the FBI on the very first night kind of funny?

Nothing truly weird or dangerous would have happened to them at that point! (Execpt maybe some misquito bites) They would have just arrived and maybe been told the ground rules for staying in the Shack. Maybe given a tour with Stan going "and here's where you'll be staying. I want you to help out in the shop while you're here."

And yet these two City Kids, probably mostly Dipper since Mabel seemed willing to try it out, were already So Done with being in the country with their weird great uncle and the tourist trap the guy lived out of in this tiny middle-of-no-where town that he wanted to leave Right Now Mabel!! We need to call the cops on this place and go home!

Like, Stan hadn't even done anything really shady yet! Other than say he wanted them to help out in the shop while they were there or telling some customer that there were no refunds. He hasn't had the chance to say or do anything illegal in front of them by then! At most, Stan would have just been awkward around them or maybe unpleasent to a customer. They'd known him for less than a full day!

But already the kids think they should run away from their great uncle, whom they've only just met, and report the "definitely shady" tourist trap to the FBI.

And, like, the Melodrama of that reaction is just so damn funny to me.

so does anyone else think about how, according to thisisnotawebsite, Stan overheard the kids plan to run away and report him to the FBI? And that the only reason they didn't was because an 8-ball told them not to?

Does anyone else think about how this perfectly validates why Stan didn't tell them anything about the portal, even when he started to trust them later on? How Dipper and Mabel unknowingly and unintentionally destroyed his trust in them from the start?

Does anyone else think about that? About how, if that night hadn't happened, Stan might've slipped up too early? But because he was distrustful of them, they never knew?

Does anyone else think about how Ford could've potentially gotten back even earlier in the summer? Like if Stan had messed up and the kids saw him go into the lab? They could've shown him the 3rd journal and told him about how Gideon had the 2nd one! Stan loves crime! He wouldn't have hesitated pulling a heist on his rival's home if it meant bringing his brother back!

But that never happened!!! Because of a conversation he was never supposed to hear!!!

Does anyone else think about it?! Is it just me?!!

[sizzlingcloudmentality]

thoughts about this fandom, dbf tropes and patriarchy

So... there is this huge mass of people on here, treating tumblr like any other social media platform. They are probably very young and it shows. Young meaning <25 and don't hate me for saying that, babes, because once you're reaching my age you'll see it the same way.

Corona and lockdown fucked with my brain and I can't imagine what it does to someone in their formative years, when a huge part of socializing and human interaction was happening on tiktok and ig. And believe me, I was on tiktok, too. Some creators and the algorithm helped me massively with my life (I'm one of those 'tiktok diagnosed me first' adhders).

But what exactly happened that it turned you into patriarchy's bootlicker? It's known that the general state of the world politics and economics leads to more conservatism. And it always has been the same with women uniting and rising: the other 50% of the population can't have that. They feed the young those rules and morals of women having to look a certain way, having to act a certain way. Having to act age appropriate. (I think we've all read this or something similar on here in the last days/months: "You're in fandom at the age of thirty? Why are you not married and having kids? Pathetic. Get a (conservative) life. Behave accordingly (so you're not a threat to men)")

Women turning against women. This is patriarchy's wet dream. You know how to control 50% of the population? Divide them. Divide them into even smaller groups. And then give them ammunition so one group can control the other. If you haven't heard about Foucault and the panopticon, you should look into it.

The system of power (patriarchy, and its undergroups with the names of capitalism and racism, oh, and government, just to name a few) uses you, dear eager young woman, to their advantage. Every time you post something or send an anon that is judging women, tone policing them, shaming them for simply existing in this space, your humping the bloody boot of patriarchy, just to be called a good girl. But honey, the boot your humping and licking is already stepping on your throat.

They are actively taking away your rights. They treat your body like it's theirs. They take your autonomy away so you're forced to birth more tax payers and soldiers. Forced to birth more women who control other women.

You, eager young woman, anon or not, are supporting the downfall of women, even though it seems like it is not a big deal. Because it's just a silly post on tumblr, right? A little trolling never hurt nobody. A little hating on people you don't know is fine, right? Policing them because they do something you don't like but doesn't harm you in any way is the way they taught you, right? Babe, congratulations, you're a sock puppet for the government you claim to hate.

Listen, idgaf about dbf tropes. I don't like it, so I don't read it. But the second an easy to control group of eager young women is setting their mind on yucking someone's yum? No. Because you are actively restricting a woman expressing herself. And I don't care about if it's nudes, writing or painting certain tropes, being openly queer, a bipoc. I WILL ALWAYS DEFEND WOMEN EXPRESSING THEMSELVES. (Including trans women, and other marginalized groups, too, duh)

Because we have to stay united. All the women before us, millenia of women fighting for the right of education, of being able to vote, to own their own bank account, being taught reading and writing, they didn't do it so you go and judge someone for being active in fandom. Or for loving their body. For writing stories that are, at the core, about being loved and accepted.

I know that barely anyone will read this, especially not those I want to address with this. And even if they read it, they won't be able to reflect on it. Because patriarchy fucks you good, honey, I know. Just know that I will even defend you, when someone comes your way and judges you for something you enjoy but isn't up patriarchy's alley (except being a bitch)