#and how although they share moments of intimacy and understanding they still don’t fully have a connection

[jrwiyuri]

Half of the problems in acofaf (specifically with Rue) could be solved if everyone just communicated better

[fenristheorem]

Lance Romantic Headcanons

(Technically part 2)

I’ve had a few of general / romantic headcanons running through my mind for a while now regarding Lance, so as part of my weeks away I decided I wanted to write about this. This isn’t to be confused with my two request writings (part 1 and 2) asking for headcanons of Lance in Guardienne in a relationship, although, the subject is very closely related so it’s probably a bit of a sister series lol.

~ Under the cut ~

I'm going to jump right into this: I think Lance has a dirty secret (many secrets actually, but I’m only sharing this one for now 😉). I theorize he secretly likes sensual dancing; soft yet intimate or intense music playing, and either watching his partner dance around or dancing with her. Being able to grasp her hips gently and sway with her, nuzzling his face into her neck, and pressing her body against his could definitely bewitch him into falling in love with is partner all over again. For this reason, he'd also like when his partner gives him lap dances - if that's something she's interested in doing - especially if she’s being subtly dominant about it. However, this isn't anything that's necessary, more like something that he enjoys when offered due to the intimacy of it. He'd never admit his interest in this, though - except maybe to his partner - and he'd certainly never do any of this in public.

He’s probably into massages - both giving and receiving - as this includes a lot of physical touch, too. Being a warrior and the Chief of Obsidian, Lance probably has a lot of stress on himself and undoubtedly works himself until he bleeds, which means he’s probably tense all the time. Provided his partner can get him to sit or lay down for long enough to give him a good back or shoulder massage, he’ll eventually melt into it until it’s hard to get him back up and moving. Massages can literally make this guy melt. He’ll enjoy giving his partner massages for reasons different than why he enjoys receiving them, though. Being able to lay his partner down and use his strength to sooth her ignites something deep within him, a sort of feral protective instinct, possibly because the act of massaging someone is similar in motion to kneading (like a cat) and providing comfort to your partner is usually pretty nice anyways. This can actually influence him into turning the simplest of massages into a long night of gentle touches where his partner doesn’t need to worry about doing anything except laying beneath him and letting him do all the work. Frankly, saying that he likes massages is an understatement, he probably loves them due to the simplistic intimacy of it.

Lance is definitely into aggressive cuddling as well. He likely has aggressive moments through out the year, almost like how a woman's temperament may change based on her menstrual cycle (yes, I did just say that lol), and it can make him crave his partner's touch more or less in certain moments. Based on his internal time clock, he'll have days where he'll come back to their shared room at night, strip off his armor until he's wearing only his pants, grab his partner - gently - and throw her - gently - onto the bed, and cuddle with her. He'll wrap his arms tightly around her, may possibly lay on top of her - as long as he's sure she's not suffocating under his weight - and he'll refuse to let her up for anything. She can argue him all she wants; he'll either argue back or shut her up with a kiss, which could probably lead off to another type of aggressive cuddling 😉. 

He can also be somewhat aggressive during these moments... but not exactly in a distasteful way.

“Hey Lance, can I get up?”

A grunt.

...

“Please?”

Another grunt, and a shifting of his grip to hold her tighter.

“Oh come on! I need to see Karenn about something!”

“You’ve seen her enough this week.”

She can start to struggle against his arms and chest, but he’ll pull her into a death grip and wrap his legs around hers so it’s harder to move.

A frustrated sigh as she relaxes.

...

More struggling. He’ll growl and lightly nip her neck or shoulder, following up with a few gentle kisses if he’s feeling kind. This gets her to stop.

“I promise I’ll come back and then we can continue!”

He’ll raise his head and look at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Is it urgent?”

“...Yes?...”

“No.”

“Why!?”

“That ‘yes’ had ‘no’ written all over it.”

His hand will press her head against his chest again as Lance nuzzles into her hair.

“Is there any way, in any possible world, that I could possibly leave for just a few seconds to tell her something?”

“No.”

Better luck next time, maybe. Once Lance is set on something, it’ll take the sky falling to change his mind... and even then his stubbornness may still prevail.

While we’re on the topic of close contact with Lance; he probably has a very specific scent to him that isn’t even remotely similar to any one else in the guard.

His profession requires heavy manual labor, and although he probably isn’t fighting most of the time - maybe not even training depending on the day - he still has to lug around heavy armor and weaponry, and he probably has a somewhat routine schedule of walking around the guard to check in on how his sentries are doing (was it ever confirmed that there are watchmen stationed on the walls of the guard? Anyways, I headcanon that if it wasn’t already confirmed). Lance probably does a lot of moving around each day; be it training, fighting, working out a bit to keep in shape, embarking on missions, or just patrolling the guard to assure everything is alright. This means he probably does sweat a bit, and of course that hightlights anyone’s natural scent. It’s hard to say exactly what his natural scent may be like, but I image it’s a bit musky with a hint of a lighter chill to it.

Of course, he probably deals with the forge a lot, too, so the scent of the oil, leather, and smoldering steel he works with likely rubs off on him quite a bit. At nearly any time of the day - but especially later in the day - his partner is likely to find him smelling like the heavy musk of leather and heat, mixed with his own faint musk, and a tinge of nipping cold from the soap he showers with.

I’ve noticed that people rarely ever mention Lance’s neck injury... but I think his injury may actually have some impact in his relationship. There’s very little detail known on his injury, but regardless, it’s still a major weak point for him and was probably life-threatening at some point, so I don’t think he takes people being around this injury - or his neck in general - very lightly.

He’s likely very sensitive about his neck, even with his romantic partner. It’s less of a trust thing and more of an instinctual, self-preservation thing. There was a point in time where his life was threatened because someone was inflicting an injury to his neck, and it is known that it’s a weak point for Lance, so it would make sense that he would be very defensive about his neck.

It would take a while for him to open up to his partner about the details, and he may lean away from any touch on his neck for a long time until he learns how to feel comfortable with it, so in that time his partner would need to be understanding and accepting. She can hug him, kiss him, lean against him, anything... but avoid touching his neck.

Lance would likely be startled if she did this without warning, possibly to the point of clearly jumping or immediately backing away from shock. As it is, other’s don’t really touch him in a kind manner, so to have someone - even if it is his partner - touch him without warning, gently, on his neck, will usually come as a surprise. However, this is really only in the beginning of their relationship, and he’ll calm down in time the more he adjusts to physical touch around that area.

In the mean time, his partner would need to get used to his skittishness, but if it’s really a problem for his partner and he agrees, they can start to rehabilitate him to physical touch around his neck, starting by getting him used to touch around his neck and his partner eventually moving her hands closer and closer to his neck until he’s calm enough to let her touch his neck. It would be a slow process, but - provided he trusts her and feels safe when they try it - he’ll slowly relax in time.

This would be unlikely to cause major issues in their relationship unless his partner obviously doesn’t seem to care about his uncomfortable feelings, so as long as she gives him the time he needs to adapt and trust, he’ll calm down. In time he’ll fully enjoy her touch on his neck.

This is relatively short in comparison to the rants I usually go on but I’m glad to have finally written these out. Technically, I had more headcanons I could have added to this, but since they’re a bit more specifically about Lance’s dragon genetics I decided to split those off onto their own post. Fortunately I think these are fine as they are!

Thanks for reading!

Have a request? Ask them here!

But first, please read the rules list for asks!

[angelharness]

i have managed to entirely block out the words “away from the campfire” when reading this request im so sorry anon

COMFORT BY CAMPFIRE, AND A BIT TOO MUCH LONGING 

WARNINGS: none

LAURIE STRODE

You don’t know how, but you’ve managed to feel out of place in a domain of which its inherent existence is uninhabitable, who all its occupants do not belong but remain nonetheless. 

You scan across the circle of landscape cupped by the onset of heavy fog which starts very abruptly at the tree-line and stretches on indefinitely. The light of the fire wobbles, ebbing like the banks of a lake; but you know now that it offers no warmth. 

Laurie cut her hand straight across the open flames, and though the fire snarled it did not burn her. She withdrew her hand back to reveal it was uncharred, untouched, even. When you slump by it after a trial, your face is not blasted by heat as you would assume. When you raise your palms to it, shivering, legs to your chest, they are no warmer.

Even when your lungs are scorching after sprinting nonstop, chased through disheveled corridors, your breaths come out in cold whips of air. All your tears are cool, they never burn your cheeks like they once did. 

You finally spot her among the resting survivors. Quentin sits across from her at the fire, picking at the loose button of his jacket cuff. Cheryl is laid back against the log that she’s occupied on, slumped against Laurie’s leg and sleeping. Laurie sees you approaching and tries to scoot over, but evidently doesn’t want to disturb the girl at her foot. She manages some room for you, though, and you take a seat next to her. With just a wedge of cracked wood on your end, you’re forced to shuffle closely up to her side. 

Wordlessly, you lean into her. Slowly, at first, looking at her expression to find disapproval. With none visible, you let yourself relax somewhat. Your bones burn, your muscles too. But it’s a cold burn. You think about the brilliant, orange sun, and feel your heart sink steadily like the moon at dawn. You want to see the warm, fluttering shadows of leaves in the afternoon and want to cup hot sand in your palms. All these sensations you should have cherished. Sun-kissed soil, blushing cheeks. 

Laurie’s been here for much longer than you. She’s wise, even more so than a number of the fog’s older inhabitants. You’ve only known her in your shared time in the Entity’s Realm, and in however long that spanned, she had changed so much.

She welcomed you with comfort. After your first trial, your first look into the brutal game that would become your future indefinitely, she let you grip onto her shoulders and sob, petting your head and rocking you against her. But she could never promise you a happy ending.

“It won’t be like this forever,” Kate had promised, smiling warmly, although wearily. She was sitting on her knees in front of you as you clutched your chest, the aching spot where the hook split through your flesh. The skin was not disturbed, but the memory of the pain was recent and vivid enough to construct an accurate feeling of it. She rubbed your shoulder. “We’ll get out of this, we just need to hang in there.”

Laurie stared at you two, then away at the muddy sky. She never indulged in hope, taking fate as it came, just as relentless to her here as it was before. 

She couldn’t answer when you asked her, sobbing, “how much longer of this? When does it get better?”

Her hand slides into yours, cradling your palm, her fingers cross-stitching between yours, sinking into place. It feels like, over time and with wear, your hands have shaped to fit comfortably in each other. For once since your arrival, you find a small sanctum where you belong. 

Laurie loosens up slightly. Now it is she who leans into you, the crown of her head tucked beneath your chin, head resting delicately on your chest in the hollow of your collarbone. Her short, blonde lashes flutter momentarily against the bare skin above the collar of your shirt. Despite the intimacy of the act, it comes startlingly naturally when you draw your hands through her hair, feathery, curled streaks of gold-blonde. You comb carefully with your fingers and realize her hair smells faintly of a gentle, floral perfume. It’s fitting for Laurie, you wouldn’t have associated a sweet or frilly smell to her. 

Her thumb strokes your wrist. Not a word has been spoken between you two in this encounter, but you appreciate that in Laurie. There isn’t the unspoken pressure to find something to say—comfortable silence is just as meaningful and cherished.  

You let your guard down. You shouldn’t, you know; it could be any moment that the Entity becomes restless once more and throws you into another game to entertain a mind ravenous in its pursuit to dissect terror. It doesn’t tire like you do, but you hope it wouldn’t find so much entertainment in pestering you in your drained state. It leaves you alone for the time being, at least. 

You know for your comfort your teammates are to bear the wrath of the Entity, but you try to ward away the images of blood and metal from your mind. In turn, you will pay your own due, of course—knowing this, you allow yourself this momentary relief. 

You close your eyes. The fire is bright even behind your eyelids, like a lamp behind a canvas tarp. You both lay into each other. Bitter wind sweeps low across the dead plains and the fire snarls back, crackles, then settles. Laurie lifts her head slightly to kiss your jawline. Her lips linger, soft, but stinging your skin with flush. She must’ve thought you had fallen asleep. You squeeze her hand and try to hide a smile. 

For now, just this moment, you belong, and you let yourself belong. 

“I’m glad we met,” you say. It comes out a little too loud, or perhaps it's the unabashedness of the statement that carries a weight heavier then you had anticipated, if at all. It was said without forethought, but not without feeling; you meant it wholly, from the warmness in your chest and an odd haze of longing. Maybe it’s that same haze that has you lingering on the regularly unremarkable sight of her face. You never paused, or had time, to fully register her features, but now your cheeks flare red as you study her intently. You study how the gentle light casts across her face, highlighting her cheeks, the shadows it draws across her jaw and nose. 

“Even under these circumstances,” you continue. You want to think fondly of what it would’ve been like to meet her anywhere else. Maybe you’re assigned partners for a class project and whittle away the afternoon talking about unrelated happenings in the corner couch of the campus library. Maybe, you think, she is the librarian there (she looks the part, in her wool cardigan, dress shoes, equipped with her wise expression), and you’re a frequent visitor, jotting down your number on a slip of paper, tucking it away in the pages of the novel you’re returning and praying she’s the one to find it. 

It’s easy to be swept away in the fantasies of a better, more forgiving timeline. She looks at you kindly. 

Laurie leans further into you, her lips pulling into a small smile. 

You long for naps together in the afternoon, hands moving to find the others even in the state of near sleep. You long for tea and discussion, dissecting and deconstructing books over lemon scones and pecan crumpets. You want to feel the warm grass beneath both of your feet as you hike up a slight hill in a park, looking for the best place to spread your picnic blanket and settle for a lunch of tea sandwiches. 

“Maybe things will be better,” Laurie thinks aloud. It’s the first thing she’s said that could be interpreted with that same longing, a rare expression of hope. 

It’s vague, understandably; you don’t know where you’d go from here. You’re at the bottom of a pit with endlessly towering walls, a pit without an entrance, without even the comfort of the passing sun.

It’s sad. You can barely recall what you did from day to day, even the routine that had been ironed into your brain and, essentially, became second nature—all the mundane seconds you didn’t think to cherish.

Laurie must sense your sorrow. She shifts closer to you. Cheryl stirs, mouth closing. Quentin has joined her in sleep, his knees tucked up underneath his chin, resting his head in the cradle of his arms.

You think you’ll sleep too, just for a while. Laurie has already drifted off. You kiss her forehead lightly, stealing another brief glance at her face (her expression is still elegant; it’s almost frustrating how she can look so carefully composed in every situation, seemingly without effort) then you let your own eyes close.

You’ll find new moments to cherish, somehow. 

[reciprocityfic]

passing afternoons

title: passing afternoons fandom: little women pairing: theodore laurence x amy march  rating: m summary: “did you have any dalliances after me?” she asks.

he blinks hard as his brain reels for a moment, as he struggles to comprehend what she’s saying. after her? there is no after her. there never will be.

then, he stops. thinks. she means...oh. oh.

she means after that time in the garden, in paris. when he’d first revealed his feelings for her, and she’d rejected him. left him standing there alone and feeling like an utter, hopeless idiot.

oh.

(laurie and amy spend a late summer afternoon talking about the past.)

author’s note: i've literally shipped laurie and amy since like fourth grade. so when i saw little women (2019) and found out it did my bbs justice, i basically cried. i've been meaning to write fic ever since, but alas, here we are almost a year later. i hope you enjoy it anyways.

i have another fic in the works that's longer and definitely more angsty, which i hope to post relatively soon. i also hope to write more fluff (also maybe smut???) for them in the coming months bc GOD i just love imagining these two together. in the meantime, i hope you enjoyed this!

xoxo, rebekah

passing afternoons

They enjoy being lazy after sex.

They’re not always afforded the opportunity, of course.  At night, they tend to fall asleep rather quickly afterwards, exhausted and sated and tangled together.  And the occasional forbidden interlude - when they’re some party or gathering wholly bland or pretentious and the two of them (sometimes tipsy, sometimes bored, always and perpetually desperate for each other) run off to some dark corner or isolated room where he lifts the skirt of her dress and the too-many layers underneath and uses his body to press hers against the wall as he sinks into her from behind and they pray their moans and the sounds of their bodies together won’t be heard - must be short and altogether swift, no time to dwell in the aura of the sensations and feelings between them.

But then, there are days when Grandfather is occupied with the business and the Marches are busy and they dismiss the servants.  It’s just the two of them in their grand house with time that seems to stretch on and on.  Sometimes they’ll make it a game of sorts, shamelessly flirt and tempt each other to see who will break first, but oftentimes they’ll share a look and a smile and then they’re off in a race to their horizontal surface of choice.

Today is one of those days, when they’ve nowhere to be, nothing to do, and are all alone.  It’s an unusually hot day in late September, and when Amy had complained about the warmth, he’d suggested she take her blouse off.  She’d raised an eyebrow and told him to go first, and then one thing led to another and now they’re naked and sore and satisfied, laying on their bed as the early afternoon sun shines in through their open windows.

He lays on top of the sheets on his back, head at the foot of the bed and hands on his stomach, staring up at the ceiling and trying to find imaginary patterns in swirling paint.  She lays parallel to him, but leans against the headboard, her long blonde hair falling around her face as she sketches him.  He hadn’t seen her take out the pad and pencil she keeps in the dresser near their bed, but he can hear the sound of graphite moving against paper as she draws.  He grins as he imagines her face, lips pursed and brow furrowed, wide green eyes focused and the movement of her hand knowing nothing but purpose even with the most casual of sketches.

They do not touch and do not talk.  Still, the intimacy of the situation - of being together and completely safe and comfortable with the person you love most in the world - is overwhelming.  Its warmth cocoons him, and he feels his eyes getting heavy as he lies there, a breeze blowing in from the open window and caressing his skin.

“You had your many dalliances after Jo, yes?”

His eyes snap open when he hears her question, his stomach lurching slightly and his mood dampening.

He ran away to Europe and drowned himself in alcohol, drugs, and women after Jo broke his heart, and he admits this.  Amy knows it, too.  And it’s not that he’s ashamed of that period of time, exactly - while he wishes he had, indeed, bore it better, he finds himself sympathetic to the plight of people scorned by love, however misguided that love might be.

He just doesn’t often talk about it.  Doesn’t like to.  In his mind and in his heart, it is only Amy.  Has always been, and always will be.

Amy doesn’t really like to talk about it, either.  He finds her inquiry curious, but answers anyway.

“Yes,” he tells her, although the word comes out sounding more like a question than an answer.

He waits for her to explain her line of thought, but she simply hums to herself.  He stares at the ceiling a moment longer, then leans up, resting his weight on his elbows.

She’s staring down at her drawing, her face just as he pictured it, pencil grasped between her lips as she swipes her thumb against the paper.  He watches as she takes the pencil out of her mouth and starts at it again, and he watches her for nearly a minute before opening his mouth to speak.

She beats him to it, though.

“Did you have any dalliances after me?” she asks.

He blinks hard as his brain reels for a moment, as he struggles to comprehend what she’s saying.  After her?  There is no after her.  There never will be.

Then, he stops.  Thinks.  She means...oh.  Oh.

She means after that time in the garden, in Paris.  When he’d first revealed his feelings for her, and she’d rejected him.  Left him standing there alone and feeling like an utter, hopeless idiot.

Oh.

He shifts on the bed, drops his eyes from her face.  He can feel his skin begin to flush from embarrassment.

They’ve never talked about this before.

Not that there’s much to talk about, he supposes.  He still hesitates to tell her - not because he fears she’ll be angry with him, but because he doesn’t like to talk about it.  If it were up to him, he would erase from his mind the memory of every woman he’d ever been with until only his wife remained.

But she’s asked, and he’ll be honest with her.

“One, I suppose,” he murmurs.

“You suppose?” she questions.  She’s still staring down at her artwork, but her pencil doesn’t move.

“Sort of, yes,” he confirms.

She finally looks at him, her eyebrows pulled together and a frown on her face.

“How do you sort of have a dalliance?”

She looks genuinely confused, and he laughs lightly at the crease between her brows, sits up fully and reaches out to her.  He cups her face and uses his thumb to rub at the wrinkle of skin.

“Shall I explain?” he asks her.

She nods.

“I...tried to be angry after you left.  Just think - to be turned down by not just one, but two March girls!” he gasps playfully, and she snickers, pushing against his shoulder playfully before dropping her hand to run over the sparse hair on his chest.

“But?” she prompts.

"But I couldn’t make myself angry.  Not at you.  But I also knew I couldn’t just stay there in France and watch you and Fred Vaughn…”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, and she rolls her eyes playfully.

“We’re speaking of all your affairs, and you want to tease about Fred?”

“It’s part of my story!” he insists with a wink, and she rolls her eyes again.

“Well, keep telling it.”

He smiles, and continues.

“I couldn’t stay, so I did what you told me to.  I went to London, as you know.  And when I first got there, there was a woman staying at the same hotel as I was.  We got to talking one evening at dinner, and one thing…”

He trails off, feeling himself flush again.

“...led to another,” Amy finishes.  “I understand.  I don’t need the details.”

She’s frowning now, even though her fingers still run over his chest, and he despises it.  He has half a mind to drop the subject, to kiss her lips and make her happy and forget life before, but he can’t.

“Wait, I’m not done.”

“Laurie, I don’t need to hear any more.  You had your dalliance, I’m not upset, and we can stop - “

“I couldn’t do it,” he interrupts.  “It didn’t work.”

She pulls back from him slightly, her eyes wide and curious.  She looks down his body.

“You mean you couldn’t...?”

He follows her gaze, and then snorts.

“Not like that.  It - it didn’t even get to that.  Amy, my dear.”

He lifts her chin, and she gazes at him.  He can tell she’s still confused.

“Every time I closed my eyes,” he explains, “I saw you - the face you made in the garden before you turned away and left.  It broke my heart.  It still breaks my heart.  And when my eyes were open, all I could think about was how her skin wasn’t as soft and her hair wasn’t as fair and her eyes were brown instead of green and she just...wasn’t you.”

“But with Jo...”

“It was different with Jo.  I could make Jo into anyone.  I could always pick out the tiniest thing that reminded me of her, in any woman, and then pretend that woman was her.  I couldn’t...do that with you.  Or maybe I didn’t want to.  In any case, being with that woman didn’t make me forget.  She made me remember all the more.  And I only kissed her for about a minute before I realized it was worthless.”

He stops and grabs one of her hands, brings it to his mouth so he can kiss her fingertips, before holding it over his heart.

“And that’s when I knew that this was different.  You weren’t Jo, and I wasn’t going to be able to just...drink and fuck you away.”

She’d normally gasp and swat him playfully for his use of the coarse word, but now she stays silent and presses her hand more firmly against his chest.

“I was in love with you.  Hopelessly and completely.  And I realized that all I could do was stay in London and toil away and... pray that somehow you would change your mind.”

Then, everything had changed.  Beth died, and then he knew he had to be with her.  It didn’t matter if she despised him, or if Fred was there.  He needed to be with her.  But before that, he had been rather resigned to his fate - to work for his grandfather and forever pine after Amy March.

God had smiled upon him, though.  And now, here he sits with his wife, Amy Laurence.  Married, in love, and happy.

“So does that explain how one can have a single, sort-of dalliance?” he asks her.

But she stares at him, eyes shining, almost with tears.

“You were going to wait your whole life for me?” she whispers.

He smirks slightly, turning away from her and shrugging, somehow embarrassed.  But she grabs his face, turns it back to her, and locks their gazes.

“What else would you have me do, my lady?”

“Oh, my lord,” she breathes, and kisses him deeply, until his toes curl and he can feel himself begin to harden once again.  When she pulls away, they’re both panting.  He wants to grab her, to gather her up in his arms again, but her pad and pencil remains between them.

He motions to the picture.

“Still working on that, Raphaella?”

“Maybe later,” she remarks, taking the paper and all but throwing it on the floor beside the bed.  She pushes him back so he’s laying once again, and climbs on top of him, straddling his waist.  “I have another idea how we can pass time this afternoon.”

She leans down and kisses his smiling mouth.

Yes, God had smiled upon him.  Had given him back his love.  And he’s married, in love, and happy.

Achingly happy.

[puckandperry]

if you send for me

anderperry

synopsis: au in which welton academy isn’t a boarding school, and neil goes to todd’s house to throw pebbles at his bedroom window, and todd realises when it's his turn to throw the pebbles— before it’s too late.

warnings: slight sentiments of sadness. nothing too extreme!

w/c: 5.8k

a/n: hello all! this is my first time writing for these two, and the dps world in general, but i’ve done my best to capture the characters, and so i hope it’s worked. enjoy <3

⭒

The windows are dark, they always are. 

Todd’s parents have always been strict about that sort of thing— lights out after a certain hour, no going out on school nights, curfew and all that. 

Neil’s parents have always been like that too, but he’s learned to slip out of doors unnoticed, silent upon socked feet as he steals through the dark, only stepping on floorboards that don’t creak. Neil is a shadow, Neil is a thief. But the prize is far more precious than silver or gold. 

⭒

When the first pebble hits the window, Todd’s still asleep, and he doesn’t notice. 

The sound of the second pebble against the glass is conveniently part of his dream, and fades into the abyss of sleep, a drop of water in an ocean. 

The third is when he wakes properly, and he thinks that maybe footsteps are approaching his bedside. He shifts disconcertedly, sleep still trailing in the wake of his consciousness, the brush of a lover’s hand. 

But at the fourth, he sits bolt upright at the sound, eyes bright and wide in the dark, though moonlight spills onto the floor from the window, from behind those curtains that never consent to be fully closed. 

He slips his toes out from beneath the covers and winces at the cold when they meet the wooden floor, but he’s quick to recover from the tingle of frost down his spine, and he walks toward the window in three quick, short strides. 

When he brushes away the curtains and twines his fingers around the window latches to push the contraption from its frame, he finds Neil on the ground below, a hand raised with a fifth pebble, the other cradling several more. 

Neil’s face breaks into a smile when he catches Todd’s eyes, and Todd fights the flutter of his heart, coaxes his own smile into a grimace; he should not be happy that Neil is here, in the middle of the night. He should be cross, and worried about his parents finding him up after bedtime, and grouchy with his lingering drowsiness. 

But he is none of those things. He is decidedly lighthearted, awake and spirited and warm, despite the coldness of the night. He is how he always is, when he is with Neil. 

“What’re you doing here?” he hisses, his elbows on the windowsill as he leans farther out into the night, the breeze beginning to ruffle his hair. 

Neil smiles, like Neil always does. “What does it look like?” he says. “I’m here to see you, of course.”

“You can’t—” Feigned indignation has raised Todd’s voice on no account of his own, and he has to swallow to bring his volume back down. “You can’t be here,” he says. 

Neil folds his arms. “Why not?”

“Because it’s the middle of the night!” Todd sputters. “Because you should be asleep!”

Neil only grins. “You’re not asleep,” he counters easily. His tongue is poking out between his teeth, his eyes vivid in the moonlight. 

“Because you woke me,” says Todd, but it’s a lame attempt at an excuse, and Neil is already climbing the bush that twists up the wall by Todd’s bedroom, his sweater sleeves snagging on the brambles. 

And Todd is leaning out the window, biting his lip as his fingers tighten on the windowsill and he pleads with the darkness not to let Neil fall, because he’d never forgive himself if Neil fell for him, for his sake, for the sake of seeing him. 

And why? Why is the other question that nags at Todd as Neil skirts the windowsill, swings one leg up to clamber into his bedroom. Sure, they’re friends, but midnight visits in solemn shadow, pebbles thrown like stars, one leaning out the window to speak to the other like Shakespearian lovers.

It doesn’t make any sense. 

Todd isn’t paying attention when Neil finally tumbles through the window, making a shushing noise as though his shoes will obey him and not make a sound. 

He straightens up, and when he does, he’s nose-to-nose with Todd, who seizes up when he realises the position they’re in. 

But Neil only laughs, his perfect hair hanging into his perfect eyes, and Todd wants to reach up and brush it away, to see the other boy better. He doesn’t, though, and Neil is left with that task for himself. He takes it in stride, and when he smiles down at Todd, his eyes crinkle. 

Instinctively, Todd smiles back. 

“Hi,” says Neil. 

Todd’s reply is breathless, and Neil’s smile broadens. 

“Scared ya, did I?”

“Well who the hell prances about throwing pebbles past midnight?” asks Todd, as though expecting a legitimate answer. But for all Neil’s openness, his vibrant personality, he is noticeably quiet on certain topics. 

He snorts. “Prancing? I prefer gallivanting.”

Todd rolls his eyes in response. “Keating is getting to your head.”

“And yours,” says Neil, with twinkling eyes. “Can’t help but love him, though.”

Neil is often bold, but he rarely talks of love. Todd wonders faintly if it's because he’s never been loved wholly, properly. Only fragments here and there, what can be scavenged. Though Todd doesn’t understand how anyone could love Neil any less than wholly. Neil is magnetic, beautiful, powerful in his sense of self and conscious of the world around him. Todd has never met anyone like him. 

“So what are you doing?”

“Doing? Neil, I was asleep.”

He shrugs almost apologetically, then fishes a leather-bound book from the inside pocket of the jacket he’s wearing. “Feel like reading some poetry?”

⭒

It starts off with Whitman, and Byron quickly follows, to precede Shakespeare and Wilde, and then they halt with Wilde, because their voices have grown languid with the passing time, and it takes longer now to recite a poem than it did an hour ago. 

They’re sitting on the floor, leaned against Todd’s bed although the floor is cold, and Neil isn’t quite sure why they’re sitting on the floor, but he thinks it has something to do with the intimacy of sharing the space of someone else’s bed, a line Todd hasn’t offered to cross, and one Neil doesn’t dare to suggest— even if the floor is freezing.

But Todd’s side is pressed up against his, and so Neil is not as cold as he would have been. They lean against each other, and Neil reads aloud. 

In the words of Wilde he tells of the sun and the moon, of the moon retreating to her sombre cave as the night wanes to day, and the silence that love makes of a person. He reads of feelings seldom felt, though they are ones he feels strongly, and he thinks that he must be wrong in his assessment of himself, because surely, his heart should not be beating out of his chest for the one who sits beside him.

“But surely unto Thee mine eyes did show/Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung; Else it were better we should part, and go,” Neil reads, and he thinks that Todd is falling asleep beside him. “Thou to some lips of sweeter melody,” and Todd is most definitely asleep, because his head rests upon Neil’s shoulder, and Neil thinks of how lucky he is for Todd to trust him this way, “And I to nurse the barren memory/Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.”

He finishes the verse, the poem, and there is a silence like that after rain. Soft, pure, and the world beneath is untouched, new, as the sun flits through the leaves to colour the Earth below in warm hues, firelight remnants. 

Or perhaps the silence is not what gives Neil this feeling, but Todd’s soft exhale on his shoulder. 

Neil smiles to himself. 

There’s a blanket on the end of the bed, and he reaches for it, drapes it over the boy beside him. Then slowly, carefully, he eases Todd’s head from his shoulder, and lets him curl up with his head upon a pillow, still on the floor, because Neil worries he’ll wake Todd if he tries to move him back to bed. But at least now the other boy is cocooned in warmth, and unbothered by the world around him. 

His cheeks are a little flushed, lips parted against the pillow. His hair is in his eyes, as Neil’s often is. Neil never brushes his own hair away. His mother used to do that. She doesn’t anymore, but he still hopes that one day she’ll return to her old habit. Neil wonders if Todd’s mother brushes his hair from his eyes. 

Neil resolves that it does not matter whether or not she does, but that one of the most gentle things in this world is to have one’s hair combed away from one’s eyes, and Todd is the gentlest person Neil has ever known. He’s fierce when sufficiently provoked, but quiet up until that point, and Neil admires that betwixt the cruelties of this world, there are still people like Todd who find it within themselves to be gentle. 

He stoops, and brushes the hair from his friend’s eyes, lets his touch linger. 

“Adieu, adieu, adieu,” he murmurs, because he has no words of his own for this moment, and must borrow from Shakespeare. 

Neil climbs out the window, finds footholds in the bush against the brick of the house, closes the window, and slips out into the night.

⭒

Todd wakes alone, and goes to school as usual. 

When he meets Neil in the morning, they do not speak of the night before. Still, Neil’s smile is bright and warm as the sun, and they talk between classes, stifle laughter at the same stiff-necked teachers that they always do, exchange glances with one another as Keating’s lesson of the day proves even more adventurous as the previous. 

He is getting to be better friends with the boys whom Neil keeps in company, as well, beginning to settle into a comfortable routine, and the lot of them meet in the cave on weekend nights as they always do. In content, it is much like the nights Todd spends with Neil, yet, the cave meetings have a different air about them. 

The days pass with school and homework, the bore of scholarly tasks made lively by the asides of his friends.

Todd loves the days, but he lives for the nights. 

Neil has now made a habit of coming to visit, sneaking up the climbing bush and letting Todd help him the last of the way through the window. 

He brings a book, or a leaflet, something to read, or the script for the play he’s in, so that Todd can help him to practice lines. Neil hasn’t told his parents about the play, so Todd’s house, in the middle of the night, is the safest place to practice. 

But Neil projects, as all good actors know to do, and Todd shushes him.

“My parents!” he reminds him, because they are asleep downstairs. But Neil’s speech only gives way to laughter, muffled by the wool of his sweater sleeve as he covers his mouth vainly, in an attempt to drown the sound. 

Soon Todd is laughing as well, and they’re not laughing, but giggling, and the sound is so absurdly childish that Todd shushes Neil with new fervour. However, Neil does not take note, rather throws his head back as his shoulders shake, and Todd reaches up and covers Neil’s mouth with his hands. 

Neil tries to bat away Todd’s hands, but Todd does not relent, a warning in his eyes. Neil ceases his giggling, and nods, to assure Todd that he will not laugh any more. 

Ever-trusting, Todd removes his hands from Neil’s person, but Neil starts laughing again as soon as he is free. 

Todd reaches up to cover Neil’s mouth again, more playful than in actual effectiveness, but immediately, Neil presses a kiss to Todd’s fingers, and Todd leaps back. 

“Neil!” he says, but Neil only laughs, and when the latter leaves in the twilight of the youthful morning, it’s with extra care to move in silence, as though to make up for the ruckus of earlier. 

Sometimes Neil brings food, pilfered from his own pantry, or from the dining hall at school, cookies and pieces of cake, fruit slightly bruised from being stolen and hidden away, but still always ripe and sweet. 

They read books and poetry, learn Shakespeare, trade stories over their pillaged feasts, listen to records at the lowest volume possible, parting in the morning with no word of the night. 

There is something comfortable about simply being in Neil’s presence. There is no pressure to do anything, to be anything in particular, and yet Todd feels that he could do anything, be anything— whatever he likes. So, in a rare moment of truth, he chooses to simply be himself.

He likes being himself. 

⭒

As midnight decisions often do, the lack of sleep earned by Todd and Neil in the company of one another catches up with them, and one day, the two are awoken by someone clearing their throat. 

But they are not in Todd’s bedroom when Neil lifts his head, lifts his head up from a desk and blinks sleepily to find Todd on his left doing the same. The classroom is otherwise empty, before they each notice Keating leaned against the table between them, his arms folded and his eyes crinkling at the corners as his gaze darts between them. 

“Morning, boys,” he says, and Neil thinks his smile broadens. 

“Mr. Keating,” he blurts, at the same time Todd says, 

“I uh—”

But Keating waves his hands, smiling still. “No, no. No trouble. I imagine my voice has a bit of a droll to it. I’m sure that’s why my first thesis presentation went as badly as it did.” He shifts, lifts his chin, narrows his eyes. “So, what’s keeping you up at night? Dreams? Or fears?”

Neil glances at Todd to see if he’s going to respond, but Todd only smiles, as though he knows something Neil doesn’t. 

A moment later, Neil realises that his glasses are askew on his nose, and adjusts them hurriedly, making a face at the other boy. 

Todd makes a face back, before they both remember Keating, and turn their heads in his direction once more.

His eyes twinkle. “Or,” he says thoughtfully, “each other?”

Neil swallows.

“We’ve been reading poetry,” says Todd, and Neil looks upon him with pleasant surprise. It is not often Todd speaks unprompted. 

Todd’s words are of truth, and Keating knows of the Dead Poets Society meetings in the cave. He should not, however, know of Neil’s late-night visits to Todd. And yet, something in his countenance persuades Neil that Keating does know.

“And poetry is all well and fine,” Keating responds, with his easy smile, “but you cannot dream if you do not sleep. And if you sleep in my class, you will miss some golden opportunities to follow your dreams.”

Neil fights laughter, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees that Todd is already in the throes of it, and so he gives up his solemnity and grins. 

“We are such stuff as dreams are made of,” Neil quotes, “and our little life is rounded with sleep.”

“Ah,” says Keating, “our good friend William. But, Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks/Within his bending sickle's compass come;/Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,/But bears it out even to the edge of doom. Love waits,” he says, “and you have time. So long as in sleeping, you wait as well.”

The eyes of their teacher twinkle again as he gathers up his things and proceeds to the open classroom door.

Todd turns to Neil. “What— what d’you think he meant by that?”

Neil stares after Keating, though he feels Todd’s eyes upon him. 

“No idea,” he says. 

He lies.

⭒

Todd has been keeping Neil’s secret for months now. Two months, to be exact, and all he has to do is keep it for one more night, because Neil’s father mustn’t find out. Neil’s father mustn’t find out that Neil is going to be in a play. 

But be in a play Neil will, and Todd has never seen him as happy as he is now. 

They’re all here in the wings. Todd and Charlie and Meeks and Pitts and Knox, with Chris, and Ca— well, actually, Cameron seems not to be here. Todd has no idea where he’s got to, but he hasn’t seen him, and to be honest, he doesn’t rightly care where Cameron is. But Keating is here too and Neil— beautiful, brilliant Neil— waiting for the lights to dim and for the last of the audience to take their seats. 

Neil is in costume— a simple thing, matching greenish-grey trousers and shirt, a crown of twining twigs and ruby berries upon his hair. The lot of them have been talking animatedly for the past few minutes, Neil the most animated of them all, but now Keating glances at his wristwatch and announces that they should probably make their way to their seats, before the theatre falls entirely dark. Murmurs of agreement ensue, and the gaggle of boys turn to follow Keating. 

Keating pauses, touches Neil’s shoulder. 

“Break a leg, ye merry Puck.” He grins, and Neil smiles happily. 

Meeks and Pitts wish Neil the same, and he nods his thanks. Knox tells Neil good luck, to the uproar of Charlie.

Charlie cuffs the back of Knox’s head, and Knox yelps. “What kind of idiot are you?” 

“You tell me!” says Knox. “What kind of idiot am I, Charlie?” 

“You don’t tell actors good luck!” Charlie rebuts. “That’s the kind of idiot you are.”

Charlie stalks off, and Knox runs after him. Their conversation floats back to Neil and Todd, who stare after them. 

“But what kind?! CHARLIE!”

Todd finds Neil laughing when he turns back to his friend. 

“They’re both idiots,” he says. “The same kind.”

“S why they get along so well,” Todd responds, and Neil nods his agreement. 

Then at once, his eyes flit away from the shrinking figures of Charlie and Knox, and when Todd looks at him, Neil’s gaze dances with light.

“What?” says Todd, a half-smile already upon his face. 

Neil’s eyes meet with Todd’s, and he grins. “I’m just so excited! I’ve never been this excited before, I mean, to be in a play, to be in an actual play, and not just any play, but Shakespeare— Todd!” Neil laughs delightedly, spinning in a wild circle with his arms outstretched, so that he nearly whacks Todd in the process. 

Todd laughs as well, and marvels at the colour of Neil’s eyes, a colour for which he has no name but the-colour-of-Neil’s-eyes-colour. He’s never seen a colour like this anywhere else, with the sheer spirit and liveliness it bears, despite the fact that it is only a colour, and colours cannot be neither spirited nor lively. But then there are Neil’s eyes, staring back into his, and Todd thinks that colours can most certainly be both spirited and lively.

“I’m so excited, I swear I could do anything.”

“Anything?” says Todd, as the lights begin to dim. 

“Anything! I could run a marathon—”

Todd laughs. 

“— scale a mountain, write a poem far better than yours—”

Todd scoffs, not at that Neil should be able to write something better than he, but at that Neil thinks Todd sets a standard for poem-writing in the first place. 

“— alright,” says Neil, “maybe not a poem better than yours, but still!” He’s breathless, now, eyes flitting from the stage lights to the stage itself, all about the world around him, and back to Todd. Always back to Todd. “I could fly,” Neil says. “I really think I could fly. I have this feeling.”

“A feeling?”

“Yeah, a feeling,” he breathes. “Like I’m invincible. Like I could do anything.”

“That’s generally the definition of the word ‘invincible’,” Todd deadpans. But nothing can or will faze Neil Perry. 

“I’m so excited I could dance. Sing—”

“Yeah, got that. You could do anything.”

“Todd, I could kiss you, I’m so excited!”

It slips out, just slips out. That much is apparent to Todd, even as his cheeks flush crimson in the waning light, even as Neil’s eyes grow soft and Todd finds he can’t look away. 

It slips out, but Neil is entirely serious. 

Todd’s stomach does somersaults as he opens his mouth to stammer out that it’s fine, they can forget about what Neil’s said, but then Neil stoops and kisses him. 

Gently. Quickly. He’s drawn back again before Todd can think to respond, though he realises his eyelids have fluttered shut. 

When he opens his eyes, there’s a sigh on his parted lips, and he’s taken half a step forward, drifted toward Neil.

Neil’s face is impassive as he straightens up, but his eyes are soft and searching. 

Todd wonders what he’s searching for, but he once again has no time to react before someone calls,

“Neil, showtime!”

Neil drops his gaze to the floor and spins away from Todd, showing no signs of the adrenaline high that presently has Todd in its thrall, rushing through him like an opened dam— there’s no coming back from this. 

But before Neil gets too far away, Todd grabs his hand and squeezes. 

Neil doesn’t look back, though his fingers curl in Todd’s grasp. 

He disappears amongst the crowd of cast and crew before another word can be exchanged. 

Todd doesn’t think anyone saw them, but he understands Neil’s caution, even as his heart twists in his chest and he makes his way to Mr. Keating and the others in the audience. 

He settles into his seat as the lights finally fade into shadows, and Keating glances at Todd as though to ask if he’s okay. 

Todd gives a brief nod and turns his head toward the stage, hoping Keating cannot see the apprehension in his eyes. 

But as Neil and his castmates take the stage, Todd forgets everything but the show, and how talented Neil is as part of it. He chortles alongside the rest of the audience, smiles upon Neil with reverence, the way an astronomer would look upon a star, an artist upon their paints, an adventurer upon the undiscovered secrets of the universe. 

His heart is full, his hands are warm.

And Neil lights up the stage.

⭒

They’re taking their bows upon the edge of the stage, striding forward to be met with the standing ovation gifted to them by the audience, and as the house lights come back up, Neil sees his friends and Keating applauding, whistling, cheering for him. Sees Todd cheering for him, for once the loudest of them all.

And then the curtains are closing and Neil exhales the high coursing through his veins, throws back his head and laughs as his castmates shout and celebrate around him. They jostle, congratulating one another and him, and Neil congratulates them in turn. 

But then there's a cloud, because he’s being told that his father is waiting for him. 

He changes briskly, takes his duffle bag in one hand and his crooked crown in the other, and parts the grand drape. He doesn’t breathe as he lifts his gaze, and makes eye contact with his father.

Any hopes he had of his father understanding this talent of his, this acting, which is not a fleeting love but an enduring one, disappears when he next exhales, a puff of air in the coldness of night, gone before you have time to fully realise that it is there. 

Silently, Neil follows his father out the door. His friends fall upon him, some of them calling to him to congratulate him on his performance, others to invite him to some kind of afterparty. 

“I can’t, guys,” he is forced to say, though really he has no idea why it is that he can’t. Neil was good as Puck. Neil knows he was good. Can’t his father see that too?

Somebody says his name as he’s walking, but it’s not until the repetition of it that Neil startles to perceive Keating beside him.

“You have the gift! What a performance!” 

Keating is smiling and Neil smiles back, momentarily lost in that someone has spoken what he wants to hear. “You left even me speechless!”

It does not last. 

“Stay in the car,” Neil’s father growls. “And Keating. You stay away from my son.”

Charlie is shouting Neil’s name, shouting an appeal to Neil’s father, but the latter only glares, and Neil gets into the car without argument. 

As the car is started and driven away, Neil’s gaze lingers on Todd’s, through the window, through the snow. 

⭒

They’re walking back to school, where they’ve left their bikes, when Todd stops in his tracks.

The others have been talking, but Todd has been thinking. Thinking about earlier.

He can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong. Or that something was wrong. Or will be wrong. 

And suddenly there’s an urgency that plagues him, and he has to see Neil, or he won’t be able to sleep that night, or any night.

He stops, turns, and then simply starts running. 

Carpe fucking diem.

“Hey— Todd!” Charlie is the one shouting, again. “What’re you—  where are you—”

“I’ll catch up with you guys later!” Todd calls back. 

“But where’re you going?!” says Meeks.

“Neil’s!” 

He begins to run properly, pumping his arms, letting the wind assault his senses as it whips the hair about his face, as he throws himself forward like he’s falling. And he is falling. But not because of gravity.

He barely knows where he’s going, but he and Neil have walked home together plenty a time, and so he remembers what street Neil lives on, by intuition, if not by name. 

When he reaches the street he’s looking for, he slows and nearly slips in the snow when he makes a hairpin turn onto the lane. 

From a run to a jog to a walk he slows, because now he’s looking for Neil’s father’s car to identify the house. 

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Todd mutters as he hurries up the road, scanning left and right, left, right, left— right again. 

His heart is sinking and he bites his lip, starts to notice the cold, how his fingers tremble with it, his cheeks burning from the wind. 

And then he sees it. 

And he runs. 

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do once he gets there, but within moments, he’s there. He has to be here. 

He runs across the grass, and then, by sheer luck, he sees it: Neil’s crown from the play, sitting atop a windowsill in the upper floor of the house. 

Todd’s eyes scour the ground, but the snow is thick, and there are no pebbles. 

He glances up again, and that desperation seizes him. Back down to the ground, and still he sees nothing. But then the next time he looks up, there’s Neil, standing in the window, and the crown is upon his head. 

He stares forward into the darkness of the night, blankly, and Todd has rarely seen him this colourless. Still, there is something beautiful in those dark eyes, in the curve of his mouth and how it matches that of his shoulders. 

Todd considers shouting, but then he doesn’t want to wake the whole of the Perry household.

In one moment, Todd is watching Neil through the window, and in the next he has formed a snowball in his hands. 

He arcs it toward the window with a huff, never dreaming that it will land.

Much less dreaming that it will sail straight through the window— which appears to be open— and catch Neil upon his bare shoulder.

Neil startles with a gasp, the coldness of the snow instantaneous in reviving him from his reverie, and when he sees from whence the projectile came, his mouth falls agape. 

“Todd?”

“I— I don’t know how I’m going to climb a drainpipe in a suit but I’m—” Todd swallows, steels himself. “I’m going to do it.”

He braces one foot against the brick and grasps the drainpipe with both hands, attempts to hoist himself upward. 

“Todd, you’re crazy,” says Neil, and he’s leaning against the windowsill, the way Todd did the first time when Neil came to visit him. “This is crazy. Get down from there, you’ll fall!”

Sure enough, Todd slips, but he wasn’t really off of the ground in the first place, so it doesn’t matter. He looks up at Neil, standing in the window. 

“You’re crazy,” he replies. “And you’ll freeze to death. Get back inside.”

But Neil shakes his head. “No.”

“No?”

“No.”

Todd huffs in indignation. “Well, what then?”

Neil smiles. “Hang on.”

“Hang on?” Todd mutters, as Neil disappears from the window. “I’m still on the ground, how can I hang on?”

But then Neil reappears in the window, and drops a length of bundled bed sheets out the window. 

Todd dodges before they smack him in the head, then takes the end like a rope that’s meant for climbing. 

He calls to Neil in a stage whisper, “How do you just so happen to have bed sheets made into a rope?” 

“Silly goose,” says Neil. “How do you think I get out of the house when I go to visit you?’

Todd grins in response, and Neil mirrors. 

“Now come on. I’ve got you.”

With one final eyebrow raise directed at Neil, Todd shrugs and begins his ascent up the brick. 

It’s an arduous climb, particularly since Todd has never done anything like this before, but Neil’s grip does not falter, and soon Neil is pulling Todd through the window, and Todd is collapsing atop Neil on the bedroom floor. 

Todd blushes, embarrassed, but Neil laughs and winds Todd in his arms, and Todd feels as though his heart will burst. 

“What are you doing here?” Neil asks, when he stops laughing. But it’s more habit than actual askance, and Neil has rolled over so that the two of them are on the floor beside one another. He props himself up on one elbow and stares at Todd, that soft expression ever-prevailing. 

Todd shrugs, because he doesn’t know how to answer, doesn’t actually know what made him turn around and sprint through ice and snow to Neil’s house, and really, now that he’s here, it seems sort of ridiculous.

“Dunno. Couldn’t let you leave like that.” He’s mumbling, and something about what he says makes Neil’s face fall. It breaks Todd’s heart a little. “Neil?”

Neil presses his lips together, and Todd’s eyes trace constellations in the spattering of freckles that cover Neil’s shoulders. He repeats the other boy’s name quietly, and Neil inhales stutteringly. 

“My father’s sending me to military school.”

“What?” Todd says. “Military school?”

Neil nods, avoiding Todd’s gaze. 

“But what about Welton?”

“Pulling me out tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, but that’s— he can’t do that, can he? In the middle of the year?”

“He can,” says Neil morosely. 

Todd doesn’t know what it is that’s driving him any longer, but it certainly is not his head, because he grabs Neil’s hand. 

Neil looks up. 

“It’ll be okay,” Todd says. “I’ll write to you. We’ll all write to you. In a year, you’ll be eighteen, and then—” Todd’s being bold, forward, doesn’t know how he’s doing it, but he’s doing it, pushing his fingers through the hair that falls loosely over Neil’s forehead— “then you can do whatever you want.”

“Whatever?” inquires Neil, and the smile has returned to his voice, his eyes. 

Todd cants his head to one side, and he thinks that Neil has moved closer. Any closer at all, and Todd swears he will disintegrate. “Whatever you want,” he murmurs. But in truth, he’s not really thinking anymore, as Neil’s sigh fans his lips. 

“Can I kiss you again?”

Todd lets out a nervous giggle. “I don’t know, Neil. Can you?”

And Neil does. 

Neil kisses Todd deeply and steals the air from his lungs, the thoughts from his mind, the senses from his body, until there is nothing but thoughts of Neil and the curve of Neil’s body against his own. Neil is soft, like his smiles, and Todd feels himself melt, helplessly tracing fingertips over Neil’s skin, to touch those constellations he has only ever looked upon— and even so, rarely— lets Neil push the hair back from his face and kiss him with the lips that have for weeks read him poetry, shared emotions never shared with anyone else, breathed encouragement and compliment to no end, with ardour, with truth, with love. 

Then abruptly, Neil’s mouth is gone from Todd’s, and Todd groans his discontent.

“Do you really think I could do anything?” says Neil, his hands resting on either side of Todd’s face.

“Anything,” says Todd.

“So you think I could be an actor, for real?”

Todd snorts. “For real, I think you could do anything. Most easily of all become an actor. You were good, Neil,” he whispers. “Really good.”

Neil positively beams, and Todd resolves that he wants to see Neil smiling like this forever and always. 

He loves that he, of all people, can make Neil smile like this. 

“Come see me tomorrow,” Neil breathes, “before I go.” 

Todd promises to.

Neil seals the promise with a kiss. 

The two part, and Todd departs, but they reunite upon the morrow.

And when they part again, Todd begins his first letter to Neil, writes to him then and there. Tells him of how he and the others already miss him terribly, though in truth, Neil cannot yet be far down the road that leads from Welton. 

Todd writes to Neil that day, and the day after, and every day after that. 

A year later, he stops writing to Neil, and Neil stops replying, because they see one another every day, free of parents and free of Welton, free to be with their friends and with each other, free to meet their former English teacher for coffee on Thursday afternoons, because that is simply how it is supposed to be.

They are living their dreams, and they are truly free.

Twas thus, and always thus will be.

[lucadina]

What’s Wrong With Me?

A/N: ereannie, intimacy issues

'You always look a little sad.'

It's an observation Eren had made in passing; it shouldn't bother Annie much, but it does— probably because it's the first time she's felt seen.

Although, being seen is never a good thing when all you have left are your secrets, the broken bones beneath the scars that burst into wildfire whenever someone cares just enough to look at you.

'When you space out,' he had said, 'That's when it's like you're about to cry. But you never do.'

Because I don't want to cry in front of you.

Annie sometimes wonders why that is.

The answer feels right at her fingertips, tangible when the realises that he's too good to be true. These moments are brief and unexpected, creeping up on her like morning mist and dissipating to reveal an untold, personal dream of hers: how insane would it be, if someone could love her for real? Past the excitement of her scathing words, beyond the tease of a pale, perfumed neck— how crazy would it be if he actually loved her for all that she is?

He may not love her, but he sees her.

Once in a while, when they're facing each other over dinner or laying side-by-side in bed, he'll look at her with intent, with morbid fascination, until the verdant veil of his gaze lifts, and suddenly she's confronted by his firm judgement.

The verdict is always the same: You think too much, you hurt too much.

'But if I didn't, then I wouldn't care about you.'

That always gets him to shut the fuck up, because it's true. He doesn't give her much to love and yet she cares for him; she can't help it. And that works for him; he doesn't need to be loved for who he is; he likes himself and that is more than enough. He's with her because having another person feel for him proves to the naysayers that he isn't unworthy of affection. That he's normal, he can do it, he can have it— he's normal.

Yet at the back of his head, her low voice whispers that he isn't special. That she chose him not because he's godly, not because he's extraordinary— but because he's familiar.

He is proud and places himself over others; he doesn't have the tools to love her back; he's her history reflected back at her without promise of anything better.

He's honest, and that's refreshing. She's tired of disappointments.

So she can do it. She can tough it out where others have cried themselves to sleep.

Bitch was crazy, he had said about the women he'd left torn and grieving.

And that pisses her off because he doesn't know. He doesn't know what it's like to have a broken heart, a real one. To have that flutter in your chest ripped out, twisted, and trampled over till it's smashed back into you as this resilient ache, tortuous till you start thinking: maybe it'd be better if it stopped beating.

So she says:

'There must be something wrong with you then, if you fall for crazy over and over.'

'I haven't this time, though.'

And you never will, she thinks, because you'll never see all of me.

It's why she's so confident. She's certain that he's kept at arm's length, that he doesn't pay attention when her thoughts throb in her mind's eye, that he doesn't think about the reasons as to why she begs to be alone at random intervals in the day. He never asks questions; but she makes the mistake of allowing him to collect too much intel on her tricky character.

In Annie's preoccupation with distance, she can't see when he's close enough to peer into the cracks of her skin. And he sees how she bleeds every day, how wounds never close, and how she stays silent because she thinks she's ugly when she screams.

Eren watches. Even when she thinks he isn't, he is.

He catches her when the mask slips. In the bright afternoon, with the light filtering in through the window she leans her forehead on— yet her eyes are midnight.

Eerily still, corpse-white and barely breathing.

He leans forward, a rough palm on her knee: 'Snap out of it, honey.'

Annie startles— 'Huh?'

He tries to smile.

It's an intimate memory; it should be venerated, just how close they've come to each other. Up close, all their (especially her) flaws in full view— it's spilling out of her like boiling tar. Not sweet or sophisticated— instead, bitter and aching.

She can't care. He's just going to leave anyway, and she wishes he'd do it soon before he takes too much of what's left.

Except, he takes nothing and gives her all he has.

When she pulls away, he doesn't let go.

When she's barely holding it together, he looks the other way so she can cry.

When her mind goes a million miles an hour, when she's thinking herself into circles— his tender touch brings her back.

It starts to tire her out.

Because she begins to wonder if maybe he actually does love her.

That's impossible. It can't be reality, it can't be true, because people don't know how to love anyone other than themselves. They would if they could, but they can't; that's just how it is, and so suffering is a nimbus cloud looming overhead.

And Annie's fine with that, because it explains everything.

It all makes sense now— why it hurts, why it has always hurt, why it can't stop hurting.

With each passing day, she teeters on the precipice of heartbreak.

She shares this with him; it moves him. Somehow, he changes, he desires change. And while he likes himself and wants for nothing, he thinks he can do with a little less of what makes him superhuman.

It starts as an effort to be close to her. In the end, he decides it's better to be flawed and imperfect— it means that there's space for someone else, even if that someone deems herself too jagged to ever fit properly with another person.

They're at the beach when he tells her he loves her; they're lounging on the oat-sand prickling their bare legs, the faraway thunder of the crashing waves lulling them into daydream. As they gaze at the dull stars fighting for brilliance against the maddening colours of a somber sundown, his confession rings inside of her with the steady force of church bells.

Annie feels a surge of heat in her chest; she realises she doesn't want to be here, next to him, looking on at the endless ebb of ice-water.

She wants to burn with the stars above, to flicker and fall and fade.

She wants to ignore this moment. To get up, turn her back, and forget she ever met him. She doesn't want to give him the chance to hurt her. But to lose him? She doesn't want that either. There's an invisible fear coiled tightly around her throat; she can't speak. What is she even supposed to say?

And he's so good, so gracious and understanding, that he tells her that she isn't obliged to say anything at all— I just wanted you to know, he whispers, and means it.

Her voice is shaky: 'You don't understand how hard this is for me.'

'I do understand,' he purposely softens his tone—, 'What I don't get is how you don't understand where I'm at.'

'Where you're at,' she echoes, 'Where you're at...?'

'I feel that I've earned the right to say I love you. That I've proven, in every way I can, that I do— why don't you believe me?'

'Because you don't even know me.'

Eren extends his hand, demanding hers (which she doesn't give): 'I don't have to. You won't open up to me, and I won't make you— despite that, I still want you— doesn't that mean that I love you?'

She can only watch in silence as he finally takes her hand in his. He thumbs over her knuckles, and her gut coils as it dawns on her that she has never loved or needed anyone the way she does him. It's worse that he isn't cutting her open, that he's waiting patiently for a response, that he sees her for what she is and chooses anyway to commit to what they have— even if it's a nightmare; and it nauseates her, the idea that there are no more secrets, that she's fully exposed and for once, she is neither judge nor jury—

'What's wrong with me, Eren?'

And it's surprising how much he knows.

[littleoddwriter]

transzsasz AND transroman

You're Just Like Me (Part 2) | Roman Sionis x Victor Zsasz

Since I got requested to do T4T ZsaszMask twice with this, I thought I could just make this story a continuation of the other one (although you don't have to have read that, nor is it an immediate follow-up to it). It ran away from me, like always, though. So it's a bit less about them being trans the further down we go, lol. Thanks so much for the request! I hope you enjoy it. <3

summary; Years after Roman's had Top Surgery, he's having a strangely emotional morning, in which he has a realisation that comes with a confession.

notes; Trans!Roman Sionis; Trans!Victor Zsasz; Talks of Top and Bottom Surgery; Medical Transition; Implied Gender Dysphoria and Euphoria; Kissing; Touching; Domestic; Fluff; kind of Hurt/Comfort-y; Roman is angry and emotional; Victor to the rescue and all.

It has been years since Roman has finally gotten Top Surgery, after Zsasz had assured him to take care of him and make sure nothing bad would happen to him under his watch. Surprisingly, it had all worked out just fine (although Roman did almost stab his surgeon shortly before he was put under).

Now, many years later, his scars weren’t even visible to the naked eye anymore – and his dark chest hair certainly helped. His pectorals looked just like any other man’s. He was happy with the result and felt pretty comfortable in his own skin for the first time in his life.

As he looked at his bare torso in the mirror, ready to get dressed for the day, he admired the sight. It was always so strange to him to think back to the time before his transition. That Roman Sionis felt like a completely different person, one who had never existed in the first place – and it wasn’t completely wrong either, was it? Technically, he’s always been the man he was today. It had just taken him many more steps than others to carry his true self out for the world to see.

“Roman?” Zsasz asked, suddenly appearing in the doorway and ripping Sionis out of his thoughts.

“What?” Roman hissed, looking at his partner through the mirror.

Victor walked over to him and came to a stop right behind him, only mere millimetres separating their bodies. He could feel the heat Zsasz gave off, smelled the cigarettes and cheap cologne that always covered his natural scent.

“Just wanted to check if you’re okay. Sat there all alone at the breakfast table, waiting for you to come,” he explained, looking back at Roman through the vanity mirror, as he laid his hands on his bare shoulders.

“I’m alright. I just got lost in my thoughts there.”

“About?”

“How great my chest looks,” Roman grinned, brushing his hand over his sternum.

Zsasz smirked right back, squeezed Roman’s shoulders and then he ran his fingers over his boss’s chest appreciatively. “Agreed. It looks fantastic,” he murmured and kissed Sionis’ neck, peppering little kisses all over it and down to his shoulders.

Roman shuddered, the kisses tickling him and the rough stubble of Victor’s beard scratching his skin. It wasn’t unpleasant though, far from it actually. He lifted his right hand and put it on the back of Victor’s head, pulling him closer. Then he turned his head and captured his partner’s lips in a passionate kiss that they both smiled into.

“I wouldn’t have ever done it without you,” Roman murmured against Victor’s lips, quietly admitting what he’s been thinking for so many years.

He could vaguely remember having said it after he got out of surgery, but it was so hazy to him, thanks to the anaesthetics; and he hasn’t admitted it since. Now felt like the right time to remind Victor just how important he’s been to Roman’s continued medical transition.

“You’re welcome. It was my pleasure, boss. Especially when you’re the one who made it possible for me to transition at all,” Zsasz replied, kissing Roman again and again, quick little pecks.

“And I’d do it again,” Sionis confessed – he wouldn’t ever say it out loud, but he would do anything for Victor; especially if it made him happy.

Admittedly, Roman was in a strangely sentimental mood that morning and he desperately wanted it to stop, before he suddenly said something he’d regret. “Enough of this. I’m hungry. Let me finish dressing and then we can finally eat breakfast, ‘kay?” he exclaimed to finalise this conversation and save face.

Sure, rationally, he knew that he never had to hide himself from Victor – it was impossible anyway –, but he still desired to feel some sense of control over their shared intimacy. Even after all these years, it was almost scary to him just how much of his guard he has let down around Zsasz and continued to do it. Sometimes, it would keep him up at night and tip his mood over into one of the many extremes he displayed – usually rage in this case. He hated how close he’s let Victor get to him. Was he ever going to change it, though? Of course not! Even though he often wished he could.

Zsasz just nodded, kissed Roman again and left the room.

All by himself again, Sionis sighed deeply and pulled a white cotton shirt over his head. It fit him perfectly, snugly hugging his arms and chest especially. Ten years ago, a shirt like this wouldn’t have been possible for him to wear, no matter what; yet here he was, finally at this point in his life where he could wear whatever he desired. It made him genuinely smile.

Quickly, he put on a midnight blue blazer, checked his hair again for a moment and left his dressing room, too.

During breakfast, Roman couldn’t stop thinking about all these questions he’s always had for Victor, but rarely asked them at all – not because he was scared, but because he knew how much he hated to be asked these things himself. Of course, with how perceptive Zsasz was, he noticed Roman’s lack of talking and his frown as what it was.

“You know you can ask me whatever, Roman,” Victor piped up eventually.

“I know,” Roman shot back, but hesitated anyway. “I’m just wondering if you’re feeling comfortable in your body by now. Or if you’d want to change more – Bottom Surgery is possible nowadays after all.”

“Nah, I’m fine with the way things are. Thanks to you, I’ve already gotten so much farther than I had expected when I first realised I was trans, y’know? And over time, I started to care even less about not having a dick. ‘Cause everything else is the way it should be and it really doesn’t matter. We make it work after all. I feel good,” Zsasz answered with a slight smile on his lips, which morphed into a fully fledged grin by the end of it.

Roman nodded in understanding and took a sip from his espresso.

“Do you want to get Bottom Surgery?” Victor then asked, before Sionis had a chance to say anything.

“No, absolutely not. One surgery was enough for me. I’m certainly not going through this fucking shit again, unless I absolutely have to.”

Chuckling, Victor nodded, “Yeah, I thought so. I’m still proud of you, by the way.”

Roman pulled a face, “Shut up. Nothing to be fucking proud of there,” he said as he thought back to how pathetic he’s been for weeks after his surgery – it was awful! –, but he obviously didn’t regret it. “Thank you anyway, baby,” he added quietly.

Zsasz beamed at him in response. Roman hated how it made his heart flutter and how he suddenly felt so warm inside. It never ceased to happen whenever Victor did something particularly endearing or alluring. Sometimes, Sionis wondered if this really was what people titled as “being in love”, because if it was he really didn’t know if he didn’t rather despise people, including Victor.

Sighing heavily, Roman set down his espresso cup harshly, a loud clank sounding when it hit the saucer. “I fucking hate this,” he muttered without really wanting to.

“Hate what?” Victor asked, frowning.

“This,” Roman replied, wildly waving his hands around between the two of them, “Us. Our relationship. This mutual experience we’ve made with being transgender men. The way I feel every time you do something – anything. Just everything!” he exclaimed, his voice getting louder and more broken with every word.

Zsasz was up in the blink of an eye, his hands on Roman’s shoulders, just like before, but firmer, as his fingers dug into his muscles and massaged them. It frustrated him. Why couldn’t he just keep his mouth shut for once? He had never wanted Victor to know these things!

“I think we make a great pair, Roman. Not only do we share this experience, but we’ve supported each other throughout. It’s a good thing. And the way you feel about me? I’m glad you do. ‘Cause I feel the same and it’s nothing bad. It doesn’t make us weak or whatever. We’re just as menacing as we’ve ever been. It’s not wrong to like someone, baby. Especially not when we’re so good together,” Zsasz told Roman sternly, yet gently, reassuring him like he always did.

“I guess you’re right. It just doesn’t really feel like it’s a good thing to me. How does it not eat you alive?”

“What? That some fucks might think they’re entitled to have an opinion on us?” Sionis shrugged. “I don’t care. It doesn’t matter what others think about you and me, or just me. They’re not worth shit. And honestly, if I can just remind you of something here… Your parents fucking sucked. They never loved each other or you, so you have a wrong image of what that looks like and what it can be. My parents were the exact opposite. And when I met you and felt this instant connection to you, I knew I’d be in it for life with you. No matter what. You’re almost as important to me as my life’s purpose. Although, to be honest, you are part of my purpose, so you might as well be on the same level as that.”

Roman was stunned. He’s never truly been speechless in his life, but of course Victor fucking Zsasz was able to make him that as well.

“I don’t know what to say,” Roman choked out.

Had anyone told him that this was how his morning would have gone, he would have yelled at them and stabbed them in the neck.

“You don’t have to say anything at all, Roman,” Victor replied, kissing the top of Sionis’ head.

“’Kay,” he whispered.

Then Roman tilted his head back and Victor leaned over and kissed him on the lips. It was all so fucking domestic, sickeningly so; and this warm feeling inside was back again, only that it bothered him a little less, now. Putting his hands on Victor’s he pulled them down, so that Zsasz was basically hugging him from behind as they kissed some more.

Begrudgingly, Roman had to admit that Victor was right. They made a really good team, always have, and it all just felt so right, so much so that it left his mind reeling. In all honesty, Sionis was probably the luckiest man on earth to have found Zsasz and to be in such a fulfilling relationship with someone who fully understood him.

“I adore you, Victor,” he confessed eventually, squeezing and rubbing Zsasz’s forearms almost nervously.

He could hear the sharp intake of breath above him, “I love you, too,” he responded, an audible smile in his voice.

Alright, maybe he could actually get used to this eventually. Zsasz always made anything possible for him after all. He was definitely lucky; there was no doubt about that.

[magic-iland]

I'd like to request a one-shot where your have sex with Boemgyu for the first time and you're nervous.

Don’t be nervous- Beomgyu 18+

Warnings : smut, oral (f receiving) , fingering, sweet talking ,penetration, . first time little aftercare

A/N : This took longer than I expected

A/N : Ngl I’m not the best at soft smut. Please ignore if there are mistakes

Love was something that you was scared of , the thought of being getting heartbroken. It kept you away from relationships. You can’t get heartbroken if you don’t fall in love. You made it through out high school with that thought process just fine. After high school you went to college and that’s where you met him. Your current boyfriend of one year , Beomgyu.

The relationship was everything you wanted. It’s filled with hugs, kisses ,cuddles just cavity sweet love. Although, there was something that made you nervous. There was just something about intimacy that scared you. That made you push him away when you felt like a kiss was getting to heated. He respected you of course and wrapped you in his arms to end the night. It just makes you wonder , how much longer is he going to stay though. When he is wanting you. You want him too though. It’s just the thought of him seeing you bare and vulnerable made you nervous.

—————————————————————

Your thoughts are running wild as your boyfriend places kisses on your jaw. You were use this , a tiny make-out session wasn’t anything new to y’all. When he gotten above your low cut shirt , he stopped but stayed above you.

“Baby you don’t have to be nervous around me.” Beomgyu raised his hand to rub the side of your face. “ I will never do anything that you are not ready for. “

“I know. I trust you beomgyu. I’m just nervous that maybe you won’t love me after seeing like that. “ The hand that was caressing your face has now your hand in his.

“Y/n , it’s okay to be nervous but I do think you are the most beautiful girl. You don’t have to worry about what your body looks like I will love it in every single way if you let me. “ As one hand is holding your the other goes to caress your side. “ We can continue if you want “

“ I do “ He gave you a soft smile

“Okay just trust me. I got you. If you change your mind in the middle of it let me know. “ He said before pressing his lips to yours. You know it sounds crazy but you feel like the kiss is totally different from the rest that y’all have shared. The kiss was deep. You wanted more. The way that his tongue swiped against your lip wanted entrance. You allowed it. His tongue exploring your mouth. The long the kiss went on the more intoxicated it was. Before the kiss wasn’t long enough as he broke it to move back down to your neck. You didn’t realize his hips that was hovering above yours was now pressing against you moving slightly. You couldn’t help but to let out a whimper. Which made him raise up his head and flash you a cheeky smile. “ That noise was so pretty baby. Can I hear more “ You nodded you head. “ No I wanna hear the words “

“ Yes please. “ You said to more him into kiss. His hands left your side and your hand to play with the hem of your.

“Can I take this off baby?”

“Yes” you said raising yourself and your arms up so he could throw the shirt in a corner. He stared down at you in a lacy burgundy bra. There’s that vulnerability that you hated. That’s what made you cross your arms

“You wanna stop baby? It’s okay we can”He started to pull off of you. But you pulled him back down.

“It’s okay. I hate how I’m nervous. I don’t know why I am. I want this please. I want you . “ You thread your hands throughout his soft hair. Pulling him down in a soft kiss.

“Okay let me take off your shorts. If you want me to. “ You life up you hips so those can also be thrown to a corner. Leaving you in just your undergarments “ You are so beautiful you know. Just relax for me baby. “ He said as his hands caress your sides upwards to your bra. He looked you in the eyes before pressing a kiss against your head. And then to your neck. You understand what he was asking. You arched you back and unclaps your bra yourself. He raised up “ Damn you been hiding this from me “ He started to leave open mouth kissed right about your breast. And one hand went to grope your left breast. The kisses went down to nipple and he sucked one into his mouth swirling his tongue around it. Your hand went to his hair pushing his head more into your chest. The next moment he left his head up giving you a smile before kissing down your sternum. He stopped at your panty lined pressing open mouth kissed there.

“Please I feel you are teasing. “ You whined snapping his attention back to you.

“ Just making sure you are alright baby. Don’t tell me you are getting impatient” He chuckled at you desperation before snapping his attention back to what he was you. He took your panty lines. And started to slowly pull it down. Waiting if you decline or not. We nothing came out. He yanked them throwing in the pile that was already there of just your close. “Have I told you how perfect you are”

“ You said I’m beautiful not perfect. Which I hate how much clothes you are wearing compared to me. “

“ Well you are perfect and don’t worry my time will come. “And his hands caress your thighs spreading them a bit more so he can officially lay in between them. He looked up at you just double checking. Then he took his fingers to spread your folds. To them press a kiss to your clit. Hearing the whine that you let out. Made him want to just to dive in. But he wanted to take his time to feel things out. Then he licked stripe down the middles of you. Making you curse and raise your hips up. “ Keep your hips still baby “ He said wrapping one arm. To hold them down. And he continued his work.

He gotten the feel of you so now he is eating you out like a starve man. “ Oh god “ You said as you pulled his hair. Something is feeling weird in your stomach. The feeling was just making you want more. It was making you desperate. The pull made his eyes stare at you. He lifted his head up to spread you again. You couldn’t help but whined. He slowly slid one finger into you. When you made a sound that was music to his ears. He slid another one. He slowly started to pump them in and out. And his thumb started to rub your clit. You moans became louder and you started to clench around his fingers. He could tell you was so he raise up and sucked one of your nipples into his mouth swirling his toungue around the little bud.

“ Beomgyu “ You moaned out louder than you expected.

“It’s okay baby let go. It’s okay. “ You arched you back and the tightness in your stomach snapped. His mouth on your drinking in your sounds. His finger continued pumping in and out until you high was over. He pulled his fingers out sticking them into his mouth to lick clean. He leaned down to you ear. “ You are so amazing “ He said before he pressed a kiss to you lips. Your hands went to shirt tugging it. He complied raising his arms up so the shirt can come off. Once it was off he leaned back down to your neck pressing open mouth kisses to your neck again. Seeing his torso gave you confidence you didn’t know you had as you reached down to cup his bulge making groan in your ear. He gotten off of the bed taking his jeans and underwear off. He unwrapped the condom quickly sliding it on. He then crawled on top of you kissing you deeply. “ Tell me if it gets uncomfortable sweetheart. “

“Okay. “ You said wrapping your arms around his neck pulling him connecting lips again. That’s when he entered you slowly. You whined into his mouth a part from the pinch a part from the pleasure. He stopped half way.

“You okay. He asked pulling away from your lips.

“Yes please keeps going. “ that’s all it took for him to enter fully. He waited giving you some time. You whined wanting more.

“You want more ?” One of his hands coming up to your face tracing your bottom lip with his thumb. You nodded giving him a slight pout. He started moving slightly. He rested his head in your neck. The soft kisses there became more rough lightly biting. He was marking you. Your arms that were around his neck went to his back slightly starting to rake your nails down his back.

“Beomgyu please go harder or faster. “ The soft feeling of him wasn’t enough. His hips that was going in a lullaby rhythm sped up. His hips started to snap faster into you. The moan that you let out was something that you never expected. You didn’t want to hurt him either. But the faster and hard that he went. The harder your nails went into his back but he enjoyed it. He groan was louder in your ear.

“Baby you feel so good around me. You are so perfect. Fuck you was made for me. “ One of his grabbed yours as the noises of moan, bed creaking and skin against skin continued. Your moans began louder. You can feel that tightness again.

“Beomgyu......”You said breathless “ .....Oh my god. “ Your sentence before was cut off buy one of his hands went in between yalls hips playing with your already sensitive clit. “ Fuck fuck fuck fuck “ Your words became chanting

“Come on baby. Let it go don’t fight it again. Come on let me feel you cum around me. “ His mouth going to your already marked breast. That’s what made it snap again. You back arched as your legs shook as a moan that you would only hear in adult films left your mouth. His hips moved faster as he chased his own high with you. His face in you neck as his moan became louder as well. One more thrust and he spilled in the condom slightly collapsing onto for a minute all that could be heard was heavy breathing. He pulled out of you and getting up to throw the condom away. And wetting a “ Hi baby “ He said sitting down next to you softly wiping you with the towel.

“Hi “ Your voice was soft due to exhaustion. “Please hurry and just cuddle me. “

“Okay okay , do you want to dress?” He questioned putting the towel in the dirty clothes. You shook your head. “ Okay naked cuddles it is. “ He jumped in the bed with you wrapping his arms around you. Soft talk didn’t last long as you fell asleep fast but you did hear the soft “ i love you” before you went to dream land.

[mordoriscalling]

Cigarettes After Sex (The Art of Letting Go) (2/?)

(Part 1)

Modern AU. Geralt and Jaskier are roommates and best friends, both stuck in on-and-off relationships that hurt them. They have sex after break-ups.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content and smoking addiction.

Geralt doesn’t smell cigarettes when he walks in. He’s been cursed with sharp senses all his life and it’s a blessing that the odour doesn’t assault his nose now.

(A wave of nausea hits him anyway and he almost wishes that it could be possible to throw up the emotions threatening to overwhelm him at any moment.)

Geralt goes to the kitchen, seeing that there’s no one there, and puts the liquid for Jaskier’s e-cigarette on the table. After three years of having to suffer the stench of normal cigarettes everywhere, Geralt finally convinced Jaskier to try using an e-cigarette last month. Jaskier hasn’t got back to traditional smoking since then. Geralt counts it as a win for them both.

Maybe this will help Jaskier succeed in quitting smoking for good. Geralt is worried about his best friend’s addiction often. He cares way too much and hates it, even more than the odour of cigarettes.

Suddenly, he can barely breathe.

The living room is blissfully empty too. The grey, plush couch almost embraces him as he sits down. The yellow ceiling is the last thing he sees he sees before he closes his eyes and fights for air.

Yennefer told him that she slept with Istredd.

(It’s April Fools.)

This could be it – the deal-breaker he doesn’t want to admit he’s been waiting for – but life in which he orbits around her is what he knows. Yen makes him feel seen, understands him like no other. They share similar past, fears and emotional scars, although they’re different than were at the beginning, seven years ago. She’s an advisor to an MP and he’s a martial arts instructor. Geralt fears he won’t be able to keep her. He’s so used to having her that the thought of letting her go is terrifying.

Yen admitted to doing it for the sake of honesty – they were supposed to try this time, goddamnit – and Geralt left before she could say anything else. He doesn’t need to know when. That truth in itself is enough.

(What a sick joke.)

There’s a noise coming from the hall, then the kitchen. Geralt wants to run and hide but he has no time to escape, so he only clenches his fists and braces himself.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks from the entrance of the room.

Geralt keeps his eyes closed tight. He can’t see Jaskier right now; he will fall apart if he as much as glances at him. Jaskier’s eyes and the flowing lines of his body will lure him in. He’ll fall for the promise of a moment of oblivion even though it’s everything but.

“Yen said –” he begins but breaks off, choking on anger and humiliation.

The sound of sure steps gets closer. The couch dips. Then, there’s Jaskier’s quiet voice, “I’m here if you need me.”

It’s like listening to a siren’s song. Geralt almost snarls because and he can’t handle this. The truth about him is that he isn’t strong, he just survives. Jaskier’s bright and dark, soft and sharp, entirely too much of everything, and Geralt is too weak not to be tempted by that fullness.

They’re best friends, though. Best friends talk about their problems.

“She... cheated,” Geralt forces the words out.

Utter stillness answers him. He doesn’t even hear Jaskier’s breathing for a moment until it returns in the form of a heavy, shaky sigh.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says hoarsely.

Geralt has to swallow down to stop his throat from constricting. There’s a gentle hand on his forearm. He recoils from the touch but Jaskier isn't deterred. He slowly starts doing his magic - a brush of his palm here, a soft word there - and eventually coaxes Geralt into getting up and going to his room.

(He stares firmly at the ground the whole time.)

Then, they lay in Geralt’s bed together, for the first time without any heat spurring them on. To Geralt, the heat is both a trap and a distraction from the deeper feeling swelling in his chest when they have sex. The emotion is hard to ignore but they turn each other on enough, so he can pretend that it’s just fucking.

Now, Jaskier runs his fingers through Geralt’s hair. The animal inside him howls and trashes in panic because he doesn’t want to be given comfort in this way, not when there’s no excuse for it. Nothing justifies the intimacy of Jaskier’s caress but it's so gentle that it puts him to sleep.

When he wakes up, yesterday seems to be a distant nightmare. He can almost pretend that all of it never happened but there Jaskier is, sleeping next to him. His clothes are all wrinkled, his hair is a mess, and there’s a trail of fresh drool on his cheek. Geralt can see no flaw in him.

Jaskier and Geralt are best friends. Attached at the hip for a decade already, everyone knows that. Yet, there are some days like this, when Geralt wishes Jaskier had never happened. If Jaskier had never come into his life, Geralt’s attraction to men probably would’ve remained unacknowledged, or at least not acted upon.

But here they are: Geralt watching his best friend sleep, greedily taking in all his imperfections like they’re a gift.

Geralt’s phone starts ringing, ruining the peace. He already knows who’s calling but he reaches to pull the phone out of his pocket anyway.

“Is it her?”

Jaskier’s gaze is still bleary from sleep but it’s also hardened, steely.

“Don’t pick up,” he says.

Geralt frowns. The loud ringtone is insistent. He looks down at the caller’s ID and sees Yennefer’s name. A photo of her is displayed on the screen, her beautiful eyes looking straight at him, hypnotising him.

The phone is snatched out of his grasp. His reflexes are fast but he catches on a moment too late and doesn't manage to take it back.

Jaskier declines the call and asks, all nonchalant, “Should I text her? Something along the lines of I can’t forgive you, we’re not getting back together ever again.”

“That’s my decision to make,” Geralt grits out.

“Don’t go back to her.”

Geralt scoffs, because Jaskier is just the one to talk about not returning to your ex, then extends his hand and demands, “Give me my phone.”

“No.”

“Fucking give it back, Jaskier,” he snarls.

“Fucking make me,” Jaskier growls.

This time, his fighting instincts kick in immediately. He overpowers Jaskier in a matter of seconds, pinning him down to the bed. Their faces are a few inches apart and Geralt is drowning in Jaskier’s eyes before he knows it.

Their mouths clash together and the kiss is angry at first, with too much teeth, but then Jaskier combs his hands through his hair. Geralt lets out a broken groan, hiding his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, breathing in his scent. It’s too heady and he has to distract himself from how much he loves it, so he grinds his hips down against Jaskier’s.

They both moan at the friction and keep rolling their hips, their erections rubbing against each other through their trousers. It would be perfectly desperate if not for the way they touch each other, sensual and knowing, and the way they kiss, passionate but unrushed.

When they’ve taken off half of their clothes, Jaskier whispers into his ear, “I want to ride you.”

Geralt can only give in.

Soon after that, they’re fully naked. Geralt puts on a condom and uses the lube, and Jaskier starts lowering himself on his cock. He’s very tight and Geralt has to take a steadying breath not to come. As Jaskier takes some time to adjust, Geralt admires what an erotic sight he makes – lean, muscular, hirsute body, red lips parted obscenely. Geralt wants to devour him.

Jaskier starts moving then, drawing a moan out of both of them. He sets a slow pace at first but quickly speeds up, making Geralt mad with lust. Just when he's close, Jaskier begins slowing down, staring down at him with a cheeky smirk. Geralt snaps up his hips and fucks Jaskier until they’re a mess.

When Geralt is about to come, Jaskier is still on top, way too far away. Geralt grabs him by the nape and brings his body close. The best kind of pleasure shots through him when Jaskier is pressed to him like this.

Afterwards, Jaskier takes his e-cigarette and starts smoking, because of course he put it on Geralt’s bedside table before they fell asleep.

“Stop smoking,” Geralt grunts.

Jaskier huffs, shaking his head with a smile. He continues smoking and Geralt watches him, his gaze too drawn to the elegant curve of his neck.

“You deserve better, Geralt,” Jaskier says quietly.

Geralt has nothing to say to that.

(The sweet smell of the smoke coming from Jaskier’s e-cigarette is sickening.)

Part 3

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

Hey love!! Can you do 3/32 With game reader x Dutch ( or Arthur) that’s fluff/smut? Maybe the reader’s first time? Thank you!!

Number 3 & 32:

For future reference, I am only currently comfortable with writing Arthur! Anyone else would be a minor role. In due time I may open up to someone else, we’ll see! WARNING: This one is looooong!

“Arthur, stop.”

Ahead of you, he signaled for his horse to slow down from a canter to a walk. Looking back at you with a quizzical expression, he asked. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“I’m exhausted,” you groaned, rolling your shoulders to release your aching muscles. “Can we stop for the night?”

He didn’t argue. “Sure, Strawberry ain’t too far ahead.”

You nodded gratefully, expelling a large yawn in response. Arthur took the lead again, though keeping himself at a close proximity to keep an eye on you. 

The both of you had been riding for hours, traveling down from the bitter cold mountains back into fairer weather. The sun had set ages ago, and the night sky was dark and starless. The smell of rain tinged the air, threatening to fall upon you at any given moment.

Your heavy eyelids shot open when a cold drop landed on your nose. The sensation had woken you up enough to urge your horse into a faster pace. Arthur silently followed suit, riding side by side with you until the golden lights of Strawberry appeared in the darkness.

You’d stepped inside just as the downpour begun, splattering heavily against the roof and windowpanes. Arthur paid for a room, as well as a bath for you. He mentioned that you should warm yourself up, and that he’ll be in the room.

As you two parted ways, a small part of you wished you’d asked him to join you.

It wasn’t until your body sunk into the hot water that you realized just how cold and tired you were. You took your time, allowing the heat to soothe your overworked muscles.

As you worked the suds along your limbs, you closed your eyes and imagined Arthur washing you from head to toe. His body encompassing yours, holding you close as his gentle hands ran over your skin. You could nearly hear him whispering in your ear, small compliments that would make you giggle and blush.

You opened your eyes, sighing and leaning back against the tub. It was wishful thinking, even if it were nice to imagine. Arthur always seemed to be shy regarding intimacy, and you understood why. You never pushed it past his reasons, hoping he’d eventually be comfortable with you to go further.

Though you yourself were no better. Before Arthur, you’d only had one other relationship. Once betrothed to the son of a wealthy family, originally a compromise formed between your parents and his when your father owed his father money.

The boy was nice enough, a proper gentleman that would make any other woman swoon. Although it had been made clear early on that neither of you had any similar interests. Through a mutual understanding, the wedding had been called off and you ran away. You’d been on your own until coming across the Van der Linde gang.

You rinsed yourself off and re-dressed, making your way to the room. You opened the door, revealing the quaint atmosphere of the sight before you. Arthur was sitting on the bed, digging in his satchel for something. He looked up as you walked in, offering you a smile before standing up to face you. He was already halfway undressed, still wearing his pants with the union suit underneath. It was partially unbuttoned, exposing a gratuitous amount of his chest.

You walked up to him, reaching up to kiss him on the lips. He responded gently, placing his hand on your cheek, holding you to him. After a moment had passed, he released you, though kept his eyes on you.

“You ready for bed, sweetheart?” he asked.

Nodding, you stepped back to look at the bed. It was large enough for both of you, the comforter appearing soft and warm. Despite being together for a few months, this was the first time you would be sharing a bed with him. At camp, you still stayed in your respective tents. This new step somehow excited you, even if it just meant sleeping next to him for a night.

You began to unbutton your shirt, in which Arthur’s eyes automatically diverted away. This man wouldn’t blink twice at an evening woman in nothing but her bloomers out in the open, however he respectfully gave you your privacy.

“Arthur, you can look,” You said gently. “It’s alright.”

He kept his head down. “Don’t wanna be rude.”

You giggled softly at his response, reaching to place your fingers on his chin, prompting him to look at you. “We’re together now, right? I won’t mind if you look. You’ll be the only one who gets to see.”

He hummed in response, a light pink hue touching his cheeks. “Guess so.”

Smiling at him, you continued to undress until down to your undergarments. A sheer chemise and drawers, the cool air around you touched your skin. Arthur’s shy eyes were on you, shifting up up and down your body. He quickly turned away, making a small noise and removing his jeans. It was your turn to eye him, the union suit accentuating every curve and muscle of his thick torso.

An image flashed in your mind. A quick, vivid picture of you trapped underneath him on the bed. A rush of heat painted your face, biting your lip as the very thought stirred your core.

Arthur leaned over to pull the blankets back, only further adding to the risque thoughts in your mind. Letting out a huff and silently shaking the thought away, you walked to the other side. You were just here to sleep for the night.

You climbed underneath the covers, letting out a sigh of relief as you lay against the feather soft sheet. It’d been so long since you lay in a bed, the fatigue immediately returning as you settled. Arthur climbed in on his side, a deep groan of relaxation rumbled in his chest. He scooted closer to you, his arm hovering hesitantly over your waist.

“Uh, may I?” he asked quietly.

Reaching for his hand, you tugged it snugly around you before cuddling closer, folding in to the crook of his body. He felt so warm, so solid, so comfortable. “You may.” you granted, your eyes closing soon afterward.

—

Oh Arthur, you feel so good…

You blinked your eyes open, staring out into the darkness. Rain splattered against the roof in a rhythmic pattern. A heated pulsing made itself known between your legs, though ebbing away with the dream. Disappointment shrouded your mind when you realized it wasn’t real. You’ve yet to feel relations of that sort, though being with Arthur had you yearning for it.

He himself was still asleep, his arm still around your waist.

You made a small whine, shifting yourself slightly to become more comfortable. As you did so, you felt a nudge at your backside. Something protruding from Arthur’s figure. You were confused at first, carefully reaching between your bodies. The fabric of his suit had been stretched at his lower torso, coming to a point at the small of your back. As your fingers brushed along it, you heard Arthur’s breath hitch.

It was only then did you realize what it was. Your heart beat wildly, your stomach fluttering with excitement and nervousness. How was he still asleep? Surely he must be able feel that.

An idea blinked into your mind like a lightbulb, so bold that you nearly scolded yourself for even thinking it. But, you wanted to try…

You flexed your hips against him, slowly, experimentally. When he gave no indication of waking up, you tried again.

Pressing yourself a bit harder against him, using the curve of your ass to apply the slightest amount of friction along the warm line hidden beneath. Hard against your softness, you could have sworn you felt it twitch.

A small grunt escaped Arthur’s lips, his entire body twitching in reaction. A cheeky smile spread across your face as you continued, maneuvering with such little movement. The action itself was enough to ignite the pulsation within you once again.

His arm tightened around you, his fingers twitching against your stomach. You weren’t sure how awake he was at this point, or if he was still in a deep sleep. Either way, you intended on waking him up fully.

He muttered something incoherent, voice so low and rough. You weren’t sure if he’d woken up or was simply talking in his sleep. You listened, waiting for more.

His hips shuddered briefly, a movement so fine yet enough to push him flush with you. You uttered a soft sigh, lost in your enjoyment, increasing your movement, prodding him further.

“Whuh-what’re you doin’?”

You froze, your heart pounding loudly in your ears. Your intention and eagerness had drained instantly. What were you going to say? “Uh, j-just trying to get more comfortable.” you lied, fighting to keep your voice even.

He was silent for a full moment. He then muttered a swear under his breath, pulling himself away to roll over.

Alarm coursed through you, and you rolled to face him. “Arthur?”

No answer.

“Arthur, did I do something wrong?”

You could see his figure look over at you. “No, ‘course not, Y/N.”

“Then why did you seem angry?” you asked.

“I-” he paused for a moment. “I ain’t angry, jus’…tryin’ to get comfortable myself.”

You knew him well enough to know that was a lie. Did he know what your intention was? Did you overstep?

Or perhaps he was embarrassed? Do you dare to inquire? “Is it because of your…little problem?” you asked carefully.

Silence again. After a long moment, he let out a drawn out sigh before murmuring, “Yeah, it is.”

Relief flooded through you, thankful he wasn’t angry at you at all. “Is that all?”

In the gloom, you could see the faint outline of his face. It certainly wasn’t dark enough to hide his embarrassment. “Sorry, Y/N. Jus’ don’t wanna seem like a pervert to ya.”

“You’re far from one,” you answered, reaching over to cup his face. “I like it.”

An exasperated breath sounded. “What?”

You nodded, running your fingers through his hair. “Is it that hard to believe?”

He rolled again, this time to face you completely. “No one ever told me that before.” he said, his voice trembling with a light chuckle of disbelief.

“Well, first time for everything, right?” you giggled. “Were you dreaming about me?”

You could see him purse his lips, his head ducking once again. “Yeah, I was.” he admitted rather reluctantly.

 You hadn’t expected him to say yes. You felt your cheeks flush once again. “Really?”

“Couldn’t help it,” he replied. “Seein’ you earlier…too pretty for words.”

A smile graced your lips so widely it could have brightened up the room. “Is that so?” you chimed, your voice light and coy. Would you dare go further? “Do you…wanna see more?”

A look of confusion formed. “What?”

“Do you wanna see more?” you repeated. “Surely it’d be better than a dream.”

“Uh…” he huffed, as if trying to contemplate your words. “You mean…”

“Yes, Arthur,” you whispered, running your hand on the exposed skin of his chest. “that’s exactly what I mean.”

“Why?”

“Because…” you hesitated, pursing your lips briefly. “I’ve never been with a man in that way before. I want to know how it feels. How you feel.”

“Really?” he responded in surprise. “And you want me to-” pausing as he tried to form the right words. “You sure?”

“As sure as I’ll ever be,” you said solemnly, reaching for his hand and placing it gently on your own chest. “Please.”

Arthur fell silent again, hesitant on what to do next, although his hand remained on your chest. Eventually his fingers twitched, running his fingertips along your sensitive skin. Goosebumps erupted in his wake, your nerves pleasantly tingling.

His touch left you briefly to rest his palm against your side, sliding your chemise up to touch you again. Your heart shot to your throat as he explored the curvature of your waist. Tracing patterns against you, he steadily roved over your stomach, and finally to your breasts.

He squeezed one gently in his palm, rubbing a calloused thumb over your nipple. Your body shivered from the sensation accompanying it, and you elicited a soft moan. You were so sensitive, your virgin essence so readily willing to accept his touch.

“You’re so soft.” he rumbled, rubbing you in a small massage.

You smiled, reaching for him once again. You toyed with his chest hair before slowly unbuttoning his union suit. Slowly, more of him was revealed to your eager senses. Your fingertips trickled from his chest to his stomach, him tensing in response. You briefly wondered if he was ticklish, though quickly abandoned the thought as you palmed his muscles. You knew how broad he was, how much he worked. How often you dreamed of seeing him without a shirt on, dreamed of wanting to touch him.

“You feel nice,” you complimented, scooting closer to him. “very nice.”

He chuckled softly. “Ain’t no one told me that before neither.”

His warmth radiated like a furnace. Your head tilted, placing a soft kiss along his pulse point. His heart pounded underneath his skin, strong against your lips. Pulling back just a fraction, you asked in a hushed whisper, “Kiss me.”

He did so without protest, using his free hand to take your chin, easily finding your mouth. Tender in the beginning, he slowly exuded a loving passion behind it. He parted your lips, allowing his tongue to bat against yours in a slow dance. He tasted dully of alcohol and cigarettes, though smelled of leather and rain. It aroused you all that much more.

You pulled yourself completely against him, very aware of what was now pressing against your belly. You were curious, sliding your hand between you to cautiously stroke him once through his suit. A soft groan emitted from his chest, and he parted his lips from yours.

“You really never been with anyone else?” he asked again, as if in disbelief. When you silently shook your head, he continued, “Then let me take care of ya first.”

Before you could ask what he meant, he softly gripped your leg, placing it over his waist. His eyes never left yours, while his hand ventured further. Sliding back up your leg, he tugged your drawers aside to enter. You tensed as his fingers parted your folds, soon finding your center with ease.

You’d gasped louder than you intended, covering your mouth immediately after. It was a leisurely sensation, one that he began to build with speed and pressure. Your tension released as your body squirmed, moaning behind your hand. You’d done this before to yourself, though it’d never felt this good.

It wasn’t until he’d slid a finger inside did you call out his name.

You tried to keep yourself contained, though reduced to a writhing mess in the palm of his hand as he worked you. You gripped his arm tightly, desperate for a hold on anything to keep you from turning into a puddle.

He leaned forward to kiss you again, trailing his lips across your jaw and down your neck. With tender care, his teeth grazed against your flesh. A fresh buzz cascaded down your body, enhancing the pleasure that echoed through your core.

“A-Arthur,” you stammered. “oh, Arthur…”

He continued his ministrations, playing you like a fiddle. He commented on how wet you were, sparking a fierce blush as you turned your head away in embarrassment. His hand grazed your cheek gently, his soft voice caressing your ears.

“C’mon, look at me.”

You did slowly, biting your lip as he was merciless down below. “S-sorry-”

“You’re alright, sweetheart.” he cooed.

You could only moan in response, digging your nails into the meat of his arm. He never flinched nor made a sound of pain, just kept his focus on you and you alone.

Somehow, your rise was flowing quick. A growing wave that bloomed from your center, nearly too fast for you to alert him. “Arthur-” you huffed. “Arthur, I’m gonna-”

Your orgasm washed over you in such a smooth, fluid motion. Both explosive and calming, another moan resonated from you as you shamelessly ground into his palm. As the last of it trickled out of your system, your body went slack, your breathing uneven.

Arthur kissed your forehead, brushing his lips with feather soft precision along your face. “How’d that feel?” he questioned.

“Amazing…” you said breathlessly, rolling your head back onto the pillow, letting your energy slowly seep in as you took a deep breath. You peered at him again. “Can I…do the same to you?”

“‘Course,” his voice was light. “Don’t gotta ask.”

Without waiting for your response, his arms wrapped around you tightly. You squeaked in surprise, suddenly feeling weightless as he shifted around you. In an instant, you were on top of him, straddling his legs. 

The excitement once again set ablaze. It was your turn now to please him, although you weren’t very familiar with the concept other than word of mouth and writing. You’d hoped your performance wouldn’t be disappointing for him.

You slid your hand down yet again, reminding yourself of his perfect physique. As you ventured lower, you were nearly hesitant to unbutton him the rest of the way, easing yourself into it. Pushing the woolen fabric aside, you revealed him completely.

In the darkness, you could see his outline. He seemed large, at least to your limited experience. He waited silently, his eyes on you. You expected him to speak, to prod you on. Yet he hadn’t made a peep. You took a deep breath, tenderly wrapping your hand around his length. He was definitely thick; unable to wrap your fingers around him completely. Hard and hot, it twitched in your grasp as if impatient for your touch.

You pumped your hand once, listening to his gentle sigh. A steady rhythm began with your grip. His chest vibrated with a soft moan, uttering your name in such a lovely, vulnerable tone. You’d never heard him like that before, even during moments of emotion between the two of you, and you enjoyed it.

Your confidence began to grow as you quickened your pace, happily rewarded with a groan, louder than before. “Am I doing good?” you quietly asked, experimentally rubbing your thumb across the smooth tip.

“Doin’ great.” he exhaled, voice riddled with pleasure.

Elation bloomed in your chest as you continued, smiling to yourself. This big, burly man that towered over you was now underneath you, unable to even speak straight from your doing. He trembled as you toyed with the tip, and you couldn’t help but to giggle under your breath. You assumed this would be useful to you in the future.

As the last of your nerves melted away, you found pleasuring him was like playing with the best toy you’ve ever had. The way his groans and sighs graced your ears instilled excitement in you, once again igniting your own arousal.

You leaned forward, pulling him into a sweet kiss. He didn’t hesitate to hold you close, moaning into your mouth as your ministrations never ceased. His hands wandered down your back, gripping the edge of your chemise. Pulling back for a split second to allow him to undress you, you crashed your lips to his once again.

His touch became restless, finding your breasts to massage and squeeze as he’d done earlier. You shuddered on top of him, moving your hand against him harder in response. The kiss turned feverish, an urgency behind him as he overtook your mouth.

He didn’t let up, continuously ravaging you with his hands. He pinched your nipples, tweaking them and rolling them between his thumbs. You squeaked, surprised how absolutely good that felt.

Soon becoming lost to him, you hadn’t realized where he ventured next until you felt him playing between your legs once again. A fervent touch unlike before, he teasingly poked your entrance. You let out a whine, arching your body against his, breaking away from his lips.

And then, he stopped. Your sounds of pleasure had turned into protest. Though before you could speak, he’d managed to roll you onto your back with little effort, resting you against the soft pillows.

Pulling your bloomers off with one swift motion, he then shrugged the top half of his union suit off, exposing himself in full. Slowly, he trapped you between his arms. You stared up at him silently, your heart hammering knowing what was to come next.

He leaned down and kissed you once again, instilling the tenderness from before. He pulled back an inch to whisper to you, “You sure you want this?”

“Absolutely, Arthur.” you answered with solid certainty.

He took a deep breath. “I’ll admit…I ain’t done this in a long time. I’m sorry if it ain’t what you’re expectin’.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you assured him. “I just want to feel you.”

He didn’t speak, his eyes searching your face as if you had any doubt lurking underneath. Finally, he reached over to the nightstand, flicking the electric lamp on and flooding the room with light.

Seeing your look of confusion, he responded with tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “I wanna see your face clearly now.”

A shy smile crept across your face, fighting the urge to cover it with your hands. This was all so new, so thrilling and invigorating. Emotions twisted like a whirlwind inside you, excitement and impatience intertwining with one another. Your legs spread open invitingly.

He lined his hips with yours, pushing himself forward as the tip slid against your folds. He was hesitant, and you wrapped your arms around around his neck, tilting yourself up to him. You prompted him to go further as a silent reminder that you wanted this. You wanted him.

Keeping his gaze level with you, he eased his way into your entrance. You tensed up, caught off guard by how thick he was. It stretched your walls uncomfortably, tears springing to your eyes as you let out a choked whine.

He stopped immediately, caressing your face. “Easy, darlin’. I know it hurts, just relax. It’ll feel better soon.”

You nodded quietly, taking in a deep breath to calm yourself. He continued forward, watching your face for any discomfort. Slowly, he opened your inner walls as he buried himself to the hilt.

The immediate fullness was an unexpectedly different feeling than you’d imagined. Your body relaxed around him, the pain beginning to fade away as your muscles accommodated to him. You gave another nod for him to continue.

He began to move, thrusting gently into you with a careful steadiness. The sensation following was wonderful, radiating your core.

“Ya feel okay?” Arthur asked, his voice husky.

“Y-yes,” you sighed. “Keep going.”

He nodded, dropping his head as he emitted a guttural moan. His hips rolled lavishly against you. “Y-you’re so tight,” he growled. “Feels so good…”

Your legs lifted, wrapping them around his waist. His pace increased, driving himself a little deeper within you with this new angle. A swear passed his lips as his body trembled in your embrace. Sweet utterances were whispered in your ear, entwining with your moans and whines.

“Faster, please…” you gasped.

Arthur complied without a second of hesitation, dipping his head to rest on your shoulder. Your grip on him tightened, nails digging into his skin. He bucked forward in surprise, bringing forth an intense wave of pleasure for you. Your arms shook as the pure ecstasy traveled up you, dragging your nails down his strong back.

He hissed out your name, cursing out loud as he bucked again. His mouth latched onto your neck, groaning deeply, setting vibrations along your skin. He suckled and nipped gingerly, taking care to not to hurt you. Each sensation rolled through your body, arousing every nerve with a pleasant tingle.

“Arthur, oh Arthur!” You cried out, endlessly marking his back. You wanted more, needed more. You pushed your hips closer to him, the angle only enhancing your pleasure. He dragged against a sensitive area that caused you to nearly squeal, slapping your hand over your mouth to stifle it.

He brought his head up to look down at you, eyes glazed with lust. He tugged your hand away, positioning himself to achieve the same result. Your cry was muffled with a passionate kiss, drowning into his mouth. As you went quiet, he parted from your lips.

“You sound wonderful, darlin’.” he complimented, resting his forehead on yours without a pause.

Heat licked at your cheeks. A shy giggle escaping you, though quickly ended into a loud moan as he prodded the spot again. He didn’t let up, wringing out every noise from you as continued teasing it.

Words failed you, all coherent thought had flung out the window as pure ecstasy overtook you from head to toe. You threw your head back, singing out your pleasure as you felt another orgasm soon on the rise. A quick and powerful build that you could only alert with a wanton moan. As your climax hit, your entire body trembled from how it radiantly rolled through you. You clung to him, riding out the last waves as it ebbed away.

You attempted to catch your breath, focusing on him again as your senses cleared. A small smirk touched his lips as he peered down at you, sweetly whispering how good you looked like that.

Biting your lip, overcome with shyness again as you battled the urge to hide yourself. Arthur’s eyes stared deep into yours, reflecting the love he held for you. It almost made your breath hitch.

Arthur swore out loud, his face contorting. “Ah, I’m close.” He groaned. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close to him. You could only gasp, clinging tightly as he chased after his own pleasure. Much faster than before, the sensation almost dizzying as it overtook you again.

Within seconds, his hips snapped away from you, rubbing himself against your folds as he unleashed a guttural moan. Hot trails of his seed painted your stomach, his hips shuddering shallowly against you as the last of his climax died out.

He panted heavily, his arms still tight around you. His head rested heavily on your shoulder, quiet for a moment as he caught his breath.

Silence encompassed you both, lost in the post copulation bliss. It seemed so surreal, having lost your innocence to a man that you once never thought you’d come to know so intimately. It was like living in the world’s best dream.

Arthur finally released you, and you felt his lips trail lazy kisses along your shoulder, forming a pathway up your neck and to your mouth. The kiss was soft, not hiding the fatigue that now took hold of you.

As the kiss parted, he moved to lay by your side. Meeting each other’s gazes, you noted the same look of love he’d given you before.

You smiled, returning his gaze by gently cupping his face. “Arthur?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“You’re everything to me,” You sighed happily. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He murmured, gently taking your hand to kiss your palm. A wide yawn escaped him just after. Turning off the table lamp, he pulled you into his embrace.

—

Can you tell I really like setting up for smut scenarios?

Send me a prompt!

[royallyprincesslilly]

Title: Just The Tip* {One Shot}

Chris Evans x Reader

Words: 3K

Warning: Some Cursing, Some Fluff, Very Mild Smut, Very Mild NSFW (Still wouldn’t read at work to be safe)

Summary: Just a little something from the top of my head inspired by this. I don’t know what’s wrong with me guys, I swear.

~~~~~~~~~~~

  You walked out the bathroom into the master bedroom, fresh from your shower. It had been a long ass day, and you needed a nice cuddle session, some ice cream, and some trashy TV. Grabbing your phone from the bedside table, you scrolled through your phone wondering where Chris was. You shot a quick message, annoyed he was late yet again.

   MSG: Where are you? You should have been here twenty minutes ago.

   Walking out of the room, and through your home, you made it to the kitchen. Once there you took out a bottle of wine. You grabbed two glasses and the cartons of ice-cream from the freezer. You placed your items on the kitchen island and sent another message.

   MSG: If you don’t get here in five minutes, your ice cream will be soup, and it’s the last carton. Snooze you lose.

You nudged the phone underneath your chin and gathered your goodies. As you walked back to your bedroom, you felt a message come in. Once inside the room, you put the items on the bed and opened your messages.

   MSG Chris: I’m sorry I’m late. I’ll be there in a little while. Don’t be mean. You’ll share with me.

MSG: The fuck I will. If the last carton of your favorite ice cream means anything to you then your ass will be here in five. Bye Christopher.

   You tossed your phone down and had a thought of him running traffic lights and getting into an accident. Quickly you grabbed your phone again and added a follow-up message.

   MSG: As safely as possible, Evans. Don’t get hurt.

   ~~~~~~~

  Twenty minutes later, Chris came barreling into the bedroom with a handful of grocery bags.

   “I’m sorry I’m late, baby. I got held up at the table read. It was out of my control.” You pouted with your arms crossed as you leaned back against the headboard. You weren’t really pissed, but he didn’t know that. He bent to you to kiss your lips, and you moved your face averting the kiss and sending his lips to your cheek.

   “Wow, really Y/N? You’re not mad. Tell me you’re not mad. You have to understand.”

   You rolled your eyes and feigned sadness. Chris snorted, seeing right through your act. He tickled your side. Once you wiggled, he moved to your other side and continued. You laughed, squealed, and squirmed around the bed, trying to evade him, but his arms were longer, and he was stronger, and at every turn, he overpowered you. When he was pressed to you on the bed, both of your giggles faded.

   “You can’t stay mad at me. I’m too cute.” You rolled your eyes and let out an exaggerated groan.

   “Whatever, Christopher. You not cute. No one wants you.”

   “Yeah, just you, that’s why I’m between your thighs in our bed, in our house. Your ass wants me.”

   He had you there. His smile was wide and cocky, god he was fine. His lips lowered to yours for a peck.

   “Tell me you want me.” Chris kissed you again and again until his mouth moved to your collar. He knew you loved this spot. You bit your bottom lip and enjoyed the feel of him on you.

   “Tell me you want me, sweetheart.” He peered into your eyes with his crystal blue ones, and your belly did backflips. It had been this way for going on two years now. He was the only one that made you feel this way.

   “Y/N.” You passionately kissed him and nibbled his bottom lip. Chris moaned and deepened the kiss cupping your jaw to gain more control. You moaned and pulled your chin from him.

   “Get your dirty ass off me and this bed Christopher!” He laughed and pushed off of you.

   “I brought backup in case you let my ice cream melt.” He walked into the bathroom leaving you to shake your head at him.

   After a fifteen-minute shower, Chris ran out of the bathroom and jumped on you in the bed before he rolled over onto his side. His eyes landed on the mountain of snacks between you. “Really, Y/N, you couldn’t wait for me for real?”

   “You snooze you lose, you late, you assed out!” He smiled then kissed your temple.

   “So, trashy or scandalous?” You smirked as he began flipping through the recorded shows.

  You thought about it then shrugged, signaling him to decide for you. Knowing him he’d pick something scandalous. Not many knew that although Chris had a good boy image now, he could be very messy and downright trashy. He loved laughing at the ridiculousness of shows like Housewives of or Girlfriends of whatever; if it involved fights, shade, and drama, then he was down for it. You loved it because try as you may, you couldn’t help but watch and laugh at them as well thanking God their lives was not your life.

  Once Chris settled on a show, the two of you settled into a comfortable silence while you snacked on ice cream, chips, and the chocolate-covered strawberries Chris brought home as an apology gift. He was lucky you loved chocolate as much as you did.

   After a few episodes, the snacks were done, and you were cuddled up to him, enjoying the warmth of his embrace and the intimacy of the night.

   “I’ve been thinking,” Chris breached. You moaned, letting him know you were awake and to continue.

   “Before I start, just know it’s not a big deal, and I’ll understand.” With that you angled your head back to look up at him already cautious as to the next words out his mouth.

   “What did you do, Christopher?”

   “Nothing, I promise. It’s not like that.” Narrowing your eyes you sighed.

   “Then, just tell me.” Chris laid back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. His hesitance was making you scared, and unintentionally you were holding your breath.

   “I was thinking about some things that we could—try.”

   “Try? What do you mean try?”

   His fingers began caressing your upper arm. It was an action done to ease you; he’d learned it worked quite well. Only this time, it was not working that well.

   “Chris, my god, just say it.”

   “Try with you—in bed.” You released a heavy sigh of relief.

   “Okay. What?” His lips touched your temple again before he kissed your ear.

   “Spit it out.”

   “Well, I was thinking maybe we can try another—hole.”

   Everything in the room went silent. It was so quiet you could hear the sound of your heart and his. His was racing while yours must have stopped. Neither of you moved or said anything for the next several minutes.

   “Y/N?”

   “Another hole? Chris, you’ve been in every hole I have.” You sat up and looked down at him.

   “There is still one.” Your eyes bugged out, fully understanding what he meant. Once it dawned on you, your jaw dropped.

   “Christopher Robert Evans!”

   “Oh god, not the whole name, babe.”

   “You’re joking. Oh my god, you’re fucking with me.” You smiled, then he smiled.

   “No, I’m not. I’m being for real.” The smile on your lips slowly faded, and you took him in for a few moments. He was serious, you thought.

   “You’re serious.” Chris sat up to your height and took your hand.

   “I am--.”

   “How long have you been thinking about this?”

  “Not long,” Chris began looking away from your gaze.

   “Chris.” H shuffled his head from side to side then contorted his face as if he were thinking.

  “A few months—maybe.”

   You snorted and lost it. Your laugh filled the room before you fell back onto the bed in your fit of laughter.

   “What’s so funny?”

   “Chris, you’ve been thinking of sticking your dick in my ass for a couple of months. This is hilarious.”

   He nodded, and you saw the blush stain his cheeks and neck. He was getting embarrassed.

   “Laughter isn’t necessarily a no, though, right?”

   You gaped at him and laughed some more. Chris moved to you and settled between your legs and held your wrists down beside your head.

   “Chris, oh my god.” You could feel his quickly stiffening length pressing between your thighs.

   “So, what do you think?” His lips trailed kisses along your jaw until he made it to your neck, then to your collar. You groaned; he was trying to cloud your judgment.

   “Chris, really? Do you have any idea what you’re asking?”

   His lips continued their assault on your sensitive skin, and every kiss he placed your desire for him increased.

   “You are asking me to let you put something the is the size and length of a cucumber on every steroid imaginable in my very virgin ass. Do you get that?” His face looked as if he were trying to hold in his laughter. You couldn’t though, just the imagery of your comparison alone took you out. The two of you laughed yourselves to tears.

   “Cucumber on steroids, really?”

   “Yes, oh my god, Chris. Do you remember the first time we had sex? There was blood, and pain, there was blood and pain for the first few times.”

   “You were a trooper; you didn’t quit and look at what you’ve accomplished. You’re a pro now.” You laughed again.

   “Stop, you’re not serious.”

   “I am. I’ll be gentle; you know that. I’m not going to--.”

   “Stick your super serum lab experiment dick in me?” This time Chris was the one who busted out laughing. You shook your head.

   “It won’t fit.”

   “Then let me just put the tip in.”

   You laughed again; only this time, it was one of those dorky snort type things that made Chris laugh as well.

   “Oh my god, you did not just say that. Just the tip?”

   Unable to keep a straight face, Chris laughed as he nodded. You could feel he was as at full attention and pressing heavily onto your sex. You moaned then bit your bottom lip, just like that the air in the room changed from playful sexy to full-on hedonistic. Chris crashed his lips to yours and kissed you with all the fire you saw behind his pupils. You moaned and welcomed every sensation he gave you.

   Without a word he untied your robe and revealed your naked body to his eyes. He wasted no time freeing himself from the confines of his underwear and sinking deep into you. You hissed out at the first feel of him, it was welcomed and delicious and broke you out in goosebumps. Chris took lead and rocked his hips rhythmically, building up a pattern and friction that made moans tumble from your lips one after the other.  

   Rolling onto him, you began showing him just what a pro you were now. You decided that you’d make this so good that he’d forget about his request. It didn’t take long for his moans to rival yours as his hands gripped everywhere. When you rolled your hips, his hands tightly gripped your them; when you rocked back and forth, they moved to your waist; when you bounced, they went to your breasts holding them as they jiggled. You kept the control until he found his release, then you both fell onto the bed with you still on him. Your bodies were slick with sweat, and the sleep was steadily trying to claim you both. Chris kissed your ear and held you tighter to him. Then he spoke.

   “Don’t think I’ve forgotten, sweetheart. All you did was prove to me how good you are at taking me.”

   Heat awoke in your belly, and you clenched around him, pulling a pleased but painful moan from Chris’ lips. Fuck, you thought.

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[anavakarian]

Day 14: throat

Knocks on the door.

I gaze up at the clock on the wall, worried that I’m late. But I am not. Rebecca was meant to pick me up at 7.30 and it’s just 7.05...

“Well, this is strange,” I mutter to myself, leaving the eyeshadow brush on the mirror shelf trying to make the lesser possible mess out of my make up. Rebecca is as punctual as hell and, considering the tenor of the event we are invited to, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was actually a bit late. There is no chance she would be this early at my apartment...

However, the knocks are back, firm and insistent.

“Ok, ok… I’m coming. Just wait…” I answer, mildly annoyed because of the interruption, crossing the distance to the door while securing the towel around my body.

Perhaps my neighbour, Lisa, needs anything…?

However, the spyhole of my brand new security door gives away immediately who is on the other side of it: dark blond hair styled sideways - as he’s grown it since we met - broad shoulders and icy green eyes veiled by a deep frown wait at the other side of my door.

What on Earth is Adam doing here and where is Rebecca?

A rush of nervousness mixes together with mild concern. Then, I realize that opening is taking me too long and he is about to knock for the third time. A bit afraid of the consequences that the action might have on my door integrity, I open it immediately.

Commanding agent Adam du Mortain scowls at me - like always - stiff and taut in front of my front door, one hand held out and about to make contact with the empty space where the wood was before.

His green eyes meet mine and, just for a second, his gaze soften and I want to think that they are expressing the words that he is not able to. Something like ‘I’m quite pleased to see you again, Detective ,’ perhaps?

Obviously, the string that leaves his mouth differs with my silly expectations. “Why did it take you so long to open, Detective?” he enquires with a stern tone and an even more severe look in his eyes.

I can’t help but roll my eyes at him. On a normal day, I would retort something back, as ironic and bold as I was able to. But today I’m in a sort of a hurry and still concern about Rebecca’s whereabouts. “Where is she?” I ask, dryly and worried.

Adam seems to suddenly understand. “Agent Greene didn’t think she could make it on time and requested for me to take you to the event. We will meet her there.”

Well, that actually sounds quite a lot like my mother: she’s been neglecting our relationship for so many years that it is not a surprise anymore. “Ok. Fair enough, I suppose,” I exhale with a wry smile.

Not that I’m complaining about the good-looking change, but things have been a bit… strange between Adam and me after that brief but intense ‘holding hands’ moment at the Carnival that I still have not very clear what it meant. We practically haven’t seen each other since then, two weeks now, but for work-related stuff and more and more reports.

“Well, I think you are here a bit earlier than I was expecting... Can you want to come in?”

I open the door fully and it’s then when we grow suddenly aware of what the other one is wearing. Adam looks absolutely amazing - hot - with his tuxedo and I feel my heart stutter at the sight. His green eyes roam down to my shoulders, my bare arms and the towel wrapped around my body on a quick scan. And, as if he has been struck by lightning, his eyes open widely and his gaze darts back up to my face, suddenly realizing that I have just come out from the shower and, yes, I am not wearing anything under that towel.

I have to conceal a grin while walking back into my living room. It would be the perfect moment for a tease, but my hair is starting to drip on the floor and I should be getting ready for the party.

“Do you want a glass of wine?”.

Adam has nestled himself in his usual space in my house, beside the industrial style window and as far as he physically can from me. “I’m driving…”

His stoic expression makes me chuckle and I get into the kitchen in search of the Bourdeaux I bought especially for him. I pour some into a glass and go back to the living with the offering in my hand.

He eyes me with something similar to mistrust and extreme weariness as I walk closer and I find extremely funny the way he keeps his eyes locked in mine with intensity, wondering if that keeps him from sliding them down my nakedness under the towel.

“Here,” I offer. “Do me a favour. Unwind a little tonight, ok? I’ll drive the SUV.”

“Detective…” he complains with a strict undertone that I brush off, placing the glass in his hand.

“It’s not up for discussion, otherwise, we’ll be late,” I cut him off stubbornly before walking into my bedroom to get ready.

There are no further complains or, at least, I can’t hear them when I shut the door behind me.

Some curling iron, makeup and dressing up later, I’m ready. Out of a sudden, I realize how much this actually looks like a date. I don’t want to think that Rebecca has sent us up, but I wouldn’t be entirely surprised either… Although I would rather not to think about my own mother acting as matchmaker: that would be so out of place for her…

However, the gorgeous vampire I have a damned crush with is still waiting for me in my living room, looking quite smart. And there are so many things that I’m waiting for him to say… Things to figure out…

I take a deep breath in, trying to ignore the fact that I am nervous. Not much. Just a little bit. Enough to make me hyper-aware of how fast my heart is beating when I grab the door handle. A goofy smile grows in my lips with the silly thought of ‘having a date with Adam’. Like if this was a high school prom dance and not a fundraising event at the townhouse with all Unit Bravo members, my mother, Major Friedman and la creme de la creme of Wayhaven’s jet set.

Shaking my head to wipe off my silly teenager thoughts, I open the door bravely and step out of my room.

Adam springs up nearly immediately - he is sitting down on the sofa, to my surprise, instead of being perched still by the window. His glass of wine is empty on the coffee table and I don’t know what is more striking: the fact that he has actually listened to me or to realize for the second time how good he actually looks in that tuxedo.

He stares at me with a blank expression. His lips babble something that his mouth refuses to transform into words, although he clears his throat on an attempt to conceal it.

I arch a questioning brow at him, pursing my lips with a grin and pointing at my dress - red, long, strapless neckline... “Now is your turn to compliment,” I tease him, trying to ease the strange tension that is clearly building in my apartment.

And it seems to work because he chuckles and I get the prize of a fleeting sight of dimples on his cheeks.

“You look beautiful, Eve,” he declares, sincere, warm and soft as I’ve never seen him before.

His words make my knees buckle and a stupid grin grows on my lips. And I’m pretty sure I blush at his statement.

Why does the distance between us feel so unbearable? Is it wrong that I want to be closer to him? Is it wrong that I want to kiss him? To feel his skin under my touch and his lips on mine? Is it bad that I want him right now?

And by the way he is devouring me with his eyes, I can tell that he wants the same than me...

I bravely take one step closer towards him.

His gaze hardens. His body stiffens.

Great mistake… The thin spell that is keeping that moment suspended in time, dispels in a cloud of smoke.

Like if embarrassed of his own desires, scared of the level of intimacy our shared moment is reaching or terrified about the possible outcome that this instant could lead into, Adam steps back, running away from me.

Like he always does.

And it feels like an ice storm after the warm moment we have just shared.

“I think we should get going, Detective. Otherwise, we will be late,” he announces, veiled order and escape route well planned within his words.

I deep breathing, half-disappointed and half-amused at his damned emotional constipation, although I can’t avoid cursing him mentally.

C’mon! Who is he trying to fool at this point, apart from himself? It is obvious to everyone and it must be obvious for him, too! There’s something more between us than a simple colleagues relationship.

More than a simple friendship.

I deep-breath and remind myself that there’s no hurry and that I don’t mind waiting. Because I know that, if anything is to happen, it will be worth every minute of this give and take game we are playing.

So, I pull my best smile at him - sweet, flirty and bold at the same time - and I choose my next words carefully by their intended innuendo.

“Whenever you’re ready, Agent du Mortain.”

Link to AO3

[sandalaris]

DVD Commentary A: Lesson in Navigation - The End of Chapter 5? Starting with: "She wakes to the sounds of the shower running and an empty bed across the room." (it may be slightly longer than 500 words, but only by like 60, don't cut off this line: "It reminds her a little of the way he'd case a potential score, half-lost in the calculations and newly revealed details, and she fights a shiver, looking away as she ties her laces and stands." cause it's one of my favorites)

A. Send me any passage of 500 words or less from any fanfic I’ve written, and stick that selection in my ask. I will then give you the equivalent of a DVD commentary on that snippet: what I was thinking when I wrote it, why I wrote it in the first place, what’s going on in the character’s heads, why I chose certain words, what this moment means in the context of the rest of the fic, lots of awful puns, and anything else that you’d expect to find on a DVD commentary track.

She wakes to the sounds of the shower running and an empty bed across the room. There’s a pounding behind her eyes, a physical protest against the late night and too short hours of restless sleep, and an irritation at the world under her skin.

This was a mixture between my personal dislike of developing a crush, because it feels awful in the beginning and I don’t get anyone who says they like feeling that way, and my being convinced that Kate didn’t sleep well after her realization the night before that led to Kate waking up cranky and with a headache from a bad night’s sleep.

Not gonna lie, I’m a little proud of the line “an irritation at the world under her skin.” I made a point not to cut it when my editing almost reworded it in such a way that it didn’t work.

She wants to roll over and escape back into unconsciousness for a few more hours but the digital clock beside her tells her its already well into late morning. Her stomach grumbles in hungry protest as Kate slips from the bed, blinking groggily in the muted light from the curtained window. 

I probably spent way too long trying to figure out exactly what time motels stop serving breakfast, especially when I didn’t even specify what time it actually was that Kate woke up, but that’s a big part of writing, doing a bunch of research you never actually use. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out the timeline so that I could stick as close to canon as I could, and I needed it to be late enough that they wouldn’t arrive at Uncle Eddie’s too soon but also wouldn’t have to skip out eating. Parts of the breakfast scene were already written and I really didn’t want to have to chuck them all and make them eat in the car.

The shower turns off and Seth appears a few minutes later clad in boxers and pulling his undershirt on over his head.

Seth was always going to come out in some kind of clothes, but I did amuse myself with the idea of writing him coming out in a towel and a flustered Kate grumpily dealing with that.

It’s such a small thing, I doubt anyone’s noticed or cares that much, but I try very hard to only call Seth’s white tanks “undershirts.”

Lingering patches of moisture glue the thin material along the lines of his chest and torso and Kate’s eyes catch and stick for a moment, a faint echo of heat pulsing low in her stomach.

Because now that Kate’s realized she’s attracted to him, she's going to notice such things in a way she didn’t quite before. And Seth seems like the kind of guy to not fully dry off before pulling some of his clothes back on (but not all, because pants on damp skin doesn’t work). They’ve also developed quite a bit of casual intimacy with each other by the time season two starts, and coming out in what is essentially his underwear falls under that.

I was also wanted to touch on the idea that Kate finds her feelings/attraction to him a bit inconvenient. Not only does she have to deal with everything else going on in her life, she’s now distracted by Seth in a damp undershirt and runs the risk of being caught staring.

I’m also asexual and do not understand the appeal of visual stimuli in a purely sexual context. I read a lot various slowburn romances dealing with sexual attraction in hopes that I could get Kate’s physical attraction/noticing of Seth across in this and the chapters following. I know this is just a short line, but “a faint echo of heat pulsing low in her stomach” was practically agonized over as I tried to figure out if that was something that was plausible. *shrug* It’s easier to imagine/write about when there’s touching and/or emotions involved.

He pauses when he sees her, gaze flicking down to her bare feet before coming back up to her sleep mussed hair.

“Sleeping Beauty finally wakes,” he greets almost cheerfully and Kate scowls at him.

It’s a cliche and I don’t care, Seth one-hundred percent noticed her wearing his shirt and only his shirt, especially with her just-out-of-bed hair. He’s also more than a little amused by Kate’s sleepy state, because sleepy people are adorable and you can’t convince me otherwise.

The fandom refers to Kate as a Disney princess enough that I just had to put a reference in as well. :P And Seth will take a teasing opportunity when it presents itself, especially after last night and her new awareness of him. And I’m stopping there because I do have his version of this scene written and I don’t want to spoil everything that’s going through his head.

And of course, grumpy!Kate.

Seth, she’d discovered shortly into their life on the road, is a morning person. Even when hungover he’s able wake-up fairly alert and ready to get moving, while Kate has always needed time to shed the lingering effects of sleep. “Get dressed. Breakfast ends in forty-five minutes.” 

“Yeah yeah,” she mumbles, rolling her eyes as she heads towards the now vacant bathroom.

I took most of that from canon and just expanded on it a bit. We only see him wake up the once, but he definitely got up and got moving really quickly. It wasn’t much to decide that he’s a morning person.

She finds her clothes folded haphazardly on the bathroom counter, pausing with a flash of muted embarrassment at the sight of her underwear sitting on top of her jeans.

It amused me to think of Seth catching sight of Kate’s clothes on the shower and then having to pull them down and poorly folding them. Just the domesticity of it, of sharing a living space with another person and all those little things that you end up doing/seeing. But it also takes on a different, more embarrassing context when you like someone and you realize they’ve seen your bra and panties sitting out.

It’s ridiculous, Seth must have seen every article of clothing she owns at some point or another, either when doing laundry or because life in one room motels doesn’t leave a lot of space for modesty, but there’s something about knowing he had to pull her delicates down from the top of the shower curtain that leave her self-conscious and eyeing the simple faded green cotton critically.  

I was thinking of those moments when you run into your crush and suddenly you’re thinking about how your shirt still has that coffee stain from this morning or how messy you’re desk/apartment/workspace/etc looks and just becoming suddenly self-conscious of how they are taking in you and your stuff. And again, the whole he saw her bra and panties thing and then had to move them out of the way.

She shakes it off, brushing her teeth and using the restroom quickly before pulling on her panties and jeans.

I’ll admit, this line was mostly because I didn’t want to forget that these are people and they need to do basic human things like use the restroom.

Her shirt from the day before is full of weird wrinkles and her bra still too damp from where the lightly padded cups absorbed their fair share of water and she hesitates only a moment before shoving them both in the plastic shopping bag.

Part of this was an excuse to get Kate in Seth’s shirt for a bit longer (for reasons), although the bra part was more inspired because I noticed Kate wears bras with slight padding and I know they can take too long to dry.

Folding the sleeves of Seth’s shirt up to her elbows and removing the smudges of make-up from below her eyes go a long way to making her look presentable, but she still morns the loss of her few cosmetics and face wash. Or god, even a hairbrush, running her fingers through her hair only does so much.

I hadn’t entirely realized the implications of Kate and Seth running into Carlos right after their dinner and then having to flee until the conversation Kate had with Sonja in the parking lot. (I’m a pantser, I set write something and then think about the consequences after :P) In the first draft, Seth didn’t come back with anything after getting a room so there was no bag or Tylenol for Kate’s headache or toothbrushes. But he also didn’t get much, and I wanted to show the consequences of running with virtually nothing and how much you miss the little things.

Seth’s brows knit together when he sees her, but he doesn’t comment.

Seth and seeing her wearing his damn shirt and the statement it implies... yeah...

He watches her though, throwing on his suit jacket and buttoning it closed as Kate pulls on her socks and shoes, something thoughtful and a bit intense behind his eyes. It reminds her a little of the way he'd case a potential score, half-lost in the calculations and newly revealed details, and she fights a shiver, looking away as she ties her laces and stands.

Seth is a strategist guy, and when he’s casing a job he’s figuring out angles and how to best approach. He knows how to work the job, how to study all the pieces and get everything set up to give himself the best possible outcome. Its a rather focused look he has, his attention devoted on gathering as much information as he can and working out the steps he’ll need to take. Not to imply that Kate is something he's going to steal (although he kind of already did that) or that he’s got some grand master plan here, but rather this newly discovered (on her part) possibility between them and the statement she’s subconsciously implying and just this shift in their relationship... there’s a strategy to courtship and Seth knows strategy.

“C’mon,” she mutters, shoving what little possessions they have into the bottom of her bag. “I’m hungry.”

I’ll be entirely honest, I struggled way too much with how to end this scene. I swear that line gave me more trouble than the rest of the scene combined.

[wanna-b-poet31]

Would I Lie to You?

It would not be inaccurate to say that Crowley lies. Alot. 

In fact, while I’ve previously talked about how Aziraphale lies through his teeth, TO GOD, TO GABRIEL, and >most heartbreakingly< TO CROWLEY, Crowley is the infinitely more creative and believable liar. He has significantly fewer tells (when not stressed, like you know, after his lover best friend died), watching him seems so much more natural than the twitchy, anxious, Angel we all know and love. 

He has some notable lies throughout the mini-series: 

Some are minor with big consequences, like in the reports where he takes responsibility for Humanity’s misdeeds.

some are omissions, like when he deliberately He fails to tell the higher-ups in Hell about his knowledge about the Anti-Christ, the location of the Anti-Christ and neglected to correct Hell about it.

Some are a matter of self-preservation, like when he hides his intimate relationship with Aziraphale from Hell 

Some are for protection. He says he wants the holy water for “insurance” and when Hastur comes after him (and threatens to go after Aziraphale), his claim comes to fruition. He, however, lies several times in an effort to protect himself and Aziraphale,(and I suppose the world) from Hastur’s wrath. You can see this most notably after Ligur’s death, which makes these lies also kinda a personal “fuck you” to Hastur, (but he’s murderous so he deserves it sorta)

And Finally, some lies are directly in an effort to save Aziraphale. Most obvious of which is when he *spoiler* Impersonates Aziraphale (An F to the U to Heaven kind of lie)

But. NEVER. Once. does. he. lie. to. Aziraphale.

Unlike the demons who he easily deceives at any given moment (particularly in defense of Aziraphale), he refuses to lie to the deceitful.

Are you Satan and have just “blessed” Crowley with the staring role in the Apocalypse?  Yeah, great (lies through his teeth about wanting to partake).

Are you a Duke of Hell inquiring about where the Anti-Christ is and trying to confront Crowley about his relationship with Aziraphale? “So Longggg Suckaaas” I’m gonna lie lie lie and possibly kill you for coming towards me and Aziraphale.

Are you heaven trying to torture my best friend >lover< with hellfire that will surely kill him? Not today motherfucker, because guess what? Now I’m him and I’ll lie my ass off to protect him.

Are you an Angel who shows free will and loves humanity as much as he does? 404 Error lies not found.

This is not to say he’s always honest about his feeling with Aziraphale. God knows he has really bad communication skills. “NGK”’s and stammering aside, he has an unfortunate self-esteem issue which inhibits his confidence and ability to be fully transparent.  This is to say nothing about the 1960′s “go too fast for me” interaction which does little to encourage him. And God, Satan, fuck knows he’s so desperate, to be honest about this, but so scared about being rejected, (and concerned about making Aziraphale uncomfortable, because he’d be rather walk on the consecrated ground than have Aziraphale feel pressured to go a speed he’s uncomfortable with).  

Anthony J(anthony) Crowley, OR What’s In A Name?

Which, let’s talk about surprise confrontations, namely when he’s confronted about his name. Names, I think it’s fair to say, are intimate for Crowley. Not only does he have a canonic deadname, (that fuckers like Hastur continuously use despite knowing he doesn’t use that word), but he is very selective about how open he is with it. In many ways, the Nazis “out” his full name, and despite this, he is transparent, answering Aziraphale’s questions about it.  This is, remember, after falling out, and (presumably) not seeing each other for almost 80 years. He is uncomfortable clearly, (although part of that is attributed both to the Nazis and the consecrated ground he’s prancing around on) but he’s still directly ready to start communicating about it. 

But, despite his apprehension, I don’t think he even lies through omission. When he says the J is “just a J really”, I believe him. 

Firstly, because he has no reason to lie about it at this moment and then immediately switch to honestly tell the Nazi’s that he intervened with the bombing, and is sending one directly down on them. Although he’s not believed by the Nazi’s, we (and Aziraphale) know that he’s being honest here and that his priority, above even his own safety, is protecting Aziraphale. There seems to be no reason, to me at least, then for him to code shift here. 

Anthony J-“Acts of service” Crowley, is in the middle of yet another demonstration of his love. While he might be hesitant to disclose his motives (see: the few seconds of resistance when at the satanic church-turned-paintball-retreat between telling Aziraphale he replaced the paint guns with real guns and revealing no one is killing each other) but he’s in the middle of rescuing Aziraphale, his comfort is very rarely a consideration he calculates for. Choosing to lie about something so personal, and yet taken out of his control is well within his rights. No one is entitled to out him, or you, without express consent.  However, it is out of character for him to do so given how much he trusts Aziraphale and needs his acceptance. 

Which brings me to the second reason I believe him. Trust. 

In this short exchange, he can tell when Aziraphale hears his secret name, the angel is not accusatory, or dismissive, or betrayed, or really particularly judgemental. Sure he asks “Anthony?” with an intonation denoting confusion at the revelation, and having the information conveyed not through Crowley himself (as he was with “Crowley”), but a third party, and an untrustworthy third party.  But even when Crowley presses “don’t like it?”, with a trying-not-to-be-scared-at-rejection air of confidence. Except, he’s not rejected. Aziraphale responds “no, I’ll get used to it”, placing the onus of learning on himself and not on Crowley for unexpectedly choosing a first name. Demonstrating, to Crowley at least, that he can be trusted with more information, without the harsh reaction he’s come to expect from Heaven or Hell. 

Look at the above GIF, and focus on the way Aziraphale asks “What does the J Stand for”. His face isn’t angry, (despite being miffed at Crowley not a full minute earlier when he suspected Crowley to be behind Nazism). He’s certainly not focused on “you’ve been hiding a name from me”, or feel entitled to know why he’s just finding out the name. Instead, he’s giving Crowley the opportunity to reveal this information on his own terms. And, effectively, removing power from the Nazis by ignoring them, and by making the conversation about Crowley’s preference. He’s giving Crowley an out here. Asking what it stands for puts the ball in Crowley’s court, not the Nazi’s, not Aziraphale’s, not Heaven or Hells, but Crowley's. He has the power to reveal as he pleases without an expectation or negative reaction. Aziraphale isn’t demanding, he’s asking permission. 

Then, Aziraphale subsequently doesn’t bring it up again. Not that night, not 20 years later, not as Nanny, and not at the Apocalypse. He only calls Crowley by his preferred names, and we never see him pressure Crowley to reveal the rationale. The ball is, still, in Crowley’s court.  

Whenever Aziraphale asks a question, no matter how light-hearted or serious, he will always give an honest answer, even if it sometimes goes over the angel’s head. >see: Crowley being a blubbering mess because his best friend died and Aziraphale not quite understanding that the best friend is him<

The Final Solution

I think a perfect example of his complicated, but raw, honesty towards Aziraphale specifically, is his request for holy water.

So this is a tense interaction, and arguably really abrupt given both Aziraphale’s surprise and the two friendly interactions we’d seen beforehand.  However, never once during this whole request does Crowley lie. Sure, he’s being cryptic, trying to speak in code “because the trees have ears”, but when he says it’s for insurance, not a suicide pill, it is for insurance. 

He, more than anyone else, can tell that his relationship with Aziraphale has morphed in such a way over the thousands of years that he knows exposure would put him and, more importantly, put Aziraphale, in danger. We don’t see much of Hell, but we can deduce that if Hell ever found out about it --if it all goes pear-shaped -- they would be subjected to horrific consequences, possibly torture, probably holly water. 

Aziraphale, simply, does not believe him that his only motivation is protection because it is too close to his own fears about Crowley being destroyed.

Which is why I think Crowley’s so upset about the word “fraternize”. First, there is a class element involved with the Victorian use of the word (usually referring to someone of a higher class interacting friendly to a lower class member). Where Aziraphale may have meant comradery (and brotherhood, which also not how Crowley views their relationship) Crowley certainly acts as if he took it to mean Aziraphale was speaking to him like an enemy or an “inferior” species.

This is only further supported by Aziraphale’s accusatory “we may have both started out as Angels, but YOU are fallen”, placing (in my opinion) too much emphasis on Crowley’s fall (a huge retraumatizing trigger for him). But this whole characterization of their relationship is a lie Aziraphale tells himself to repress his fears about Heaven’s traumatic treatment of him. By this point in their partnership (as we’ve seen) both he and Crowley go out of their ways to treat each other as equals. 

To deny it, to repress their feeling is a slap. in. the. face.

Further, the audience for lying clearly matters to Crowley.  In the relative privacy of the park, Aziraphale says “fraternize”, which doesn’t do enough justice for the kind of intimacy the uniquely share. It implies they could be enemies or strangers (which they aren’t, they’re at least friends). Crowley is so intimately aware that even now, in the 1800′s, it’s them (and humanity) against divinity.  And, Crowley refuses to lie to Aziraphale, especially about the sort of relationship they share. Sure he won’t tell the other demons, and sure as hell won’t tell the angels how deep their relationship goes, but in this private moment, where he’s approaching as a partner (not an adversary)? It would be the worst kind of lie. It would ignore or erase the new space they’ve created for themselves where they can be equals.

In the above gif, we see Crowley angry and lash out. He says harsh words and insists that he doesn’t need Aziraphale. 

Since we’re counting, I don’t think this is a lie. Now, no, it is untrue, he clearly does need Aziraphale in his life, but he’s just been smacked in the face with the insinuation that they are not equals, they are not friends, they are enemies, and I believe him at this moment, a very hurt Crowley, decides if that’s how Aziraphale is going to treat him, then Crowley will treat him like he treats everyone else in his life. He doesn’t need them. He doesn’t need God, even though he talks to her; he doesn’t need Hell or Beelzebub, even though he curtsies to them; he doesn’t need Heaven, even though he will endure them for his Angel. So, clearly, if Aziraphale is going to ask to be treated like everyone else, he will. 

At the moment he says I think he means it.  Crowley cannot nor, given how everyone else in the series treats him, should not make time for someone who won’t take his concerns seriously. If Aziraphale is going to act as if he thinks so little of their relationship, then he doesn’t need Aziraphale in his life. Essentially, If he can’t be seen as an equal, he’d prefer not to be seen at all.

A Queer Little Lie

Although, this is a temporary truth, and one Crowley is more than willing to correct because he cares about Aziraphale in a way he never does for his hellish counterparts. Crowley cares too deeply to wish Aziraphale any real harm, even if Aziraphale can’t call a spade a spade. Crowley knows that he’s being lied to. He knows that Aziraphale is as afraid of repercussions as he is. He also knows that Aziraphale is not “out” in the same way he is.  

Although that’s a post for a different day, you can certainly read Crowley and Aziraphale as being different kinds of queer. Crowley is the outed queer, abandoned, kicked out of his home, and really never given the choice to come out of the closet. Like his name, it was done for him. Aziraphale, in contrast, is the closeted queer who either knows his family will reject him, so he does his best passing, or he has been conditioned his whole life to believe being out in the way Crowley is wrong. He knows that his “family” who is supposed to unconditionally love him, will reject him, and so he has developed the protection of lying. It gives him a sense of safety and control over his situation, letting him (albeit unhealthily) cope.  He’s afraid to take that jump over the edge.

So, to protect himself and Crowley, Aziraphale lies.   

Knowing this doesn’t mean Aziraphale isn’t hurting Crowley. He is. 

But, Crowley understands both the fear and pain that comes with the rejection and is doing his best to provide the support that is being denied. He sure as Hell would move heaven and earth to demonstrate the extent of his love and commitment to Aziraphale in a way that Heaven never does.  Where Heaven and Hell lie and gaslight and hurt Azira, Crowley meets him with kindness, even in the face of these lies.

He shows as much in his rescue in 1941, and again when Aziraphale once again lies and says “we’re not friends…I don’t even like you” in the bandstand. These lies actively hurt Crowley but not once does he retaliate with.  Instead, he meets Aziraphale with blunt honesty. Saying “yes you do” doing everything he can to get Aziraphale on the same page, and share their truth.

Look at the above gifs. Not only does Crowley KNOW Aziraphale is lying, but Aziraphale knows it too. While he clearly loves Crowley and has loved Crowley for some time, his inability to work through his anxieties and rely on Crowley as a support system, as a partner, he can’t come to terms with his own trauma.

So, Aziraphale lies.

He lies and he hurts Crowley. He lies and he dismisses Crowley’s honesty. He lies and he harms himself because they both know this is a facade he can’t keep up much longer. He lies, because everything else in his life is unstable, and he’s desperately trying to cling to the stability Heaven claims to provide. And, Crowley still meets him with honesty and forgiveness.

And honestly, it breaks his heart (and mine) to belied to so damn much. Under normal circumstances, Crowley could be patient. He could wait for Aziraphale to come to terms with their relationship almost for forever. But, shit hits the fan, and he needs to show Aziraphale that two of them need to stop dancing, stop being cryptic, and cut through the bullshit for once.

Which brings me to the first Gif of this meta. Take a moment, scroll the ridiculous amount up, and just look at the indignation on his face. in the earlier gif “Would I lie to you?”, 

He clearly consciously makes a point to never lie to Aziraphale, despite it supposedly being “the demon’s way”. Not in anger (like at the bandstand) not even if it’s uncomfortable (like when he’s criticizing Aziraphale for being so clever and so stupid), not even if the angel is (knowingly or unknowingly) hurting him with his lies.

Crowley draws the line at tainting his relationship with the kind of lies Heaven tells, and the kind of disregard Hell tells.  Because despite the lies he’s told by Aziraphale, Crowley knows who he can trust, who he needs on his side, who he wants to spend the end of the world with, and it sure as hell isn’t Hastur or Beelzebub.  

Because at the end of the day, Crowley knows what the two of them share together.  One great way to see this comparison is to checkout @theladyzephyr ‘s meta on Crowley and his glasses. Because while he does let his guard down for Aziraphale (even if only drunk), his autonomy, his consent to be himself is constantly being taken from him.  His name, his glasses, his support system (including Aziraphale), and everything he loves is taken from him. 

Aziraphale, for all his lies, does not cross the most sacred of personal boundaries as Hell does. He genuinely cares for Crowley even if he’s scared, and when the chips are down he will pick Crowley, pick humanity, and pick their side. He shows remorse for his actions and is clearly just as hurt by his own lies as Crowley is. 

More importantly, he comes back. He joins Crowley, and helps support Crowley, and does his best to empower our demon to heal. 

TLDR: Crowley refuses to lie to Aziraphale. Many Hearts are broken. Aziraphale does his best. Someone give Crowley a Hug. 

Thanks for coming to my TedTalk! 

@aardvark-crowley

[not-a-perfect-metaphor]

Well, I deleted this original answer (and then deleted it again as a post...and then deleted it one more time after that), so here it is for a fourth time with a screenshot of the original ask, and LET US HOPE that I can manage to see it through to completion.

This ask has taken me quite a bit of time and thought, because what I’m hoping to give you is a summary that helps you to better understand without being too overwhelming/containing way too much information.

First, thank you so much for reaching out, and I’m really glad you did! The point you’re at right now (or the point you were at when you sent this anyway) is where every single one of us started, and it’s an amazing journey from here if you find yourself wanting to take it! Seeking out resources from others is absolutely the way to go about it, and I hope that you always feel free to ask me (and other tinhats) for any info/thoughts/anything you need in the future! I can’t seem to include links in-post, but I’m going to message you a link to Speak the Truth, a site documenting J2 ‘happenings’ so to speak from a tinhat’s perspective through the year 2011. And, basically, whether someone’s been a tinhat from day one or for one day, we all have different pieces of the puzzle, and that’s really why it’s so important for us to connect with each other and work together as a whole.

So, let me try to figure out where to begin.

I, like quite a few other tinhats I’ve spoken with over the years actually, didn’t put much stock into any of this when it first started to emerge. People fantasizing about two celebrities having a romantic relationship (especially two leads in a movie or a TV show and especially when those leads are of the same sex) is far from a new thing and has been going on forever, and naturally I assumed in the beginning that J2 tinhats were no different. Had I not actually looked into all of it further and eventually then started really paying attention to the comings and goings of Jared & Jensen/watching all the footage I could find/reading the interviews/seeking out candid photos etc., I might not have ever changed my views, and it still took me quite a while to fully come around to where I am now even with all that.

What caused me to start looking more deeply in the first place was the simple fact that Jared & Jensen, even during the still-fledgling days of their relationship (however you happen to define that relationship), had a very unique and pretty immediate closeness that separated them distinctly from everyone else.

***As an aside, like I always bring up, most Wincest shippers were born from that intense J2 chemistry that bled into the characters of Sam & Dean.

The Js had clearly connected on a deep level that they not only spoke about openly from the beginning but that was also more than evident in the ways they interacted with each other, looked at each other, talked to each other, and even just existed in each other’s spaces (they even shared and share clothing and have freely admitted that).

Jared: “It didn’t feel like a blind date. It felt like we were continuing a relationship. There’s no rhyme or reason to what happened.”

They’ve also frequently phrased things like that *points up,* using very couple-y terminology.

(note: speaking of couple-y terminology, they’ve been heard calling each other “babe” and “baby” on several different occasions)

They’ve always had the kind of body language with each other that you really don’t see often in non-platonic relationships and that you especially don’t see often between two actors who’s paths have crossed initially in a purely work-related setting, and it was that special intimacy between them that first sparked my curiosity.

Let’s take a very brief look at just a few of those examples (a mix of the early years and beyond):

And below I’m including an example of the clothes-sharing I mentioned:

My curiosity expanded VERY rapidly (almost explosively) from that point onward as I began to dive more heavily into ‘J2-research.’

Like I said above, I’m not going to overload this post with specifics (although I’m happy to send specifics to you by the boatload if you’re interested), but I will just wrap up this first part of my answer by saying that it was the candid J2 moments I came across that really started to sell me on the possibility of a non-platonic J2 dynamic, the pictures and footage where they didn’t know they were being recorded or photographed, largely during the earlier years when they weren’t as cautious, but certainly not limited to those years, pictures/footage in which they interacted with each other in ways that I certainly would not interact with someone I wasn’t romantically involved with or at least romantically interested in).

Here are a couple of well-known examples. Less intense than some choice video clips (that I’ll have to find a way to post in the future) but still beautiful and intimate. I actually just posted that first one a few hours ago!

-which ‘arguably’ could depict the body language of two very close platonic friends (more so than the first photo, above it, anyway), but...look more closely at the giddy, love-struck expression on Jensen’s face as he watches Jared:

It’s kinda a bit harder to call it platonic when you really see it like that....

And...gosh, I poured over so many of these moments, just...so, so many.

Even then, though, I wasn’t necessarily convinced of the fact that the two were together in any kind of serious way. I, like this blog’s first owner, co-owner (who became a tinhat almost right alongside me, actually, time-wise) felt that the Js were certainly at least not strictly straight, quite possibly that they weren’t at all straight, and that they were definitely attracted to each other, an attraction that had likely yielded physical results, but I had no reason to think at that point that they would go to the great lengths (and put themselves through the unimaginable hardships) of leading such intricately and immensely false lives, at great personal expense, if they were actually in a serious, romantic relationship with each other that they both felt would be long-term.

Not when it was almost 2008 (at the time) and being a gay celebrity wasn’t anything to even bat an eye at anymore...right?

But I still had a lot to learn back then.

The next ‘milestone’ for me, upon looking even more closely (and not just at the Js anymore but at those around them/in their circle/etc., not to mention the Js lives pre-meeting each other, just all kinds of stuff) came the discovery(discoveries) of the many inconsistencies, which I’ll explain further, that were ultimately at the heart of my transition from on-the-fence to full tinhat.

A good example to use, because most people have at least some knowledge of this, centers around the period of time that the Js publicly lived together and the many...many different stories that were told explaining their living arrangement. I actually posted a pretty humorous account detailing some of it, and I can link you to it if you’d like. That’s just one example of many, but perhaps it’s the example with the most number of slip-ups/cases of the Js forgetting the details of the lie/etc.

To briefly cover one of those “living together” slip-ups, at separate meet-and-greets, Jensen once told people that he had moved out of Jared’s house while Jared said that Jensen was very much still living with him. And that’s probably the least suspicious but the easiest to quickly explain of the slips.

Another example, from later on (that I’m using because, again, it’s one that people are generally aware of) is when Jared told a story about being out to dinner in Italy with his wife and accidentally flipping off the waiter and then Jensen retold the exact same story at another con, only that time, he was the one who’d been with Jared.

Once I knew to look for them, I was blown away by how often these kinds of inconsistencies had already occurred and continued to occur, things being covered-up or overly-explained, stories changing sometimes three or more times in ways too significant to be excused away as memory lapses, even attempts at erasing things altogether...which doesn’t work very well in the age of the interwebz.

And why...why would these cover-ups and excuses and erasures exist if there was nothing to hide?

•••••••••

Retracing my steps for a moment to talk a little about the Js lives prior to meeting each other, which was one of the other things I’d started looking into by this point and definitely played an important part in confirming my tinhat beliefs.

The first example that comes to mind is Jensen’s ex-roommate (and just ex, period, at least that’s what I personally think), Ty Vaughn, the one underneath Jensen in this photo:

And I’ve spent a good 24 hours trying to track down footage I once had of Chad Michael Murray teasing young Jared about flirting with him (to Jared’s extreme embarrassment), but I cannot find it ANYWHERE. If anyone reading this can help me out, I would be forever in your debt.

Other noteworthy things (just a few): An ex-girlfriend of Jensen’s has admitted that she used to beard for someone, and her only celebrity ex is Jensen, and a few of Jared’s teachers from high school have expressed surprise that he’s married now to a woman...so, make of that what you will!

•••••••••

Okay, back to the inconsistencies!Another big one for me has always been the Js saying “we” or “us” (and meaning each other) when, according to public knowledge, it should have been “I” or “me.”

(as well as other synonyms of the above like “our”)

“We got to spend some time with our family yesterday.”

“They were knocking on our trailer.”

etc. etc.

And on the exact opposite end of the spectrum...also ironically what continues to fuel my certainty that the Js are together even more than the “we”-and-“us”-isms: the separation-of-the-Js tactic (varying in severity/frequency), sometimes for an evening or even a single event, sometimes for lonnng stretches of time, but always very suspicious, because, like I’ve been saying for this entire time, everyone knows that Jensen and Jared are extremely close, even those who believe that their closeness isn’t sexual or romantic. What I’m referencing with ‘separation of the Js,’ by the way, is what many tinhats believe to be the PR tactic used to paint pictures of the Js as being much less involved in each other’s lives to (in theory) control rumors. But the Js’ are and always have been intrinsically interconnected, so the reason that J2 separate narratives feel so forced and unnatural, often cringingly so, is because they kinda directly violate who Jensen and Jared are as people with each other, and if anything, that’s likely caused some new tinhats to come aboard, but it certainly hasn’t succeeded in convincing anyone who’s already a believer that they must have just been mistaken all along.

And I should definitely mention the suuuper-duper weirdness surrounding Jensen and Jared’s respective engagements and then weddings, as well as the information, or lack of information in Jared and Genevieve’s case, that was presented to the public about both ‘courtships,’ because almost every single aspect of all of that was drenched in tinhatty suspiciousness right from the start and all the way through. Again, I can link you to posts that detail the topic thoroughly, but to summarize very generally: Jared and Jensen, in leu of increasing rumors about the nature of their relationship, even more so in recent months than had previously been the case, were most likely counseled to straight-en up their images drastically, and fast...the only real way people can do that, by marrying members of the opposite sex (pretty much simultaneously, by the way, & much to the startled disbelief of many, including a very-public-about-his-skepticism Ted Casablanca).

Ted: “Jensen and Jared would sooner marry each other than who they’re currently rumored to be getting hitched to.”

Alright. Yikes. I’m really slipping here with my “not too many details” plan. I’ll start reigning it in again, I promise.

So, around the same same time as the weddings was when I started researching the practice of bearding (fauxmances) in the entertainment business in general, although not as heavily as I’ve researched the topic in recent years, and what I discovered and continue to discover was and is both eye-opening and heart-breaking. I actually just posted about this a couple of days ago, so instead of rambling on about it again, I’ll refer you to that (under the tag ‘toxic industry stuff’ for anyone reading this in the future). A quick summary: the reality that Jensen & Jared face every day and the decisions they’ve made to enter into false marriages are tragically common in the industry....yes, even and especially in today’s age, and for many gay actors and actresses specifically, the choice can really come down to either living honestly or protecting their careers/livelihoods/even their true relationships should they have them.

Since then, I’ve come across a lot of information as well about personal reasons, alongside industry reasons, that might have played a role in the decision to go the route of bearding for Jensen and Jared, like family history, their relationships with/views on/obstacles surmounted to succeed in (etc.) acting as a career, past experiences that have been hinted at, parental influence and sacrifice, not to mention the significant detail of who they happen to play on SPN...brothers (far too many ignorant people out there wouldn’t be able to move past the incest connotation, if a romantic relationship between the Js had been revealed).

By about midway through 2009, I was 100% convinced of the fact that Jared and Jensen were absolutely in a long term relationship that I would guess began around season two of Supernatural but had been on its way since the end of season one and during the hiatus between seasons one and two (want to know why I think that? I’ll do a separate post on it), and that the relationship was, of course, being hidden from the public.

The things that ultimately convinced me as they kept adding up are what continue to convince people today, the same things I’ve been going over at length (too much length) in this answer: intimacy between Jared & Jensen that extends beyond friendship-

-inconsistency in the information presented to the public that revolves around J2 and their time together/circumstances relating to both of them/etc., Jared and Jensen’s respective pasts before meeting each other, and even what some people believe to be hints dropped by Jared and Jensen themselves about their true relationship.

A well-known example (again, among many) that I’ve talked about pretty extensively is Jensen posting a photo in front of a mural that reads “love is love,” a well-known LGBT slogan, and then Jared posting a photo of himself in front of a mural that reads “love will win” on the very same day and captioning it “every time.”

This did turn out to be pretty overwhelming *sighs* but I hope at the very least I’ve succeeded in giving you a somewhat clearer idea of why us tinhats feel the way we do about Jared and Jensen, and I want to encourage you again to reach out whenever you like about anything you’d like to know!

There’s no such thing as a dumb question, and there’s no such thing as too many questions.

Just remember that! ❤️

[matildaisautisticandproud]

April 8th - 30 Days of Autism Acceptance

April 8: What are some misconceptions/stereotypes about autism that you hate?

1. People with autism don’t want friends. Albeit this might be true to some, this isn’t true to all. Most autistics, I’ve found, want to have more friends, but either don’t know how to go about befriending people and/or people don’t want to spend time with them. Personally, for years, I always longed to have a friend who got me and that I could be open with. (I struggled to actually be myself around people my whole life and still do.) My roommate, Missy, is that friend now, but you don’t know how lonely it is going through grade school without a best friend.

Lots of other girls had besties and many of my friends had friends that they shared their most darkest secrets with; they were super close to each other. Since I didn’t know how to go about forming that connection and I am generally a reserved person, I never had that friend and it was painful. I wanted a best friend, but I didn’t know how to establish a strong connection, maintain it, and most people thought I was “weird” and didn’t really want to be my friend.

I don’t mean to throw my own pity party by saying this, but I was the person who others would one day make me feel on top of the world by including me, but then, would distance themselves once they were done with me and make me feel terrible. This constant cycle of inclusion and exclusion, interest and disinterest, was really damaging to younger me. It frustrated me and made me think the reason I couldn’t have a close, good friend was because there was something wrong with me. (There’s never something wrong with you (unless you’re a murderer or that of the like). It’s society who is in the wrong for tossing aside such a beautiful human being.)

2. People with autism can’t feel or express emotion. This statement is 100% false. By saying this, people are invalidating the emotions of autistics, which is never okay. It is true that many on the spectrum have the inability to recognize their own emotions and/or don’t express their emotions as “normal” people do, but we still have feelings. Just recently, I have gotten better at identifying what I’m feeling, but I’m still not adroit with it. Also, I think that I feel a lot more deeply that those not on the spectrum, as do many autistics. Because I don’t really express my emotions, I’ve had people say that I seem “emotionless” and “robotic” all throughout my life. I never did and still don’t think much of it; it’s just how I am.

I get scared, sad, furious, elated, and more. Just because I don’t express my emotions in a way you can understand doesn’t mean I don’t have them. My body language is just different. (Also, I’ve learned to internalize all my emotions and grievances so, no body really knows what’s going on in my head.)

3. All autistics are just like [insert name here]. As I’ve stated numerous times before, the nature of ASD is that no two manifestations of it are exactly the same. Two autistic people may share similar experiences and struggles, but autism still affects them at least slightly differently.

4. Autistics can’t understand the emotions of others and are apathetic. Many autistics actually experience “too” much empathy. Some are apathetic, but as are some people who aren’t on the spectrum. Everyone is susceptible to being apathetic.

5. An autistic person has only struggles; they’re just their autism. Yes, autism is a key part of every autistic’s life, but it is not the only aspect of who we are. I think people should focus more on what a child can do than what they can’t, overall. Sure, Mark may not be able to handle going to the mall due to overstimulation, but he is especially skilled in painting. People should focus less on faults and flaws. Just focusing on such things will make life drab and miserable; plus, people as a whole are more than just their struggles.

6. People can grow out of autism, and it is only present in children. I, along with many others, are proof that this is false. I dislike how the struggles of adults (with and without autism, ADHD, and other disorders) are ignored in society. Not all problems go away with adulthood; it isn’t some cure all.

7. “There wasn’t all this autism/ADHD/etc. stuff back in my day so, it can’t be real.” These disorders are very much real. Perhaps the numbers have been increasing, but maybe there has just been a decrease in ignorance and an increase in compassion and acceptance. Also, diagnosing has gotten much easier, and since there is more knowledge available (i.e. the Internet) than ever before, people can self-screen and then determine whether or not to be tested. The only reason I am diagnosed is because I took the time to research different disorders via the Internet and decided to get professionally evaluated.

8. “Autism is caused by one thing.” Whether this “thing” be vaccines, a gene mutation, bad parenting, trauma, etc., this statement has been proven false by science. When studying the cause of autism, scientists have found that in one person, one gene could be the contributor to the person’s autism while in another, it’s a combination of several genes. The cause is unknown, but bad parenting has been debunked. However, there is evidence to suggest that the presence of heavy metals within a person’s system may be a possible cause. (Numerous children with autism have been found to have high levels of heavy metals within their body.)

As for the vaccine statement, it is unknown whether or not they do or don’t cause autism. There was a study carried out with the goal of proving or disproving the claim, but since the data was skewed, the results are invalid. I don’t necessarily support the claim, but there is not enough evidence for either side of the argument for me to take a side. I am a neutral in this debate. Though, I don’t believe that one should risk the death of their child just because they’d rather not have an autistic child. We’re not that bad; several parents love having an autistic child.

9. Autism only affects the brain. Again, I and many others are living proof that this claim is false. Many people with autism have co-occurring conditions like allergies, food sensitivities, gastrointestinal disorders, and epilepsy. Personally, I have numerous food sensitivities and gastrointestinal issues. I haven’t gotten a name as to what is wrong with my digestive system, but I do know there is a problem given what I experience on a daily basis.

10. All autistics are intellectually disabled. All statements that start with “all autistics” are automatically false. Even if the claim doesn’t pertain to autism itself (i.e. a political belief), autistics, like other people, have their own sets of beliefs and their own lifestyles. We’re human just like you; all that’s different is how our brains are wired and the struggles we endure.

To combat this claim, many autistics have a normal to high IQ level and can excel in school. There are those who have lower IQs, but they still can excel. One’s potential to be great isn’t dictated by IQ or a disability (or an ability and/or advantage for that matter).

11. Autistic people are great at STEM (Science Technology Engineering Math) classes. No. Although I especially excel with math and loved Algebra and Calculus, not everyone does. Some of us are great when it comes to STEM courses, but others of us struggle. Not all of us are even remotely interested in STEM, as well. Some of us prefer the arts, labor-intensive activities (i.e. construction), et cetera. We all have our different strong suits.

12. All autistics are savants. Some are, some aren’t. Although we all have special interests, most aren’t savants, actually. I don’t know where I fall when it comes to being a savant or not, but I’m not some super-genius. I didn’t invent some new scientific thing when I was 12 nor did I make a groundbreaking discovery. I do want to do something great with my future career, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be worthy of stardom and fame or be labeled as a savant.

The one thing I dislike is how people dismiss the existence of savants because they hate the stereotype. Autistic savants do exist, as do non-autistic savants, and saying that they don’t is harmful. Stereotypes come from somewhere, right? Savants exist and they deserve representation and appreciation too.

13. Autistic people don’t have relationships and moments of intimacy. Yes, they do. I personally don’t want a relationship right now nor do I want to engage in such intimate acts, but others do.

14. Autism kills marriages. This myth was made widespread by the infamous organization Autism $peaks. Sure, it may end some marriages, but why marry someone who is autistic then? If you truly loved the person then, you would accept them, autism and all.

15. Nonverbal autistics are all intellectually disabled. Although some are, not all are. A handful are highly intelligent. Autism isn’t a one size fits all thing.

16. Autistic people can’t do anything on their own/will never be independent. Some autistics won’t be able to be independent, but not all. Others don’t need any support while some, like me, need minimal support. People with all sorts of aid requirements exist on the autism spectrum. Each of us needs differing levels of support; also, especially so if one also has a chronic illness, some days I will be able to be completely independent, but the next day I may need lots of external support.

17. Having an autistic child is a tragedy. Yes, autism does make things more challenging, but there’s a silver lining in it. Like every other child, autistics are capable of great things and have talents. If people would just look past the struggles, label, and faults then, they’ll see an amazing person who isn’t just a diagnosis, but a fully fledged human being.

18. Autistic people are just rude. On honesty, we are not trying to be rude when saying the truth. In our brains, it is something that is acceptable to say. Many of us thrive on being honest as our brains tend to rely on logic more than anything else. By pointing out the size of your nose, we’re not trying to be rude. Personally, I don’t really struggle with being too honest, but sometimes I do say things aloud that shouldn’t be said. I just think of it as uttering an observation; I have no rude intents. When I am trying to be rude, you will know XD.

On conversational difficulties, it’s not that we don’t want to talk to you, it’s that we don’t know how to continue and/or initiate conversations. Not all autistics struggle a lot when it comes to social communication, but some do. Those who do, we just don’t know how to go about conversing “as normal”. We can’t help it. We’re not being rude. I struggle to continue and start conversations, which has led to many people thinking that I don’t like them. If you want to have a proper, lengthy conversation with me then, you have to start it and be able to keep it going.

On eye contact, we don’t mean to seem rude by not looking you in the eye when talking. For me, maintaining eye contact is distracting, which means that my focus is being directed away from what you’re saying, making me not able to adequately listen to you. Some autistics have little to no problems with eye contact.

19. “You don’t have to stim. Therefore, you’re just doing it to annoy me.” For me, it takes a lot of courage for me to feel comfortable with stimming around you. So, by ridiculing me for doing something that soothes me, you’re furthering my insecurity about it and hurting me. People who stim do it to self-soothe and to regulate themselves. Would you rather I shutdown (go nonverbal), experience sensory overload, or even have a meltdown? I don’t think so. Let people stim. Some of us don’t stim, but it is a lifeline for some of us.

20. “You don’t look autistic.” Well, riddle me this: What does autism look like to you? Apparently, we have completely different views on what an autistic person looks like. For me, an autistic person is anyone (a friend, neighbor, family member, student, teacher etc.) from any walk of life of any religion, lifestyle, culture, etc. The “autism look” is the generic person to me. Is there a specific way we should look, though? Please tell me more about your vision of how an autistic person outwardly appears.

I could go on about this subject for hours, but I’ll stop myself here. If you want me to debunk more myths and/or react to certain common sayings/stereotypes then, please leave a message in my ask box. I really, really, really! want to write more about this topic.