#and sometimes that never changes. but sometimes it does

[messengerhermes]

I think in addition to the discomfort of "oh...I never actually feel like a grown up, just a more experienced version of myself" being a thing, I think there's also perspective we gain as we age. There's a trend of people noticing that hindsight and drawing a bad conclusion of "oh, I was so foolish at that age, people at that age should not be able to make choices willy nilly like I did." Which. The only reason you can recognize the choices you made may not have been the best moves for you are because you have those experiences. (And also, people are probably recognizing some kind of systemic inequality or abuse and focusing on controlling the people getting hurt, rather than fixing the source of the problem.) Like, I, at 35, now look back at my younger selves and go "Oh babe, you were doing the best you can with what you had and knew at the time, but damn." But that does not make my younger self a child or someone who could not make their own choices! It makes past me inexperienced (and sometimes uninformed)! If we do not want younger people to be taken advantage of as they get their sea legs as new adults, the answer is not restricting their rights to make choices, the answer is changing society with things like: -Comprehensive sex and relationship education that starts in kindergarten (helps people recognize healthy relationship patterns, name their boundaries, and say what they want). -Restrictions on credit card companies to prevent predatory practices of sucking 18 year olds in with high credit limits and then slamming them with terrible interest rates. -A living minimum wage. Because financial independence is a massive protective factor against abuse--ie having money to support yourself means being able to tell shitty relatives, abusive lovers, etc to Fuck off! -Universal basic income. See the above point. -Universal health care. Because again, people stay in shit situations to get their basic needs met. -Medically accurate health education. And other forms of public policy and support services that help everyone have the freedom and resources to make informed choices! Saying 20 year olds (and young adults in general) should have fewer rights over their own choices because "they're not developed yet" is not protective or empowering. It's infantalizing eugenics horseshit. Also, giving people, including children, fewer ways to assert themselves and have control over their bodies and their choices, does not protect them from abuse. Children having very little power socially, legally, and systematically is one of the reasons child abuse is such a huge issue. Trying to "protect" young people by expanding the definition of minor to include people up into their mid-twenties extends that long period of having zero rights into adulthood. That's bad.

I think mostly what young fandom types (and I guess younger people in general) who are very very invested in the idea that “20 is still basically a minor” need to understand is that the feeling of “I’m just a child pretending to be an adult, and everyone else around me is a REAL adult” is DEEPLY universal (and won’t stop, ever, by the way, sorry!) and also is not, like, praxis.

Believe me, I get it, but the self-infantilization needs to stop, especially when you’re trying to engage in conversations about actual children and the harms they can face. Yes, it is scary to wake up and realize you’re 22 and you still feel like you’re 15, but it happens to all of us. You’re an adult. You have to deal with it.

[ofekma]

The dissonance between what Noelle told Susie and how she acts around Kris (and how things look like on their side of things)

Many people, including myself, were baffled by this dialogue.

I mean, you can literally go to her room a little earlier and see a photo of Kris as one of her wallpapers.

Add that to her private blog posts that were revealed at the Spamton Sweepstakes, to her fond monologue and thoughts at the cyber city about them and at how happy she was at the weird route scene of this chapter when she thought that Kris, her real Kris, was back. Noelle is the only person who recognizes that Kris hasn't been themselves lately.

So what's this all about?

Many people thought that it was just Noelle lying to Susie so she wouldn't end up thinking that she has a crush on them, but it's still weird.

Like, why insist that they weren't even close as kids?

I think that Noelle isn't just downplaying her feelings in front of Susie, I think that she's doing it in front of herself too.

Think about it, as far as she's concerned, her dark world adventure was just a nice dream. A dream where she got to reconnect with her childhood friend and get closer to her crush. She has no reason to think that anything like that might happen in real life, she almost fainted when Susie invited herself over to her house.

Noelle hasn't seen any indication from Kris that they might want to reconnect after the fallout.

Noelle doesn't even know if they're friends now.

And I think, that lying to yourself about how much someone have meant for you, might make losing them hurt less.

After all, why should she cling to the past when as far as she's aware Kris has moved on ages ago? Better just lie to yourself and say that you were never that close in the first place so it's not a big deal.

Also, I don't think that Kris was ever that great at showing affection? Nearly all the memories Noelle brings back about Kris are them pranking her. And yes Noelle likes being scared sometimes but if almost everything someone does is pick on you you wouldn't have been sure if they even liked you, would you?

Even the piano thing, Noelle chose to see it as a private concert Kris was playing for her, but it was never a straightforward thing on their end. I think that this is a part of why she was changing her tune so much at the snowgrave route in this chapter, it was Kris showing direct, genuine care for her. Unmasked behind pranks. A part of it was her being happy that her awful dream wasn't real, a part of it was her being happy that Kris stopped acting so off and scary, but a part of it was that she didn't have to guess anymore if Kris cared or not.

The scene then continues, with Susie not exactly buying that Kris and Noelle were just neighbors.

And Noelle is dodging the question. She describes what happened back then, but not how it made her feel. And when Susie asked her if that's good or bad, she replies

It must have hurt Kris to hear that. I think that we all know that Noelle does remember how she felt here, she just doesn't want to voice it.

But now let's look at Kris.

If you give Kris Noelle tea in chapter 2 after acting friendly towards her, it heals Kris 70 hp.

It's not bad at all I think, it's even more than Ralsei tea heals at this point and I think that we all know now that Kris never hated Ralsei.

So they do care about Noelle, but the number is weird, isn't it?

Like, they've only been friends with Susie for a day at this point and her tea heals almost twice as much as the tea of their childhood friend?

I think that it's because numbers aren't a very good way to convey when someone's feelings for someone else are complicated.

Susie heals 120 hp from everyone's teas and her sentences about the flavors of each are equally enthusiastic. That's because her relationship with each of her friends are very simple: she likes them. She cares about them, she appreciates them, and thinks highly of them. Susie never had friends before and now that she has them, she's just happy.

That's how Kris feels towards Susie too I think.

While Kris never seemed to have taken to heart Susie's bullying, with them chuckling after catching the apple she threw at them and them looking shocked when she accused them of wanting her to be expelled in chapter one.

And after the bullying ended, Kris's friendship with Susie is pure and simple.

Meanwhile with Noelle, there's baggage.

Something caused them to drift apart, something that probably started with what happened to Dess.

Something that while Noelle seems to be wishing to reconnect with Kris, we never outright see the same desire on their hand.

But I don't think that it's because they don't like her anymore, I think that it's something else.

If I had to bet, I'd say that it's guilt.

Kris is hiding something. From many people, including us, and including Noelle. Something that could very well include her mother, considering how friendly she acted around them after her hostility towards Susie.

And with their desperation regarding Dess's guitar and the shelter's code being Dess's birthday, it's not out of question to assume that whatever they might be hiding has to do with Dess.

Whatever it is that they're doing is so important that even the weird route didn't deter them from.

What if Kris is trying to get Dess back?

But in that case, why hide it from Noelle? she'd want to help more than anyone else, wouldn't she?

I think that it's because they feel like they are at fault for what happened to Dess and that it's their responsibility to get her back.

And how can Kris face Noelle when they're carrying this burden with them? when they're feeling like they're the reason for her pain?

[sturnslutz]

SUCH A SHAME - matt sturniolo

warnings; this is a CHEATING FIC. i do not condone cheating, this is just fiction. p in v (unprotected), nicknames - (baby, sweetheart, big girl, smart girl.), spitting in mouth, drunk sex, grinding against each other, use of y/n, i think thats all??

creds to anyone who has done cheating fics before!!!

3,162 wc.

it was a constant routine between you and chris. you guys argue, mean words being thrown back and forth, you two have makeup sex, and you move on without another word about what you guys were actually arguing about and never actually fixing the problem.

one night after an argument, you had enough and grabbed a couple of club clothes— ignoring the yells being thrown at you from chris, and walking past him, storming off to your car outside of his apartment.

it was around 9:30 already, and you started driving to a nearby bar you’ve been going to for a while. sometimes you, and chris and his brothers would go out and have a great time. but tonight, it was just you.

you pull out your phone as you stop at a red light and text chris’s brother. matt.

matt had always been eyefucking you ever since you and chris even became friends. sly words said to you in secret, small, intimate touches, but nothing ever actually being done about it, as you and chris started dating.

of course you knew matt had a thing for you, but you couldn’t really do anything as chris was your boyfriend and you loved and adored him. tonight was different. you wanted to make chris mad, or at least in your head.

“come to the bar, right now. i’m by myself.” you quickly type out to matt, stuffing your phone into the center console, beginning to drive again. you know matt wouldn’t pass over an opportunity to see you, and that’s coming in handy tonight.

you get to the bar and check your phone again, matt responding almost instantly after you texted.

“omw”

you grab your clothes and your bag and head into the bar’s bathroom, changing into the clothes— which were more revealing than chris would ever let you out in, and touched up some of your makeup. matt texted you about 3 minutes ago saying he was here and sitting at the bar.

you walk out, and see matt sipping a drink. you set your bag down next to him and grab his cup out of his hand, taking a sip. “i’ll be right back, gotta put my clothes back in my car.” he smirks and nods, and you head out. you have a shot bottle in your car, and drank it all, wincing at the taste.

you put your clothes in the backseat before closing the door and heading back into the bar.

matt was faced towards you, smirking the whole time you walked towards him. “so what’s got you all upset, pretty? ‘nother argument with chris?” you nod, rolling your eyes as you sit down in the chair, which was closer to matt than you realized. he had bought you a drink, to which you happily drank before answering his question.

“yeah, some fuckin’ dumb shit again, he’s always starting arguments recently and i’m sick of it.” he tsks, letting his hand fall to your knee, rubbing it softly.

“he’s dumb, i know. don’t let it get your pretty head though, you’ll drive yourself crazy.” you hold his hand above your knee, rubbing his knuckles.

“i love him, i do, but— i don’t know,” you sigh, taking another sip— already feeling the effects of the alcohol flowing through your system. “it’s just a constant cycle and i hate it. we used to never be like this, y’know that, and then something just switched inside of him to always have a problem with every little thing i do.”

you noticed matt’s demeanor has changed, and he seems more considerate with you. it’s not like him flirting, but he genuinely does seem to understand.

“he’s just going through shit, i don’t know. i wish i could help, but he’s barely talking to me or nick recently, and nick’s pissed off by it too. so i get where you’re coming from, even if you don’t think i do.”

you look back at matt, really look at him, and smile softly. “thank you, i feel like i am actually going crazy. my words never seem to go through chris, it’s like they go through one ear and out the other and he’s just never actually listening to me anymore— but you’re making me feel listened to.”

you tighten your hand around matt’s hand, to which he smiles back at you, squeezing your thigh a bit tighter than before.

he orders another round of drinks for the both of you, the conversation flowing between you two easily. you haven’t seen him in a little while—on behalf of chris, as he knows matt thinks you’re attractive and doesn’t necessarily trust him around you. huh, ironic. it’s been about an hour of both of you being here, and it seems like it’s been 10 minutes.

of course you know matt’s attractive, him and chris look alike. but it’s not even that, it’s also his personality. the way he carries himself, his way with words, the way he can make you feel better in an instant without even trying, and that’s why you can feel so comfortable around him.

it was like that with chris too, since about a month or two ago where you don’t know if something happened at work or what— but his whole self just completely changed and his personality that you know and love just completely vanished.

“but enough about me, how’s your life been? any new girls or anything?” you ask matt, giggling softly. the both of you are already at the brink of being drunk, the way words flow out faster and easier than before, and the way you two have drifted closer to each other, without either of you noticing.

he shrugs a bit, taking a big gulp of his drink, finishing it and asking the bartender for another. “eh, not too much. had a thing with this girl named emma, but shit kinda fell through. she made this excuse about being busy at work all the time and kept canceling our dates. she works as a lifeguard, by the way.” he scoffs, rolling his eyes, to which you let out a little laugh.

“i mean lifeguards are very busy, especially now, in october.” you continue laughing, your head falling against his chest, to which his hand moves up your back, rubbing you gently as you continue to drunkenly laugh at your own joke. “i know, crazy busy.” he adds. “so i just kinda broke things off gently, y’know? but she wanted to fuck one last time before she left and that’s what we did. that was about 3 weeks ago, and we were around each other for like 2 months i think?” he sighs, as you sit back up, finally calming down a little bit. your hair was all messy now from leaning against matt and he chuckles a little bit as he reaches up and smoothes down some of your hair. “crazy girl.” he mutters as he examines your face.

“i didn’t say it before, but i really am sorry about what’s happening between you and chris, you don’t deserve that at all, sweetheart.” he says with another sigh, drinking a couple more sips before looking back at you. you shrug, following his actions and taking another sip. “i can’t do anything about it, im jus’ gonna let it be and kinda distance myself until he figures his shit out, because it is affecting me like crazy. i can barely sleep anymore, and all i do is cry about it. i love him so much but his words hurt me so badly, y’know?” he nods, taking your hand in his and rubbing it gently. he nods for you to continue, to which you shake your head.

“i don’t really wanna talk about it anymore, i came here to have a good fucking time with you, and that’s what we’re gonna do. c’mon let’s dance a little bit.” your mood starts to improve a lot more, as you stand up, still holding your hand in his as you try to drag him to the dance floor. “you’re insane if you think i’m dancing right now, honey. i’m probably gonna knock someone over, and that someone being you.” he smiles, looking at your little pout that you give him. “fine, 10 minutes.” you whoop, holding his hand tighter as he finally stands up, following you to the floor.

he hasn’t let go of your hand since the second you grabbed it. he let you take the lead, and you pulled him into a small crowd— maybe 15 or 20 people and started dancing close to matt.

the music was blaring through your ears, and you started looking up at matt with such admiration, as he held your waist tight. you moved against his body to the beat of the music, each beat causing you to get a little closer to matt until you two were right against each other. “careful, sweetheart. you’re dangerous, and i don’t know if chris would like what i’m thinking right now.” you giggled a bit, letting your fingers run through his hair— tightening them every once in a while. “well chris isn’t here, is he? tell me your thoughts, matt. i’m open ears.”

he laughed, shaking his head, his fingers gripping into your hips. “i can’t, because it’s gonna lead us somewhere we might both regret.” you rolled your eyes, taking and moving his hand more up your waist. “i’m not gonna regret anything, matt.” you lower your voice, hoping matt could still hear you, and he smirked— confirming that he did.

“you’re drunk.” he slurs out. “you are too!” you laugh as you continue dancing against him, your hand running through your hair and across his body after. matt took your hand, grabbing it firm, but not too hard and walking the both of you back to the bar.

“are you okay?” you ask, looking up at him as he pays the bartender, and thanking him as he grabs your purse in the process.

he looks down at you and even in the dark lighting of the bar, you could tell— he was hungry for you. “i need you so fucking bad right now, y/n. will you let me drive us back to my place? i walked here and i’m not super drunk to not be able to drive your car. it’s a quick drive, i promise.”

you can see in his face and the way he’s holding onto you tight that he’s desperate. you can’t help but have a flicker of chris in your head before you agree, knowing what was gonna happen between you and matt.

“yeah, yeah. let’s go.” you say fast, nodding. he smiles, saying one last thanks to the bartender before pulling the both of you out of the restaurant. once you unlocked your car, he opened the passenger side seat door, holding it for you to which you smiled and thanked him, sitting inside. you realized you left your phone in the car while matt opened the driver’s side and sat down.

once you unlocked your phone, a crazy amount of notifications came through, all from chris. “chris texted and called me probably a hundred times.” you mutter to matt and he lets out a small curse. “listen, we don’t have to do this, i can just drive you home, it’s okay-“ you interrupt him before he gets another word out. “no, i want to do this matt. i’m drunk, you’re drunk, let’s just fucking do it. i’m sick of chris’s bullshit and i need some relief.”

he looks at you for one more confirmation and you nod, to which he smiles at you, as he starts the car. you take one last glance at the notifications still coming through from chris, before powering it off.

he starts driving carefully, as you watch the views out the window. you and matt stay silent, both overwhelmed with the sexual tension between you two, only the faint sound of the car and the radio in between it. after about 10 minutes of driving, he finally comes to a stop in front of his complex. “we’re here. i’ll open your door.” he’s already out the door before you could even move an inch, your laugh filling the car.

he opens your door, grabbing your hand and kissing it gently, pulling you up.

he grabs your hand again and directs you through the lobby and up the elevator, starting to kiss your shoulder and nibble at it.

”we’re not even all the way up yet, you needy boy.” you giggle. he hums against you, sending chills through you. “couldn’t resist, baby.” he mutters. the elevator ride feels like an entirety before it finally stops at his floor. he stands up, grabbing your waist and pulling you through the hallway before stopping at his door and opening it.

the second he shuts it, he can’t keep his mouth and hands off you.

he’s pushing the both of you to his bed, gently pushing you down on it. “tell me i can do this.” he says as he wraps his fingers around your skirt. you nod, and he tsks. “i need an actual ‘yes’.” you whine, bucking your hips up. “yes, yes you can, please.” he smirks, finally pulling your skirt down to your ankles. “so needy, hm?”

he grabs your top, pulling it over the top half of your body, leaving you only in panties. “no bra? almost like you expected me to bring you up here and fuck you, baby.” you smile a bit, grabbing his neck and pulling his face close to you before you whisper, “maybe i did,” he groans, finally leaning in and kissing you deeply. he’s waited so long to finally be able to touch you, and the fact you’re doing this in secret turns him on even more.

”you’re so beautiful,” he mutters against your lips before letting his tongue enter your mouth, exploring every part. his hands move up to your boobs, massaging them deeply, and playing with your nipple. he lets his lips move onto your left nipple, swirling it around with his tongue, earning a moan out of you. he moves his mouth to your right nipple with a satisfying pop from your left, latching onto the right. his right hand moves down your stomach and your thighs, moving his fingers soft against your already-wet panties. “so wet already?” he says against your boob, leaving marks all over, knowing exactly who will see them later. “mhm, all for you, matt,” you whimper out, causing him to push just a little bit harder against your clothed clit, making you squirm.

“poor chris doesn’t know what his sweet girlfriend’s about to do with his own brother, jus’ because of his own, dumb actions. such a shame, isn’t it baby?” he mutters, chuckling at the thought, looking up at you as you nod. your eyes are already shut, even from his little actions. “open your eyes.” you open hesitantly, looking down at him.

he started kissing your thighs, his right hand still massaging your boob. his left moves your thigh to angle it where he can kiss the inner part, biting them gently. he mouths your clothed pussy, already growing hard himself and grinding against the edge of the mattress, trying to relieve at least some of the ache away. he hums against you, sending more chills through you. “matt, please— do something,” you whine and he hums.

he moves up again, grinding himself against you, causing you to gasp. “y’like that, huh?” you nod, whining a bit still. he taps your cheek with his hand a couple times before gripping your jaw and shaking your head condescendingly. your jaw falls open, and he spits on your tongue—to which you happily swallow. “didn’t even have to tell you anything, y’just know exactly what to do, such a smart girl,” he leans in, kissing you gently before biting your lip playfully, letting it go.

he leaned down and swiftly unbuckled his jeans, letting them fall to his ankles, and stepping out of them. he pulls down his boxers, releasing his cock— which was already painfully hard.

you gasped a bit, and he looked up at you smirking. “y’scared? don’t worry, it’ll be alright, you’re a big girl.” he finally hooks his fingers to the top of your panties, pulling them teasingly slow, before finally letting them fall right above your skirt. he moves his dick through your folds, moving it up and down and pushing it against your clit numerous times.

“matt, stop teasing, please—“ you choke out before he finally gives in, pushing into you slowly. your breath hitches in your throat at the way he’s stretching you out, and by the fact he is bigger than chris. he finally bottoms out, and his hand runs across your face and chest, soothing you down. “i’m gonna start moving, jus’ let me know if you need a break.” you nod, allowing him to move.

he goes in and out slowly as he grabs your hand, putting it up next to your head, interlocking your fingers with his. he goes a bit faster as he realizes you’re moving also, and he grips your hip with one hand tightly, starting to dig deeper into you. your leg is still bent, allowing him to hit a spot you didn’t even know existed.

incoherent words and babbles immerse from your mouth and he sticks his middle and index finger in your mouth, which you immediately suck on.

“there ya go, jus’ needed something in your mouth, yeah baby?” he’s going faster now, the sound of skin slapping together filling his apartment. his groans becoming louder and deeper, and his thrusts becoming sloppier. you gag a bit against his fingers and he almost cums on the spot from the sound and the feeling.

he pulls them out, gripping your hand again. “fuck— i’m gonna cum, where d’you want me?” he says breathless, and his chain slapping against your chin repeatedly pulls your attention back.

“inside, please.” you whine out, and he nods. he feels you start clenching around him, and your squirming. he puts his face closer to yours, looking in your eyes. “cum with me, baby.” you nod fast and he finally puts in a couple more fast, sloppy thrusts into you before finally halting inside, filling you up. your thighs are shaking and moans erupt loudly as you finish with him.

after a bit of time, his dick spluttering inside you, he finally falls on top of you, wrapping his arms around your waist, holding you tight. “that sobered both of us up.” he whispers, chuckling with it. you nod, giving a lazy smile. he carefully pulls out of you, both of your releases spilling out onto his sheets. “eh, it’s alright , i’ll clean it up later. let’s go pee and take a shower, and you can stay the night.”

[princesscolumbia]

What tells me that the producers of Strange New Worlds really got Trek far better than nearly anyone in decades was the S01 finale, "A Quality of Mercy." If you're unfamiliar, SNW is a prequel series for TOS that focuses on Captain Pike. This version of Pike it's aware of his eventual fate in the mobility chair even with the best 23rd century medicine has to offer and decides he's going to try to change his fate to the incident that puts him in the chair never happens.

Pike's future self appears and does an inverse "It's a Wonderful Life" and transports Pike to his future if he never gets disabled and suddenly he's officiating a wedding between two of his crew members and there's a red alert and the old school Trekkies all sat up and blurted out, "HOLY SHIT! IT'S 'BALANCE OF TERROR' BUT WITH PIKE!!!"

One of the things that so perfectly tied the two episodes together was the sometimes shot-for-shot recreation of key moments in each episode's plot, down to blocking, lighting, and dialog.

Quality of Mercy was a freaking love letter to some of the things that made TOS great.

cannot get over this lighting

[randombush3]

let me get what i want

leah williamson x reader

part 2 to this

summary: you meet leah in a VIP bar and can't decide what to do with her

words: 4106

content warnings: smut, mentions of drugs

notes: ok here is part 2. thank @p0orbaby for the smut because i couldn't do it 😵‍💫

Leah’s knee brushes yours as she leans over to grab a beer. You’re sitting on the woven rug outside her yurt – part of those pop-up hotels that are more wood and electricity than flimsy tent poles – and the conversation is still going. It’s about one in the morning. The diffusers dotted around the field have done little to mask the smell of mud and grass. 

You don’t know when you were led here. Perhaps it was during the migration from the mainstage to the bars. Perhaps she had taken your hand and pulled you through the crowd, losing the rest of your company in the process. 

Leah is bold in a different way to you. You get what you want. You take without giving back. But she… convinces. Ensnares. Waits like a leopard perched in thick branches, stalking its prey until the perfect opportunity arises. 

It’s difficult not to bring it up. You should mock her the way she’s playing host in her little den, practicing xenia like a devout Ancient Greek, but the words die in your throat.

The pretence has been abandoned now. 

“LSD?” 

You’re currently listing the drugs you have done between you. Interestingly, the athlete has tried cocaine. Two years ago, sometime in the off-season. Says she gets why people are addicted to it. 

She shakes her head, taking a sip of her drink which technically disrupts the nature of never-have-I-ever. You’d have thought she’d follow every rule. Leah’s a captain. A footballer. Breaking rules is supposed to be sacrilege. “You have?” 

“I thought we’d established I was going to win.” 

Her spirit is competitive and you see her jaw tense at the notion of losing. You’re not going to admit that in the grand scheme of things, she isn’t. 

“Did your parents never… find out?” she asks, and her syllables are slurred but the nosiness is loud and clear. “Mine would have clocked. Immediately.” 

You say, “they knew. They didn’t care.” 

Leah laughs like that’s funny, like there’s something charming about that particular kind of glamorously-dressed neglect. Her laugh is too big for her mouth. It doesn’t match the rest of her: the sleekness, the discipline, the control. 

She shifts closer. 

Her hand grazes your thigh. Stays there as she leans to set down her drink. Casual, confident, asking you to notice but not pointing it out. 

This is the point where people usually lie to themselves. They construct a fantasy where this is chemistry or a connection. Where it’s romantic and life-changing – as if sex ever is – and that the memory will be surrounded by an imaginary shrine. You don’t like lying, though. You like practicality, efficiency. You like getting what was needed, avoiding the superfluous. 

All you’re thinking about is logistics: how close the bed is, whether the yurt’s walls will muffle sound, whether she’ll want you to stay after. 

Her fingers splay out to hold your knee, as if she is determined to not let you disappear. She’s not being subtle. 

You don’t move. But when she leans in, slow and trying to read you, your hand goes to her shoulder to parry her away. Not forceful. Not mean. But a rejection, of sorts. 

“No,” you say and your voice does not waver. “You can’t kiss me.” 

That does it. She’s unaware of your general rule, so you don’t blame her for recoiling like she has touched something sharp. You watch her recalibrate, eyes darting from your lips to the rest of the field, mouth parted in a half-formed apology. She wears that awkward expression – fuck, did I read this wrong? – and it makes something in you flicker. It’s not quite guilt. 

Her mouth widens, words bubbling at the back of her throat. 

You get there first. 

“Don’t worry. You can still fuck me.” 

A beat. Her blush deepens, pooling high on her cheeks. She looks like she has forgotten how to smile. She swallows and her gaze steadies again. 

Leah is trying to recover. 

Her jaw sets. Shoulders straighten. 

You’ve already decided this is the last time you’ll see her. She doesn’t know it yet. She probably won’t until you’re gone. Not that it’s your problem; you never made her a promise. 

This is just a transaction. Clean. Contained. Predictable. 

A rare occurrence at 1AM at a festival, but one that you deal in with expertise and precision.

By morning, you will be out of here, high in the sky above this tiny island. Your tour of Europe starts in four days. There’ll be plenty of other women to fill plenty more nights like these.

And Leah is already moving again, this time with certainty. 

You don’t stop her. 

You stand only when she does. No ritual, no ceremony. She takes your hand. Functional – she’s learning. 

It’s dark inside and the threshold lip is steep. Her grip is warm, though. Dry. It occurs to you that, between various escalations of alcohol percentages, she hasn’t stopped drinking water all night. Her discipline is far from enviable. 

The inside of the yurt is less curated than you expected. Her suitcase contains folded clothes, but beside it crumpled fabric piles up. Her wellies are crusted with dried mud, set by the door. There’s a book next to the bed (what kind of PR-manager-pet brings a book about leadership to a festival?) that looks partially read, front cover weighed down by a half-eaten protein bar. A pair of compression socks hangs over the footboard of the double bed that takes up most of her £3000 real estate.  

She hesitates near the bed. Shirks under your blatant judgement of her space. Straightens as though to remind herself she shouldn’t care.

You walk past her. Sit. Your fingers deftly untie your boots; deliberately, calmly. You don’t look up as you say, “I didn’t think you’d be nervous, Leah.” You’re sure many women have thrown themselves at her. The allure of fame and stadia and superficial relationships with money… it must be like wasps to a toddler’s melting ice-lolly. 

“I’m not nervous,” she says, and she almost pulls it off. Almost. 

It’s a tiny wobble in her tone that betrays her. You don’t mention it, but you keep score. 

You lean back on your hands, head tilting to look at her fully now. She hasn’t moved yet, still standing beside the bed like she is trying to decide whether she should unlock Pandora’s box. The look is familiar. She’s trying to convince herself that this doesn’t mean anything. That if she keeps her hands steady and her mouth shut, it won’t.

You want to help her. Not out of kindness, but rather impatience. A clean break. 

“I’m not going to stay,” you say. “If that’s what you were wondering.” 

She exhales. It could be relief. 

“Didn’t ask you to,” she replies. 

You nod. That’s that. 

There are footsteps outside the yurt – someone is staggering past with the elegance of a drunk zombie, probably heading back to a stranger’s bed. Neither of you look. Her eyes are trained on yours, as though she is willing you to forget that the world is still turning. You want to forget. 

Leah steps forwards, pulling her tank top over her head in a single, efficient movement. No fanfare. 

You stand again. For a moment, you think you see her frown.

By the time you touch her, everything else has left the room. You’re both dead and alive, here and not. As soon as this starts – and it already has – you will be free. Just for a moment, for a sweet, sweet moment. 

You breathe out like it’s your last. 

Her skin is warm. Tense in places. You can feel the edge of control she is refusing to let go of and the hard sinew of muscles which should intimidate but don’t. You wonder if she fucks like a footballer – how do they do it? If it’s good, you might develop a taste for it.

She watches you as you undress, gaze unashamed but quiet. She’s curious, not worshipful. Your body is not her new altar. You are not her new religion. And that’s good, because you’d hate that. 

You don’t speak again. There’s nothing left to clarify. 

Her hands wrap around your forearms as steps into the gap between you. She’s confident again, earlier hesitation long erased. Her fingers settle at your waist – firm, controlled. This competence was not unexpected. You remain unimpressed. 

Your back hits the bed. You let it. The covers are still warm from where you sat down, and the air is cool against your skin. You’re left lying there for a moment, no body surrounding yours, not yet. 

Then her mouth is on you. The bed sinks lower where her weight falls as she straddles your waist. She kisses your stomach, your ribs, the flesh of your chest left exposed by your skimpy bra. 

Her mouth is hot. Too slow. Too careful. Each movement calculated, precision replacing hunger. 

Irritated and impatient, you arch your back. It’s a clear hint, yet her tongue continues to glide over your sternum as though she wants to change the pH of your skin. She’s being too careful, and you don’t believe in half-measures. You’re not some precious thing she can’t afford to crack. You hate that it feels that way. You’re not a thing. Neither are you precious. Neither is this anything worth handling with care. 

You will Leah to get it: you’re here because you’re horny and bored. She’s beautiful and she will do. 

Your hand grabs her hair, grip tight. You twist until she lets out a sound – low, strained, the first real thing she’s offered. Better, comes your brief satisfaction. 

“Think less,” you say, voice flat, not a command but not far off. She takes it like one anyway. Her mouth opens wider. Her teeth graze your rib, harder this time. Not gentle, not sweet. You loosen your grip and drop your arm. The bed shifts beneath you as she lowers herself, lips dragging down over the curve of your chest. She mouths at your bra, wet tongue pressing through the lace. She lingers at the edge of your nipple, sucks it through the fabric, tongue flattening hard over it. 

Your fingers stretch the elastic of your knickers as you shove them past your knee, letting them fall off the edge of the bed. She unclasps your bra, and suddenly you’re naked. You breathe heavily at the thought – anticipating something, despite it seeming rather ambitious with her pace. You can already feel the way she’s looking at you, seconds elongating so that she can stare more. She looks like she wants to memorise everything. Tragic, really. It’s just a fuck. 

She hooks her fingers under the waistband of her own shorts, yanking them down unceremoniously. You scoff as you see the pair of Calvins she’s wearing underneath. She’s half-dressed now, straddling you, the air still damp with the smell of rain and sweat and smoke from two-thousand cigarettes. 

When her fingers touch you, finally, you don’t gasp. 

You make a noise low in your throat. Disappointed at first, then distracted, then something else. Her fingers drag through slickness and quickly find a rhythm. She adjust and fine-tunes and repeats like a battle strategist with a tactics board – slow, precise, greedy for information. You hate how good she is at this.

Your head tips back. Her fingers curl just right. Her thumb is on your clit now, soft pressure, then firmer. She watches your face. Shameless. Focused. It’s a deliberate assault. She’s trying to win. 

Her fingers move again, exploiting the angle until you are forced to grace her with a whine of appreciation. Your body is responding without thought and you can hear it: wet and sticky, every push inside louder than the last.

Her eyes meet yours. You hold her gaze. 

“Show-off,” you mutter.

“Say that again when I’ve made you come all over my fucking face.” 

She pulls out with a slick pop. 

Before you protest, her mouth replaces her fingers. 

Your hips jerk. Your legs spread wider. You swear. 

She doesn’t stop. She groans against you. The sound sends a pulse through your being. 

You grab her hair again, forcing her closer, holding her where she is. Her tongue circles once, twice, and then pressed flat, dragging. She sucks. She buries her face between your thighs. Her tongue is relentless, like she needs this, like she’ll take it all. 

You moan loudly. No attempts are made to muffle it. 

Like a reward, she fucks you with two fingers again, tongue working your clit while she curls inside you. She pushes hard. You’re soaked – her chin’s wet. 

You bury one hand in the sheets and the other in her hair. The sheets are wet too. Her tongue moves against you. It’s obscenely good.

This is making you hate her. You’re half-inclined to let her know. 

You don’t. 

You let your body speak instead. It twitches and rises, pressing into her mouth with newfound desperation. 

“Fuck,” you hiss through your teeth. You don’t mean to, but the gasp that follows is of her name.

You feel her smirk. As you cry out again, you glance downwards to see her hand thrusting in and out and her mouth flush between your thighs. You want to burn the image into your skull. 

You are not sentimental, but she looks so fucking good down there. Like it’s where she belongs.

You fuck yourself onto her hand and let yourself make noise. There’s no point holding back – she’s earning it. And the coil inside you pulls tighter because of it. Sharp. Hot. 

Your thighs begin to shake.

She’s wrecking you.

Her tongue flicks, flattens. Her fingers thrust faster. She angles her wrist, hitting the spot hard. She doesn’t stop. 

You cry out. You can’t hold it; it’s ripping through you. 

You come with a broken, sharp breath.

Jerk. Clench. Release. 

Your eyes squeeze shut. 

And still, she does not stop. 

You’re overstimulated; nerves screaming, thighs twitching, but she does not fucking stop. Her mouth is wet, tongue merciless. It’s unbearable and too much and perfect all at once. 

She groans, licks again, and pushes deeper. 

You shove at her shoulder. “Okay – fuck, okay.” The only sound you can hear now is the thrum of your pulse in your ears. 

Leah stops, pulling her fingers out. Your wetness is smeared all over her face and she shines like she has just been polished with it. She licks her lips. 

For a moment, she is looking at you and you are looking at her. Your chests rise and fall. Your breathing mingles into one satisfied chant of exertion. 

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you address the wild eyes and messy hair. “You done?” 

She shakes her head. “Not even slightly.” 

You raise your eyebrows. She crawls over you again. Kisses your neck – just about avoiding your lips as you turn your head slightly. 

“Take them off,” you say between her biting down on your collarbone and her grinding her hard, lean body against yours. She makes no move to follow the order. Your jaw clenches. “Take the fucking pants off now, Leah. Or I’ll do it for you.”

…

This time, the glitter is not going to come out.

“I said no to the glitter cannons, didn’t I?” Your question is pointed as you and your manager march back to the greenroom, her assistant tentatively handing you a water bottle, recognising this warpath. “In fact, I’m sure I even reviewed it–” 

“We thought it might be boring without them.” 

“Boring?”

Your voice reaches a pitch that indicates your offence, fingers ruthless as you scratch through the layers of hairspray to loosen some of the bastard little glitter particles from your scalp. It’s not very nonchalant but you’re annoyed and tired and you’re already growing sick of the tour. Zürich, Switzerland. One quarter down. August is only seconds away. 

You slam the bottle of water onto the greenroom table and glare at the assistant, who startles like you’ve hurled it at him. “Could I have a towel?” He jumps into frenzied action but doesn’t quite know what to do. “Warm. Not one of those threadbare things from catering.” 

Another crony follows him as he bolts out the door. 

Your manager, seasoned in your moods by now, just sighs and takes a seat. Her phone is already out. She’s probably texting someone to apologise on your behalf, or crafting a well-timed tweet. You don’t care. You’re too busy yanking off your boots, making the beige carpet sparkle fucking blue. 

Zürich was loud. Glossy. The crowd was ravenous, excited to add you to their events calendar. You’d fed them what they wanted: your voice, your body, your image. Except their screams did not fill the hollowness of the stage. And that glitter had pushed it over the edge. 

You grab a makeup wipe and press it against your eyes, dragging your mascara sideways across your temple. “I feel like a fucking firework.” 

Your manager doesn’t look up. “You’re a pop star. It’s part of the job.”

“I hadn’t realised my title was synonymous with ‘disco ball’.” 

You throw the spent wipe into the bin and reach for another. You’re supposed to have people to do this for you but you suspect one of those devious texts your manager has been sending was to alert your team to leave you alone. At least for the moment. 

“You said yes to the new visuals.” 

“I said yes to minimal pyrotechnics and some fog.” Even then, that had felt unnecessary. “Glitter is not fog.”

She shrugs, one shoulder rising. “They loved it.” 

You make a sound of disgust. “Of course they did.” 

You lean back in the chair, muscles tight from the performance and tension and barely-slept nights. Your mind, however, is clear. Or, more accurately, emptying. 

Time moves too quickly. 

There had been no note. No lingering kiss to the temple. Just silence and the early rustlings of a hungover festival field. An easy severance.

And then Zürich. 

And this. 

The assistant returns, mercifully, with a towel. It’s warm and fluffy and folded like a hotel robe, and you accept it with a nod. Your face welcomes the material and your neck itches for the same treatment. The towel pulls away just as a sparkly as the carpet. 

There’s a knock on the door. Your tour photographer peeks his head in, camera still dangling from his neck. “Hey,” he starts, knowing he walking into the lion’s den, “quick question: you okay with us using the shot from the second chorus as the official still? The one with the glitter–” 

“No,” you cut in sharply. 

He blinks. “Oh.” He clasps his hands together in supplication but he doesn’t push. You glare. “Uh. Got it. Cool.” 

The door clicks shut behind him. You press the towel to your eyes and let yourself breathe, hard and slow. 

You are not sentimental. You keep reminding yourself of that. 

Another knock sounds. 

“I already told you!” you shout so the stupid photographer can get it into his stupid head. “I don’t–” 

A phone is thrust in your face. You don’t know to whom the hand belongs. A voice comes with it. “I’m sorry. She said it was urgent.” 

You glance at the caller ID, quickly recognising the device as your own as well, before pressing the phone to your ear. 

“I literally just finished,” you grumble, anger still bubbling but ebbing just in case Jess isn’t lying. She could need you and you’re not a terrible friend. 

“Alex is cross with you.” 

“What?” Your manager’s head turns, ears perking up at your loud confusion. She raises an eyebrow but you shake your head, signalling she continue her damage control of the tempest you are going cause. 

Jess repeats what she said. 

“No, I fucking got it. But why? What have I done?” 

“Well,” Jess says, and it makes you fairly certain that she is projecting. “She’s cross with me.” Point proven. “BECAUSE of you.” 

“I haven’t done–” 

“Leah’s in Zürich.”

You dismiss it. You need to get to the root of the problem without superfluous facts about a woman you slept with drunk and high at Glasto. 

“Why is Alex cross with me?” 

Jess, from the other end of the phone, sighs with the theatrical flair only she can get away with. Sometimes you really do consider blocking her. “Because you slept with her best friend a month ago and then vanished like a ghost.” 

You force a blink, wincing as another fucking glitter particle scratches your red eyes. The towel drops to your lap as you sit up straighter in the chair. 

“I didn’t vanish,” you say. You don’t have superpowers. “I left.” 

“That’s vanishing, babe.” 

“She knew what it was.” 

She did. She must have. She was still asleep when you woke up and if she heard you escape, she didn’t plead with you to stay.

But still, Jess snorts. “Did she? Because from what I’ve heard, it sounds like you left a very hot, very flustered England captain high and dry in a yurt.” 

You’re too tired to correct her second adjective. Instead, you close your eyes, fingers pinching the bridge of your nose.

“I told her not to kiss me.” 

“Yeah. And then you let her eat you out like it was a Champions League final.”

You don’t dignify her crudeness with a response. Fucking footballers and their brainwashed girlfriends. 

Even though she has reduced herself to sports-related similes, Jess manages to take the silence as a victory.

“She’s not upset,” she continues, and you’re glad she doesn’t say her name. “Just… prickly about it. You fucked with her pride, I think. Thought I’d let you know because Alex is threatening to somehow find a string to pull and cancel your Wembley show if you don’t at least text her.” You exhale softly. “Alex only found out that she was going to your concert through the woman she’s here with.” 

Probably another footballer. Surely Leah doesn’t need your shabby company and forced text messages if she is able to enjoy a nice night-out in Zürich with a friend.

“Alex doesn’t scare me,” you reply indignantly, because the rest is too much to address. Not all of your one-night-stands have been left content with you just moving on, but you had assumed that with Leah it would have been different. 

It was a good night. Why would she want to stain its memory? 

“Okay, well, she fucking scares me, so…” 

You glance at yourself in the mirror. Glitter in your hair. Sweat at your temples. Lips chapped. 

Leah has watched you tonight. 

This is why you draw the fucking lines. 

“I’m going to Munich in two days,” you mutter. 

“That gives you forty-eight hours to grow a conscience. Or at least the decency to say, ‘thanks for the mind-blowing orgasms’.” 

Your jaw clenches. “It was just a fuck.”

Jess wants to say something – you can hear her mouth open. The words catch in her throat. She retracts them for rephrasing. 

There’s a beat while she does this. Your manager points at her watch and motions for you to hurry up, sensing the privacy of the conversation but interested in herding you to the dressing room so that you can be de-glamoured and everyone can go back to the hotel. 

“Leah doesn’t know the rules yet.” 

You hate how she uses the word ‘yet’. You don’t want her to know the rules. You don’t want her to think there are rules. 

Because rules imply a pattern. 

And patterns imply that you and Leah will have sex again. 

“Do you want me to say something?” Jess asks gently. “To smooth it over?” 

You stare at your reflection, slightly horrified by it. 

“No,” you say. 

“Then text her.” 

“I don’t have her number.” 

Jess’ sigh is profound and visceral, felt in her bones. Your manager hears it and laughs.

“I’ve just sent it to you,” comes Jess’ verbalised exasperation. When you fail to respond, she continues, stifling a yawn. “Anyway. Congrats on another killer night. I love you, I’m proud of you. Try to sleep.” 

She hangs up and you’re not sure who won that battle. 

Your manager clears her throat and you follow her to the dressing room. 

You sit in silence as they professionally melt everything off you until you feel human again. 

Type. 

Delete. 

Type again. 

Eventually, you settle on: you were good. 

Then, after a pause, because something in you – not guilt – twinges…

Thanks.

You hit send and hope Jess gave you the wrong number.

[skmhlml]

Hello, I'm new here, hum.... May I ask a Burning Spice Cookie x Sweetheart wife reader Headcanons please !! No NSFW please...!!

Burning Spice Cookie x Sweetheart!Wife!Reader

🌶️ You’re his opposite in every way. Where he is rage, destruction, and smoldering bitterness, you’re all sweetness, patience, and light. You are the gentle breeze that tempers his wildfires.

🌶️ He calls you “little ember” mockingly at first—but over time, the nickname softens. It becomes something almost reverent. You’re the only fire he doesn’t want to extinguish.

🌶️ No one believes he has a wife— let alone one that could stand him. Rumors fly about you being a prisoner or cursed to love him. But the truth is simpler: you chose him.

🌶️ When he storms back from battle, armor still smoking, the first thing he does is find you. He won’t say he missed you— he’ll grumble, scoff, or collapse dramatically into your arms— but you know.

🌶️ He never sleeps peacefully unless you’re curled up next to him, hand resting on his chest. You don’t mind the smell of ash anymore. It’s his scent.

🌶️ You’re one of the few Cookies who remember what he used to be—a noble guardian of change. Sometimes, when he thinks you’re asleep, he’ll whisper regrets, old names, or half-formed dreams. You never interrupt. You just hold him.

🌶️ When you get hurt (even just a scratch), the world burns. He goes silent, eerily calm, and the destruction he unleashes after that is purely for vengeance. You have to coax him down gently—reassure him you’re okay.

🌶️ He doesn’t understand “quiet married life.” But he tries. He’ll bring you offerings like stolen treasures, cracked relics, or the ashes of your enemies (you told him you just wanted flowers, but he’s learning).

🌶️ You plant a little garden in the center of the battlefield he calls home. He scowls at it every day. Never admits he waters it with the steam from his hands when you’re not looking.

🌶️ Sometimes, you cook for him—sweet, spiced dishes that remind him of what his land once was. He claims your food is “unworthy of a destroyer,” but eats every bite and sulks like a child if you forget dessert.

🌶️ He can’t say “I love you.” It’s not in his nature. But he’ll do things like shield you from an explosion with his own body, or wordlessly place his Soul Jam fragment beside your pillow while you nap—just in case you need it more.

🌶️ If someone so much as raises their voice at you, he appears behind them like a shadow wrapped in flame. Doesn’t need to say anything. Just a look— and they’re running.

🌶️ He doesn’t trust most others. But you? You could ask him to stop a war, and he’d hesitate. That’s the most mercy he’s ever shown.

🌶️ Sometimes, late at night, he asks quietly: “Why do you stay?” And every time you say, “Because I love you,” his fire flares just a little brighter— like he’s burning away the doubt.

🌶️ When you sleep, he guards you like a dragon, sitting at the edge of the bed, sword in hand. Even in your softest, most peaceful moments, he believes the world doesn’t deserve you—and he’ll fight it off every night.

💬▾

-

“You act like the world is your enemy.”

“It is. That’s why I keep you close— so it can never touch you.”

-

(holding his hand): “You’re warm.”

(softly, almost shy): “Too warm?”

You (smiling): “Just right.”

-

“You don’t have to burn everything you touch, you know.”

(gruffly): “…You’re the only one I let touch me. Isn’t that enough?”

-

(teasing): “I bet the other Beast Cookies think you’ve gone soft.”

“Let them think that. They’ll burn all the same if they lay a finger on you.”

[mothmanplaysxbox]

I've never understood the "oh, im sorry" attitude. Divorce is almost always a good thing*. Does it suck at first because it is one of the most drastic changes in your life? Yes. Absolutely, the change sucks and it takes time to adapt to it. But the divorce itself? Almost always a good thing.

*EXCEPT in the US when two people have to get divorced because of a disability, since people on disability aren't allowed by the federal government to make enough money to live on, and the government bases the disabled individual's income on their partner's income, regardless of bills and expenses. So the couple has to divorce and sometimes even move away from each other just to get their medications and disability SSDI. 'Murica!

I love it when women tell me they just finalized their divorce. ESPECIALLY older women. The correct response is always “congratulations” and they always seem so pleasantly surprised, they just seem to light right up and talk about how happy they are, what their plans are, how well they’re doing. I’ve only ever met like 1 person who was upset to be divorced and it was a middle-aged dude. Second most exciting is young men. A 25 year old guy says he just got divorced and you go “congratulations” and he SMILES? You KNOW there’s a story. I love it. People should get divorced more

[urlocalmultigroupfan]

ɪᴛꜱ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ ᴘᴛ 2 ໑ ׄ ۪ ݁ ⑅ (방찬)

pairing: christopher bahng x fem!reader, strangers to friends to lovers

summary: based off of its nice to have a friend by taylor swift

tags/warnings: chris is literally feeding a squirrel at the beginning, hes extroverted, reader is introverted, not proofread,

a/n: bye its giving my fine shyt

pt 1 pt 2 pt 3 ??

Friendship with Chan sneaks up on you.

You don’t mark the moment you go from strangers to something else—it just happens quietly, like a soft song playing under a conversation. One day he’s the boy who calls your name across the quad. The next, he’s the one sitting beside you every Thursday afternoon like it’s tradition.

You’ve never said it out loud. You never needed to.

You’re friends now. That much is clear.

You know this because he always saves you a seat at the long table in the student center, even when he’s surrounded by his louder friends. You know this because he makes playlists and titles them things like “for rainy library days 🌧️” and sends them to you without saying a word.

You know because he texts you the night before a group project is due—not to ask for help, but just to check in.

hey, you good? just felt like asking :) also reminder: hydrate

You smile at your phone, every time.

You never tell him that no one really checks in on you like that. You don’t have to. He somehow knows.

When you're with him, you're a quieter version of yourself—but it never feels like too little.

Chan is bright, but never blinding.

He talks easily, laughs often, and never tries to fill your silences with noise. He’s the kind of extrovert who invites you into the light but never yanks you from the shadows.

You think that’s rare.

You think he’s rare.

Which is probably why you’ve started noticing the little things.

Like how he tugs the sleeves of his hoodie over his hands when he’s tired. Or how he taps a beat on his thigh when he’s thinking. Or how he smiles at you a little differently than he does at anyone else.

You don’t let yourself read into it too much.

But sometimes, when the sun hits his hair just right and he calls you Snowbird in that soft, teasing voice—you do.

It’s Friday afternoon when he shows up at your dorm with a bag of snacks and a look of triumph.

“We’re watching a movie,” he announces. “It’s friendship law.”

You raise a brow, leaning on your doorframe. “That a real law?”

“Definitely. Article three, paragraph seven. ‘Friends must watch at least one feel-good movie per week or suffer the consequences of emotional repression.’”

You stare.

He grins.

“…Fine,” you mumble, pretending to sigh.

He follows you in, already opening the chips.

You sit on the floor with pillows. The laptop is balanced on an upside-down laundry basket. It’s not fancy, but it’s warm. Familiar. Safe.

You don’t talk much during the movie, but you share glances at the funny lines. He snorts soda up his nose once and spends the next three minutes apologizing dramatically while you try not to choke on your laughter.

And then, somewhere near the end—your hands touch in the popcorn bowl.

Neither of you pulls away.

You walk with him the next morning.

Not because you planned to. You just happened to be leaving at the same time.

You tell yourself that, anyway.

The air is cool but not cold. The sky is pale and wide. You both linger near the edge of the quad, standing under the early bloom of a dogwood tree.

“You’ve got something,” he says, reaching out.

Your breath catches.

He brushes a petal from your hair. His fingers linger—just barely—at your temple. Then drop.

“There.” His voice is soft. Smiling.

You look away before you melt.

You tell yourself he’s just being friendly.

That’s what friends do. They check in. They share playlists. They brush petals out of each other’s hair.

Right?

But then you catch the way he looks at you when you’re not watching. Like he’s memorizing something.

You hear the way his voice changes when he says your name. Like it matters more than the rest of the sentence.

And once, when you're both at the café and he sees someone flirting with you from across the room—his hand finds the small of your back. Light. Protective. Wordless.

It stays there for a second too long.

So maybe…

Maybe it’s not just you.

One rainy afternoon, you both end up at the art building.

You’re there to kill time. He’s there to return a borrowed ukulele. Somehow, you both stay.

The music room is empty, warm with leftover echoes.

He sits at the baby grand in the corner, fingers testing chords. You watch from a stool near the door, curled in your hoodie.

“Wanna hear something I wrote?” he asks, not turning.

You nod before you realize he can’t see you. But he plays anyway.

It’s soft. Pretty. Unfinished, but thoughtful.

When it ends, you don’t say anything right away.

Then, quietly: “That was beautiful.”

He turns, surprised.

And when he sees your expression—earnest, a little shy—he blushes.

He actually blushes.

You store that moment somewhere deep in your chest, behind your ribs, where soft things go to stay warm.

That night, as you sit on your bed with your journal open and your heart full, you find yourself writing it down.

Chris’s song. Soft chords. Quiet courage. He blushes when I say what I mean.

You don’t know what this is between you yet.

But it feels like something.

And you think—maybe he feels it too.

Chan is in trouble.

Not real trouble—he’s not about to flunk out or get arrested or crash a car or anything—but emotional trouble.

The soft, slow, creeping kind.

The Oh no, I think I really like my friend kind.

He’s not sure when it happened. Somewhere between that snowy day with the squirrel and the third time you shared a croissant without asking. Somewhere between the first time he made you laugh and the first time you leaned into his side just slightly when it got cold.

He’s always liked your quiet.

Not the awkward kind—just…peaceful. Steady. Like you listen before you speak. Like your world is built on stillness and sharp observations.

He noticed it the first time you said his name like it meant something.

Now he wants to hear it all the time.

Chan’s not smooth, not really. He jokes a lot. Fills the space. Hopes you don’t notice the way he watches you from across the room when you’re not looking.

He tells himself he’s being smart by not saying anything.

Why risk it? You’re close. You trust him. He gets to know you in a way most people don’t.

But sometimes, when you smile at him like he’s made your day a little better…

It feels a lot like falling.

He’s pretty sure he already has.

hope you enjoyed <33

todays playlist...

hotline bling by drake, laplace's angels by will wood, virtual angel by artms, best friend by doja cat and saweetie, bite by mad tsai, super smash bros by yung gravy and bbno$, ssick by stray kids, if i can't have you by shawn mendes, blind spot by stray kids, dimple by bts, polaroid love by enhypen, crazy by le sserafim, beggin by maneskin, sweetest pie by megan thee stallion and dua lipa

*bold is explicit*

taglist: @rockstarkkami @sirloncelot-of-bananas @jisunggy @me-on-a-archive @hyunjiiza @hyuneskkami @highway-143 @hvseunq143 @chimmyn0chu @sadeeeeee @qwonyoung23 @jesuisstay

series/perm taglist is open! please comment/send an ask/dm if you would like to be added <3

[siryouarebeingmocked]

It's frankly amazing how the term became a near 1-1 synonym for calling a man a loser virgin. Often from people who are supposedly against such traditionalist, Patriarchal standards. I guess if you say the loser virgin is a misogynist, that makes it okay.

PS:

>The term was coined by people who felt themselves involuntarily celibate (hence incel) for various misogynistic reasons, including but not limited to being "low status males".

I don't think "women prefer to date high-status males" is misogynistic. Just like saying "men generally like women with big gadonkadonks, aesthetically" is not misandric.

Saying true things isn't sexism.

>that does not seek to alter the system that has victimised it, rather it perversely views that system as somehow righteous.

I've never heard of wombyn, and even stereotypical incels are well-known for railing against the injustice of society and women, and occasionally committing school shootings.

(EG Elliot Rodger, though he didn't self-ID as an incel, and the term didn't become mainstream for years afterward, and he hated men too, and murdered/injured twice as many men as women.)

Radfems constantly complain about how men have ordered society to harm women, and prominent TERFs are activists to change society and/or keep it from doing stuff they don't like.

"I am the plucky rebel, therefore people I dislike all support the status quo," is a flattering and false narrative.

Also, mainstream feminism has spent decades saying men and The Patriarchy have spent basically all of human history bringing the boot down on women, and downplaying women's personal responsibilities and power.

ironically.

Feminism itself often says men are highly attracted to superficial beauty in women, and about toxic romantic/sexual standards for ladies.

In history and the present.

So your standards seem to be pretty arbitrary.

"A lot of people are screwing me over, and this is a big systemic issue" is not the same as refusing to take personal responsibility. Sometimes its true.

And frankly, I don't understand why someone would need to take personal responsibility for someone else's choice to reject them. I've rejected ladies before, out of stupidity, and that was my choice.

Assuming incels are always completely irrational sexist men and don't have the slightest bit of valid complaints, ever, seems pretty sexist and prejudiced.

And denying ladies have responsibility for their own actions seems pretty misogynist itself.

"this guy gets no pussy, which makes him low-status. thats probably why he's joined the hate movement dedicated to the idea that women are a status symbol that's been denied him"

[mithaeesblog]

Imagine Spiderman though with more spider traits, yeah sure there are fanfics and lots of diff versions of spiderman that has it but it is time to implement it with Deadpool.

Like Deadpool being the only one that knows about his fangs (and venom that only appears when he bites someone like spiders when they eat their prey), tiny hairs (setae) on his hands, feet or stomach that could also be used for defense or even his behavior changing sometimes since some or most are territorial.

Peter also eating insects or other bugs sometimes as a snack, disgusting but when he’s hungry and really tired why not eat one ? Peter also raising his arms on instinct sometimes when he’s threatening his enemies. (may have done it to DP once) It never worked so he’d never do that again.

Just small, tiny little quirks only DP would know because Peter never uses or show em to others, except once when they shared a bed or when they hang and eat together, he just saw Peter’s fangs. If DP does tell others, there’s a mix of opinions about it, some might believe it, some not but also it kinda makes sense. He is Spider-Man, after all.

[interact-if]

Writing Spotlight: The Golden Rose

We interviewed @anathemafiction, author of the IF, The Golden Rose, Book 1. It’s a game that delivers everything it sets out to do, with its sweeping, ambitious scope and beautiful, intricate detail. It was an honor to pick her brain about bringing such a rich, complex, and truly immersive world (and its wonderful characters) to life.

In one of my favorite quotes in the interview, she writes:

[…] We Portuguese sometimes still call ourselves Lusitanos, and it always saddened me to some extent. That loss of history, of identity, is one of the major driving forces behind the Rose. What if there's a world where it's Rome that's forgotten? Where Latin is forbidden so that the languages born from it, the kingdoms, and the civilizations never came to be?

Without further ado, here’s the full interview!

What drew you to interactive fiction as a storytelling medium?

The very nature of it. I'm a big fan of RPGs, where you can shape your character and make key decisions in your adventure, and, of course, I'm also a big fan of books and literature in general. So, when I encountered my first IF game (Choice of Dragon), I was instantly hooked.

It's the perfect blend of two of my passions — storytelling and player agency. The fact that it's entirely text-based gives a kind of freedom and depth that's hard to match in other gaming media simply because the only budget it needs is the author's time and effort. It's quite literally, corny as it sounds, fuelled by your imagination.

2. Is there a part of your background—personal, cultural, professional—that finds its way into your work?

In a land that is today a region of Portugal, there used to be an agglomeration of tribes collectively known as Lusitanos. They were eventually conquered by the Roman Empire, but not before putting up such a fight that even Roman generals acknowledged their spirit. Their culture was largely eradicated, and the pieces that weren't were assimilated into the empire. We Portuguese sometimes still call ourselves Lusitanos, and it always saddened me to some extent.

That loss of history, of identity, is one of the major driving forces behind the Rose. What if there's a world where it's Rome that's forgotten? Where Latin is forbidden so that the languages born from it, the kingdoms, and the civilizations never came to be?

I'm also fascinated by the Catholic Church and its monopoly over some of the wealthiest, most powerful kingdoms of Europe. The Pope was the king of kings, so to speak, and all that power, that opulence, was born from something as simple and as human as faith.

That control, that God-like power, not only over the body but the very mind of its subjects, is another big part of the story I'm writing.

So, in summary, my cultural background was and is a major influence on this IF.

3. What does your writing process look like?

I'm what's generally called a pant-ser; I like going where inspiration takes me. Still, in a project as big as The Rose, I did write a general outline, and I have a very clear idea of where I want the plot to go and the major story beats that will get me there.

But the in-betweens are often left blank. I think, even if I tried to plan every single detail beforehand, I wouldn't be able to. Even the scenes and chapters that I have planned, I'm always open to changes or deviations from the outline. If a character, a situation, or, especially, the MC decides to surprise me, I kind of roll with it.

To be honest, most of my favorite scenes, dialogues, and even characters that I've written were born as a sudden inspiration and not from the pages of an outline.

But as for my actual writing process, it goes like this: I go chapter by chapter, and I always begin by handwriting the first draft. I don't know why, but handwriting, when it comes to just getting the ideas out of your head, with no finesse, no grammar checks, just the pure chaos of materializing your thoughts into tangible words, is the best medium for me.

After that, I write the second draft on the computer. There, I fill in all the choices and paths I didn't write in the first draft, and, of course, beautify the text, make the dialogue fit the characters, discard or expand on rudimentary ideas, etc. Basically, it's where I write the text that'll appear in the game.

This juxtaposition between the first draft and the second allows me to rethink story beats, adjust the progression of the characters' relationships, postpone scenes, etc. Basically, it allows me to think about where the chapter is going.

The third step is to put it all in code and make it playable. As I go through the Word document, I make minor edits here and there, but nothing major.

The actual editing is made later, in what I call a 'deep edit.' I usually do this when I finish writing the following chapter because looking at a text with fresh eyes allows you to spot mistakes much better than if you do it right away.

4. What’s one piece of advice you’d give to someone just starting out in interactive fiction?

To follow up on the last question, I will say that you need to know yourself. Just as I operate better without a clear, bullet-proof plan, other people thrive with a structured outline, a character glossary 20k words long, chapter charts, and multicolored graphics. My advice is that before you embark on such a complex and often big project as an IF game, you should know your own writing process, and the only way for you to know that is if you write.

I'd say start with short stories or small fables, but honestly, just write anything. Dive right in, and with time, you'll begin to know yourself as a writer.

When you know yourself and your own style, then begin the IF. You'll never be truly 100% prepared — we're always learning and adjusting. I'm not the same writer I was when I first started The Rose, and I won't be what I am now when I finish this second book. We're constantly evolving, so allow yourself space to fail and fall short of expectations. This is, after all, a marathon, not a sprint.

5. What’s a common mistake you see in interactive storytelling, and do you have any tips on how to avoid it?

Not so much a mistake but a misconception. I think people, especially those with little to no experience writing (or any creative hobby), believe that it's an inspiration-based activity. That you write whenever you feel like it.

This is completely wrong. If I only wrote whenever I felt inspired to, I wouldn't have made it past the third chapter of book one.

Some days — most days — you won't feel like writing. You sit at your desk, and you do it. You have to face it like a job, almost. You clock in, do your work, and leave. Does this mean I have no joy in writing? Of course not. I get really into it once I begin, but it's not every day that I wake up and want to leap for my pen.

Sometimes, I'd rather go out hiking with my dog, meet a friend for coffee, or watch another episode of whatever show I'm watching. But, when writing IF, you often will have to make these sacrifices, and, many times, you won't even be blessed with inspiration, so that sacrifice is made easier.

This is made even worse in IF. Due to the nature of the medium, you will get days where you're stuck writing repeating passages or paths you're not entirely interested in. You will want to pull the hair out of your head. You'll have to clench your teeth and do it — otherwise, you won't make it to the fun, rewarding bits where everything comes together.

It's not an exaggeration when people say, 'writing is hard.' Anyone can do it. Very few actually do. I think it's less about talent and more about commitment.

End of interview

—

A big thanks once again to Anathema for her insightful answers, and @veswrites-if for taking the time to coordinate the interview. Hope that this was a fun and interesting read.

Stay tuned for more of these interviews, both for the Writing Spotlight AND for Pride Month!!

[forever1kay]

THIS IS WHAT FOREVER FEELS LIKE !! ft. Todoroki Shoto

◡̈ 11:33 am -- you and shoto were always meant to be, but it took forever for either of you to notice that. / todoroki shoto x fem!black!reader.

content: fluff, slow burn, friends to lovers, backstory, time skips, mutual pining, slight angst (if you squint), weddings, breakups, hallmark vibes.

notes: suddenly back in my mha era. i've never been this interested in todoroki before, but apparently times have changed? got this idea at 11am yesterday morning. i hope y’all enjoy this!

You were a first year in Class 1-B—quirky, kind, a little mouthy if need be. And while you weren't the type to stand out in the way heroes like Bakugo or Midoriya did, you were known. Not for your strength, not even for your quirk (though it was plenty impressive), but for how easily people gravitated towards you.

Fuyumi had been your volunteer tutor through a mentorship program that partnered students from U.A. with local universities. Somewhere between the equations and essays, a sisterly bond formed. She loved your energy. You loved her calm. Before long, she was inviting you over after study sessions, encouraging you to "just stay for dinner".

That's how you officially met Shoto Todoroki.

He was quiet back then, a little stiff around the edges. Polite, but distant. You'd say he was a stick in the mud. You weren't afraid of the silence, but you were intrigued. You wanted to know more about Shoto Todoroki. You wanted to find out why you were so damn drawn to him. So when you did speak to him, you'd ask him questions others wouldn't dare.

"Do you like being a hero, or are you doing it because you have to?" You'd asked one night, the dinner table empty save for yourself and Shoto.

It was the kind of question that made him pause with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth, cold soba plopping back into his dinner bowl. You continued to chew, indifferent to the weight of the question you'd just asked.

It took him a while, but he eventually found the words he'd been searching for.

"I'm... not sure."

You shrugged. "That's fine. Ain't nothing wrong with taking time to figure yourself out."

That became your dynamic. Honest, easy, a little too comfortable for two teenagers who weren't technically friends. But somehow, you'd still become one of his constants. You'd help Fuyumi cook and argue with Natsuo about whether rice belong inside or outside of the seaweed. Sometimes Rei would join you in the living room, humming while you braided her hair. Even Enji, gruff and unsure, gave an occasional nod of approval when you praised Shoto's progress aloud.

Everyone noticed the way you fit.

"Looks like you've gained a daughter," Fuyumi once joked, nudging her mother with a goofy smile. Rei had simply sipped her tea and replied, "She's been one for a while now."

But nothing happened. Not then.

You were close—closer than most. There were times your hands brushed, and neither of you pulled back. Times he'd offer to walk you home, even when it was out of his way. But no lines were crossed. Maybe it was fear, or maybe it was bad timing.

Whatever the reason, you two never became anything more than friends.

When graduation came, you both stood shoulder to shoulder at the ceremony, clapping for each other like it was any other day. No promises, no confessions. Just a lingering glance as you walked separate ways.

And yet—your family still invited his to your cousin's barbecue that summer. And his still asked about yours when they hadn't seen the lot of you in a while. Eventually, your worlds weren't just connected they were woven.

You were the reason both families spent holidays together. You were the glue, the shared thread. And no one could understand how you and Shoto Todoroki were still just friends.

Even you had started to wonder the same.

But time did what time always does. It moved on—quietly, steadily, mercilessly.

You both went your separate ways after U.A., each carving out your place in the world. You worked under a well-known support company while taking hero gigs on the side. Todoroki—well, he became what everyone expected. A Pro Hero. A face on billboards. A headline. You watched him from afar sometimes, pride and ache tangled like ribbon in your chest. You began to see less and less of each other as time went on.

And somewhere in the lull between busy lives, you both started seeing other people.

His girlfriend was poised, sweet, gentle in a way that suited his calm demeanor. She was a reporter. The kind who wrote fluff pieces and asked the hard questions only when the moment was right. The first time you met her, she greeted you with a smile and a handshake. You smiled back, but it didn’t reach your eyes.

Your boyfriend was funny and full of fire—quirky like you, upbeat like you. He adored you. Everyone could tell. Shoto could tell. He watched the way you laughed with your whole body when your boyfriend told a bad joke, how you wore that little gold necklace he gave you without fail. And he smiled. He did. But there was a tightness in his chest he couldn’t name.

The families didn’t hide their dismay.

“I just don’t get it,” Natsuo had said once, mouth full of mashed potatoes during dinner. “You two are like… twin flames. Everyone sees it but you.”

“Twin flames don’t always end up together,” you replied softly, lips wrapped around your wineglass.

“No, but sometimes they do,” Rei chimed in from across the table, kind eyes settled on both of you. “And when they do… it’s peaceful. Familiar. Worth it.”

Still, neither of you made a move. Months passed. Then a year. Then another.

Eventually, both relationships fizzled out—not because of drama, not because of tragedy. Just distance. Mismatched timing. An emptiness that lingered after the laughter.

“I’m not the one,” his girlfriend had whispered during their last dinner. “I know that now.”

“You deserve someone who doesn’t flinch at quiet,” you told your boyfriend with a sad smile. “Someone who doesn’t keep reaching for someone else in their dreams.”

Neither breakup was messy. But both left a mark.

And when Fuyumi’s December wedding rolled around, it was the first time in years that you and Shoto were single at the same time.

“I guess I’m going solo,” you’d said, scrolling through your closet for something to wear.

“We can go together.” He’d replied from the desk chair in your room.

You didn’t even hesitate.

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

The wedding was everything Fuyumi wanted—intimate, snow-glazed, and a little chaotic in the way only family weddings could be.

The estate was tucked away in the mountains, white-capped trees lining the driveway and cabins dotting the property like something out of a holiday hallmark movie. The ceremony was held under a pine arch wrapped in warm lights and baby’s breath. Everything glowed.

You arrived in a sleek velvet dress that clung just enough to your waist, warmth tucked behind your smile as you waved to familiar faces. Todoroki stood by the heaters, scarf loose over his neck, eyes catching yours like they’d been waiting for this moment.

“You look nice,” he said.

You grinned, shivering dramatically. “I look nice? I’m in heels in a blizzard, Shoto. I look divine.”

He chuckled—an honest one. “Right. Divine.”

Everyone kept whispering.

“They came together?”

“They’re finally gonna realize, huh?”

“Took ‘em long enough.”

But you didn’t notice. You were too busy laughing with Rei over cocoa and joking with Natsuo about being his +1 for the next wedding. The kind of laughter that makes your cheeks hurt. The kind that Todoroki hadn’t heard in person in a while.

And he liked the sound of it again. A lot.

After the ceremony, the bridal party scattered to their assigned cabins to get ready for the reception. The bride, groom, and immediate family shared the largest one. Your room was next to his.

Which is probably why you wandered in without knocking.

He was standing by the window, half-dressed in a crisp white button-down and black slacks, tie still in hand and a crease between his brows.

“Can’t figure it out?” you asked.

He turned. “Not without strangling myself.”

You clicked your tongue, stepping toward him with ease. “Still useless with ties, I see.”

You took it gently from his hand and turned him toward the mirror. He stood still as your fingers worked, adjusting the collar, straightening the knot.

Neither of you spoke.

But the air did. The air said everything.

The warmth of your fingers brushing his chest. The calm in your breath. The way his eyes dropped to your reflection—his lips parted just slightly, heart hammering too loud for logic to cover it anymore.

He didn’t know what this feeling was until that moment.

But now? Now, he knew.

You tied the last loop and smiled up at him through the mirror.

“There,” you whispered, a light in your eyes that Shoto hadn’t bothered to notice before. “Perfect.”

His voice was rough. “Yeah.”

The reception was held in a warmly lit barn strung with fairy lights and delicate red ribbons. A DJ played a mix of classic R&B, jazz, and a few holiday bops that made the aunties start a line dance unprompted.

Todoroki was still staring.

You floated around the room like you owned it—bare shoulders wrapped in a soft cream shawl, dancing with Fuyumi’s niece, then Rei, then Natsuo, then Fuyumi herself. You didn’t sit down for long. Your laugh chased the snowflakes from the windows, your joy filled the empty in-between moments like you were made for them.

“She just fits, doesn’t she?” Rei said gently as she stepped beside her son.

Todoroki blinked, watching as you tried to teach the flower girl how to do a spin.

“Always has,” he admitted, voice quiet.

Natsuo smirked, coming up on his other side with a cider in hand.

“Then what’re you waitin’ for? It’s about time,” he said, eyes trailing toward you. “Don’t let her slip away again.”

That stuck. Again.

Because he had let you slip once—or maybe twice. When you’d started dating that med student. When he’d been seeing that girl from the agency. There was always a gap, always bad timing. The kind of gaps that made families frown and say, “Still? You two aren’t…?”

And then, before either of you knew it, you were both single again. Both invited to the same wedding.

And somehow it just felt natural to go together. No questions asked. Just like old times.

It was well past midnight when things began winding down.

The wedding had been a winter dream: snow-dusted trees, mulled wine, and music that somehow never got too loud. And now, in the stillness that followed, the rented family cabin glowed with warmth from the hearth.

You padded through the quiet hallway in thick socks and oversized plaid pajama pants, one of Fuyumi’s old Christmas sweaters tugged over your tank top. The fire crackled from the den—your favorite room in the whole cabin, wrapped in wood panels and bathed in orange light.

He was already there.

Todoroki sat cross-legged on the plush rug, pajama pants and a simple gray hoodie, elbows on his knees as he stared into the fire like it had all the answers. He didn’t look up when you entered—he didn’t need to. You always found each other eventually.

“Didn’t think you’d still be up,” you said softly, curling into the opposite corner of the couch behind him.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he murmured.

There was a long pause. The good kind.

Then, from the Bluetooth speaker tucked on the mantle, a song hummed to life—“This Is What Forever Feels Like.”

You chuckled. “The one non-Christmas song on Fuyumi’s whole playlist.”

“It’s not bad,” Todoroki said, and it was so him that you smiled.

You both lingered in silence, the song playing faintly through the cabin walls. Then you said something soft:

“I think I used to dream of something like that. Like, growing old with someone. Dancing in the kitchen. Being… seen.”

Todoroki looked at you fully now.

“I used to think it’d be you,” you admitted, eyes on the fire.

His breath caught in his throat.

“Then life happened. We dated other people. Got busy. It just… drifted.”

“I let it drift,” he said quietly.

You looked down at him.

“And I regret that.”

The glow of the fire warmed one side of his face. But his words? They were steady. Measured. Real.

“I realized it tonight,” he went on. “The tie. You dancing with my family. Natsuo told me not to let you slip away again.”

You smiled at his words.

He took a deep breath before speaking again. “I used to think I’d marry you too.”

Your breath caught.

“I mean—not in a planned way,” he added. “It just… made sense. Everyone else thought so, too.”

You nodded slowly. “I know.”

“You made our families close,” he continued. “My mom invites your mom over for lunch. Fuyumi bakes cookies for your little cousins. Natsuo calls your uncle ‘bro.’ It’s like… we became family without trying.”

You swallowed hard, eyes falling to your hands in your lap.

“I kept thinking—why is it that we never tried?”

He shifted then, moving so he was sitting beside you on the couch, both of you facing the fire.

You blinked, heart climbing into your throat. “Because we dated other people,” you murmured. “I thought you were happy.”

“I thought you were.”

The fire popped softly. The music continued, lyrics brushing past like snowfall.

“I wasn’t,” you said. “Not really.”

“I’m not either,” he replied.

You turned to look at him.

“I love you,” he said simply.

No grand flourish. No fancy words. Just the truth.

“I think I always have,” he added, finally meeting your gaze fully.

You were glowing from the firelight, eyes glassy but soft. The lights from the Christmas tree twinkled, shining prettily across your brown skin. You leaned in—your forehead touched his, and your voice trembled when you spoke.

“I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”

And when you kissed him, it was slow. Warm. Steady. No fireworks—just home. Like breathing for the first time.

From behind the open doorway, a small crowd watched quietly. Your mom had her hands pressed to her chest. Rei dabbed her eyes with a tissue. Natsuo and Fuyumi fist-bumped behind them like proud older siblings. Even Endeavor stood off to the side, arms crossed—but no trace of his usual hard expression. Just a quiet nod, and a glance toward his son that said, Finally.

And Todoroki? He leaned into you like you were gravity itself.

Two years later, you and Shoto got married at the same cabin that made you official.

The air felt the same—crisp, slightly piney, laced with a breeze that smelled like memory. It was early winter again, just like that fateful Christmas weekend, but this time, the snow waited politely in the mountains and let the leaves do the talking.

You’d joked about it many years ago—half laughing, half hopeful—“If we’re not married by thirty, let’s just marry each other.” And Todoroki had nodded once and replied with a simple, “Okay.”

You thought he was humoring you.

You didn’t know he wrote it down.

Planning the wedding was easy—mostly because he’d spent years listening. He remembered every passing comment, every dreamy sigh you made at cheesy wedding montages, every soft “I’d want that someday.”

You’d said once that you wanted something simple but full of meaning.

You’d said you wanted string lights.

A barn with open doors.

Warm food. Slow music. A dance floor.

An open fire pit and a view of the stars.

Most importantly, you said you wanted it to feel like the moment your life clicked into place.

He got it right the first time.

The ceremony was beautiful. Just you, him, your people, and the gentle weight of years pressed between your hands as you said “I do.”

But the real moment?

That came after.

As the double barn doors opened to your sparkler send-off, laughter and cheers echoing off the trees, a familiar melody started playing over the outdoor speakers.

You stopped.

Your brows lifted. Your mouth opened in disbelief as your eyes whipped toward him.

“Are you serious right now?” you whispered, tears instantly rushing to your waterline.

He blinked like he wasn’t expecting a reaction. “What?”

You smacked his shoulder lightly. “You did not—”

“That hurt,” he said flatly, rubbing the spot.

You let out a watery laugh, and he tilted his head, watching you carefully—then slowly, a small chuckle left his mouth. It barely made a sound, but it was the most open you’d ever seen him in front of everyone.

He leaned in slightly. “This is the song that gave me the courage to tell you how I felt.”

You looked up at him.

And suddenly, the cabin lights blurred behind your tears.

You stood on your tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his lips—short, but soft and full of all the years you waited for him, and the peace in knowing you’d never have to wait again.

He held his hand out to you.

You took it.

Then you walked together through the glowing tunnel of sparklers, friends and family lining both sides. You heard someone sob (probably Fuyumi), and someone else scream “Finally!” (definitely Kaminari). You didn’t even care that someone caught it on video—you were too busy watching your forever walk beside you.

The two of you waved goodbye to your loved ones, walking towards the car that’d take you to the airport for your honeymoon.

He opened the car door for you, then climbed in behind you. The driver congratulated you both and began to drive.

As the cabin faded in the rearview mirror and the song still played softly through the radio, your fingers laced with his.

You rest your head on his shoulder, smile breaking through the last of your tears.

“Forever starts here.”

He looked back.

And for once, the silence between you said it all.

© forever1kay 2025 - please don’t translate, convert, copy, paraphrase, repost, or alter any of my works without my permission.

[starsinthesky5]

would songbird be able to convince joey to go on stage during her tour (like travis did with Taylor sorta thing?)

a/n: this was so fun to write about :( so many thoughts in my head about it

never in a million years would she ask him to get up on that stage. not because she doubts he’d do it for her, but because she knows him too well to ever put him in that position. joe is the type of man who would move mountains for the people he loves. he’ll do the things that scare him, the uncomfortable, vulnerable, soul-baring things—if it’s for her, he won’t even flinch. but the truth is, she loves him too much to let him do that if it’s not his choice. and being up on a stage, center spotlight, with thousands of screaming fans watching his every move? that’s not joe. that’s never been joe.

because the only time joe has ever felt truly safe in front of a crowd is when he’s in pads and cleats, helmet snug on his head, blocking the noise and the lights. football is the only stage that’s ever made sense to him, because the helmet is his armor. it dulls the roar, narrows the vision. he forgets about the crowd. the chaos fades. the world tightens into twenty-five-second bursts of rhythm and instinct, and that he can handle. that is where he’s always felt in control.

but standing on her stage? no helmet. no playbook. just him, bare and visible and seen in ways that make his stomach twist? that’s different. that’s not a world he was built for, and she would never ask him to cross that line just for the sake of a moment. not even for a show-stopping surprise. not even to match the headlines.

and she’s okay with that. more than okay, actually. because their relationship has never been about showmanship or spectacle. it’s not about proving anything to the world. it’s the quiet, enduring kind of love, the type that doesn’t need a stage to feel big.

of course, she could probably get him to do it. she’s the one person who can coax him into anything with just a look. he always softens for her, always folds when her voice goes a little sweet and her fingers brush up the inside of his arm and she says, “please, joey?”, but that’s the thing. she never uses that tone when it comes to stuff like this. because she respects him too much. because she knows his boundaries aren’t walls to climb or challenges to overcome—they’re part of who he is, and she loves every single part.

so no, joe doesn’t strut onto her stage in a surprise moment. he doesn’t dance in front of pyrotechnics or wave to a roaring crowd. but what he does do is show up, fully and quietly, in all the ways that count.

he’s backstage every night when it’s about to wrap up, hoodie up, security pass clipped to his lanyard, hands tucked into his pockets as he leans against a rig or crouches at the side of the stage. he watches her like he’s memorizing something sacred, mouthing the lyrics to every song, smiling every time she points at a fan or throws her head back and laughs between verses. sometimes, when she looks over her shoulder between songs, she catches a glimpse of him in the wings—steady and unshakable. her anchor in a sea of light and noise.

during the middle stretch of her set, when the band hits a groove and she’s off doing her costume change, joe slips out to the barricade. not for photos or fanfare—he keeps it lowkey, always—but to be there, present with the people who love her just like he does. he hands out guitar picks to kids in the front row, laughs with a dad who drove his daughter eight hours for this show. he hums along to the interlude under his breath. he’s not performing. he’s participating. because her world is his world, too.

when the final note echoes out and the crowd erupts and she comes bounding off stage—sweat-drenched, adrenaline-high, heart racing—he’s already there. towel in one hand, her water bottle in the other, grin wide and eyes full of love.

“you were magic tonight,” he says, voice low, arms already opening to catch her as she jumps into them.

and she melts into him, every single time. because even if he never once steps on her stage, he’s the one who grounds her after every show. he’s the calm after the chaos, the hand she reaches for when the lights go down.

he may never be part of the performance, but he’s her biggest fan. her most constant presence.

and that means more than any surprise cameo ever could.

[georgiapeach30513]

Once you've entered the Marvel Cinematic Universe, it's pretty tough to dip back out into the world of a struggling actor. But that's exactly what Chris Evans is doing in Materialists. The new romantic dramedy from writer-director Celine Song - the follow-up to her soulful 2023 debut Past Lives, which earned Oscar nominations for Best Picture and Best Original Screenplay - sees Evans trade his Captain America spandex for a cater waiter's apron as John, a broke theater actor working odd jobs to pay the bills. The film sets up a love triangle between John, his high-end matchmaker ex Lucy, played by Dakota Johnson, and Harry, a charming, wealthy suitor played by Pedro Pascal.

"John is amalgamation of an entire lifestyle of theater artists in New York City," Song told Rolling Stone on a recent video call from New York City. "He's somebody who was born poor and grew up poor and has a bit of a chip on his shoulder about it in a way that's really beautiful, and I find that to be quite moving. So how did she land on a literal American hero as her romantic underdog?

"There is a merchandise of Chris that people who do not know him maybe see first and foremost, because that's the easiest way to understand an actor, as an object," Song says. "But then when I actually met Chris the person, he was so inspiring as John, because there's a part of Chris that's John and has been John forever. Chris for a while was an up and comer, and he also understands that." She adds with a laugh, "He's had roommates."

Evans welcomed the change of pace the role offered. "It's certainly nice to play someone who has challenges and struggles that I can relate to, just very human, pedestrian hurdles, as opposed to life-ending consequences," Evans says of playing a guy without superpowers.

"His posture, physicality, clothing, the tangible things that you can live in to bring a character to life - it's nice that it was flannels and sweatpants as opposed to a shield."

Rolling Stone spoke with Evans about Materialists, his own experience with moviemaking behind the camera, and modern romance.

What drew you to Materialists?

What Celine does so well is take what seems at times like simple dialogue and make the scene, from a directorial standpoint, incredibly special. She has a way of making it feel the way these things actually feel when they're happening to you.

Sometimes very simple things can happen in life that feel so profound, and when you try to tell a friend about it, it's never the same. And that's about the restraint that she shows as a director.

The restraint she shows as a writer. The silence and the pacing have just as much impact as the words themselves.

When you read the screenplay did you immediately feel connected to John?

I assumed that I would be cast as Harry when I first met with [Celine]. She said,

"Which role do you like?" And I said,

"Well, I like John, but I guess I'd be OK if you want to cast me as Harry." Both roles were wonderful, but I was a little more drawn to John. Luckily she felt the same.

What did you like about him?

There was more vulnerability, there was more pain. John is a guy who isn't where he wants to be in life. And I think it's easy to project an attitude of not caring, because if you care, then you'll have to try. And if you try, you might fail. John is this living embodiment of, "I'll push you away before you can push me away." But he also can't help his heart. He loves Lucy. And to admit that to Lucy, to admit that to himself, requires risk. And that's where his growth unfolds. where his growth unfolds.

Did playing John remind you about your early days in acting, considering he's still trying to break in?

I absolutely can relate to that aspect of John. The drive, the doubt, the shitty roommates, these are all things that I absolutely identify with. I myself am a little bit more of an open book. I'm too sensitive, you know. I'm a delicate guy.

And as a result, I probably overshare as a coping mechanism, where I think John is a little bit more of a closed book.

If you were 37, living with an inconsiderate roommate, and working random gigs to get by, would you still be trying to pursue acting?

I don't know how I would handle it if I were in my late thirties still trying. But I certainly know it would make me punchy. It would make me feel defensive and a little ossified and not wanting to feel inadequate because of the fact that I haven't reached my dreams. You feel inadequate enough to yourself, and to have a romantic partner also tell you the ways you're inadequate, it's just too much.

Talk to me a little bit about shooting the barn scene near the end of the film, where John and Lucy have a painful but necessary heart-to-heart. John says some rather swoon-worthy but also sorrowful lines.

One of the things that I love about Celine is that she shoots on 35[mm film]. Past Lives was absolutely gorgeous. And when you show up that night and see those string lights, you know you're going to be in a frame of film that's going be beautiful. You feel that it's special.The scene itself is this very vulnerable, very honest declaration of his love and knowing that he doesn't have what she wants, but also stating what he's desperate for. It's just very raw, and so it's very painful. But as an actor, when you try to call from your own personal experiences, there's plenty of things in life that I could call to, to feel that level of vulnerability, feeling just totally exposed and honest with your heart in your hand - and it usually leads to tears [laughs].

The fact that it was shot on 35mm also raises the stakes in terms of how many takes you can do.

Absolutely! That's part of the romance of making movies. I like the fact that there is a finite amount of film. I like watching mags of film being switched out of the camera. I like checking the gate. I like all that stuff. I like things dipping in and out of soft focus and not being able to fix it in post. That's the art of it.

What distinguishes Materialists from other romantic films? Celine Song's writing seems to tap into a different perspective on love, one could say more grounded.

Most rom-coms have this very idealized version of love, which is fun. It's great for escapism, but it doesn't always reflect real life. And this movie has a much more realistic, grounded, slightly less naive interpretation of what love is as something that's far more relatable to the modern viewer. The landscape of love today is really tough. A lot of the social norms that used to keep marriages together have been deconstructed. Now it's predicated purely on compatibility, and that can very easily devolve into an algorithm as opposed to matters of the heart.

Lucy says early on that love is easy, but dating is difficult. That seems to synthesize the film's theme.

Couldn't have said it better. Love is your heart. It's clear. It's binary. Dating is when the math comes in, dating is when it becomes a calculation. Dating is your mind, dating is pragmatism, and trying to reconcile the needs of your mind and the wants of your heart is messy.

Later this summer you also star in the Ethan Coen thriller Honey Don't! Is this a shift in gears in your career?

I hope so. It's just working with good filmmakers. As long as I've been doing this, it always comes back to the filmmaker. There are always a hundred reasons to do a movie. Sometimes it's great a role. Sometimes it's a really funny script or an amazing director, a great producer. But sometimes you try to squint to make a movie make sense and check enough boxes to make sense. The only box that matters is the filmmaker. It really comes down to the director, and that's really all I'm pursuing these days.

And if I like their work, then I'm in.

You directed your own romantic dramedy, Before We Go, a decade ago. Is this a genre you particularly enjoy, or were there other reasons to tackle it in your first feature as a director?

At that time, I wanted to direct, but I also was thinking from a very pragmatic perspective: I needed to learn. I had never been to film school. I was veering into a lane that I had no experience in. So I just felt like I owed the title of director a little more respect than to jump in and try and do something that I knew I might not be able to handle. The piece itself is a very contained script: two people, New York City, all-night shoots, felt very manageable to me. I did love the topic, but there was a more pragmatic motivation behind it as well.

Is directing something you want to try again?

It really is, but the tricky thing is I have about a hundred other things that I'm also interested in. I'm slightly fickle. Some days I'll wake up and I want to direct, but then some days I wake up and I want to go learn carpentry. [Laughs.] Honestly, it's about the movies I see. When I see an incredible movie that really inspires me, it completely pulls my focus back. But if I step away from actually going to see films, my interests drift.

It would be interesting to see what you would do behind the camera now, 10 years after that first attempt and after the experience of working with directors like Celine.

I would do it very differently. Oh, my gosh. When you look back, you just realize how much of the movie was done in a defensive posture. You have a movie you see in your head, but you almost don't have the courage or poetry of language or just knowledge of the medium to convey what you want it to be. You end up sometimes out of just simple fear, intimidation, letting things settle to a familiar, recognizable place.

I probably would take a lot more risk or be a lot more confident in what I wanted to see happen. But part of the reason that diving back in is so intimidating is because you know that it would have to be that the second time. You can't do the same thing if you're going to do it again. It's such a demanding thing. You give so much of your life: the prep, the filming, the post. To do it again but not do it properly would be a disservice to myself, my time. And that's a little intimidating.

What would you say is the defining quality of Celine Song as a filmmaker or what you found most memorable about your work with her in creating John?

Conviction. She knows exactly what she wants. I've worked with a lot of directors that have an idea, and they're very passionate, but they're more than happy to collaborate, massage, meet in the middle, find, make it this kind of, "Well, you bring this, and I'll bring this." And not to say that Celine is not a collaborator, but she's also very confident in her reasons. There's not a word that she writes that's filler; everything is on purpose. And it takes a minute to understand that, but once you find that trust, that confidence, and you start to say, "OK, I'm going to let go a little bit and let you take the wheel completely. If you say jump, I'm just going to say how high." She's two for two now, in my opinion.

X

[h-rlequiin]

  ⁺ ⑅  ꫂ ၴႅၴ  jennifer jareau headcanons. <3 ..𓈒༄

🦢 , nsfw below the cut~!

𓊆   sfw⠀ 𓊇  

ྐ𖥨 JJ has a habit of pushing her hair behind her ears with both hands when she feels frustrated. Sometimes, she does this so frequently, so aggressively, that you must take her hands from her, hold them tight and help her slow her breathing until her anger disappears.

ྐ𖥨 In addition to her hair-tucking, you notice that the way she dresses also changes when she has a particularly caseload at work. Her sleeves always lengthen, and she typically wears them long enough to cover her palms. When you do her laundry, you'll notice that the sleeves of her hoodies are wrinkled from the way that she tugs at them.

ྐ𖥨 Even though she wears long sleeves, JJ always makes sure they're tight enough to show off her arms. She's very proud, obsessive, even, of her own musculature, and always likes to show off for you, even in the winter.

ྐ𖥨 She also loves to show you off. The ego rush that she feels when having a pretty little thing like you on her arm is seismic. She loves to dress you up, help you with your hair, pick out your outfit meticulously, even if you're just going to get a beer with her team.

ྐ𖥨 When you do leave the house-- quite the rare occasion, as JJ just loves to spend time at home with you while not on a case-- she is incredibly possessive of you. She's sure to hold your hand or drape an arm over you even while doing something as menial as grocery shopping. If you were to work at the BAU with her, she'd find it nearly impossible not to claim ownership over you, would have a hard time keeping your relationship a secret. She'll arrive to every unit function just that split second earlier to ensure she gets to sit next to you, to hold your hand under the table. She'll hover behind you when you talk to anyone, even when she doesn't perceive them to be a threat, just in case, just to keep you safe. It's like she feels burned alive when anyone sits between you.

ྐ𖥨 Jennifer still speaks with the slightest southern accent when she's near you, especially when she's tired. She'd always had it when she was younger, that young, bright face on the news, but her years in the bureau beat that sweet twang out of her, almost as if she felt she sounded more professional without it, would be taken more seriously.

𓊆   nsfw⠀ 𓊇

ྐ𖥨 Jennifer is most definitely a service top. She has already preferred to be in control, and with the way that you whimper and moan under her, she's at the point that your pleasure is what gets her off.

ྐ𖥨 JJ's job has impacted her so deeply that she's become quite jaded, especially when it comes to making love, so she's become a bit greedy for more. She has become a masochist, in that her nervous system is completely wrecked from shutting down every emotion that she may feel in the field, that she needs to feel extremes.

ྐ𖥨 She is embarrassed of it, will apologize profusely each time, but as she has aged, JJ has developed her own sadism as well. She would never intentionally hurt you, would never take it further than a light slap to your cheek, will always take the most gentle care of you afterwards. She feels out of her own control sometimes, gets too high off of the tears in your eyes.

ྐ𖥨 She likes you best on your knees. Be it riding her boot, desperately tugging at the badge which always dangles from her belt, wrapping your lips around her strap... she's obsessed with you, so much smaller than her, eyes wide and pleading and attention only focused on her. She loves the discipline she holds over you, grabbing you by the ponytail or by the chin, manhandling you as she pleases.

ྐ𖥨 JJ loves when you use masculine terms to refer to her. She'll always melt in your touch when you call her handsome, as you often do, and you love the way her jaw tightens when you refer to her as your boyfriend. As she has aged, she has grown towards dressing far more masculine, her closet now full of flannels and leather jackets. She's also let her hair grown, the patch that leads from her belly to her belt enough to make you drool every time she wears a pair of low-rise jeans.

[toweringclam]

Who is Kris? pt 1: Kris the Vessel

It was the chocolate that sent me spiraling. I know Kris loves chocolate. Everyone talks about how much Kris loves chocolate. Chocolate items heal them more. Kris has plenty of opportunities to consume chocolate. But according to the quiz show, Kris does not like chocolate.

So that made me think... who really is "Kris"? What defines them? How can we separate what Kris wants from what we want? And if there's a third party involved in this, where can we draw that line?

Let's start with the physical. There's a strange misconception that Kris is this world's version of Chara, when that is blatantly incorrect on its face. You can confirm that just by looking at Kris in comparison to the Fallen Children's sprites.

Although their palettes are slightly different, Kris and Frisk still use shades of vibrant gold for their skin and dark brown for their hair. Chara has reddish brown hair, pale skin, and rosy cheeks. Sometimes people cite their clothing color but like... people can change clothes?? Also, that's more a case of similar circumstances. Both of them are wearing hand-me-downs from Asriel.

There's also the issue of the eyes. A lot of fans assume that Chara has red eyes, but that actually doesn't play out in the evidence. I mean, I think it's cooler and HC it that way, but I have to set my preference aside to deal with the facts. The thing is, Frisk never opens their eyes in-game. The only time they ever do is in the corrupted pacifist run, which is where we get to see the red eyes often associated with Chara. Yet every other time Chara appears, even at the end of a Genocide run, even when trying to jumpscare us, they have brown eyes. Therefore, Kris's red eyes are not a trait from Chara, but rather something Frisk had the whole time.

We can conclude then that on a purely physical level, Kris is this world's version of Frisk.

Continuing the idea that Kris and Frisk are alternates of each other, it's notable in Undertale that Frisk has an aversion to chocolate. The only time they ever find chocolate, it never even occurs to them to eat it. Could this be some sort of food sensitivity? If so, that would carry over to Kris as well, and the only times we see Kris eat chocolate, they have some adverse reaction to it.

Throat tightening after drinking cocoa

Getting a stomach ache after eating Alphys's chocolates

Slumping over on the counter after drinking chocolate milk

This doesn't count Dark World food, as it's not actually "real" and therefore wouldn't trigger any sensitivities. But I think there's enough evidence to say that Kris has some sort of sensitivity to chocolate. It's very bad for them, and even hurts them to eat it, but that doesn't necessarily stop them either (like me and cheese).

As a final note, Kris is almost shockingly athletic, both in the real world and the dark world, possessed or not. They are strong and graceful enough to balance a massive ball of stuff on their head, can slash tires quickly (harder than it sounds), have an insanely accurate throwing arm, and are skilled in several forms of dance. This doesn't resolve who they might be, but it's worth noting as a physical attribute nonetheless.

Edit: one thing I forgot to mention is that Kris's voice is described as deadpan, mumbling, weak, and shaky. When we speak, the voice is much stronger and sounds like a speaker is embedded in their throat. Again, this is something that rules out Chara as their physical vessel. From everything we know, Chara was a very talkative child.

Next: A discussion about Kris's history pre-game.