#he is---and i hate this phrase---so boyfriend coded

[itsvelyria]

"as sad taylor swift songs"

vvv vague references to depression for danny

(not really a representation of the songs as a whole but rather how i interpret each phrase i cherry picked)

Charles Leclerc

and say the one thing, i've been wanting, but no~ 🩵

your phone lights up the dark of your room, you should be asleep at this time of the night. there hadn't been any new messages since Tuesday but here you sat, scrolling aimlessly on social media, waiting by the chat like you were 13 again with your first crush. the squeal of glee and the uncontrollable smile on your face when they would text back — that's how he made you feel. and though the little voice in your head is telling you that everything was wrong, there was no way you would debase your feelings to refute the way your brain was wired to think of him at all times. but as you were flicking through gossip sites, the back of a head that haunted your dreams and nightmares was staring right back at, pressed up against a shorter brunette one — maybe it was time to listen to your brain and not your heart.

Carlos Sainz

tryna find a part of me that you didn't touch~ 🩷

every inch of your skin was on fire, like it was rejecting the touch of the man above you. if you squinted enough, blocked out the light from the living room behind his broad shoulders, you could have mistaken him for a certain Spaniard. except the Spaniard wouldn't have chosen to lay his focus on your neck like this guy you picked up at the club. you couldn't, for the life of your alcohol-riddled brain, recall his name. but you could remember the ghost of a touch down between the valleys of your breasts and that was enough to pry a spine-shivering moan out your throat. maybe if you pretended enough and swallowed the hot tears back, you could pretend he was the person you wanted instead.

Danny Ricciardo

she would have made such a lovely bride, what a shame she's fucked in the head~ 🧡

he knew it when your frame had started curled in on itself under the covers. how you brushed past the stereo you loved to fiddle with on Saturday mornings. how you told him that you'd rather stay home on days you had plans. he felt this clawing in his insides whenever you barely spared him a glance, like he was the extra on a film set who was just waiting around for something to happen. so he did what he did best. he'd called up your mom to ask for her recipes to cook for nights you were too tired to move and offered to dry your hair whenever you wandered around wet hair. when you were fast asleep, cuddled up in his arms, he hoped you could hear when he told you how much he loved you and how he'd always be here.

George Russell

will you still want me, when i'm nothing new~ ❤️

even with your eyes closed on the red-eye flight, you could picture your colour-coded and meticulously organised calendar in your head. that and the thousands of messages from your mother, disappointment reeking from them at your missing of your nephew's baby shower. he was 1, he'd get over it. amongst the messages was two calls to your boyfriend, both left unanswered. the silence feeling like a prelude to something inevitable. images of him laughing with a colleague, your calls ignored, flashed in your mind. the little seed of self-doubt had planted itself a long time ago and bloomed into a voice in your head, relentlessly questioning your every move, every word. you hated it, but when the fire you started grows uncontrollably and you can't stop it, what could you do but let it consume you whole?

Lando Norris

no one could touch the way we laughed in the dark~ 💛

it was like a bad smell you couldn't ignore, the second you stepped onto the hiking path. you refused to come but was convinced otherwise by your group of friends. and with each crunch of the wet leaves under your boot or the distant sound of rushing water, you saw faint wisps of smoke in the shape of someone drawn from your ancient memories, holding your hand and leading you up the slope. hallucinations of a familiar laugh clouded your mind with the hike passing like a daze. the waterfall was still as beautiful as you remembered with the tree where he had secretly carved both your initials just a few steps away. your boyfriend pulled you closer, breaking your trance. his grin radiating at you, you felt the old memories slip away back into the shadows, cupping the chin of your new love.

Lewis Hamilton

you gave me all your love and all i gave you was goodbye~ 💜

sometimes when he glanced at old pictures, the indifference in his chest made him feel like he had moved on. and it should. with every second that slipped out of his grasp, the pain in his heart had dulled and he was busy enough without having to schedule mourning into his calendar. but the glare of his phone burned the picture into his retinas while he was waiting for his next race to begin, he missed the pang in his chest when you first ended the relationship. it was almost like he was losing every shred of you and the ugly feeling in his head raged on. and the next moment, he would turn the phone off, throwing it across his room to bury his head in his palms, the anger redirecting on the pathetic little boy inside him. he should have moved on by now, he knows he should have, but as he glanced at all the faces in the stands, part of him wishes one of them was you.

Max Verstappen

then you won't have to cry, or hide in the closet~ 🩶

you can see it in the darkening of his eyes when he answered his calls. or how his lips pulled taunt after a bad race. he had mentioned some things in passing: details of his childhood glossed over like it was nothing more than a dusty spine of a long-forgotten book. coupled with stories from his family, you had pieced together enough of the puzzle he kept his past. and that tugging in your heart wasn't pity; you could never pity him. but you weren't sure what it was either. and so you kept it quiet, tucking it away in a box, focused on the one thing that did matter — his present. maybe one day, you'll take the box out and rifle through its contents with your lover, but for now, just seeing him hold that trophy was more than enough.

[multiwreckedmess]

Kinktober Day 12

Prompt: Somno Pairing: Boyfriend!Han x fem!reader WC: 1.3k Summary: He hates that he’s always working late. Luckily you have a unique arrangement.

This is a work of fiction, it does not represent Han or any Stray Kids member. On top of this it is an 18+ work. For my comfort and boundaries please if you are under age do not interact with this. 

I feel the need especially with “rougher” prompts like this to put the disclaimer - fanfic should NOT ever be used as a guide to relationships or sex. ESPECIALLY SEX. Again, it’s fiction. Stuff gets glossed over for the sake of a good story. Please PLEASE please again, not fact, not a guide, just a fantasy.

Additional TW/CW Below the cut

CW/TW: reader called baby, blindfold, natural sleep aids taken, dry humping, fingering (fem receiving), no gendered language but reader has a vagina, very sleepy sex, cockwarming, cumming inside.

DUBCON specifics: Reader is asleep but previously discussed/established boundaries. Even so, because consent is continuous it’s hard not to argue that it’s…dubious still. But as it is the prompt…yeah.

 Scattered lights dimly light the apartment to great Han as the door creaks open. You’ve been asleep for hours, he hopes. His eyes burn, the sockets lined with sandpaper. Each blink is painful. Clothing scatters in his wake like a graham cracker trail to the bedroom door, leaving him in just his socks and underwear.  You’re not a heavy sleeper. Worse, you’re not really a sleeper at all. Even worse is you’re even less likely to sleep when your Han isn’t there to hold you as you drift off. So when he finds you flat out on your back, eyemask lowered, lips slightly parted. The sound you make isn’t exactly a snore or a wheeze. It’s slow, heavy, audible breathing, chest rising and falling with it. Han’s heart swells in his chest, you’re peaceful, so perfect. The world is still, the world is his. You are his world.  He practically holds his breath as he crawls onto the bed beside you even though he knows. He knows you likely won’t wake up from the text he’d gotten nearly three hours prior. A quick note;  “Love you! Hope work goes well. I’ll be out out so don’t worry about waking me up”  Sent with a wink. It’s a code. “Don’t worry about waking me up” was the agreed upon phrase that he could do whatever he wanted to you when he got back. That you wanted him to do whatever he wanted. “I’ll be out out” was new. In your search to find a natural remedy to your sleep issues you’d stumbled upon a perfect combination of valerian root, magnesium, lavender, cbd and melatonin. A five finger punch straight to the frontal lobe that sent you into a near coma for six hours.  Han looms over you, gaze trailing down from the curve of your cheek to your chest to your legs. Holding his breath for fear the breeze will wake you he lightly swipes his thumb across your lower lip. It’s soft, your breath teases the top of his hand. He lightly tugs it lower, a small test that you pass with flying colors. Your mouth looks so soft and your body is so pliant. Blood rushes to his dick so quickly he gets lightheaded. Backing off from your slumbering form to collect himself, he slides into the covers beside you, curling a leg around yours. The cotton and spandex of his underwear is rough against his length as he ruts against your thigh.  He tries his best to control his actions, all of the sleep aids counldn’t keep you that way forever. Even so he couldn’t help his hand drifting up your soft stomach to your nipple, absentmindedly playing with the hardened nub.  A moan made of mostly air escapes your mouth, your chest arching into his hands.  “You like that, baby?” He mutters as his tongue darts out to flick the nipple closest. “Having a good dream?” His cock throbs at the thought, hips pressing harder into your side. He can barely see your expression with the eyemask on, a minor inconvenience for a deeper slumber. Still your head cranes back into the pillow as he returns to your chest. Han was always worried somehow you were faking it. Here in total slumber, you couldn’t. He loved it. Knowing each soft moan and writhe was earnest.

 Your moans slowly turned to whines as he took his time with your tits. Needier and needier your legs shift and angle your hips towards him more. Mouth held tight to your nipple he slips two fingers into you easily. If your sex could be weather it would be classified as torrential. Slick seeping from you as you rock with him.  “Hannie,” your voice is a whisper of a whine in his ear.  “It’s me baby, go back to sleep,” his chest rumbles against you, quiet and low. Seemingly you take that as gospel and ease back into your dreamy state. Slowly Han pushes your hips back flat to the mattress, licking his fingers clean of your mess.  He knows what he wants to do next is a gamble. Your walls are just so much smaller than his girth. And on top of that you’d just woken up. Still, his cock throbs painfully, leaking precum on your thigh. Thumb swiping at the tip in a useless effort to clean it Han considers your mouth. Soft and wet as your cunt. Nearly as inviting. Perfectly parted. Still the bitter tang of precum unexpectedly hitting your tongue would surely have you wide awake. If not the taste then certainly the saliva as it pooled in your mouth.  “Hannnnnieeee,” you whimper again, your hand sliding down to your wetness. Sleepy and desperate. Your mouth curls into a pout, hand giving up its journey. A soft disappointed huff blows air from your nostrils.  Nudging the blunt head of his cock at your entrance, he strokes your cheek, gently stirring you. Not enough to fully wake you. “Baby, I’m here. This will be so quick I promise.” He holds your chin in his palm as he fills you in one strong thrust. His painstaking ministrations paying off.

 “JI-” your gasp choking back as you arch up to meet him. Your sex aches, but not from the sudden intrusion. “Fuck- Han-oh!” You reach down to touch yourself, the moment your fingers graze your entrance stretched around him you cum. Hours of dreamy edging releasing over his length, leaving you just as dazed as when you first stirred. A wave of endorphins flooding your brain, your tired head collapsing back into the downy pillow.  “Shh, babe, you can go back to sleep,” Han says as he smooths his hand over your shoulder, holding still with his hips. He can feel your pulse flutter through your walls as you slacken again below him. Ever so gently he pours his weight over you like a blanket, holding some of his weight in his arms. Careful to not jostle you more than he has to he begins to slowly and shallowly thrust against you. More of a grind than a thrust, your bodies barely separating. Rolling his hips as your walls tug at his cock, he’s in heaven. Eyes glazing over he lets his body relax more, more weight coming down on you. He can feel himself fading, angling his torso more to the side of you as to not crush your lungs. His vision darkens and he can feel himself unwillingly slip in to a drowsy darkness as your walls pulse around him. Days of sleeplessness melt away as his body relaxes into you.

 Han’s body is nearly shutting down, like a flashlight with nearly empty batteries he flickers in and out of consciousness. He needs to cum now or he’ll shut off without sweet release. Quickly he realizes once he cums, he’ll be too tired to drag himself off of you.  So he rolls, bringing your thigh over his hip to keep you open to him. Hand cupping your ass he grunts. Two deep thrusts is all it takes for him to spill inside of you. His shoulder falling forward as he dozes off, warm and relaxed.  A warm drip between your thighs jostles you from sleep. Birds are chirping. Your walls clamp immediately to prevent the leaking from getting worse. Groaning you try to roll to the other side, Han’s warm breath tickling your chest. Untangling from him you feel it, him popping free from you, asleep and still semi erect in your heat.  “Hannie I’m still messy,” you whine. “You never clean your toys.” You really should get up and clean off or at least slip some underwear on. Instead you roll to your other side, ass to him and wiggle back expectantly.  “We clean when done-” he murmurs half asleep.

Soooft sleepy boy. I love my soft cuddle boy Han.

[sweet-s0rr0w]

My first Five Faves of the year. It's been A While, I know. I have drafts for others in the pipeline, and then @oknowkiss went and posted two bangers within a couple of weeks and it all went out the window because I just had to go all oknowrec, ya know? Look, whenever I read anything that I ADORE, the first people to hear about it are always my buddies @tackytigerfic and @sitp-recs - and you know I mean it when it's full on caps lock raving DMs - see also @wolfpants' The Hollow and @moonflower-rose's Pissing For England (reclists for both authors hopefully coming soon!) I swear I must have spent a full week going on about the first Elaine fic I read, any day now. I mean, truly, I went through all the emotions with that one: elation at finding such an amazing author, grief at my own inadequacy, anger that it was over - it was a rollercoaster, believe me.

Elaine's turn of phrase is always spot on, her inventiveness in world-building is second to none, and her fics somehow seem to retain this fabulous lightness of tone that keeps things just on the right side of heartbreakingly raw. She's undeniably hugely talented, and now has a fabulous AO3 back-catalogue for you to sink your teeth into, so please waste no more time in checking out her fics!

Read oknowkiss' work here on AO3!

💋 Historians (E, 30k, fake relationship, Gryffindors (and some hangers on), bad skiing, bunk beds, hot tubs, getting together)

Summary: It’s the Dumbledore’s Army Reunion Holiday, and Harry’s found himself in hot water with his friends once again, after telling them he has a boyfriend he definitely does not have. In an attempt to fix things, he’s made it his colleague on Level Nine, Draco Malfoy’s problem too. Featuring a ski chalet in Switzerland, a pair of bunk beds, and an agreement that should’ve been simple, were it not for all the bloody feelings getting in the way.

💋 in between two tall mountains (there's a place they call lonesome) (E, 8.3k, Relic Chaser Harry, researcher Draco, campervans, treasure hunting in Oregon, inappropriately timed wanks)

Summary: In the shadow of a mountain on the Oregon coast, there may or may not lie a shipwreck, on which there may or may not be a magical relic, lost hundreds of years ago. Harry's been tasked with finding it, and Draco is there to take notes, and they're stuck in a campervan pretending to be married, and it's all going to be just fine. That's what Draco's gotten rather good at telling himself, anyway.

💋 any day now (E, 17k, prisoner Draco, Auror trainee Harry, secret codes, a feelings puppet, morally grey everything and everyone)

Summary: Draco supposes he should be grateful. 

The rehabilitation centres were the Minister’s idea, or that’s what the Prophet said anyway. Their stated objective is simple: to provide a safe space for low-tier Death Eaters and high-tier sympathisers to reconsider the entirety of their life choices. All guests–because no one is a prisoner here, the literature brags–are to be provided with shelter, food, clothing, and the guided support of a Mind Healer via a programme they call “ideological restructuring,” which is, of course, mandatory. 

OR: Draco Malfoy considers the circle.

💋 draco malfoy's substitute murder service (E, 11k, curse breaker Harry, various incredible mythological monsters, Christmas)

Summary: When Harry joins the Curse Breakers shortly after his twenty-fifth birthday, he’s surprised to find himself assigned to the Department of Creatures, Cryptids, and Associated Calamities.

OR: the one where Draco goes goblin mode, and Harry has a thing for monsters.

💋The July Tree (E, 52k, Eighth Year, Greenhouse Four, Draco Malfoy does Muggle Scotland, The Who, First Times)

Summary: Neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor hail… nor well-meaning friends, nor questionable communication skills, nor seven years of hating each other’s guts can keep Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy from falling in love.

OR: It’s Eighth Year, and Harry Potter has detention. What else is new? Well, since you asked: Greenhouse Four and the Tree of Life, for a start, and then there’s the new shared Eighth Year common room, and Harry’s sexuality, and these pesky dreams he keeps having about a blond man pushing him into things…

Previous Five Favourite Fic Posts: thestarryknight | vukovich | fwooshy | lq_traintracks (and 10 more) | tackytiger (and microfics) | m0stlyvoid | peachpety | magpie_fngrl | shiftylinguini | onbeinganangel | veelawings | shealwaysreads | loveglowsinthedark | birdsofshore | maesterchill | frayach | graymatters | bixgirl1 (part one/part two | skeptique)

[imperiuswrecked]

For the ask game: 1, 3, 9, 10, and 16 for Doom (whew, that's a lot 😅). Thanks!

Doctor Doom

1. the character everyone gets wrong

What people get wrong about Victor von Doom is when they automatically assume he's a white man, he's not.

3. screenshot or description of the worst take you've seen on tumblr

"Keep Doom Irish"

No lie, it's the worst thing I've ever seen on tumblr. I don't have the original post but it was a couple of years back, I think someone fancasted Cillian Murphy as Doctor Doom or it was a post in response to BossLogic creating a fanmade Cillian Murphy as Doom poster but the phrase "Keep Doom Irish" haunts me.

9. worst part of canon

Valeria skin armor. I hate it and if I could retcon it I would. Do I think Doom murders for power? Yes. Do I think he would kill his first love and wear her skin as armor? No. That kinda stuff is better suited to AUs and not in the main timeline where Victor has his own code of honor and that involves protecting his people, like Valeria Karela.

10. worst part of fanon

Not to say "People who think Doom is white" again so I'm gonna say: IronDoom, the way Tony fans shipped Doom/Tony where Victor is the abusive boyfriend, or the fact that ship even existed. I blame Infamous IronMan comics for that because it tied Doom to Iron Man and that's just a No, from me. lol. Also this isn't so widespread in tumblr fandom but if I ever venture outside my bubble the Doom/Sue fans, like I know why comic bros ship it (self inserting themselves as Doom and wanting to fuck Sue) and I hate it.

16. you can't understand why so many people like this thing (characterization, trope, headcanon, etc)

I think I sort of answered this with number 10 but I'm going to add on: I don't understand why people think Doom is a one note, cliched, mustache twirling villain whose goal is to tie Susan to the railroad tracks and scream "CURSE YOU RICHARDS" while shaking his fist. It just shows they seem stuck in the early 60s characterization and ignore or haven't read anything else. Victor is a complex character and I will never understand people simplifying interesting characters to shove them in a pre made box and then complain that all characters are the same.

[follows-the-bees]

I'm celluloidbroomcloset's anon about SPN fandom. You're very lucky! In my corner of the fandom the fans don't even know Buckleming are two people, think Bobo (BOBO!) is pro-wincest, and are convinced "the writers" have been gaslighting us all along. To these fans there's no such thing as corporate interference, "the writers" hate us and call us crazy, queer coding is just another word for queerbait, and Destiel only exists because of Misha and the fandom. They're on every script release post and deleted scene gifset screaming how dare "the writers" cut this and how dare they call us crazy for seeing Destiel.* "The secret good SPN that lives in my head" is their favorite phrase and calling everything good "the writers" did just a happy accident is their favorite hobby. That bit I said about people saying the writers suck on the scripts they wrote is not hyperbole. I have seen it said, right after going on about how shippy the cut scenes are, far more often than should ever happen.

Maybe it's not fair to paint all of us transplanted SPN fans with the same brush, but I do know some of those same people I fought with over things like the Cas and Crowley "maybe he's your boyfriend" scene or the script-cut scene of Dean spreading Cas's ashes at the windmill are here as well. I am also a fandom old, been here since the beginning, and have been fighting against the nonexistent monolith of "the writers" since about season eight. "The Writers Suck" has been an SPN fandom mantra for a very long time and it does spread to other fandoms SPN fans who shout it have moved into.

You are, again, very lucky and I am glad you've gotten to see some of the best of the SPN fandom. I am not so lucky and have seen all of the worst and it is getting a foothold in OFMD. I don't want it to spread more than it already has.

*"The writers" calling us crazy is entirely made up, twisted from an incident when an executive for WB was bullied off twitter by Destiel fans because he didn't know Destiel was a thing. It led to a hard pushback on Destiel from corporate, which led to the infamous "three straight guys" press releases for season nine, and is the origin of Misha's "you're not crazy" tweet. It had nothing at all to do with "the writers" save for forcing them into even more heavy queer coding and dodging censorship.

Hello!

I will start by saying that I too have seen instances of people blaming the writers, but they have not been the most prominent. So, I know it is a thing. But for the most part, I have seen mainly CW and WB said as the queer censors.

I think our experiences are very different for two reasons: while I watched SPN pretty much from the beginning, I did not join the fandom until after the finale. And I joined SPN twt, which you have to heavily start muting or blocking people. I highly curated my tl, so most people who told me Cas' love confession was platonic or would tell me that I was wrong for saying the finale was bad were not present. Of course, I still get those people coming onto my posts, but not as much.

I joined Tumblr just over a year ago, and I have just started moving over my filmmaking metas.

And living in the trenches of it like you have as everything has been developing, and coming in after, being able to look at SPN as a whole can lead to very different outcomes and experiences.

I did not have to experience live the disagreements, but I have caught up on many of them as well as all the new stuff that has happened after the finale.

I am very confused about what side of the fandom you are on - at first I thought it sounded like the brothers first side, but then you talked about the "good spn that lives in my head" and I have seen that a lot with the Destiel side (to be fair, I have heavily blocked bronlys since I am a TFW fan). I'm not quite sure how someone can think Bobo is pro-wincest. He wrote the second divorce arc and Cas' love confession, tying phrases from as early as Cas' introduction into the speech. And for Dean's side, just like when Mary died the second time, he cries and goes mute (which is what he does when he is overwhelmed emotionally). Sam called him and he didn't pick up, crying on the floor. That shows how much he cares about Cas, he's in so much grief he cannot pick up the phone for Sam.

Ok, moving on. I guess my "side" of the fandom is analytical. I personally study the writers and the filmmaking (cinematography and camerawork) and how those aid in the character and plot development. I am also personally in the middle where I love all of TFW (honestly every character on the show) but also ship Destiel. I can tell you exactly which writers I like (Edlund, Thompson, Carver, Perez, and such) and which I don't (Buckleming - they will always have a weird sexual thing or take Dean back down to S1 basics in their episodes.)

One of my biggest pet peeves in fandom are people blaming writers for decisions that were made later on down the line. And I have pushed back on that numerous times. It makes me sad to know that this is still prevalent and that it is being spread to other fandoms. I can only hope that changes in the future.

I have seen a huge divide in the people I know who are both SPN and OFMD fans. And most of that revolves around Izzy's character. But that's another topic for another day.

I'm trying to remember if I have seen any "blaming" of the writers in the OFMD fandom. I have unfortunately seen some: mainly criticism of DJ and how the ending of S2 went down. I think most of that deals with how you felt about Izzy's death (I've seen several people say it is exactly like Dean's - I personally do not agree with that, yes it has echoes, but Izzy and Dean are entirely different characters and represent entirely different arcs and ethos in the show).

Also used to weaponize the OFMD ending is the "the ending will be satisfying." I could write a whole essay about this, but just like with SPN, a very divided fandom, I've come to see OFMD is also very divided, so no, the finale was not going to be satisfying to everyone. Especially because it is the end of an Act II of III, the famously darkest moment/plotpoint of a story. BUT there was no cliffhanger, there are threads to follow with everyone's story. There is hope and love and joy. And that is "satisfying."

I feel like this is a long response and I apologize if it turned into rambling. I guess that's what happens when you're a writer. Lol.

I completely agree with you. I am worried about blaming the writers gaining a foothold in another fandom. Especially on a show that at every turn has shown how much care they have put into the show. That allows a collaborative environment for the cast and crew. That makes sure not to punch down. And has not made fun of fans and their beliefs and readings of the show (yes, that is a dig at SPN and how they treated fans) but instead embraces them. Samba went to set on days he didn't have to just to take videos for us!! I hope the fandom can embrace the love and hope the show radiates instead of giving into poison.

[separatist-apologist]

hello, i am asking for your thoughts on What Lies Beyond The Veil :)

Thank you for asking. So first of all, remember that Haters Bookclub is for haters only.

I started this book because I wanted the pretty special edition cover and thought- wait, no, read it first otherwise it's just taking up space on your shelves. The first 3-5 chapters are perfectly fine. Standard, predictable KU fantasy imo. Dead parent, a brother protecting a sister, a sprinkling of sexual assault and a protagonist who is not like other girls, which makes her better.

I went in wanting to like this, which is maybe why I'm so frustrated. The books reads like an unpolished first draft. There was absolutely the bare minimum of editing which shows endlessly in the repetition of words/phrases, often in the same dialogue tags which was making me insane. It also felt VERY rushed through most of it, and then slow in the scenes the author wanted to write and I think if she'd even taken a breather after writing and come back like, a week or two later to re-read and make edits, the flow would have been so much nicer.

The internalized misogyny of the main character (Estrella) was unreadable half the time. She has a moment where she's talking about how she's harmed because she didn't want to SEW like the other girls- she wanted to play with BOYS like I'm so sick of authors creating this misogynistic world and instead of having their MC examine the structures that harm ALL women, instead makes their MC hate women for...not fighting hard enough, despite the fact the MC is beaten and assaulted when she does. I saw reviews that MC was a feminist and I'm sorry but slapping masculine coded traits on your MC and refusing to let her think one positive thing about any woman who doesn't also share those characteristics, is no feminism.

The MC spends an inordinate amount of time swearing she's done being abused, pushed around, or told what to do EXCEPT of course when the LI does it. THEY JUST MET and he grabs her face and demands she NEVER lie to him and shes like, "yes daddy" like JESUS CHRIST. She has the personality of a wet mop which is perfect because Caelum wants someone he can walk all over, tell what to do, and sexually harass without impunity. She lets him. But she's a strong woman because despite having Z E R O training as a warrior, is a natural with a sword somehow??? And he respects that, despite respecting absolutely no other boundary she sets, which is how you know its true love.

The twist is so embarrassingly obvious and the only reason the LI doesn't know is because she's too dumb to live, naive, and easily manipulated (perfect for Caelum because that's clearly what he wants out of a relationship). If she'd asked even one question out of this stranger she could have pieced it together. All men want to fuck her, all women want to be her/fuck her boyfriend/hate her, so you know book two has a prophecy around her or something. This is chosen one behavior.

Would I recommend it? No. I finished it because I wanted to see how the reveal was gonna go and I have absolutely zero hope Estrella will hold him accountable for his lies given she's never once held him accountable for ANYTHING ELSE. He'll manipulate and gaslight her into being his wife, which has been the most EVIL THING EVER (gross marriage is for OTHER GIRLS not ME I'm BETTER than them) which will then be totally fine because she did it for the right reasons or whatever nonsense I'm sure the narrative will construct.

Also, it's painfully obvious this author is a fan of ACOTAR. Like. If you read it, you're like- I've seen all this before, sometimes word for word.

[house-of-slayterr]

I just imagined, that Maggie and Y/N got drunk and started to chatter, like girl talk, about top 3 the most handsome men in Gotham, who would you rather..., Bang marry kill etc. Think you could go on with it? :D

Girls Night Out!

Today has been the absolute worst. Not only did I have three floral cancellations, but a spontaneous wedding just had to happen. And the bride was demanding I get 2 days worth of work done in 5 hours. I’d pricked myself on several roses, and the fragile calendula petals kept ripping from their stems. I was about three seconds away from just burning the whole place to the ground with me inside.

“Maggie, what are you still doing here?” My boss asked.

“Wedding, bridzilla, no time.” I mumbled.

“Yikes, want some help?”

“She’ll notice of the work isn’t mine, she’s very picky and if I have to see her cry one more time today, I’m going to shove a bundle of roses down my throat, with thorns still intact.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender and walked away. But just as he reached the door he paused.

“Oh, umm somebody left you something out front. Just make sure to lock up when you’re done ok?”

“Did you see who?”

“Only saw the back of their head as the left, red hair.”

“Fuck.” I muttered. “Ok thanks. I’ll let you know when I’ve locked up for the night. Who gets married at midnight in Gotham anyways?”

“Beats me kid, try and get some rest ok. Maybe take tomorrow off.”

“Thanks.”

By the time I got of work I wanted to slam my head into a wall repeatedly. My hands were shaking from how much I stressed over every little detail on the bouquets. Out of instinct my feet carried me to Y/N’s place. I didn’t really wanna go back to one of Oswald’s moods at the moment. So I found myself knocking at the assassins door. I was surprised when I heard laughter on the other side. She looked down at me when she open the door.

“Oh Maggie, what a pleasant surprise.”

Her smirk was anything but comforting at the moment. She was planning something. Before I could even ask what she was up to, she dragged me into her house. That’s when I saw a familiar face.

“Tabby, what are you doing here?”

It was clear from the bottle littered around that these two were already halfway on their way to being drunk. And I kind of envied that.

“Y/N was having a bad day, one that killing people wouldn’t fix. So we’re having a girls evening? Care to join us Bunny?”

I rolled my eyes at the nickname, but quickly walked over. Y/N sat beside Tabitha on the couch, and I gently lifted Tabitha’s hands, sitting on her lap.

“There is a whole couch you know?”

“You’re comfier, Mon Cher.” I flirted.

Y/N raised her brow at the two of this.

“Not that I’m not enjoying the show, because I certainly am, but when did this happen?” Y/N mused.

“You remember a while back what I said when I dealt with the whole Fish issue?���

“Yeah… wait-“

“Omg Y/N! You really thought I was sleeping with Tabitha’s boyfriend and she didn’t know about it? That’s totally against girl code!”

Tabitha watched the two of us in amusement, playing with my hair. She slowly undid the right braid in my hair, unknowing realising the tension from my scalp. I wasn’t even really aware it was there until it suddenly wasn’t, I instinctively leaned into her touch. It was nice to feel wanted, even if it was nothing serious. Tabitha always knew how to make me feel better.

“We’ll you surprised us with a lot of things that day Kitten, how was I supposed to know you were at turning a new leaf?”

She sipped her wine with a smirk on her face.

“That’s phrase is usually used when someone suddenly chooses to have morals, not be a horn wrecking whore.”

“To each their own. By the way, what the hell are you wearing?”

“What’s wrong with my outfit?”

“Darling, hate to break it to you, but in this town, you might as well be dressed as a nun.” Tabitha clarified.

I looked down at my outfit in shame. I didn’t think it was that bad, but then again, I was in the company of two of the most dangerously beautiful people in the whole city. I let out an exasperated sigh, letting my face lull back into the crook of Tabitha’s neck.

“And what exactly do you want me to do about that?” I questioned.

“Strip.” Y/N all but commanded.

“Excuse-moi?”

“You heard me, then Tabby and I will choice your outfit for this evening. Come on, it will be fun. Don’t you agree Tigress?”

“I think that’s a great idea.”

I glared at the two of them. But got up from my seat anyways.

“You know I hate the two do you, like on a personal level right?”

“Join the club.” They said in sync.

“Fine, but I’m not drunk enough for this. Also there’s like no music, what the hell am I supposed to strip to? The sound of my heart beat?”

“I can fix both of those issue Mon Cherie, just give me a moment.”

Y/N left to raid her liquor cabinet. And I stared at Tabitha in bewilderment.

“I can’t believe I’m actually going to do this.”

“Like it’s the craziest thing you’ve done Bunny? What happens at girls night, stays at girls night.”

“Wow, how comforting.” I glared.

Y/N came back with a drink that looked nearly deadly.

“What the hell is that?” I stopped her.

“Remember how I told you you shouldn’t ask questions you don’t want the answers too…” she smirked at me. “Now open wide.”

“Definitely not.”

“Don’t be such a worry wort, it’s not poisoned if that’s what your thinking.”

“Yeah that’s not my main concern right now”

Tabitha got up from her spot on the couch and approached me from behind.

“What are you doing?”

“Helping you loosen up Bunny, you seem stressed. You probably need this more than we do.”

I took a deep breath, closing my eyes and choosing to trust these two women with my life. A mistake very few people survive. I felt one of Tabby’s hands snack around my waist, pulling me closer to her, and the other made it’s way around my neck. Most people would be terrified, but I had to fight everything in me not to whimper in that moment. She forced my head back.

“Now be a good girl and open your mouth bunny”

I did as I was told without hesitation. Y/N placed her hand on my chin and slowly poured the alcohol down my throat. It burned, like my throat was actually melting, but I endured it until the glass was empty. Then suddenly they let go off me, and this time I couldn’t help but let a sad little whine escape.

“See, it wasn’t that bad now was it?” Tabitha comforted.

“Look at you, so submissive and needy Kitten. It’s honestly adorable.” Y/N teased.

“You try being in my position and tell me how much you like it.” I snapped back.

But her ever present smirk just grew.

“Now I’m sure you know the rules for a proper strip tease.”

“Yes, I’m not five.”

“The better the show, the better the outfit you’ll earn.”

Y/N walked over to her speaker and pressed play on the song she chose. I was so used to her music taste when she was with Victor, I never even thought about what she might listen to on her own. As the song picked up I set my pace, making sure to make it as slow and painful for them as I possibly could. If they were gonna torture me, two could play at that game.

As I got more into it as the Al him finally started to set in, I playfully slapped Tabitha’s hand away as she tried to grab me.

“You should know that you can’t touch the Dancers Tabby.”

She rolled her eyes and growled playfully.

“You’re no fun.”

“On the contrary my love, I’m having the best time right now.” I smirked.

When the song was over I was just in my underwear, cause there would be no point in taking it off. At least not without a tip.

“Who the hell were you trying to impress wearing those?” Y/N teased.

“Maybe I wear my nice lingerie all the time? Who says I wear it for anybody?”

She raised her brow at me skeptically.

“I’m with Y/N on this one, you totally wore those cause you were hoping someone would see them.”

“We’ll now someone has. Now do I get clothes now or am I just gonna walk around half naked the rest of the night?”

“I wouldn’t mind”. Tabitha purred.

I threw a pillow at her face.

“And then I’d have to tell Butch we had fun without him. And that wouldn’t be fair now would it?”

Y/N grabbed my hand and dragged me over to her room before rummaging through her closet. I looked around noticing all the odd things she had in her room. Some of them I didn’t want to ask, cause I’m pretty sure my imagination could figure it out. I mean the handcuffs on the bed were pretty self explanatory. Even I wasn’t that boring, but the other stuff, I’d like to remain blissfully unaware.

She handed me a oversized black shirt and what looked to be a corset. I knew better than to ask her where the pants were, it was clear I wasn’t getting more to put on. I shot her a playful glare and asked her to turn around.

“Really, you practically give us both a lap dance but you want me to turn around so you can change?”

“My bra isn’t gonna look good with this outfit ok. Leave me alone.”

She playfully wiggled her fingers before covering her eyes. I quickly pulled on the outfit, and I had to admit, I looked hot.

“Wait, why have I never seen you wear this?”

She shrugged.

“You know how Oswald is, if I showed up to work dressed like that, he’d make me walk the streets.”

She laughed at her own joke.

“Oh great, so I get to dress like a hooker instead.”

“You look nice, stop fretting. I mean Tabitha is wearing all black leather and always carries her whip on her. And I just dress like a more sophisticated hooker. Now go show your girl your outfit so we can get approval.”

I blushed furiously.

“She’s not mine and you know that.”

“Whatever you say Kitten.”

Tabitha’s eyes widened when she looked at me. I gave her a worried glance. Did it look bad? Maybe I wasn’t the right kind of girl to wear something like this. I mean knowing Y/N this simple outfit was probably more expensive than my old apartment bill.

“What, is something wrong with it?”

“I Just- wow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen your boobs look that nice.”

I had to take a deep breath to calm myself. It was kinda funny when I thought about it. It was clear to everyone that she was originally gonna say something else, but I let it slide. Y/N was practically cackling at the encounter.

“I think it makes her legs look nicer, the fishnets really complete the look.” Y/N complimented.

“We’ll now I feel both ridiculously over and under dressed. I don’t know how you managed to do it.”

I sat back down, gratefully taking the wine glass Tabitha offered me.

“So, what’s next on the girls night agenda?”

“Would could play Fuck, Marry, Kill?” Y/N suggested.

“Please tell me you mean the regular sorority way and not some strange Gotham version of the game.”

“What, are you chicken?”

“No, I’d just rather not be arrested for manslaughter or public voyeurism tonight thank you very much.”

“Kid’s got a point, besides you know how Gotham weddings are…” Tabitha concluded.

“Fine, I’ll start. Edward, Harvey, Butch.” She grinned Wickedly at the two of us.

“Easy, Kill Harvey, Fuck Riddle-Ed and Marry Butch.” Tabitha said.

“I know a trap when I see one Y/N I’m not stupid.”

“It’s fine, I won’t be offended.” Tabitha assured.

“Fine, umm Marry Butch I guess, but by default that means I get you as my wife, kill Edward and Kiss Harvey.”

“Woah Woah Woah, kiss Harvey?”

“I mean I’ve already done it so… besides I don’t think Edward would appreciate me trying to kiss him.”

“You’ve kissed Harvey?”

“I was trying to make Jim jealous, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“And you think Edward would appreciate you trying to kill him?”

“He’d think it was admirable at best. Could be worse ways to die. Now, Victor, Lee, Ivy.” I said.

Y/N glared at me, but answered quicker than I thought.

“We’ll I already made the mistake of Marrying Victor once, so kill him, marry Lee and kiss Ivy.”

I rolled my eyes, god she was so stubborn. She’s have to get over this eventually.

“Um, I’m gonna have to agree with Y/N on the Vic front. Besides I don’t want her to shot me for my answer. But I’d Marry Ivy, kiss Lee. I don’t know how you could stand to marry her, she seems insufferable.”

“Thank you!”

“Don’t thank me just yet bunny. Alfred, Me… Jim.”

“Really?”

“Answer the question Maggie!” Y/N taunted.

“Toi en premier, la garce!”

“Fun. Fuck the butler, kiss the assassin, kill the boy toy.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I Hope you know I hate both of you.”

“You keep saying that, yet you keep coming back for more.”

“What can I say, I’m a masochist.”

“Not that that revelation isn’t exiting my dear, but answer the question.”

“Or what?”

Tabitha quickly flipped me over, hovering above me on the couch, a knife suddenly in her hand, pressed against my throat.

“Do it, I’ll just enjoy it!” I smirked.

She rolled her eyes.

“Answer.”

I brought my knee up between her leg, catching her off guard and flipping her. I threw the knife across the room, lodging it in the wall, and pulled her into a rough kiss. Then a pulled away with a smirk.

“Marry Alfred, kill Jim.”

I reached for my glass once more and finished it off.

“Maybe we should get you drunk more often Kitten, you’re fun like this.”

“Alfred, really?” Tabitha tested.

I could hear the pout in her voice from me stopping our make out session. But that’s what she gets for being a massive tease all night.

“I mean have you seen that guy work his magic in the kitchen, with the way her used those hands… besides he would actually treat me right.”

Y/N faked wiping tears from her eyes.

“They grow up so fast.”

I’d never heard Tabitha laugh so hard in my entire life. I playfully punched Y/N in the arm.

“Enough of this, I have a new game, Truth or Dare!” I announced.

“Darling we both know nobody here is picking truth.”

“Perfect. Tabitha, I dare you to finish what’s left of that whiskey bottle.”

“Easy! Done!”

We watched as she walked over to the bottle? Flicking off the cap.

“Chug! Chug! Chug!” Y/N and I chanted in sync.

It was funny really, if anyone saw us right now. A strange bunch of people doing a weird assortment of things. She did a little bow after and returned to the couch.

“Ok you’re turn Bunny, I dare you to steal the knife hidden under Y/N’s skirt!”

“We’ll how is that fair? If she knows I’m gonna steal it she won’t let it happen!”

“Not my problem.”

“Fine, what’s the deadline.”

“End of the night.”

“Deal!”

“Hate to break it to you Kitten but you’re gonna lose this dare.”

“To bad, so sad, moving on. Y/N I dare you to go make out with the first person you see when we go outside.”

“Oh we’re taking things outside now?”

“You got me all dressed up, I’m not wasting those outfit.”

“Fine, to the club we go.”

We all made our way out of her apartment. The Gotham streets were surprisingly empty tonight. We listened to Tabitha babble about how annoying her older brother was. And honestly I’m glad I’ve never had to meet him, he sounds miserable. When we made it to the club, the bouncer stood outside. I gave Y/N a knowing look. I watched as she approached the man, I had to admit, she flirted pretty effortlessly. I don’t know why I was surprised. And as she kissed him, Tabitha and I snuck past into the club.

“That worked better than I thought.” I smirked.

“She’s gonna hate you for that you know? Man wasn’t really her type.”

“Not if I pay for drinks tonight.”

“Smart move.”

I hid behind Tabitha as Y/N came toward me. She chuckled at my action.

“Don’t worry Kitten, I’m giving you a free pass this once. But pick a stupid dare like that again and I’ll stab you.”

I grabbed some shots for the girls and awaited the dare that was sure to punish me.

“Maggie, I dare you to start a bar fight.”

My eyes widened.

“What did I ever do to the two of you that you hate me so much?” I grumbled.

“Aww sweetheart, we don’t hate you. You just unfortunately befriended two sadists. You’re mistake really.” Tabitha jeered.

I scanned the crowd, trying my best to pick someone that wouldn’t be able to do too much damage. Did Y/N really want to get kicked out already? This was Gotham, half these club goers probably snuck some sort of weapon in here.

“Stop stalling.” Y/N warned.

“I’m not stalling, I’m being analytical. Can’t continue this game if I’m dead.”

Tabitha spun me around, and pointed.

“How about him.”

She pushed me forward before I could even protest. I glared back at the two of them, but smiled to myself when I realised this might actually be fun. I called out a random name, making myself sound drunker than I actually was. The guy looked at me confused but understood I was trying to talk to him. I took note of the girl dancing close to him, and could see they Ken’s each other.

“I can’t believe you could do that to me, you bastard. How could you cheat on me with my own sister!” I lied.

Before he could even open his mouth, I slapped him across the face as hard as I could. It was kind of satisfying, I couldn’t lie. Then just as planned, the girl next to him stopped dancing and turned to him.

“You lying man whore, you told me you were single!” She shoved him back, pushing him into another unsuspecting crowd goer.

And the dominos fell into place. I shrunk back, slinking back over to we’re my two friends stood with giant smiles plastered on their faces.

“Nicely done”. Y/N complimented.

“I honestly thought you would chicken out.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence Tabs, really feeling the love.”

I placed my hand over my heart, offended.

“We should probably get out of here, before the security realises who started this.”

But it was too late. I heard footsteps approaching and I grabbed Tabitha’s hand, running with her out of the club. We squeezed through bodies and dodge rogue punches being thrown. And I left Y/N in our wake to deal with the consequences. She thrived in chaos, so I really didn’t feel that bad. I mean this was the outcome of her dare after all. As we ran into the ally, I stopped to catch my breath. I let out a chuckle, holding my side in pain from how hard I was laughing.

“You two are gonna be the death of me.”

Tabitha laughed along with me.

“I can’t believe you left her back there!”

“What, she can handle herself. Nobody in that place stood a chance, even if she’s drunk.”

I flinched when I heard a gunshot go off. But I knew who it belonged to. Shit really just got real.

“Should we run before she makes it outside?”

“Definitely!”

This time Tabitha dragged me after her. She had much more experience in running away from and angry Y/N, and neither of us felt like getting shit this evening. I cursed under my breath when I heard the familiar sound of the police siren, coming towards us. I slammed Tabitha into the wall and pulled her into another heated kiss, hoping the car would just pass us.

“Maggie?” A voice called.

I cursed under my breath.

“Hi Harvey, fancy seeing you here.”

When I turned around I wasn’t surprised to see Jim getting out of the car as well.

“Umm, this is Tabitha, not sure if you guys have met.” I introduced awkwardly.

“We have, she’s been in handcuffs many times.” Jim deadpanned.

“Interesting…”

“Are you dru-“

We were all cut off by the click of a gun. Harvey and Jim were quick to draw theirs and aim it at the assailant. Tabitha armed herself with her whip and I just stood there unphased, not bothering to turn around.

“Nk, no. Why would I be drunk?”

“Maggie you do realise Oswald’s but woman is currently pointing a gun at your head right?” Harvey cut in.

“Is she now? That’s fascinating.”

“Did you drug her?” Jim accused Tabitha.

She simply shot him a glare.

“Why the hell would I do that?”

“We’ll first she’s hanging out with you of all people, and secondly, she is far too calm right now.”

“She’s not gonna shoot me silly.” I giggled.

Harvey looked at me like I just drop kicked a baby.

“Did you hit your head?” He asked, concern lacing his tone.

“Yes, did you Maggie? Cause you sound far to confident right now.” Y/N warned.

Another gun click was heard.

“Gilzean? What are you doing here?” Jim asked.

“Drop the gun, both of you!” Harvey started to sound annoyed.

I smiled as Butch pointed his gun at Y/N. So he did receive my text.

“Just came to get my girl. Hello Maggie.”

I wiggled my fingers in a little wave. I have Tabitha a quick kiss on the cheek and pushed her towards him. She almost instantly leaned into his side. Yet once again we were interrupted by another gun joining the party.

“Don’t make me brainwash you again Butch, or this time I’ll make it the couples special” victors cold voice threatened.

“Put the gun down Zsasz!” Jim command.

I had to admit, his authoritative tone was getting me a bit excited in my half drunken state.

“What are you doing here Victor, I thought you were out of town”. Y/N questioned coldly, not even turning to look at him.

“A little birdie told me you needed my help.”

He turned his eyes to me, and it’s seemed so did everyone else’s in that ally.

“Hi Vic.” I fidgeted with my fingers, not bothering to make eye contact with anyone.

“I’m going to shoot you twice!” Y/N seethed.

“We’ll that’s a lame threat, it’s not like the second shot is gonna magically hurt more.”

I’d finally turned around to meet Y/N’s fierce gaze.

“Yeah sweetness, I’m gonna have to agree with the kid, you can do better than that.”

Without hesitation, she turned her gun to the bald hitman. Effectively cutting out the chain and allowing Butch and Tabitha to slink away.

“Have fun you two!” I shouted after them as they left.

“Should we stop them?” Harvey whispered to Jim.

“You should probably take cover actually” I advised.

Bullets we’re quickly being shot off as the couple fought like old times, just like I had planned. I knew Vic would come when I texted him. And I knew Y/N would be too stubborn to let him walk away unscathed. Jim had pulled me with him to hide behind the cover of the cop car.

“What the hell is going on here?”

“Well Mommy and Daddy were giving each other the silent treatment so I made them talk.” I explained.

I giggled when both boys stared at me with wide eyes. Harvey’s mouth kept opening like he was trying to say something, but he couldn’t bring himself to actually speak a coherent sentence. I stood up from behind the car to check to see how things were going.

“Maggie what are you-“

I cut him off by sneaking out from behind the car. The gun shots had stopped but nobody was dumb enough to think that meant the fighting has stopped. They’d simply run out of bullets. Y/N had Victor pinned against the wall, stuck in a choke hold. But he was still looking at her her like she was the most precious thing in the world. I put a finger on my lip telling him to remain quiet.

I snuck up behind Y/N and with one swift motion I stole the knife from her grater. I held it up in the air in triumph.

“Ha, I win!” I shouted.

Y/N turned to me me comically slow, eye practically twitching. I quickly tucked the knife into the cleavage between my corset. Carful not to cut my skin, at least not too deeply.

“Nice outfit Maggie.” Victor complimented.

He had no idea what was going on, but he was beyond amused anyways.

“I’m just gonna let you two work this out.”

I gestured between them, before running off and crawling into the back seat of the cop car. Jim hopped into the passenger seat and Harvey got in the drivers seat.

“They may be out of bullets but I would still drive if I were you.”

When we were far enough away that we were sure neither of the assassins would fallow, Jim turned to look at me. I could tell it was the first time that evening that he was really noticing my outfit, his eyes trailed over my body in a frantic way. But he quickly shook the thought out of his head.

“Mind explaining what the hell is actually going on. I thought I told you to stop hanging out with Y/N, she’s bad news.”

I let out a vicious cackle.

“Told me, who died and made you king?”

“I could always throw you in jail, public intoxication, and we did just witness you steal that knife. Right Harvey?”

“That is true.”

“Ooo, handcuffs and a free trip to the integration room with you Jimmy, don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Harvey slammed on the breaks and turned around to look at me.

“No, absolutely jot. If you two are gonna start flirting you’re both walking back to the station.”

I held up my hands in mock surrender.

“Either way you’re not gonna get me to talk boys. What happens on girls night, stays between us girls. Thems the rules, I don’t wanna find out what happens if I break em.”

The rest of the ride back to the station was silent.

An: omg was this so much fun to write. Jim has no idea what he got himself into. And poor Harvey is starting to see his favourite citizen is falling to the dark side. He would be Devastated if he lost “one of the good ones” thanks for the idea @keffirinne hope it was worth the wait! Maggie was really the definition of bi panic at the start there.

Tag: @flaysthings @howl-fantasies

[newronantic]

HAIKYUU!! FICS

so this is mostly gonna be for myself to keep track of my favorite fics i’ve read, but hey if anyone else wants to check some of these out then thats great

MHA one is up!!

ill keep updating this as i read more, feel free to send me suggestions!

KageHina

plain as day - emleewrites

In which Hinata has spent the better part of the last twenty years putting his heart and soul into volleyball, hoping to be recognised, to be noticed. And yet he spends all these years also thinking of himself as rather plain, beyond his lack of height and bright hair, and not really noticeable at all.

In Transit - Mysecretfanmoments

Hinata finds that he likes standing close to Kageyama on buses and trains. It doesn't mean anything--probably. Maybe.

I like the way your clothes smell - Mysecretfanmoments

Power outages, ghost stories, and the presence of a certain orange-haired boy lead to bad decision-making on Tobio's part. He'd planned to keep his crush a secret; the universe has other plans.

Chaotic Neutral - akaraka

Who's this Kageyama person on twitter and is he gay?

1: Anonymous: see title

2: Anonymous: curry king

3: Anonymous >> 1: It's the curry king, obviously. Have you been using his memes this whole time without knowing who he was?

4: Anonymous: 1) Hinata Shouyou's boyfriend 2) See above

jellyfish - mysterytwin

At the beginning of his last year at Karasuno High School, Hinata Shouyou starts a list and calls it THINGS TO DO BEFORE GRADUATION, all with high hopes that he’ll be able to complete it before his time runs out.

TsukkiYama

Try This On For Size - CloudMonsta

A lot changed for Yamaguchi Tadashi over the course of high school. He started trying on dresses, for one.

The Great Yamaguchi-Tsukishima Split (Capitalization Necessary) - WyYeuw

"But no, the current situation isn’t normal. This situation requires the full attention of the team.

No, what’s really concerning this time around, is that Yamaguchi is the one ignoring Tsukishima.”

Yamaguchi confesses. Tsukishima fucks up—like, really fucks up. The volleyball club notices and loses a week’s worth of practice.

IwaOi

Terrarium - sausaged

He's practically a professional at being proactive (lies, lies, and lies when it comes to Iwaizumi).

At this point, is he really happy with just staying best friends forever? Will he be writing journals and collecting rocks forever (he will, he knows, but that is aside from the point)?

Can he really tag his Instagram photos with #YOLO if he doesn't actually put that phrase into practice?

A story about Oikawa Tooru, Iwaizumi Hajime, plants, and rocks.

They Say it Rain Diamonds on Jupiter - exsao

"You're in love with him."

Hajime considers denying it. He considers deliberately choking on his drink to express surprise, to create a distraction by spitting onto the man in front of him's pristine white shirt and causing a commotion. Instead, he swallows his mouthful of soda and heaves a small sigh once his mouth is free.

"Yeah," he says instead.

He's never been good at lying, anyway.

bait and switch - Stylographic_Blue_Rhapsody

Oikawa's university volleyball team knows he's in a long-distance relationship with someone from high school. They imagine a sweet-faced girl that matches his sarcasm with patience. They are so incredibly wrong.

my heart is where it’s always been - foreverautumn

Iwaizumi places his phone down carefully.

Oikawa. Pining after someone. There’s no way.

(Iwaizumi knows he shouldn’t care who Oikawa might have feelings for, but within the span of three days, it’s somehow the only thing he can think about.)

KuroKen

Beautiful People Will Ruin Your Life - todxrxki

Kuroo Tetsurou runs a private Twitter account where he's constantly tweeting about how desperately in love he is with Kozume Kenma. Little does he know that Kenma sees all the tweets and keeps referencing the account in an attempt to get Kuroo to confess to him. / Or, five times Kuroo didn't notice Kenma hinting about his private Twitter account, and one time he finally did.

the things that get caught in the valves of his heart - ghostpot

Emotional competency is not exactly Kuroo's strong suit. Kenma finds it quite amusing.

Accidentally In Love - todxrxki

Kuroo frowns, but then slowly, the corners of his mouth lift up into a smirk. "Well, if it's so unbelievable, why don't we give it a try?"

Kenma glances up at him curiously. "What do you mean?"

"Let's do the 36 questions to fall in love," Kuroo says, still smirking stupidly. "If we don't fall in love, then you're right, it's bullshit. But if we do somehow..." Kuroo waggles his eyebrows. "Then I win." / Kuroo decides he and Kenma should do the 36 questions to fall in love as a joke, but they both start to realize they might actually be in love already.

the galaxy is endless (i thought we were, too) - cosmogony

TW: major character death

Kuroken AU where the last words your soulmate will say to you appear on your skin when you turn 16, and how Kenma and Kuroo learn what this means over the course of their lives

even if you’re ahead for a bit, i will catch up - ghostpot

Kuroo first confesses when they're sticky-fingered, wide-eyed kids, and subsequently every day after that. Kenma takes a while to come around.

you’re the brake lines failing (as my car swerves off the freeway) - ghostpot

Kenma thinks that Kuroo looks ugly with his head bent against the arm of the couch like that. Then Kenma thinks that he wants to marry him, and is promptly thrown into the 5 stages of grief.

teach me the way home - icespyders

“Don’t go far off, not even for a day, because —

because — I don’t know how to say it: a day is long

and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station

when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.”

Kuroo and Kenma grow up in transit.

in this universe - crossbelladonna

Living with Kuroo is sometimes, just like this. It always feels surreal like he's living half a world and a lot of things rush by too quickly. Kenma feels like he'd watched him come and go in a blink, eyes wide and wordless as the shared space went snug in an instant and far larger in the next.

All this, and a glass of water.

Beginning’s End - todxrxki

Somehow over the course of Kenma's lifetime, he’s never really had an opportunity to miss Kuroo. He’s always been there. Even when they went to different schools, Kuroo would meet him afterwards so they could walk home together, shoulders brushing, Kuroo occasionally taking the opportunity to guide him when his nose was buried in the newest video game. The thought of Kuroo not being there anymore is uncomfortable, to say the least. / Kozume Kenma's third year and the changes the year brings in himself and his relationship with Kuroo Tetsurou.

All I Want for Christmas is You - todxrxki

“Kuro,” he says. “You’re a single guy.”

“Yeah, great, thanks for pointing that out.”

“And my parents already know you, plus they already know you like guys or whatever so… what if you pretended to be my date for Christmas dinner?” / In which Kenma recruits his housemate and best friend Kuroo to be his fake date for Christmas.

BokuAka

just to miss the sun - rosevtea

Everything begins to implode when MSBY Jackals outside hitter Bokuto Koutarou crashes Akaashi's livestream.

Operation BokuAka - kazzydolyn

After spending two whole years watching Bokuto and Akaashi pine for one another, the rest of the Fukuroudani Volleyball Club has had enough. When everyone meets up for a reunion dinner, the team decides to play matchmaker and finally get the two of them together. Unfortunately, their plan starts to fall apart when they discover that Akaashi is already dating someone. And apparently so is Bokuto. What a strange coincidence.

bitter - silvercistern

He accepted his classmate's chocolates gracefully, then declared his lack of interest with as much dignity as he could muster. She deserved the courtesy. At least she'd acknowledged that Valentine's Day was all about her, and not about him in the slightest.

Because if any of these girls had taken the time to actually get to know him, they’d quickly realize something even more important than his lack of interest in girls.

And that was that Akaashi hated sweets.

In Another Life - LittleLuxray

TW: major character death

Sleeping didn't come as easy as it used to. Bokuto knew this, and now Akaashi did, too.

The hospital AU that no body asked for, but that I took upon myself to write.

120% yes - pissedofsandwich

TOKYO FRANCHISE COMING SOON @OnigiriMiya

in reply to @bokkun_official 

Congratulations! In celebration of your historic engagement, please DM us so we can send you a free membership code with a 25% discount on every fourth purchase!

Kissing Ace - karasunovolleygays

It happens right after training camp.

Akaashi Keiji has a secret he has guarded since he was a child. He won’t go so far as to call it a fear, but more of an aspect of himself of which he is horribly mortified. No one on the team knows about it, and Akaashi does his best to keep it that way.

But years of dodging hugs and casual contact come to naught in the blink of an eye and the swipe of a hand.

daisy rings and frivolous things (i am deliriously in love with you) - gabstar

Akaashi Keiji is in love. Bokuto Koutarou is a star. Everyone on Fukurodani has a gambling problem.

SakuAtsu

The MSBY Black Jackals Read Thirst Tweets - isaksara (syailendra)

Sakusa’s eyes are very dark naturally, sucking in all surrounding rays of light and crushing them in his pupils. For an athlete, he is rather pale. His lips look very pink in comparison. Atsumu is suddenly catastrophically aware that in this instance, ‘accent’ is a euphemism. “Good enough for your Olympic-size ego, Miya?”

(In which Atsumu realizes that he is attracted to Sakusa Kiyoomi in the most inconvenient way possible.)

A Liar’s Truth - internetpistol

In which Sakusa Kiyoomi is raised to believe that gay people go to hell but then takes one look at Miya Atsumu and thinks, then why the hell did God make them so fucking hot?

[lesbianmarrow]

cisco ramon from cw’s the flash is my new boyfriend i also think he is gay. at first i mostly thought of him being gay as a joke but then i kept thinking about it and it’s no longer a joke. he has bobby drake disorder of being so jokey and silly to cover up the fact that he has something to cover up. he talks about how he’s into women but has a conspicuous lack of serious love interests compared to his friends barry and caitlin and iris. that fucking gay pied piper dude has a hate boner for him (i’m sorry to use the phrase hate boner but i cant think of a good alternative) and the two of them are positioned as foils and he seems to get under cisco’s skin in a way nobody else can. his parents disapprove of him and see him as a disappointment for no good reason. his ONE love interest so far (i’m on season 2) is this older femme fatale woman which is honestly really gay of him the same way that dating polaris is gay. he has prophetic visions which is female coded AND he’s super afraid of his powers and wants really badly to keep them a secret and for nobody else to find out about them (sound familiar?). MOST IMPORTANTLY he can’t do the salmon ladder in the arrowcave and as we all know the salmon ladder is a metaphor for having sex with women. i rest my case. 

[tanyawritesstories]

Better Than Cake | Fives x Reader

I know it's been a long time since I published. I only have a few fics left that I've written a long time ago that I will publish before I quit writing on here to focus on my novel. I'm sure I'll pick up writing fanfiction at some point or just publish short stuff in the meantime. But enjoy this delicious fic 😋

Word count: 3k

Warnings: NSFW, smut, oral (F receiving), phone sex, mutual masterbation, reader's birthday, Fives is a menace

•••

You were in the middle of sipping your caf when a message from your boyfriend came through. He was currently somewhere in the outer rim, him and Echo had been sent on a specific stealth mission. He hated not being home for your birthday but that was life in the GAR. You were out having a birthday breakfast with a few friends who you also planned on spending the rest of the day with. They knew Fives wasn’t home to be with you and planned everything out so you wouldn’t be lonely. You clicked the button to display on the side of your holodisk. Fives had sent a message as well a video.

Happy birthday to my precious girl. :) I’m sorry I can’t be home with you so I made this video for you instead. Careful, the eels are out. I should be home in hopefully a few rotations. I love you, cyar’ika. - Fives

You smiled at his message, the one line making you giggle. ‘The eels are out’ was your and Fives’ code phrase for: I’m sending you a sexual picture or video, don’t open it until you’re alone. The silliness of it always made you laugh though. You put the holodisk away. You would wait until tonight when you were home by yourself to watch the video he sent you. Before you read his message you assumed it would be something cute like him singing happy birthday to you or something like that. But now you knew the content was much more R-rated than that, and you were excited to see what it was.

Fives never half-assed anything, especially your birthday presents. Last year he somehow managed to confiscate an entire suit of red Coruscant Guard armor, which he then changed into and proceeded to roleplay the fantasy you had about being arrested and “interrogated” by him. You had lost count of how many orgasms you had that night. You weren’t sure what had spurred him to make your presents sexual experiences he could give you, but you were sure it had something to do with the fact that he didn’t have credits lying around to spend on you. So he got creative. Not that you were complaining one bit. Sex with Fives was always mind blowing but he seemed to up the antics on your birthday. Sadly he couldn’t do that this year, so his present was whatever was in that video.

The rest of your day went by fast and exciting. After breakfast your friends took you shopping, you weren’t a huge fan of just going from store to store looking at stuff you would never be able to afford but your friends made it fun. You almost got kicked out when one of your friends found a 212th themed bikini and promptly said with a straight face: “can you imagine Commander Cody wearing this?” Which caused all six of you to burst out laughing super loud. They only took you to a couple stores, one being a lingerie store where they said their birthday present to you was they’d pay for anything you wanted to buy. Naturally you picked a couple sets you thought Fives would like as well as some comfy looking night slips.

It was around eleven at night when you finally got home, slightly buzzed from the liquor you consumed with your friends after you saw a holofilm. You had had a good day even if through most of it your mind was dwelling on what was in that video. Fives would send it to you in the morning, he knew that would make you think about it for the rest of the day. He was teasing you even without being there! You unpacked your purchases and set your dinner leftovers in the fridge. You were about to head into the refresher to take a nice relaxing bath when your holodisk lit up with another message.

You home yet, love? You really should watch that video as soon as you get the chance ;) - Fives

This little shit. You were starting to think he was monitoring you somehow. You grabbed the holodisk and sent him back a quick ‘whatever you say, dear’ message before heading into the bedroom. You made sure to draw the shaders over the viewports before sitting on the bed and opening the video. It started with Fives close to the camera, having just pressed record. He was wearing only his blacks and you could see his armor stacked neatly off to the side. It appeared that he had gotten his own room on this mission, you knew he had to have enjoyed that.

"Hey baby," he smiled, stepping a couple feet away so you could see all of him. "When I'm recording this for you it's currently midnight the day before your birthday but by the time you see it it will be your birthday."

The camera was set at about your height so you were getting your usual view of him. You noticed the bed behind him and how the covers had been pulled off. "In a couple minutes I'll move the camera so you'll get a better angle of me, but I've got to set up the rules first," he said. Leave it to Fives to want rules in a recording you were watching, you weren’t even with him and he was bossing you around. “I’m sorry I’m missing your birthday right now, I know you’ll tell me not to worry about it but still. So babe, this is my birthday present to you. I’ve thought and planned long and hard about this, so I hope you enjoy it.”

You watched as Fives pulled his shirt off over his head and tossed it somewhere. He picked the camera up and moved it over by the bed. He set the stand high enough that you were looking down on the entire bed. You wondered what he was going to do as he laid down and got comfortable. “First rule: no matter how tempting it is, do not touch yourself unless I tell you to,” he said. Your mouth dropped open, well that’s unfair. “If you aren’t already laying back on your bed, go lay back, get comfy.”

You scooted back and used a couple pillows to prop yourself up. “I’m thinking about the last time we fucked, just before I left on mission..” he trailed off. Images flashed through your head of the night before Fives left. You could feel heat blossom between your legs from the thought. His left arm rested above his head and the other moved from his stomach down, down until it was between his legs. He slowly began palming himself, light gasps escaping his lips. You watched intently and could see the outline of his dick through his blacks as he hardened.

He teased himself over his pants for as long as he could. “Alright baby, you ready to see?” His voice was husky and deep and oh so sexy. He grabbed the waistband of his blacks and slowly pulled them down. “Look, nothing underneath, just the way you like,” he said. You could feel saliva pooling in your mouth as Fives pulled his bottoms off and you saw he didn’t have any briefs on underneath them. He took his cock in hand and slowly pumped it a couple times, he thumbed his slit, smearing around the precum that leaked out. You heard yourself whine as you watched him pleasure himself.

“Just thinking about you makes me so hard,” he groaned. “Can’t wait to get back to you, so I can fuck your tight pussy.” You bit your lip, your thighs rubbing together, why had he made that rule about no touching when he was going to make it this difficult. Fives moaned, the delicious noise going straight to your cunt. “Baby,” he moaned, “take your shirt off, and your bra. I’m imagining those beautiful tits…” You set your holodisk on the bed beside you and hurriedly whisked off your shirt and bra.

Fives pumped himself quicker, letting out grunts and groans in between the intense dirty talking he was doing. “I bet you’re dripping, yeah? I bet you’re completely soaked through the panties you’re wearing,” he growled. “Take off your pants, find out how wet you are. But don’t you dare touch yourself.” He squeezed his tip a little, his eyes had since closed and his breathing sped up. You slipped your pants off and saw the dark patch on your panties, you whimpered. Why did he have to torture you like this?

“Soaked aren’t you? I figured as much,” he said breathily. “I bet you wondered what happened to the panties you wore before I left? I ones I made you cum in before I ate you out.” Come to think of it, you had noticed that they had gone missing, but you assumed they were somewhere in the laundry. Fives reached under his pillow and pulled out the panties you had worn that night. Your mouth dropped open and you could feel more slick seep out of you as he lifted them to his mouth and licked. This sneaky little bastard.

“They still taste like you,” he chuckled. His hand was speeding up, jerking himself while he mouthed at your panties. “I’m close..” You cursed out loud, trying your damnedest to not touch yourself. “Alright,” he breathed, “Panties off, now.” You’d never taken any item of clothing off faster. Lying bare on your bed you watched your boyfriend draw closer and closer to his release. He took your panties into his other hand, the fabric providing a new feeling on his cock. “Fuck!” He shouted. “Touch yourself now, babe. Rub that pretty little clit for me.”

Your hand shot down between your legs, immediately finding your sopping wet center. You swirled your fingers around your clit in tight harsh circles, moaning along with your boyfriend. “C’mon darling, get yourself off with me. I’m going to cum before you-” He was cut off by his orgasm and you watched as he gripped himself tight, ropes of cum jettisoning out and onto his chest. He moaned loud and you whimpered, sliding two fingers inside. He panted, eyes still closed, as he came down from his orgasm. He cleaned the cum off his chest with your panties, an action that made you moan.

“Let me help you reach your peak, baby. Close your eyes and listen to my voice,” he instructed. You let your eyes flutter closed as you listened to Fives’ deep and sexy voice guide your actions. “Imagine it’s my fingers, baby, and my tongue sliding through your folds.” You threw your head back and let out a high pitched moan. “If you wanna cum you better listen, keep those eyes closed. Do you want my cock in you right now, baby girl?” You moaned out a ‘yes’ not even caring that he wasn’t there, he made it feel like he was.

“You’re desperate for me aren’t you?” He said. His voice seemed to have changed the way it sounded, it was more clear somehow. It was probably just a glitch in the camera's mic. “You would do anything to have me there with you, wouldn’t you?” You found yourself moaning ‘yes’ over and over as your legs started shaking. “Keep your eyes closed,” he whispered. His voice sounded so close. Had your holodisk shifted closer to you on the bed?

A hand wrapped around your ankle and you screamed. Your eyes flew open and both hands flew to cover your mouth. Fives stood at the end of the bed, your ankle in his hand and a smug smirk on his face. “Screaming for me already?” No wonder he had sounded so close. “Fives!” You scooted yourself off the end of the bed and wrapped your arms around him, crushing him in a hug. He was wearing only his comfy sleep pants that you had gotten for him. Your breasts pressed into his bare chest and he radiated heat. “How-when did you get back?”

“Four hours ago,” he answered. “Echo and I hurried our mission along so I could be home. Happy birthday my love.” You gave him a quick and passionate kiss. “I love you.” Fives took your hand, the one you had been using to pleasure yourself, and stuck your fingers in his mouth; sucking your slick off of them. “Can I give you the rest of your birthday present now?” You smirked and nodded, letting him push you back on the bed. You pushed yourself up so your back was resting on the pillows again. Fives slid his pants off, revealing his impressive erection. You bit your lip as you watched him crawl up the bed and settle on his stomach between your legs.

He placed kisses on your inner thighs, nipping and sucking on the flesh. You whined as he got closer to your center, finally parting your folds and licking a broad stripe up your cunt. After that, he dove in. You gasped loudly as Fives devoured you, his tongue circling and sucking on your clit. His beard scratched and scraped across your skin but you enjoyed the pain that came with pleasure. His two fingers teased your opening before dipping inside. He fingered you slowly but ate you out fast. Your hand wove through his hair and nudged his head closer, even though he was already buried in your pussy.

Fives groaned at your taste, lapping at the juices dribbling out as he pumped his fingers in you. He’d had sweets that didn’t taste as good as you. He sped up the pace of his fingers, curling them and hearing you almost scream with pleasure. He scraped his teeth across your clit and your hips bucked into his face. You could feel him smirk against your folds. “You getting close, baby girl?” You could only nod as Fives continued to ram his fingers against your pleasure point. He sucked your clit into his mouth, letting his teeth graze it as he pulled away. That was enough to shove your body over the edge. You threw your head back, nearly hitting the headboard as waves of ecstasy rolled through your body.

Fives worked you through it, stopping when he knew you were getting overstimulated. He gave you time, watching lovingly as you came down from your high; slicking up his cock with your juices while he waited. You opened your eyes and saw him waiting, cock in hand, slowly stroking it as if to keep himself occupied. “It’s your birthday, baby. How do you want me?” He asked. You patted the bed, urging him to lie down next to you. You removed the pillows keeping you upright and laid down, Fives joining you. You faced each other lying on your sides, sharing one pillow with him, your face inches away from his.

“Just like this, nice and slow,” you answered him. He groaned at how good it sounded. Your lips connected, deep and passionate. There was nothing fast in your motions, you wanted this to last. Fives pulled your body tight to his, lifting your leg over his hips and lining his cock up with your entrance. You wrapped your arms around his back and held him close, placing gentle kisses on his neck. You gasped as he slid inside you all the way. Fives grunted, your warm heat enveloping him, he closed his eyes and kissed your forehead. You whimpered as he began moving, stretching you out perfectly with his slow thrusts.

“Ah, fuck you feel good, baby,” he whispered. You laid your head against his chest, hearing his accelerated heartbeat and you held him tighter. “You feel good too, Fives. I love the way you’re stretching me right now, ahh, you are so good…” you said quietly. Fives smiled, kissing your head, “I love you, baby.” Times like this were rare, normally sex was always rushed at least a little bit. Whether it was because he was due on mission any time or because of your job. It was heaven to be able to lie with no space in between you, going slow, able to feel everything intimately.

Fives increased his pace ever so slightly, brushing against that spot inside you again, always going deep. You were able to feel every inch of him, every vein brushing your insides and drawing you closer to another orgasm. “Fives I’m...I’m close,” you whispered. He let out a breathy moan, feeling you tighten even more around him. “M-me too, mesh’la. Can I go a little faster?” You nodded against his chest as he started pistoning his hips into yours. Moans fell from your lips and your nails dug into his back. Fives managed to reach a hand between the both of you and stroked over your clit.

You came after a few seconds, biting lightly on Fives’ neck. He groaned deep as you tightened hard around him and with a few more thrusts he released his seed inside your warm, tight walls. You held each other close, your bodies sticking together with sweat and chests pressing together as you regained your breath. You leaned up a little and kissed Fives on the jaw. “I love you, Fives,” you said into his neck. He sighed happily and kissed your forehead before leaning down and kissing your nose. “I love you too, Y/N.” You both laid in silence for a few minutes before Fives breathily laughed. “What is it?” You asked, looking up at him. “I just realized I didn’t get you a cake...” he said.

You giggled. “That’s fine, you didn’t need to get me a cake. This was better.” You nestled your head into his chest, getting comfy as you felt him soften inside you. He hummed, smiling and wiggling to get comfortable. He rolled onto his back, bringing you with him so you were laying on top of his chest. He looked down at you and brushed hair out of your face. “True,” he said, “your pussy tastes sweeter than cake anyways.” You gawked at him and laughed. “Fives!”

[welllpthisishappening]

Emma Swan, Olympian is not a phrase Emma Swan, totally normal person, ever expected to hear.

But she never expected one night at a party hosted by her college's baseball team to change her entire life, either. So, it should really come as no surprise that Emma Swan, Olympian, is now something of international sensation. Or that her husband has become a bit of a social media star.

——— Rating: Teen with sports feelings Word Count: 7.5K AN: As promised and because of who I am as a person, I wrote Olympic fic. I can neither confirm nor deny that there is an actual plot here, but there is a surplus of fluff and sports-based feelings. So, that’s something. Thanks to the Detroit Lions, specifically, for posting this Tweet and to my husband who is very much aware of what content I want the internet to provide me. Operation: Make Killian a New York Yankee as often as possible continues.

|| Read on Ao3 if that’s your jam ||

———

No one told her the questions would start to blur together.

That would require media training, Emma imagines. And no one is giving a first-time Olympian in a sport that only a handful of people marginally believe warrants notice from the IOC any sort of media training. She got, like, an orientation packet. With a lopsided staple in the top left corner. On her commercial flight. That she booked herself.

Twenty-plus hours crammed into a seat that she’s only a little concerned did permanent damage to her right knee, with a meal that was so chewy Emma was about four seconds and one exasperated, entirely exhausted exhale from asking if it was, in fact, made of plastic.

Mostly, the staple is what’s still managing to frustrate her. As frustrated as she can be at the Olympics. No one is supposed to be frustrated at the Olympics. Not really. Not while experiencing the pinnacle of athletic achievement, the calluses on Emma’s fingertips some sort of badge of honor that she’s wearing with at least a modicum of national pride, and everything is fine.

Her qualifying time was absurd. Where absurd is a compliment and very close to a record she’s suddenly determined to shatter.

So, she’s alone.

Big deal. So is everyone else. This Olympics, at least. Plus, Killian wouldn’t have been able to come no matter what the state of the world was. Even so, the quiet stands are admittedly weird. All these empty arenas with empty seats, the distinct lack of a roaring crowd no more obvious than when the world’s best athletes step to the line. Staring at the climbing wall in front of her four hours earlier, Emma swore she could hear every single beat of her heart echo between her ears.

And that’s—well, solitude is par for the course with an adolescence like hers, half-filled suitcases and brand-new faces in brand-new towns, but she’d gotten used to one town, and the town is actually a city, and the city has long since felt like home, and her fingers reach for the rings dangling above her Team USA t-shirt. They did give her an absolute shit ton of t-shirts, so that was nice.

Except—

Something keeps tugging. Nagging at the back of Emma’s consciousness, almost like she’s forgotten her keys on that flea market table they found in Park Slope two weeks after they moved into the apartment. Because for as well-versed Emma may be in that singular sort of existence, she’s also well-removed from wanting it, and at least three of her knuckles crack. Curling around her rings.

Muscles in her cheeks stretch, another nod and quick blink to avoid the threat of blinding via camera flashes. Someone really should have told her about this. She probably should have assumed. Human interest is the driving force of at least three-quarters of the stories in sports, and Emma’s not used to being the story, per se, but even she has to admit most of hers makes for a good one and they are still asking her questions.

Emma blinks again. Hopes she doesn’t look like a serial killer or the weird blonde, slightly sweaty cousin of the Joker, her smile starting to feel as if it’s painted on her face. She nods. Hums. Listens to questions that are startling in their tonal similarity to Charlie Brown’s teacher, and Emma wonders if Charlie Brown ever got a different teacher or what the school structure of the Peanuts’ universe is and, God, how old was Charlie Brown, even? To withstand that sort of consistent bullying. Was Linus the same age as him? No, right? How long did he carry the blanket around? Was Linus the same age as Sally? Why didn’t the red-headed girl with curly hair get a name?

She nearly falls out of her chair.

That might make the front page of several blogs. Possibly even the back page of a New York tab.

Careful to keep her feet on the ground, Emma lifts her head, directing her eyes toward the source of a question that must have been asked several times if the note of amusement mixing with deadline-based exasperation is anything to go by. Her smile definitely makes her look like a serial killer.

“Sorry, sorry,” Emma mumbles, and none of the oxygen she does her best to inhales makes it even close to her lungs. “I, uh—what was the question?”

The reporter grimaces.

“I wanted to know if you’d seen the video of your husband yet.”

Ice runs down her spine. Every single drop of wholly disgusting sweat falling in rivulets down either one of her cheeks freezes. Oxygen disappears from the room. Or so Emma assumes, what with the crushing feeling pushing down on her lungs and whatnot.

Her mind whirs. Races through possibilities and pitfalls with a speed that would be impressive if Emma weren’t already so close to that record, and she is going to break that record. Somehow she manages not to fall, though. From her chair or the metaphorical climbing wall in her brain, ignoring the sudden dryness of her mouth and the increasing size of her tongue.

Her nails are going to leave little half-moon creases in her palm.

“I don’t—” she starts, and eventually she will wish she was more articulate. For what turns out to be a very nice story.

Standing up, the reporter’s seat creaks as she moves toward the desk they deposited Emma behind after even. Several Olympic officials move to block her, but Emma shakes her head again, and she’s not exactly high-priority on the list of defensible athletes, anyway. So, none of them flinch when the reporter slides a phone closer to Emma, her crazed thoughts briefly lingering on how many phones a reporter could possibly need, but then her eyes drop, and she’s not sure if her ears can actually perk, but Emma certainly tries because she hears him yelling before she sees him.

Her smile shifts.

And the cameras flash again.

It starts, as with most things in Emma’s collegiate life, because Anna demands it.

She’s only half-listening, so Emma can never be entirely sure what it was, exactly, she was agreeing to, but in her experience, the agreement doesn’t matter so much as the action, and her roommate’s younger sister is unstoppable when it comes to action. So, Emma is dimly aware of a plan. Something about the baseball house and that one left fielder is in a handful of her classes.

David—something.

He’s got a girlfriend, too. A nice one. Who always smells like sugar when she slides into the seat next to David whatever his last name is, sitting in the row in front of Emma during their Tuesday-Thursday statistics class.

Emma hates statistics.

She doesn’t hate Anna, though. Or her roommate, one of the better college-based surprises, and either Anna has magic or Elsa is an enormous pushover because somehow all three of them are ready at the same time, and the walk to the baseball house isn’t far.

First-year players guard the door — passing out color-coded wristbands that absolutely do not do their job because it takes about six seconds of well-meaning flirting and batted eyelashes between Anna and a mountain of muscle masquerading as the team’s starting catcher to get them inside. With purple wristbands and two tickets for jungle juice instead of the keg.

“Victory,” Anna cries, twisting through the crowd. Half of it is already teetering on the edge of drunk, the rest free-falling into the pit of imminent hangovers, and Emma isn’t sure she’d classify their drinks as a victory, but it’s definitely better than watered-down beer.

And it doesn’t take long, really. By Emma’s shaky count, it’s not even a half-hour before the muscle — who introduces himself as Kristoff, and really is pretty cute, actually — returns, standing unnaturally close to Anna’s left shoulder, furtive glances shared out of the corners of their eyes. Emma rolls hers. Elsa’s appear perpetually stuck to the ceiling. It looks oddly sticky up there.

“Go,” Elsa says, and it’s not an instruction. Barely counts as more than a whisper, really. Anna lights up all the same. Like an alcohol-fueled Christmas tree.

Who does not need telling more than once.

Hands reach and smiles widen, Kristoff mumbling something that sounds like it was nice to meet you before he’s following Anna back to the beer pong table, leaving Elsa and Emma standing in the middle of a sea of raging hormones. All of which want to be there way more than either one of them does.

“Well,” Elsa mutters, “that was polite.”

Emma snickers into her glass. A mostly empty glass. That’s surprising. “Got that going for him.” “Plus, his on-base is nuts this year.”

“Say that again.” “On-base percentage,” Elsa repeats, making sure to do it slowly for maximum sarcastic emphasis. Emma’s eyes are going to fall out. That won’t end well. There are too many shuffling feet in this room.

“What does that mean?” “How often he gets on base.” Opening her mouth does nothing. Closing it does even less. Elsa looks overjoyed. “I know things,” she shrugs, “and I’m pretty positive Anna and Kristoff have been not-so-secretly dating since the start of the semester, so—” “You stalked your sister’s secret boyfriend?” “Stalk’s a very dirty word, don’t you think? No, no, there was no stalking. There was light research. One Google search and a single click to the team’s roster, and now I know he’s from Minnesota, too.” “Awfully convenient for the romance of the century.” Humming, Elsa takes a larger-than-usual sip before scrunching her nose in displeasure. At her empty cup. Emma has no idea how they ended up with empty cups so quickly. Suddenly the baseball house feels a bit like a time warp. Enter and drink and find the love of your life. Or something like that.

“I got next,” Emma says, ignoring Elsa’s laugh because she is not the sort of person who says things like that. It’s this house. This place. With its music and its happiness, and she’s not really a sports person. Can only marginally understand the joy of watching other people accomplish something. She has no idea what on-base percentage is.

Still.

Her feet move. Fingers curl over the rim of red solo cups, like the most cliché version of her college self. Her drinks get refilled. And it’s just as Emma’s about to let herself wonder if, maybe, sports aren’t all that bad and might even possess a bit of inherent romanticism, she slams into something.

Someone, more like.

Taller than her, he has to peer down his nose to glare at Emma. That’s fair. They’re both far more damp than they were ten seconds before. Some of that moisture ensures that the hem of his shirt sticks to his stomach. A very flat stomach. That draws Emma’s eyes because she’s human and slightly intoxicated, and it takes quite a lot more than she’s willing to admit to lift her chin, but then she’s glad she does. Even with the understandable glare.

“Shit,” she breathes, “your eyes are stupid blue.”

He narrows them. She hates that. Which is about all it takes for her to get royally pissed off, too.

“Can you pay attention to where you’re walking?”

The stupidly blue eyes blink. Darken a shade, like all his frustration is centered directly around his pupils, and the shirt he’s wearing is team-branded. Another baseball player, then.

“You ran into me!” Oh, Oh. Well, that sucks. He’s got a good voice, too. Eyes and voice and the few strands of hair that fall toward those eyes when he continues to glare at Emma likely aren’t supposed to make her stomach flip.

It’s the alcohol’s fault.

Or sports. Like, in general.

“Because you take up so much space,” Emma snarls He leans forward. Looms, really. Over her and around her, smelling like punch and body wash. It’s gross and absolutely wonderful. “Gotta pick a lane, love. Either I ran into you, or I was in the way.”

“It can definitely be both and there is nothing resembling love here.”

“So I can see. You have a name, wrecking ball?” “My shoes are never going to unstick from this floor.” To his credit, he does waver. His lips twist — which makes it all too obvious how much Emma is staring at his lips, but, seriously, the alcohol. Plus, it’s so hot in this house she can barely think straight. She wonders where he buys his body wash. He smells better than he should in this house. So, it's clear he considers. Ponders, even. Until his hands dart out and those hands are somehow warmer than every person in this house combined, heat scorching through Emma’s t-shirt as he lifts her off the ground.

Only to deposit her approximately fourteen inches to her left.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” “Look,” he grins, “you’re unstuck.” “Bastard!” “Eh, not technically.” “What?” “Not technically a bastard. Orphan, I suppose. But that’s kind of a mood ruiner, don’t you think?”

Emma’s fish impression is really going great. The grin becomes a smirk. Her stomach refuses to stay still. “Is there a mood to ruin?” “Might be if you tell me your name.”

Emma wavers, that time. Considers and ponders. Weighs the pros and cons while laughter drifts past her ears, consummate collegiate experiences that she’s only ever let herself be passably jealous of. A dark-haired girl’s talking to Elsa in the opposite corner.

And the hand hanging in front of her wiggles its fingers.

It’s still ridiculously warm when she grabs it. “Emma Swan.” “Killian Jones.”

Anna’s secret relationship becomes a real relationship no less than sixteen hours following what Elsa begins to call the Drink Incident.

And they become—

Baseball people.

Becoming baseball people is not bad. Not really. Emma likes the baseball team. She understands what WHIP is, now. Kristoff adores Anna, so that’s good. David, who does, in fact, have a last name, continues to be as nice as assumed, and his girlfriend sort of quasi adopts Emma. Mary Margaret Blanchard brims with positivity and an innate sort of joy that would usually annoy Emma, but most of that joy also serves as a direct counter to the snark that Killian Jones appears flush with. So, it’s something of a wash, really.

Plus, he’s a very sore Monopoly loser.

And Emma finds it endlessly entertaining.

“Stop that,” he grunts, glaring at the board with the sort of force Emma’s become accustomed to in the last few months, while she taps on the space in front of her, “I know how many spots it is.” Emma smiles. “So move, then.” “I’ll be bankrupt.” “Capitalism does that.” “Tell me more about capitalism, Swan.”

She doesn’t startle, so there’s that. Not much else, though. Not when a noticeable bit of equally familiar heat skitters down her spine. Her head tilts. His head remains frustratingly still, staring at the board like the spaces will change or Mary Margaret will tear down some of her hotels on Marvin Gardens.

Neither thing happens.

The heat pools. At the small of her back, inching dangerously close to that space between her hips, like it’s trying to tether her to this spot and this moment and its people. Baseball people. People who so clearly care about everything so much that even the cynic in Emma can appreciate it. Plus, they’re all ridiculously competitive.

David had to take a walk when Mary Margaret bankrupt him earlier.

“That’s about the extent of my capitalism knowledge,” Emma admits with a shrug, “I sucked at economics.” Pulling his gaze away from the board, Emma’s less prepared for the force behind Killian’s eyes than she was for the appearance of a nickname that might not warrant the title. It’s just her name, after all. But it sounds like more than that. Sinks under her skin with alarming ease, the precise tone of it wrapping its way around a variety of internal organs until they’re all beating at the same tempo and— “Move my piece for me.”

Kristoff groans. Mary Margaret chuckles. Elsa looks far too sure of herself. Knows everything, indeed.

And it’s not really a command, but there’s that same sense of something that found its way into the sound of Emma’s name and Killian’s voice, and he catches her by surprise. On a variety of levels. His fingers jump the moment hers reach out, all heat and an alarming size difference, his brows lifting when she turns her head.

“You’re taking this game way too seriously, you know,” Emma says. What she doesn’t say is more important, though. Because they’re not friends, really. They’re—acquaintances. Some kind of appropriate metaphor regarding a planet’s many moons and the tendency of those moons to orbit something far bigger than them. But they like each other, too. As much as they dance and twist, do their best to avoid getting hit in the batter’s box, Emma’s more comfortable bantering with him than just about anyone she’s ever met, a challenge in every conversation, and she’s rather loath to realize she’s memorized the different ways the blue in his eyes flash.

Now it feels a bit like a spotlight.

“Matter of pride, Swan.” “Is it just?” If there are other people laying on their stomachs in that living room, half-empty glasses by their hands and equipment stacked in various corners, Emma forgets about them. Quickly. Immediately. Killian doesn’t move his fingers.

He nods.

And Mary Marget only kind of gloats when she bankrupts him.

She dances when she wins, though.

It’s embarrassing. It’s absolutely, goddamn wonderful.

Realizing that baseball is a game of statistics ruins kind of Emma’s day. It makes Killian laugh. Her favorite sort of laugh. Where he throws his head back, an arm around his middle, and his shoulders shaking. Those same strands of hair she noticed that first night fall back toward lidded eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting in an angle Emma is sure she could determine if she just didn’t hate math so much, and it takes about four seconds, her head tilting back and forth twice and one swipe of her tongue to lean forward on the couch they're sharing, tilt her head up and press her lips to his.

Press is a vast understatement.

Crash, more like.

A bases-clearing double into the left-field gap.

She knows so many baseball terms now, it’s ridiculous.

It’s because she keeps going to games. With Anna. Without Anna. With Elsa. Without Elsa. With Mary Margaret every single time. And it creeps on so slowly, she’s practically a Jane Austen heroine, but then Emma finds she cares as much as everyone else. Screams herself hoarse at every crack of the bat. Jumps and fist bumps with startling regularity. Experiences the flutter of butterflies in her flip-prone stomach before ninth-inning rallies.

She memorizes statistics. Killian’s statistics, especially.

Because the Draft is a week away, and the nerves rolling off him are even more potent than his body wash. Bought in bulk from a locally-owned company, she learns.

Killian hates capitalism, too.

Which is only part of the reason she likes him, but right now all of the reason is centered around how it feels as if the world is shifting on its axis and what, precisely, he is capable of with his tongue. Quite a lot if this first time at bat is anything to believe.

Emma laughs.

Joy bubbles from the very center of her, pushing at the seam of her lips, and it’s not much of a seam when her mouth is open to accommodate tongue, but it’s enough of a sound that Killian pulls back. No glare. Definitely eyebrow movement, though.

“That’s not the best confidence boost, you know.” “I’m straddling you,” Emma counters, nodding toward the knees on either side of his, and she has no idea when her fingers found his hair. It’s very soft.

“How did that happen?” “What was that about confidence?”

Dropping his head, she gets a different sort of laugh, one that’s just as potent in its ability to settle into her bloodstream and the empty spaces around her heart, and sports have turned her into a sap. “I like you a lot,” Killian murmurs. Emma’s heart explodes. Metaphorically speaking.

“Good.” “Expand on that, for me.” She pinches his side, almost prepared for the way it leaves him bucking beneath her. Less prepared for the mutual groan it causes. Killian’s eyes widen. “I like you a lot,” Emma repeats, and his arms tighten, and her heart knits itself back together, and the second time through the kissing order is even better.

It starts, as with most things in Emma’s nearly-adult life, because Anna demands it.

“I just think it’ll be fun,” Anna says, not for the first time. And, not for the first time, she ignores the pointed look Emma and Elsa exchange. Elsa’s lips have all but disappeared behind her teeth “Think about it,” Anna continues, “we need something to do before the game, anyway. This way we’re—you know, staying active.” Emma’s eyebrows jump. Fly. Soar into her hairline where the level of her disbelief sits, all too aware of the ring hanging around her neck.

A Draft Day gift. As much as a family heirloom can be a gift. But Killian claimed it was good luck, his brother’s ring, because turns out that snark is at least a partial product of a wholly depressing childhood, and Emma supposes there’s something to be said for common ground. Understanding, too. Stories shared over weeks that turned to months that turned to years and seasons in the minors, and it absolutely figures Killian’s Major League debut is happening in Cincinnati. Where Kristoff plays.

It’s ridiculous how in love with him she is.

Killian. Not Kristoff.

Anna is still talking. “There’s nothing else to do in Cincinnati,” she reasons, which seems unfair to the city itself but not entirely untrue, and even the concept of chili on spaghetti grosses Emma out. “Also,” Anna adds, sounding as if she’s reached the final bullet point on her list of possible arguments, “I’ve got a Groupon deal for this place.”

Elsa blinks. “I didn’t realize Groupon was even still a thing.” “Surprise!”

Emma’s laugh isn’t entirely honest, but her sigh of acceptance is and—

Turns out she’s pretty good at it.

Goddamn fantastic, actually.

At rock climbing. Indoor rock climbing. Her feet push her up the wall with ease, the steady ache in her arms welcome and wonderful and a slew of other alliterative adjectives. That leave Killian grinning like a maniac, but it’s been a weird and equally wonderful day, without a hit, but two walks, so that ups the on-base, and Emma’s really, seriously in love with him.

“I don’t know what it was,” she says, preening just a bit under Killian’s stare. Hotel lighting casts shadows on his cheeks, slumped as he is against every pillow they could find. Even the ones in the closet. He’s not supposed to be in here for much longer, both of them aware of the team-ordained curfew hanging over them, but the pre-game nerves are long gone. Replaced instead with exhilaration and endorphins, the kind that could win Elle Woods a headline-making case. “But,” Emma continues, “I just kept moving, and the guy said it was, like, a course record. Is course the right word, you think?” Killian lifts a shoulder. Even as it’s covered in ice and tape. The play he made at third is going to show on loop. On TV. In Emma’s memory. She’s never yelled that loud before.

People took pictures.

And then she cried. Like a giant sap.

“This is your show, Swan,” Killian chuckles, pride infusing the words. As if she’s the one who deserves the pride today. It’s entirely possible she cried for multiple minutes after that play. They definitely showed that on the YES Network. Mary Margaret texted her no less than forty-seven times.

“I was really fast.” Killian hums, fingers fluttering enough to make it clear he wants her closer. Emma doesn’t argue. They’re a mess of limbs and mouths and that tongue thing they’ve collectively gotten better at giving and receiving over the years, hands that warm with the sort of confidence borne of repetition. Some joke about BP and finding your swing.

“Plus,” he says, a soft laugh at Emma’s noise of displeasure when talking means far less kissing, “becoming a rock climbing savant means more upper-body work, and you know how I love your arms.” Guffawing the way Emma does is not particularly romantic. Doesn’t matter. The sound comes, and the joy remains, a steady stream pumping through all her extremities and clouding her thoughts. In the best way possible. Before Killian, Emma didn’t know this could be that. Fun and easy, not quite simple, but something she’s willing to work for. Athletes are notoriously determined, after all.

Part of her wonders if a proclivity to rock climbing makes her an athlete, too.

“Please,” she says, laughter clinging to the letters even as she finds herself moved directly over Killian’s outstretched legs, “provide, in detail, everything you enjoy about my arms.” “I didn’t say enjoy.” “Were you misquoted, Jones?” His eyes flash. Glow, honestly. At her and because of her and athletes also know how to work their opponents. Goad them into making mistakes. Something about a pitcher’s duel and a battle in the box. Where the box is this bed. And Emma’s winning.

“I love your arms,” Killian says. Dragging his mouth against the column of her throat leaves goosebumps on Emma’s skin. Her back arches. His hand flattens. The compliments continue. Turn into promises. Guarantees. Of a future that’s spread out at their feet now, if only they reach for it.

Turns out Emma’s pretty good at reaching for things. When she wants them.

“This isn’t, like, free-scale, though, is it?”

Her heart cannot be expected to handle much more of this.

“Don’t worry,” Emma says, “all proper safety precautions were taken. Plus, I wouldn’t fall off the wall.”

Killian’s expression shutters. Not in any of that frustration Emma so clearly understood when his shirt was damp, and her shoes were unsalvagable despite his best efforts to get the school’s equipment manager to dry-clean them. No, it’s—it’s something big and important and unspoken, and Emma pulls his hand up. To rest directly over the rink that’s still tucked beneath her t-shirt.

His t-shirt.

It’s got his last number on it, at least.

“Would you catch me if I fell off the wall?” He doesn’t answer at first. Doesn’t mention the absurdity of a question that does not make sense, but those literal and metaphorical clock hands are ticking, and if they don’t replace his ice soon, they’re going to destroy these sheets. “Every single time, Swan.” “Right back at you.”

Killian doesn’t miss curfew, but it’s pretty close.

And Emma wakes up to twelve texts with links for indoor rock climbing gyms in the greater New York City area.

“Holy shit, this is hard.”

Grunting more than laughing, Emma’s fingers curl around the rock in front of her. Chalk cakes itself on the pads of those fingers, stuck beneath her nails and, somehow, the bend of her elbow. “Are you not an All-Star?” she asks, glancing at Killian.

“I do not see how that factors into this at all.”

“Huh, weird.” “Suspiciously sounds like an accusation.” “Weird,” Emma repeats. They’re halfway up a wall only one of them is really supposed to be on, but the other person several feet below them is faring far worse than the pair of them combined, so, that takes precedence in her mind. “He knows a lot more curse words than I realized.” “He’s showing off,” Killian grumbles, forehead resting against the wall.

Will Scarlet hasn’t moved in five minutes. Possibly six. Maybe a round ten. He's much better at second base.

“I cannot feel my arms,” he calls, and Emma’s laugh is better that time. Purer, somehow. As if happiness can actually have a sound. Even happiness that comes with sweat on her temple and a noticeable ache in her triceps and she sort of loves this.

Sort of is a vast understatement.

“Showing off, huh?” Emma asks. She finds her next footfall with ease, happiness blooming into confidence that’s become nearly consistent these days and weeks and years. It does not take her long to feel the stare that’s lingering on her. On her ass, specifically.

She glances over her shoulder. To find her fiancé smiling at her. And staring at her ass.

“Can I help you, love?” “Whatcha doing?” “Ogling you, obviously.” “Forearms feeling good?” He nods. Sort of. There’s a distinct slope to the back of his neck and more sweat on his brown than Emma’s. Not as much as Scarlet’s, probably. “Fantastic,” Killian drawls, “keep going, Swan, someone’s got to show us how to do it.” “Try not to fall off the wall, huh? Last thing we need is the might of the Yankees front office coming after us.” “I don’t think I can move my hands,” Will shouts. Killian doesn’t move. It’s impressive forearm strength. Blushing on the wall is not usually how Emma’s days go.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Killian promises, and Emma moves. He follows her. Up the wall and to the top, a quick brush of his lips against her shoulder that leaves Scarlet cursing even more, despite his presence on the floor, but then there’s lemon-flavored water and exceptionally soft towels and Emma’s caught a bit off guard by the question.

“Are there leagues for this?” Will asks. “Because you should probably be winning things for this.” Emma blinks. Considers. Wonders. Turns to Killian.

He’s still smiling. Broadly, in fact.

“We could look.” They do. They fill out paperwork. Buy fancy climbing shoes that Emma claims cost too much, but Killian’s a pushover and even more stubborn and she wins the first race she signs up for.

Plus, ten more after that.

Emma climbs indoor rock walls. Killian hits home runs. Occasionally they do these things simultaneously, and it usually leads to her nearly falling off the wall because everyone in her Tribeca gym knows what it means when WFAN is playing on the speakers.

Sometimes they shout out John Sterling’s home run call with him.

She gets better. He gets better.

They do end up destroying sheets in various hotels across the country. For various reasons. Not all of them post-game or ice related. There are games and events. Wins and losses. Back page spreads that Emma frames and hangs on their apartment walls, right next to other, smaller frames, with the same smiling faces who, once upon a time, called a sticky-floored baseball house home, and Killian’s fingers are warm in hers when the tears prick her eyes at Anna and Kristoff’s wedding.

There are stories. Think pieces and hot takes on a variety of drive-time radio shows. Those are all about Killian, though. He’s the athlete. The true one, some stories say. It’s impressive what Emma does, they admit, but it’s a hobby, and she’s got a grown-up career, anyway. So, she’s got more climbing records than she knew ever existed, but she’s not doing it for press, and both Mary Margaret and Anna weep at her and Killian’s wedding.

She wears her ring on a chain next to her other one when she climbs.

Every time Killian notices them hanging there, Emma swears, his eyes brighten. It’s her favorite thing in the whole, goddamn world.

“What is this?” He doesn’t answer. Just holds the sheet of paper he must have printed out in the clubhouse because they certainly don’t have a printer at home, and one of the edges is bent. Like he had to fit it in his back pocket.

“Going the stoic route, huh?” Emma quips, but there’s a noticeable hitch in her pulse. One that’s been there for weeks. Since the rumblings started, and the rumors began, whispers of possibility, and first-ever has a very nice ring to it. One side of Killian’s mouth tugs up. “Oh, that’s not fair.” “I’d like the record to show, that the only reason I didn’t know immediately was because I was in the trainer’s room, so—” “What were you in the trainer’s room for?” Killian ignores her. Well, sort of. His eyes shift, and his gaze holds, and Emma knows. Right down in the marrow of her. What the paper is and how Scarlet is the one who printed it out, but she’s even more confident Killian carried it home, and that does something funny to her entire worldview. Widens it and minimizes it at the same time, focusing on this and them and the possibility that creates.

In an athletic sort of way.

“My shoulder’s kind of sore.” Emma scoffs. “Oh, that’s pointed.” “I’m sure your shoulders are fine. Golden, even.’ “This is not your best work, you know that?” “Look at the paper.” “Did you fold it yourself?” “And then took a car back home. You really didn’t see yet?” Emma shakes her head. He knows the answer, too. He’s the one with the Google alert, after all. Because she’s still a bit of a pessimist at heart and an adult with a real job, and this is too much and abjectly terrifying, and the last thing she expects is for Killian to crouch in front of her.

One of his knees cracks.

“Don’t,” he warns, even as Emma does her best to swallow her laugh. Warm hands land on her thighs, a quiet steadiness that helps the state of her pulse and makes the possibility of the unknown a little less overwhelming. The lines crossing the center of the paper are absurdly straight. “You’re going to go.” “Oh, that sounded like a decree.” “A suggestion.” “A strong one.” “Mmhm, with the utmost confidence.” Emma makes an impressive sound. “Who’s doing your media training? What an impressive vocabulary you’ve got on you.” “Ready and willing to use it in a persuasive manner.” “Keep talking like that, and you won’t have to.” The smirk disappears. Evolves into a grin that is only Emma’s and only appears in moments like this, support clinging to air molecules and the ends of hair that constantly seems determined to fall into Killian’s eyes. “Passed, huh? All cool with the IOC.” “Decidedly cool. Officially an Olympic sport, now. Although the name could use some work. Sport climbing lacks a little oomph, don’t you think?”

“What would you call it?” “Emma Swan wins Olympic gold.” “Kinda wordy.” “Prophetic,” Killian corrects, hands shifting and pulling, and Emma has to widen her legs. His head’s at a very good kissing angle. “You’ve already got the qualifying numbers.” “You looked at the qualifying numbers?” “Don’t insult me like that. What do you think I did in the backseat?” “Planned the entire 2020 Olympics, apparently.” “Not the entire Olympics,” Killian counters, "just the part involving you. And maybe my individual expectations regarding the United States baseball team, but that’s another conversation altogether.”

“Naturally.”

“You’re using that voice.”

Widening her eyes does nothing. Emma didn’t expect it to. Not after years and games and events because rock climbing has events, and one time Mary Margaret made her a sign. Killian held it. He’s taller, that’s why.

“Don’t,” Killian repeats, “this is happening.” “Yuh-huh?” “You heard me. It’s your turn, now.” Melting is an impossibility. Like, for a human. Even so. Emma feels like she’s melting. Some of that pessimism evaporating under the warmth of Killian’s gaze and his hands and the determination in the precise angle of his chin. Same one he uses when he steps into the box with runners in scoring position.

Lumping herself into that group isn’t as insulting as Emma once believed it would be.

“God,” Emma groans, “that’s romantic.” “You’re really selling it, love.”

“This is supposed to be a hobby.” “One you’re exceedingly good it. World record good at it.” “I like you.” “That’s my end game, yeah.” She laughs. Smiles. Continues melting. Which is easier once they get rid of their clothing, and their bed is way more comfortable than any hotel they’ve encountered. And she falls asleep with Killian’s lips against her ear, Emma Swan, Olympic gold medalist whispered on loop like it’s a mantra he’s been practicing.

They postpone the Olympics.

It sucks. Everything sucks. Baseball sucks. Gyms are closed. Emma gets creative, and Killian gets research-prone. They build a makeshift wall. She tosses him BP.

People write stories about it.

It doesn’t help.

Until—

Time passes. Some things change. Others don’t. Their wall stands up to the elements of their building’s courtyard, and Killian’s hitting better than ever this season, a victory Emma’s going to claim as at least partially hers. And then the Olympics are back, and it’s qualifying and racing and a record that’s just out of reach, but she’s good enough even without it, and, this time, she’s the one packing a suitcase.

He kisses her.

Does the tongue thing.

Holds onto her like he’s only a little afraid she’s going to fall off the wall, but now the wall is international competition, and Emma’s freaking out a little.

“I love you,” she says into the crook of his neck.

His arms tighten. “I love you too.” “Gold medal?” “Gold medal.” “Hit some home runs while I’m gone, huh?” Lips graze her temple. Her forehead. The bridge of her nose. Emma might be crying, and Mary Margaret’s definitely recording, a small mob of red white, and blue surrounding them. “I’ll see what I can do,” Killian promises.

“Good.”

He hits three before her first qualifying round. So, Emma takes that as a challenge. She’s an athlete now.

It’s why, she figures, her fingers don’t slip on her first run.

Her feet are sure. Her breathing is steady. There’s no one cheering her name, but she’s long since memorized the exact way Killian’s voice lifts above a crowd. How he pushes up on his toes to watch, as if standing up taller makes sure he’s closer to her. Should she need him when she falls off the wall. Only, Emma doesn’t fall, and she’s got no intention of ever falling and—

Her laugh shudders out of her in a watery sort of way that makes the journalist still standing in front of her flinch ever so slightly. Twitter makes sure the video starts playing again as soon as it finishes, which is somehow the best and worst thing that has ever happened to her. Best because, well, Emma’s honestly not sure she’s ever seen her husband like this.

Worst because she’s very nearly goddamn crying. Again.

Bobbing on the balls of his feet in front of his locker, whoever’s recording the video — it’s Scarlet, obviously — is practically frenzied behind the camera, barely able to contain their laughter. Killian doesn’t notice. He’s holding his own phone, all five of his free fingers firmly entrenched in the back of his hair. It’s gotten softer with age, Emma thinks.

She can’t stop watching him.

Every inhale is a clear struggle, the bobbing turning into pacing and quiet mumbling she can hear perfectly. As if she’s standing right in front of him.

Or at least slightly to the side. So as not to stand on the logo in the middle of the clubhouse.

Athletes are notoriously superstitious, too.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Killian chants, another noticeable snicker from Scarlet, “right there, right there, and pull, pull—Swan, pull up!”

“I did pull up there,” Emma mumbles. To the reporter, maybe. Or the world. Possibly her husband. Who was definitely more nervous about the first run than her.

God, that’s romantic.

Killian’s still talking. Shouting, more like. It’s a miracle Scarlet hasn’t fallen over yet.

“Faster, faster, you can go faster than that, Swan—” Emma clicks her tongue. “That’s kind of insulting.”

There’s an appropriate titter of laughter from the peanut gallery, which is a joke she was not trying to make, but she’s also dangerously close to swooning in the middle of press and she should have asked the Yankees for media training. Someone would have made sure she didn’t make a total ass of herself.

“Show me the time,” Killian yells, another demand that isn’t that. It’s too wobbly a string of words to hold any real power, just the supportive sort of desperation Emma’s felt in a variety of ninth innings and series-clinching moments. “Faster! Faster!” “Talking to the time or the judges or your wife?” Scarlet asks.

Killian nearly snarls.

Emma blinks. Hyperactively. Crying is not usually her shtick. More camera flashes...flash, Emma barely noticing them with her eyes glued to a phone screen that isn’t hers because she at least knows not to bring her phone to a press conference, and she can only imagine how many text messages she’s gotten.

Even on the other side of the world.

They post the times.

She knows because Killian gets some rather impressive height on his celebratory vertical. Fingers abandoning his hair, his fist pumps the air, and Scarlet’s not laughing so much as he’s whooping, a steady stream of yeah, yeah, yeah in the background. And for about half a breath, Emma’s worried Killian may turn one of his ankles on his landing, but he’d think that was insulting, and she’s really just full-on swooning now.

“How many people have seen this?’ she asks the reporter, already knowing the answer.

The reporter smiles anyway. Emma should learn her name.

“Pretty much the whole world.” When Emma was a kid — the sort of kid who believed alone was better, and there was strength in singularity, that would have terrified her. Bowled her over, really. Left her running without looking back, desperate to shed any sort of notoriety because notoriety meant attention, and attention meant inevitable disappointment.

Maybe that’s why she was never much of a sports person.

Sports disappoint you. They build you up and let you down, a sharp and sudden fall without a safety net. But sometimes. Sometimes, every so often, something wonderful happens. Sports lift you. Right up an indoor wall. Because, she knows, sports’ power comes from belief, from surrendering yourself to something bigger and better, and she’s back on that alliterative kick, but the tears are barely clinging to her eyelashes now and Emma herself is bigger and better, now.

In an international, decidedly romantic sort of way.

The video’s playing away.

“Let’s go,” Killian cries, and there it is. Her sound and their sound, cheering across an ocean and time zones that are still kind of messing with her sleep schedule.

Emma’s smile stretches.

“Let’s go,” she repeats.

It ends, as with most things in Emma’s gold-medal-winning life, because Anna plans it.

Stepping out of the terminal, it takes less than a full breath for the cheers to start. For the banners to lift and the tears to flow, a small platoon of support covered in the sort of patriotic gear they definitely got from the Old Navy in Herald Square.

Flashes burst behind Emma’s eyelids because she’s got to blink or she’ll definitely fall over. Her legs wobble beneath her, contending against a wave of triumph and jubilation, which is sort of the same word, but they’ve got a game at the Stadium tonight, so she doesn’t expect, she just hopes and reaches, and he has to twist around both Anna and Mary Margaret.

It’s wonderfully cyclical.

As is the way Emma slams herself against him. On purpose, this time. Killian’s arms tighten, more cheers and shouts, and people a few feet away start chanting USA over and over. Emma barely hears them. Her feet aren’t touching the ground, so she’s kind of preoccupied.

They’re all arms and mouths, and her legs wrapped securely around a body that probably shouldn’t be supporting hers when she knows he slid into second two nights ago, but Killian clearly has no intention of letting her down, and the medal around her neck bumps against her rings.

“You’re a very good cheerleader; you know that?” He hisses. In what, Emma can’t imagine. Embarrassment, if the red tips of his ears are anything to go by, and she’s got ideas as to why that is and how long the conversation about social media with Scarlet went, so Emma does the only reasonable thing.

She slams her lips against her home-run hitting husband’s, doing her best to make sure the gold medal doesn’t mistakenly impale either one of them, and the world tilts again. With victory and sports-based support and the sort of love that comes from believing in something bigger.

And better than Emma could have ever imagined.

“I didn’t want to steal your thunder.”

“Please,” Emma scoffs, “don’t insult me like that. Plus, I’m claiming every one of those home runs as my own, so comparatively—” He kisses her before she can say anything else.

That’s for the best, probably.

“Your arms looked ridiculously good the whole time.”

Her laugh doesn’t even sound like her when Emma hears it played back — another video that someone tells her goes viral, only she doesn’t care about hits or site traffic, just about the particular shade of blue in Killian’s eyes, and she wears her medal to the game that night.

Because they’re a sports power couple, now.

Or so the New York Post back page claims the next day.

Emma frames it.

[wanderinginksplot]

Hi! I wanted to make a request from the “Everything is terrible, so why not have some fics?” post. You said you didn’t have any and I loved the Tech - First Kiss fic you wrote. I wanted to request 15F with fem!reader. I’m thinking more fluff but reader needs to let out some emotions that have been bottled up for a while through some tears. (I hope I’m not asking too much)

Wrecker is my favorite and I moved halfway across the country from home to figure out life for myself and I’m kinda homesick myself.

Hey, @gjrain20-starwars! Thank you so much for the request! I’m realizing that this is probably toeing the line between fluff and hurt/comfort, and I apologize! Enjoy!

---

Wrecker + Homesick Fem!Reader

You crept quietly through the halls of Spearpoint Outpost. There was a strict, recently established curfew on base. Ever since Anaxes had become the focus of a Separatist campaign, security on Spearpoint had stepped up from ‘routine’ to ‘unpleasant’. 

The only reason you were out and about so late at night was to try to make a rare call home. The middle of the night was the only time there was a chance of catching a spare bit of signal to make a personal call. GAR-standard comms were strong enough to hog all available frequencies when they were being used, so nighttime was the only option. Besides, the time difference meant that your calls would come through in the morning back home on Bespin.

At least, they would if you could ever get through. After a full hour of trying without success, desperate for a scrap of a familiar voice, you had bitten back tears of lonely frustration and started the return journey to your bunk.

You probably should have been more worried about being caught out of barracks after curfew. If a superior officer found you, it would mean a solid dressing-down at best, and likely some disciplinary action. At absolute worst, they could discharge you from the GAR altogether considering the state of things on Anaxes. That didn’t sound like as much of a punishment as it should have in your current emotional state.

Still, you walked quickly and quietly through the winding tunnels that made up Spearpoint Outpost. There weren’t many people around so late, and you were wearing your full uniform. No one would notice that you were out of place unless they were looking.

“Hey!” a voice bellowed from beside you, so abruptly that you fumbled and dropped the comlink you had been cradling absently.

“What the-?” you glanced around rapidly, zeroing in on the source of the noise after only a moment. The greeting had come from Wrecker, the largest, loudest member of the Bad Batch, who had recently been based on Anaxes. It was only a temporary assignment while the GAR had them run a series of missions around the area to ward off the Separatists, but they had been at Spearpoint for a few weeks and would likely be here at least a few more. 

A solid chunk of your coworkers weren’t a fan of the Bad Batch. Hunter was nice enough, you guessed, but quiet. He kept to himself as a rule. Tech was whip-smart but not great with social situations. He had alienated some of Spearpoint’s officers by pointing out ways they were minorly breaking regs. Crosshair seemed to be purposefully unpleasant, so most people avoided him on principle. Wrecker, though, had gone out of his way to make friends on Spearpoint. 

Somehow, you in particular had attracted his attention. If the Bad Batch were on-planet, you saw Wrecker at least once every day. 

“Wrecker!” you hissed, clutching at your chest. Unnecessarily, you told him, “You scared me!”

You stooped to pick up the comlink, but Wrecker got to it first. It was unfair for someone that big to be so fast, you mused. You tried to grab the comlink from him, but he had a good grip on it. There was no way you were getting it back through force. The idea was laughable.

“Why are you awake so late?” Wrecker asked, ignoring your efforts to get the comlink back.

“Late shift,” you lied. “Just got done.”

He watched you skeptically, the eyebrow over his good eye lifting. “You’ve been off-duty since nineteen-hundred hours, liar.”

You stared at him, aghast. “How do you know that?”

“You’re always done at nineteen-hundred,” he answered simply, studying the comlink. 

“Then you know why I need to get back to my barracks before anyone sees me,” you told him, deciding to trust the Bad Batcher. “I’m breaking curfew by about four hours, here.”

“Curfew?” he asked, belting out a laugh that made you nervously glance around at the empty hallway. “No one obeys curfew.”

“I do,” you argued, nettled. “We’re in a war zone.”

“Barely,” Wrecker snorted. “Do you think you’ll bring the Seppies here by being out of bed too late?”

“No, but I’d rather not be demoted,” you said icily. “Now, give me my comlink. I need to get back before anyone catches me or turns me in.”

“Okay,” he agreed easily, handing the comlink over. “I’ll walk you back.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder. Wrecker seemed nice enough, but he was big and loud. Your chances of getting caught with him were much higher than if you were alone. “No, thank you. I’m all right.”

He tsked at you. “Don’t you know we’re in a war zone? I’m coming along.”

You rolled your eyes and walked a little faster in hope of losing him. Of course, he was faster than you ever gave him credit for, so he kept up with ease.

“So, who was important enough that you’re willing to risk a demotion to talk to them?” Wrecker asked, gesturing to the comlink in your hand. “Boyfriend?”

“No,” you denied instantly. “My family. I haven’t… haven’t seen them since I joined the GAR. I’ve only gotten to speak to them a few times.”

Wrecker was silent at that, but a glance up at him revealed that he seemed deep in thought. “You miss them.”

“I do,” you admitted, wrapping your arms around yourself, “but it’s more than that. I miss everything about my home. I miss the food in Cloud City. I miss the birds and the sunsets. I miss being home, you know?”

You vaguely recognized that you were rambling, but the words wouldn’t stop. “I don’t know what I’m even doing here. Everything is different and I’m scared all of the time. Sometimes, I think all of this was a mistake.”

You finally stopped talking and pretended to study the hallway wall, doing your best to sniffle in a way that he wouldn’t hear. Of course, it would have been hard to miss the horrible, thick sound of tears in your voice. You subtly wiped your face and cleared your throat. 

What were you doing? Wrecker was an elite soldier, even more so than the other troopers that constantly surrounded you. He had literally been bred for strength and durability. You couldn’t afford to look weak in front of any of them, but especially not in front of Wrecker. He was the strongest man you had ever known. He must think you were so silly, crying over a home and family when they were safe. You were just away from them right now. There was no need for tears. You were just having trouble convincing your heart about that.

A large hand settled on your shoulder, the immense weight of it grounding you. 

“I understand,” Wrecker said softly - well, as softly as you had ever heard him speak. “I don’t have a home, but I have a family. I don’t know what I would do without them. I’d hate to be away from ‘em.”

“Even… Even Crosshair?” you joked weakly, interrupted by a slight cracking in your voice.

Wrecker chuckled, the sound lower and more personal than you were used to hearing from him. “Even Crosshair. Don’t tell him I said that, though. Family is family, even if we drive each other crazy sometimes. And it wasn’t a mistake, coming here. I might be biased, ‘cause this is the only way I met you, but different isn’t bad, ya know? You’re doing your best and it’s helping you grow. It’s uncomfortable now, but uncomfortable and scared are the first steps to some great stuff.”

“I guess-” you hiccuped softly and laughed a little at the ridiculousness of having a post-midnight philosophical therapy session with the massive Bad Batch member. “I guess you do understand.” 

Wrecker hummed an agreement at that. “Besides, home and family aren’t just the stuff you left behind, ya know? You’ve got friends here.” He beamed, squeezing your shoulder with what must have been a tiny fraction of his immense strength. “And, hey, you’ve got me!”

“Do I?” you asked, enjoying the first effortless smile you had worn in a while.

“Of course! I want to be part of your new family.” He paused, rubbing at the back of his neck. “If that’s okay with you, I mean.”

“I…” you paused to swipe under your eyes once more. “I would like that, I think.”

“Good!” Wrecker smiled, stooping toward you. You were wrapped up in the best hug of your life before you knew what was happening. 

Wrecker was even more giant this close, and you were surrounded on all sides by warmth and solid muscle. He squeezed and lifted you just a bit, letting your feet dangle a short distance above the ground. You couldn’t reach all the way around his broad back, but you had your arms wrapped around him anyway, holding onto him just as tightly as he was to you.

When you finally patted his back, Wrecker gently deposited you onto your feet once more and stepped back. His eyes were bright and warm, which perfectly matched how you felt. Hugging Wrecker had felt like taking a deep breath, like a sip of water after a hard workout, like stretching after a long transport ride. 

“Thank you, Wrecker,” you said. It felt like too simple a phrase to sum up everything you were feeling, but it was everything you had.

“Anytime,” he replied easily. “I mean it. If you need anything, whether it’s a hug or to hit someone, come find me.”

You nodded, and he pulled a faux serious face. “Now, off to bed before someone finds out you’re breaking curfew.”

“We are in a war zone,” you agreed with a grin. 

The rest of the short walk to your bunk took place in a companionable silence. As you reached to type the code into the pad next to the door, Wrecker tapped your wrist to stop you. 

“Hey, you should come by the Havoc Marauder tomorrow,” he suggested quietly.

You frowned. “Why? Didn’t you guys crash-land like, two days ago?”

“Yeah, why?” Wrecker asked, looking confused. His face cleared a moment later. “Oh, no, we aren’t going anywhere. But I’ll get Tech to kick up the power on your comlink. You should be able to talk to your family without GAR comms interfering. Your long-distance family, I mean.”

You felt the smile spread over your face, but Wrecker interrupted as you started to thank him. “And, that way, you’ll be able to contact us when we’re off-planet. Ya know, in case you want to talk to your new family, too.”

“That sounds perfect,” you accepted gratefully, not typing in the code to your barracks even after he gestured you toward the keypad. You really shouldn’t risk making him uncomfortable… but you were too selfish not to take advantage of the opportunity. You held your arms out a bit. “One more hug?”

From the chuckle that rumbled through his chest as you were squeezed against it, Wrecker was only too happy to oblige.

---

A/N - if this was a little too hurt/comfort and not enough fluff, let me know! I’d be happy to write another chapter with more fluff. Thank you so much (again) for making this request! (As a side note, I also moved far away from home and it was one of the best decisions I ever made. It’s hard, but the experience will make you a stronger, more independent person. You’re doing amazing!)

If anyone wants to make a request, I dearly love writing them! I might come up with another prompt list eventually, but here is the original prompt list in case you need some ideas. Read other one-shots from the same prompt list on my masterlist.

Thanks for reading!

(Update 7/02/21: this now has a sequel chapter here!)

[ginnympotter]

okay i just found out your blog and i’m literally obsessed with it! love your writing! for the prompt thing, i’ll ask for 75, jily, if you’re up for it :)

A/N: HI SORRY THIS IS SO LATE!!! just did some plotless making out hope that’s ok lmao that’s just what my brain wanted  :))

“You can’t keep doing this,” she told him half-heartedly.  

“Doing what?” James asked, feigning innocence as he threw her tie to the side.

Lily pulled a face, but James just smiled, and then proceeded to return to his work down her neck. He was very good at distracting her from scolding him, but she tried to persevere. “Bringing me into your room under false pretenses.” 

He moved her hair to the side to get better access to a spot he knew always made her feel weak. “No false pretenses,” he whispered. “Also, you’re the one straddling my lap right now.” He planted a kiss there, soft, wet, his breath hot. 

She tried not to give away how little air she had left in her lungs as she spoke. “You said you needed help finishing up your potions essay.”

James chuckled against her. He moved his face so they could look at each other again. “Well, that is true, I do need help finishing that shit. But I thought help with homework was our code phrase for bedroom activities when we’re in front of other people.”

“We never agreed to that.”

“I thought it was implicitly agreed upon. Or obvious, at least.”

“If it’s obvious then it’s probably a rubbish code phrase, don’t you think?”

“I meant obvious for someone so clever like you.”

“I’m already dating you, James, you don’t have to do the flattery bit anymore.”

He laughed. “It’s my life’s mission to flatter you forever, Evans,” he said before leaning in and kissing her, and she felt herself melt into his embrace, his arms strong around her, his hands soft but firm. When he pulled away from the kiss she involuntarily groaned in dissatisfaction, which triggered a triumphant look on James’s face. He kissed her lips quickly again before returning to her jaw, then down the front of her neck. He removed a hand from her back and brought it to the front of her shirt, trying to unbutton the top button. 

Getting impatient, Lily helped him, not just with the first but with the second and third as well as his second hand joined the other at her front. Her stomach dropped at his glittering grin before dipping his mouth lower along her neck down to her chest, following the trail of skin they just helped make available. 

Lily allowed herself to get lost in the various sensations James went on to provide over the next few minutes, but eventually, as it all became a bit too pleasantly overwhelming and she could feel James’s excitement against her, her mind began working again, and she pulled his face back up to hers. He frowned at this, eyebrows creasing, spectacles fogged. She chuckled at his disgruntled state. “You are dangerous, and we only have twenty minutes left of our free period,” she explained, hoping her face didn’t give her away too much, how badly she wanted to be convinced out of her rationality. “If we don’t stop now.... Well, I don’t know how I’ll be able to stop at all.”

James’s smile returned at her admission. “Plenty can be done in twenty minutes, Evans. I can be very punctual.”

She ran a hand through his unruly hair and sighed. “Why don’t you put that punctuality to use by finishing your essay in time for class.”

“Shit, we actually have potions next, don’t we?”

“C’mon, I’ll help you finish it off real quick.”

“I’d prefer to finish something else-”

“Later,” she said, disappointed at her own self-control. 

As she was about to remove herself from his lap, he held her firmly in place. “Promise?”

She nodded. “Promise. But we won’t have the luxury of your room by then, so you’ll have to find somewhere.”

“That won’t be a problem,” he said confidently, smiling. Lily laughed, leaning in to kiss him one last time. When her lips met his, he put his hands in her hair, licked her lower lip, prompting her to open her mouth and allow him to deepen the kiss. She got lost in it for a minute before she shook herself from her reverie and pulled away again, breathing heavily. “No, no more, you’ve got an essay to finish.”

“Lil…” James breathed, leaning his forehead against hers. 

“I promised later!” she reminded him. She kissed his forehead and forced herself off of her boyfriend’s lap and sat on the edge of his bed, buttoning her shirt back up.

James groaned, plopping down flat on his back. “You are a cruel woman and I hate you.”

“Sure you do,” she said when she finished the last button, tapping his thigh sympathetically. “C’mon, I find men who are on top of their academic responsibilities very sexy.”

He chuckled at that, sitting up and reaching for his rucksack. “So the Head Boy badge is what finally did you in this year?”

“More like the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

“I’ll remember to keep it on later, then.”

“Please do.”

[noona96n]

Shu Yi has always had intense feelings for Shi De & also very aware of Shi De

okay, hear me out,  there's this saying 'hate is stronger than love'

idk if it's an actual saying or whatever but it's actually the first phrase that comes to mind when i saw the rivalry montage between Shu Yi and Shi De from childhood to adolescence.

so, the way i interpret 'hate is stronger than love' is that hating someone is much more intimate and more intense than loving someone. u're always aware of them, u think about their actions and remember their words. u are incredibly aware of their flaws and weakness but also their strength and capacity.

Shu Yi has always considered Shi De as his nemesis since they were in elementary school. Shu Yi spends a lot of his life 'hating' Shi De and, in essence, he spends a lot of his life thinking about Shi de. it might not be the same regards in which Shi De thinks of him, but Shu Yi thinks about Shi De just as much. 

he knows he's always second best to Shi De, always aware that Shi De is better than him, keep track of what Shi De bested him in.

when they become boyfriends, Shu Yi loves Shi De so freely and so openly. his thoughts are preoccupied with Shi De; he’s nervous around Shi De, he wants to impress Shi De’s mom, he wants to go on holidays together, he thinks of secret codes to text to Shi De. 

Shi De is the obstacle in his life and his failure but Shi De is also Shu Yi’s boyfriend, his partner, the person in which his future belongs to. 

now, imagine the frustration if they really ended on bad terms. Shu Yi will go back to ‘hating’ Shi De again. but this time, with the added bonus of his 'lost' love and futile devotion. he will hate Shi De as intensely, as passionately, as crazily as he loves Shi De because the deeper the love, the deeper the hate and vice versa.

this musing was brought on by my convo with @2646377463

[toweroftickles]

UNCATEGORIZED FILES: Completely Random Ticklish Character Examinations

Exploring the multiverse for ticklish test subjects is surprisingly tedious sometimes. There’s so much data to sift through, tons of organization, and you’re often stuck with the same popular victims.

It’s fun to go after underutilized, unknown, or obscure entities. As of yet these personality profiles cannot properly be sorted within existing folders.

Mary Smith (Mary & The Witch’s Flower)

Most Ticklish Spots: Arches, Belly, Knees

A kind but proud witch student…skillful, protective of own image. Can’t stand being tickled - considers it humiliating and frustrating. Post-release, will immediately curl up into a ball, or cover her stomach with her arms and pout.

Sad-sounding laughter that really lers you know that she hates it. Helplessly begs for it to stop.

Will react with fury, and fight back.

Tickle Talk: Playful teasing with plenty of giggles, if she’s the one who starts it. If enacting revenge, however, she taunts aggressively and angrily to embarrass her playmate as much as possible.

When allowed the use of magic, imaginatively utilizes tickling finger spells, as well as object manipulation and stasis.

Teased about how ticklish she is by her boyfriend Peter. Tickle fights common.

Add. Notes: Comparisons to (her contemporary) Kiki are all but inevitable - not quite as ticklish but much less open to enjoying it. Direct side-by-side comparison may be beneficial for studying the impact of magic on sensitivity.

Razor Lemay (Starlink: Battle for Atlas)

Most Ticklish Spots: Feet, Abs and Belly Button, Upper Ribcage

This no-nonsense metal band pilot is highly resistant - use stronger restraints in future. A violent thrasher. Headbanging skills came in handy when freeing herself.

Never ceased to let me know that I’m a “sick weirdo.” Consider this possibility.

Though toned and muscular, her skin is surprisingly soft. Weak to any kind of tickling.

Most effective tool: backscratchers

Has an airy laugh that is mostly gasps and wheezes; runs out of breath quickly.

Used the phrase “oh my god” more than any other subject studied so far. Offered up nonstop torrent of swearing, violent threats, and begging for mercy.

Jojo McDodd (Horton Hears A Who)

Most Ticklish Spots: Sides, Feet

Hates it. Becomes embarrassed and angry when tickled. Will frustratedly sulk rather than fight back or seek revenge.

Usually groans through teeth but can’t prevent the odd chuckle from slipping out. Skilled at holding his voice in. Press the matter further.

Involuntary reflex - noodly arm flailing if not restrained.

Very responsive to poking and light, fluttery touches.

Often depressed. His mother, Sally O’Malley (who, according to him, is also quite ticklish - investigate) used to tickle him in attempt to cheer him up, but abandoned this years ago upon realizing it bothered him.

When his younger sisters want to pester him, tickling is a go-to option.

Add. Notes: With their long, fuzzy, highly-animated fingers, natural mischievous mirth, and piano-playing aptitude, the Who species has evolved anatomy well-suited for tickling others.

Schell The Spacewitch (Yooka-Laylee)

Most Ticklish Spots: Belly, Armpits

Considers tickling to be her “one true weakness” - doesn’t hate it, but it renders her utterly incapacitated.

Has one of those hearty laughs that carries well over distances.

Feathers are very effective.

Will eagerly return the favor - once used feather tickling as an interrogation method on a fellow spacewitch.

Interplanetary adventures have put her in conflict with various alien plants and monsters, some of which accidentally tickled her with tongues or tentacles or the like - take samples for further lab testing.

Sphinx (Sphinx and the Cursed Mummy)

Most Ticklish Spots: Belly Button, Feet

The adventurous and heroic sort, he’s a little bit cocky….tickling is a good way to make him slightly less so.

A surprisingly effective technique is to tickle his stomach with his own tail. Good results.

He himself occasionally uses his tail this way to flirt with girls.

Not excessively ticklish, but ticklish enough. Will at least squirm and try to pull away.

Doesn’t show much strong emotion…more vaguely weirded out by this than anything else.

Pipirika (Magi: Adventure of Sinbad)

Most Ticklish Spots: Toes/Balls of Feet, Ribs, Inner Thighs

Unusual Ticklish Spots: Inner Elbow

Loud and rough, unrefined. But also very friendly, excitable, and loves to laugh.

Like all Imuchakk people, huge in stature and musculature. Between her large size and insistence on always going barefoot, she’s a tempting target.

If you ask if she’s ticklish, or for permission to tickle her, she’ll gladly say yes and volunteer with a big smile on her face.

That said, she frequently seems to find herself much more ticklish than she remembers.

She likes it but she’s a kicker. Hard to pin down and will not hold still. Tough restraints essential.

Will always seek playful vengeance or start a tickle brawl. Loves to tickle her brother and friends. Often giggles and laughs more than the people she tickles.

Hearty, rumbling belly laugh. Very cute.

Can’t keep a secret; will tell others if you like tickling. (Not out of malice - she thinks it’s hilarious.)

Fire (Adventurers: Masters of Time)

Most Ticklish Spots: Feet, Lower Tummy, Belly Button

Self-described as “a total tickler. You better watch out!”

Her default attack when trying to escape an enemy’s grip is to tickle them. Has done it more than once. It’s canon. So there.

Claims to have used her school’s time travel computer specifically to visit and “play tickle pranks” on famous historical figures. Seemed very excited by the multiversal capabilities of the Tower.

Spunky and playful. Very energetic. Tickle Talk: mean, merciless, and will make fun of her victims for being so ticklish and weak.

Apparently aware that her constantly-exposed belly invites tickling. Will dare others to start a tickle fight with her “because you’ll lose.”

Most vulnerable to rough tickles (especially brushes).

Always laughs wildly and tells her tickler to stop, but seems to enjoy it at less-intense levels.

Add. Notes: I like this girl. She could be very useful.

Saki Amamiya & Airan Jo (Sin & Punishment/Smash Bros.)

Most Ticklish Spots (Saki): Feet, Belly, Lower Ribcage

Most Ticklish Spots (Airan): Toes, Sides

Virtually inseparable couple. Could not tickle one without the other.

A highly skilled gymnast and gunner, Saki will jump out of his skin when tickled. Airan will lash out physically or curl up into a defensive ball.

Saki is the more ticklish of the two. He’s a live wire of sensitivity; a poke can cripple him. Has a high-pitched giggle.

Airan has a low, wailing laugh. Quickly tears up and complains about how much her tummy hurts when tickled.

Airan sometimes tickles Saki awake in the morning and teases him when he squirms.

Both hate being tickled: feel it’s a silly, embarrassing vulnerability.

Neither are particularly touchy/physical and never really tickle each other. Don’t think about it often.

Saki eventually develops Ruffian physiology after an experiment with his blood - effects of this on ticklishness unknown.

Tess Darrett (Pole Position)

Most Ticklish Spots: Arches, Armpits

Unusual Ticklish Spots: Upper Back, Under Chin

Rarely far separated from her stunt rally cars and spy technology. Exceptionally difficult to apprehend.

Resourceful and skilled in combat. Exercise caution.

Once captured by a criminal organization and interrogated with feathers to make her reveal the access codes to her stunt car computer AI, Wheels. Strong willpower - laughed and laughed but refused to talk.

Otherwise is only ever tickled by her younger sister Daisy (who reportedly is also very ticklish, and has also been interrogated to force her older siblings’ hands).

Not usually a tickler. Avoids going after her younger brother, because he’s not ticklish and would definitely get her back.

Typical sibling relationship: her brother used to pin her down and tickle her when they were kids. She hates it.

Add. Notes: If a woman who is deeply entrenched in the seedy underworld has big 70s/80s hair and often wears a jumpsuit, just assume that she’s tough but with a soft side and also very ticklish. (See also: Fujiko Mine, Carmen Boom, April O’Neil.)

Conclusions:

I might indeed be a sick weirdo. This merits further study.

Breaking character…yeah, IDK what the hell this is and I’m assuming none of you care. Just kinda wanted to blow off steam. I like weird characters that nobody else really cares about.

And why the hell do I even write some of my blog entries this way? Deliberately making things “less fun” seems kinda like a bad idea.

[regrettablewritings]

D,q,v for whoever you want!!

Hm... I think I’m gonna go with Benoit Blanc if you don’t mind. Stuff is under the cut!

D = Dates (What are dates with them like?):

It depends on where you’re at in the relationship but for the most part, dates can generally be divided into three categories:

The first is exactly what one might expect for a man of Benoit’s demeanor: He picks you up at your place, you head out to a three-stars-minimum establishment, followed perhaps by some coffee and dessert. Depending on how young the evening is, you might even go for a brief walk about a well-lit area before he returns you home. The night is completed with a kiss on the back of your hand; nothing more, nothing less (unless you insist you’d prefer otherwise).

And that’s all well and good, but sometimes they can feel so rigid even in his best efforts. It’s nothing on him, you just prefer something a bit cozier. And cozy you shall get -- if you two date long enough.

The second category is an at-home date where the two of you are free to dress down. Seeing him in his old college sweats as opposed to his usually pristine suit is endearing (especially when coupled with his silly glasses). Normally, this would allow for the two of you to huddle up on the couch and watch movies together (barring any from the mystery genre; he always figures it out and spoils it for you, which you suppose is how he finds himself enjoying those types of films). But every once in a while . . .

Benoit tries hard to keep his work life and private life separate. He really does. But considering he hasn’t really felt much of a need to, what with him going through most of his career a single man, the habit is pretty stuck in there. Not unbreakable, just a bit difficult to ween himself off of. Thankfully for you, he’s made much more of an effort to work things out. And thankfully for him, you’re mighty patient and even willing to help him on the occasion a case is close enough to where he can take casework home and study his best angles from there.

Most outsiders looking in would cock an eyebrow at the image of you two, hunkered down in his living room or study, papers and manila folders all over with him sitting at the table or desk, hand pressed to his wrinkled forehead as his eyes trace over grainy photos, and you often sitting right by him, flipping between two pages, looking for fallacies in alibis. In all honesty, you wouldn’t blame somebody for being put off by the idea that you would consider this a date. After all, aren’t there now, like, monthly loot boxes that offer mysteries for you and a partner to solve? Wouldn’t that be a bit more . . . normal? Somehow?

. . . Yes, admittedly, but you take what you can get. Besides, he really only does this type of stuff with people whom he really trusts -- and for you to do so while still mingling in his home life (hey, you both made tea and coffee for the long night, it counts)? You take it as an honor! (Besides, when you’ve done something especially helpful like making tea or ordering food or pointing out a potential clue, he rewards you with praise.)

That is, so long as these types of “dates” don’t occur more often than the movie ones. As exciting as it is to see Benoit’s thought process at work and to see the glow on his face when he cracks a case or finds a vital clue, there’s little else that can be the absolute wonder that he expresses during particularly stunning animations or musicals.

Speaking of which, the third category: A date to the theater. Short and simple, a touring show comes to town and you grab tickets. He’s a big fan of the arts!

Q = Quaint (What is their favourite non-modern thing?):

I feel like due to his job, Benoit’s home is surprisingly not as flamboyant as most would expect of the man. It’s not barren, but it’s also not especially vibrant. There’s the occasional painting or framed photograph decorating the walls, or a table in the corridor with a picture of a loved one and a vase full of fake flowers (he can’t trust himself to take care of an actual, living plant), but otherwise, not too terribly much. But what I do figure is that if one goes digging around, they’ll find some antique stuff from his home growing up: Old photos of his grandparents, vintage lace table runners, and so on.

But his favorite item of them all is the ice cream crank machine.

“God, you’re ancient,” you wheezed as you marveled at the technically obsolete contraption. The older gentleman folded his arms, standing his ground.

“Mock it all you want to, but I can assure you: Good times were had with this crank --”

“Benny, please don’t say that, oh god --”

“Cranking this taught you about patience and perseverance --”

“Phrasing! God!”

“-- and at the end, your efforts were rewarded with a treat you made.”

He raised his brows at you as you curled on the floor, a quivering, giggling mess.

“It was a simpler time,” Benoit reasoned. “We couldn’t just mosey on over to the grocery every time we wanted when he had the materials we needed right then and there. Besides: We used to fight over whose turn it was to crank.”

“Oh, I bet,” you murmured, glancing up at him. You then eyed the ancient bucket and its health code-breaking crank. “I’d hate to be the one on crank duty.” At this, your boyfriend pursed his lips, diverting his eyes.

“You misunderstood me, dear: We fought over wanting to be on crank duty.” The silence that followed his admission told him everything he needed to know about how you felt on that end.

“. . . Benoit,” you spoke wryly, “you can help every case except your own.” He sighed through his nose, squeezing its bridge. There really was no way to win this with you, huh?

“Look, do you still want to learn how to make homemade ice cream, or --”

“Yes, please!”

V = Vaunt (What do they like to show off? What are they proud of?):

As humble as he is, Benoit actually prides himself on his diction. He’s well aware of his accent and how it immediately draws attention to himself for all the wrong reasons: It’s southern, and about as thick as a frozen flood of molasses if you do mind the metaphor. And, unfortunately, being southern tends to carry a few assumptions along with it. The less . . . negative ones being that he’s a follower of good ole southern hospitality, a gentleman bred in the cloth of seersucker suits and honey-sweet drawls. Not far from the truth, admittedly, but still not one he particularly enjoys. However, he’ll put up with it far better than he would with the other assumptions tacked on with his home region: That he’s a fool.

That his accent is indicative of a lesser understanding or education, that he is less tolerant of others considered socially to be, well, The Other.

And he loathes that indication. He hides it well, mind you, but don’t assume he’s fine with it. He’s used to it. Big difference.

He was never especially insecure about his accent, but it did earn him some licks to how seriously he was taken when he reached adulthood and ventured around. Well, he couldn’t change that bit about him, and, out of spite, he doesn’t intend to. Instead, he decides to try another way: Using his words, and properly and ornately at that.

The truth of the matter is that compared to much of the clientele he encounters, he can normally run circles around others when it comes to words and wordplay, and the cocky bastard living beneath that calm, humble smile actually relishes in it a bit. Don’t take it as a sign of cockiness, mind you; it’s honestly just become a part of who he is. But never, under any circumstances, mistake his sweet purple prose drawl as a sign of incompetency or an inability to take the situation seriously.

Thanks for asking!