#i need to stop listening to those i think

[luvkimi]

despite being the strongest sorcerer, satoru gojo is terrified of his wife—aka, you.

many people view you as this sweet person who so happens to bring treats whenever you visit the high school, but to satoru? you are the scariest person known to man, and that's comparing you to all of the curses he's fought.

he still loves you dearly, for he's practically enamored with your every move, but he's seen you mad.

he knows what you're like when you're even a little bit irritated.

and you're scary.

you'd think that since satoru is the strongest, he could easily laugh off your anger or whatnot, but you're thinking wrong. satoru knows better than to try that.

of course, he had to learn before he knew not to mess with you when you were angry, but luckily for you, he's a quick learner.

or he became one when you got mad at him for the first time.

"toru, can you unload the dishwasher, please?" once again, you were left with the answer of satoru's light hum as he continued to scroll through his phone. you would understand if it was your first time asking him to do so, or even your second time, but no—this was your tenth time asking him. why did you bother asking him that many times? because you didn't want to seem like you were rushing him since there was all day to do them. but you originally asked him in the morning, and now, it was currently eight-o-clock at night. "satoru, i'm serious." your tone turned stern as you leaned against the kitchen counter—eyeing him as he remained seated at the kitchen table. "i asked you repeatedly throughout the day, and they're still not done." "why don't you do them? you're already in the kitchen..." he mumbled as he squinted at his phone, and a frown pulled at your lips. "because i've done them the past few days." "exactly! because you're good at it, baby." his tone was teasing—showing that he was seemingly trying to make this a joke—but it only irritated you more. "satoru, can you please just do them?" "and if i don't?—" satoru's words were cut off as a hand slammed on the table in front of him, and he was forced to look up from his phone. only to be met with your livid expression. his lips pursed as you stared down at him, and after a moment of silence, you snapped your fingers before pointing at the sink. "dishes." your single word only made him hastily nod, yet he remained seated before speaking. "can i go change first?" you narrowed your eyes in confusion and annoyance, "why do you need to change?" "because i just pissed myself."

ever since that day, he's always done what you've asked him to do. sometimes even before you can ask him to do something, he's already doing it.

why? because that single day showed him just how scary you were. you made the man question if he really was the strongest for a moment, too, and that's saying something.

despite the fact it's been a few years, and you've forgotten about that day completely, satoru is still quite scared of you. even narrowing your eyes at him gives him chills.

are you aware of this? no, you just think that satoru learned to listen to you since you both got married.

when in reality, he only listens to you because you scare him.

eventually, some people picked up the fact that satoru was scared of you, and those people so happened to be his students.

they would tease and mock him for being scared of you, and satoru couldn't even be mad at them for that. he would just chuckle while saying that they didn't understand how scary you were.

and then they jinxed themselves by saying that there was no way you could be scary enough to even make satoru scared of you.

but then they so happened to be goofing around in class one day when you were in there whilst satoru was trying to teach.

they left the room with an earful of manners and the image of your mad expression printed in their mind.

so, now they're scared of you, too.

and satoru isn't against it because it means he gets to use the 'wife' card whenever they're not listening to him.

"can you three stop venturing off?" is this how you used to feel when satoru didn't listen to you? currently, satoru was out on a mission with yuji, nobara, and megumi to prove that they could take down a curse. there had been reports of a few grade level 4 curses who were hanging around tokyo shopping centers, so while the students kept their eyes out for them, satoru was just there for supervision. and he was there due to the fact you decided to tag along with them because you wanted to shop. so, while you went away from them to go do your own thing, satoru was left to deal with his students. usually, he wouldn't mind, but it was the fact that instead of finding these curses and dealing with them to prove that they could go on missions, they decided that the shops were more interesting than that. which, granted, some of the shops were pretty cool. satoru had bought himself some treats when the students weren't looking—which was most of the time since they were fairly distracted. once again, usually, satoru wouldn't mind. but he does start to mind when it's insanely hot outside and his treats are starting to melt. "but gojo sensei, look at all the cool stuff!" yuji whined as he gestured to the stores, and nobara nodded her head in agreement. "exactly! i've never been to tokyo!" "you're both forgetting that we're here to prove you three can handle a curse—not to prove who can spend the most money." nobara only crossed her arms, "says the one who looks like he's spent thousands on sweets..." "that's because i'm a grown man! and i've already proven i can handle a curse..." satoru frowned at nobara's words—holding his treats closer to himself. "can't you three just look at the stores after you've found the curses?" "what if we don't find the curses until late and all the shops are closed?" yuji asked, and nobara hastily nodded her head. "exactly!" it was like arguing with toddlers. satoru could only sigh before taking his phone out of his pocket, "do i need to call mrs.gojo?" "I LOVE FINDING CURSES!" yuji shouted before rushing his steps while looking around, and nobara followed suit. "LET'S TAKE THEM DOWN!" even megumi's eyes widened as he followed the other two in their search. satoru could only chuckle before putting his phone back in his pocket, "works every time..." "call me for what?" the sound of your voice made satoru jump a little as he turned to face you, and a nervous chuckle left his lips while he stared at your narrowed eyes. "there's my wife! we were just wondering where you were!" once you raised an eyebrow, telling satoru to get to the point, he looked around for something to distract you. and he then noticed the bags in your hand. he gently took them from your hand before wrapping his free arm around your waist, and he started to lead you to his students while placing a kiss against your cheek. "i was just about to call you so you could see how much fun they're having looking for a curse!" once you gave him a soft smile at his answer, satoru couldn't help but smile back before pulling you closer. "how was your shopping spree?" of course, he knew the answer given the amount of bags in his hand, but he still couldn't help but ask because it meant he got to see you smile as you explained the different stores you went to. sure, satoru was a little bit scared of you, but who wasn't a bit scared of their wife? if it meant getting to love you and have you in his arms, satoru would gladly deal with you being scary.

a/n : we love a man who's obsessed but also scared of his wife.

comments & reblogs are appreciated !!

[paincest]

i used to do this with my step-sister. we'd sneak off into one of the rooms our parents never go into because we deemed our creations to be too scandalous for adult ears—it being the 2010s, that meant we dreamt of romancing vampires and werewolves.

she had these magazines about otome games that were in japanese. neither of us were allowed to play any of them, for obvious reasons, so instead her, being the only one whose native tongue is japanese between us, would translate what the words said about the games and we'd both fill in the gaps on what the game could possibly be and add our own self-indulgent headcanons.

we never wrote anything down. we'd just sit in front of one another and take turns speaking. sometimes, we argued over who ended up with who but most of the times, it was a perfect harmony and neither of us could stop going on and on and on and giggling with one another. we'd be in there for HOURS and we'd be so upset whenever we got called for dinner because we swore we just had lunch a minute ago

i think this experience has been the greatest reason as to how i got into reading and writing because i got to see right in front of me what fantasies made people so happy, both the audience and the author. whenever i felt frustrated over something i wrote, i just remember how happy we both were from listening to one another and sharing our own thoughts despite the whole thing being super corny and bad.

like you literally do not need anything to get into creating stories! you don't even need a pen or a paper! sometimes, you just need someone who wants to listen! like what do you mean i can just... TALK???? and we'd both be in pure awe??? and i don't need to spend a single coin to experience it?????

after my dad died, she and her mom moved away and we lost contact. it's been almost a decade since we last spoke but i hope she knows that those hours we'd spend in that dusty, old room is enough for me to remember her fondly all my life

esoteric form of roleplay where instead of actually roleplaying you just make up characters together and discuss in abstract how they'd interact and how their story would go

[aimasup]

2025 lilo and stitch rant, super long post, mega spoilers

might make changes to this later, no beta we die like Stitch's personality

"ohana means family, family means no one gets left behind, which includes you Nani 😇" (not a direct quote from the 2025 film)

WHO?????? WHO IS LEAVING HER BEHIND?? Is it her sister fresh out the womb, apparently a burden making sure Nani never gets to be her own person?? Is it Nani herself?? Someone who was completely rewritten to have different goals for a good message in the wrong movie?? Is it the 2 childrens' dead parents?? If so then what about Lilo?? What happens when Nani is too busy to visit in her new college?? Don't talk to me about how David and his mother are also family, it's the principle of the changes in plot.

Those are sisters who have lost their father and mother. They literally only have each other. I find it hard to believe that after such a recent loss that Nani would just: "*sniff* you're right *sniff* I DO have to put myself first!!! I'm so tired!!" and already start thinking about college?? I'm not saying it's selfish of her to want it I'm saying it's, to me, a coping mechanism that the movie wants to say was her real hidden motivation all this time.

You ever have to move away from your best friend? Not a good feeling, especially when there's options in the same area you could've chosen but you can't for some reason. You can still visit, but it is a huge change. That's the best case scenario this movie decided on for Lilo and Stitch.

Original Nani literally wants the best for Lilo and understands that her little sister is different (read: likely neurodivergent). A massive strength of original Nani was that she had the maturity and ability to understand that. That's not something their parent's death made Nani have to come to terms with, that's something about Lilo that she already accepted long before.

I cannot stress this enough, they are sisters. Nani sticks her tongue back at Lilo, Nani teases Lilo (oh nooo gravity's increasing on me!!), Nani rolls her eyes at Lilo - have you considered, that these traits are not caretaker/mother Nani just playing along with her kid's games, but that Nani is naturally silly and Lilo brings out that side of her more?

There's one scene in the original where she may be 'playing along' with Lilo.

Original Nani makes Lilo feel better about her losing her job, but that vampire excuse came so naturally to Nani that I personally interpreted it as,

a.) holy shit Nani is an extremely good guardian,

but also

b.) Nani is creative enough in her own right to play off of Lilo, and

c.) Nani seems to even cheer up a bit when making up this absurd tale to Lilo. This is headcanon territory but I feel like they used to fill each others' heads with stories like this all the time, Nani may not get everything about Lilo, but she's smart and whimsical too - IDK IF IM GETTING THIS ACROSS RIGHT BUT THEY'RE SISTERS. THEYRE BESTIES. NANI NEEDS LILO AS MUCH AS LILO NEEDS HER

For what reason did she have to do this. Nani you are being such a piece of shit I love you

And then in the new movie Nani is just seems to be completely annoyed Lilo's - everything?? They added this layer of tiredness and anger to Nani for 'realism', she loses control and takes it out on Lilo for 'realism' - but she loses control and takes it out on Lilo in the original too without telling her to 'wake up and stop living in fantasy'.

There's literally a whole scene in the original showing how Nani and Lilo are not adjusting well, and Nani calls Lilo misbehaved and a pain, but she doesn't RANT AT HER. There's a difference in original and new Nani's anger. I can't explain it.

Lilo being taken to the adopt a dog wasn't just Nani listening to a request, it might have been her trying give Lilo a friend. Lilo doesn't even know Nani overhead her star wish, Nani just wants Lilo to have one friend that won't run away, something that they both know Nani, Lilo's own sister, can't be for her full-time anymore.

Then they made it so Nani couldn't even do that in the live action film so their new characters could have something to do.

It's all girlboss girlpower until the girl loves her sister so much it hurts and she's entirely fine with it

The more I think about the ending of the live action Lilo and Stitch the more it baffles me. It's like reading a bad-end fanfiction where the characters end up evil or separated except the movie's trying to say it's a good thing somehow.

Also I'd rather they not add Cobra Bubbles at all with how little he contributed here. You guys do know when you divide a character in half the characters are only half of themselves right. Right

They've watered down all the characters tbh - Lilo, Stitch, Pleakley, that tall alien leader woman (idk her name), even that mean girl in the hula class. So I wanna talk about Jumba real quick (lie)

Jumba

And how do you misunderstand Jumba so bad?? He definitely wasn't good in the original, literally says he will take Stitch apart and remake him, but he isn't totally malicious?? Original Jumba was just an antagonistic mad scientist motivated by - like many other mad scientists, science.

In the original, Stitch both aggravates and intrigues Jumba, and this dynamic is fun because of:

a.) the little blue shithead's evasion of Jumba's grasp and

b.) the little blue shithead's responses to the new environment variables.

"I'm coming to kick your ass you bitch homunculus I literally made you"

Therefore Original Jumba is literally so pissed at Stitch but so happy to observe his creation under a microscope. That indestructible monster is his pride and joy!! They're on another goddamn planet, why wouldn't Jumba play Animal Planet while trying to keep up with Stitch (before shooting him)!! That's a biologist given a free study trip!!

In the original when he's telling a sad Stitch that he has no family, he's stating a cold fact as impassively as possible, that's just who he is!! Jumba is antagonistic to Stitch' development because he is reminding Stitch of his purpose - Jumba has no reason to believe this feral terror creature can ever be domesticated.

Original Jumba didn't really see Stitch as anything but an unruly test subject (affectionately) - here's the thing though, he was willing to have this instant change of heart because Stitch is his test subject. No Victor Frankenstein is a totally sweet dad to their lab abomination children let's be real.

Basically Original Jumba adores science. Stitch is his greatest scientific creation, and when Stitch began to be more than just an experiment to him, he embraced that too because Jumba, plain and simple, was never so unlikable that the audience couldn't believe he didn't have a heart. Because Stitch, mindless monster or not, was always his beloved/beloathed child.

Also the dialogue in the whole 2025 movie is so bad. everyone feels dumber now.

Gonna stop talking about the writing now

The presentation

I don't think this movie should've been made in the first place but they should've just used puppets for the aliens, like in star wars.

Could've even used camera tricks to make Gantu enormous like those monster movies from decades ago. Have someone in a shark cop costume stomp around a tiny model of an island i dunno

And why are the colours so bad?? this is live action yet real life literally looks better than this movie lol

It goes by so fast, no suspense to leave room for interest and no pauses to let the jokes breathe. Everyone talks like they're in such a hurry like slow down!!!

Also the hologram disguises, the reasoning is so odd. If the aliens don't look convincingly human, they just don't.

'it worked in the animated version but it doesn't work in real life' NO TF IT DIDN'T. They could not have been MORE OBVIOUSLY ALIENS, even in the original animation!! I don't even think humans are that easily fooled, I think everyone's just too polite to say anything about this random couple's appearance!!! Jumba and Pleakley did not pass as humans in the original because they were animated they passed because the plot let them PLEEEEASE

'this didn't work in live action' and 'that didn't work in live action' then don't make it! The audacity!!!! To not only make this a real thing, but also be cheap about it. Like pick a struggle mate

[merrinla]

Post-Weisshaupt cut content

Bellara and Taash want to leave the party. Rook convinces them to stay. Varric supports Rook again, remembers Kirkwall, compares Taash to Fenris, and advises to listen less to Solas.

Rook - Bellara

Rook: Heard you were thinking of leaving. Bellara: No! Well. Yes. Maybe.

Bellara: What happened at Weisshaupt... at D'Meta's crossing... Bellara: Even what happened to Minrathous/Treviso? Bellara: Boy. That's... that's a lot. Rook: Weisshaupt was bad, but it would've been a hell of a lot worse if we hadn't been there.

Bellara: The way you lead this team. Focusing on the fight. Always talking about what's next. Bellara: You never stop. And that works-for you, and for most of the others. Bellara: But... I don't know if it works for me.

Option: Doesn't always work for me. Rook: Look, this leadership thing? Being in charge? It doesn't come with a map.

Option: You need to figure it out. Rook: I need your head in this, Bellara. And your heart.

Option: We need it to. Rook: We need you here, and we need you fighting.

Rook: We're fighting gods, Bellara. The only way we win this is to keep them off balance. Rook: We give them time to think, but we've seen what they can do. We can't slow down, not anymore. Rook: Because every time we pause to take a breath? Our enemies gain ground. Rook: But focusing on the fight? That's not a mistake. That's the only way to win. Rook: The fight is what keeps us focused. And it keeps us grounded. Bellara: Even if we're leaving a trail of broken bodies? Rook: I wish I had answers. But I don't.

Bellara: Solas was willing to let thousands of people die. Trading them for the greater good. Bellara: Without hesitation. Because to him, the ends always justify the means. Rook: No. Solas thinks he's the only one who can save the world. Rook: And I chose to save those lives. Even if it cost others. Rook: We've both made hard choices. But that's where the similarities stop. Bellara: The gods are out, Rook. Because of a choice you made. People died. Even if you didn't mean it to happen.

Option: I'm trying to make up for that. Rook: You're right. Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain are out because of a choice I made. Rook: The why matters, too. And Weisshaupt hurt. But we can't let our regrets slow us down. Rook: I don't regret it. It was the right choice, and I'd make it again. Rook: But the scales aren't tipped in my favour right now, so I'm doing anything I can to make up for it.

Rook: And, yeah. Solas would've killed so many more. Bellara: But maybe that's how it started. How he started. Bellara: Weighing lives on a scale. And justifying everything by which side's a little heavier.

Option: I worry about it, too. Rook: You know what haunts me in the night? That you could be right. Rook: I'm going to make mistakes, and I'm going to get things wrong. Rook: I saw what Solas' ritual was doing, the lives it was going to cost, and I acted. And people still died. Rook: And... I still think it was the right choice. I know it was. Rook: Weisshaupt hurt. And it'll always hurt. Rook: The why matters. But "why" doesn't mean shit if you don't back it up with action. Rook: So we never stop pushing. Rook: And now I'm asking you to stick around.

Bellara: But maybe that's the first step. Looking at lives as numbers. Not as people. Bellara: It helps, though. To know you're thinking about these things, too.

Bellara: I don't think Solas would've come here to talk to me. Rook: He might've. Solas loves to talk. Bellara: (Laughs)

Rook: You staying around, then? Bellara: Yeah. I think I am. Bellara: Thanks, Rook.

Bellara: Not the heart-to-heart I was expecting... but maybe the one I needed. Bellara: I think I'll take a walk, but... I'm around. Whenever you need me. Bellara: Just say the word.

Rook - Taash

Rook: Hey, Taash. Taash: What do you want? Shouldn't you be making a list of everyone who's gonna die if we mess up again?

Option: It's a lot of people. Rook: To be fair, it's a pretty big list. Taash: You gonna keep telling jokes while the world gets covered with blight? Rook: Well, I tried talking about how everyone was feeling, and that didn't help. Taash: Of course it didn't help!

Option: Leaving? Really? Rook: You running out on us? Taash: You gonna keep going with all that vashedan about our feelings? Rook: I'm trying to keep this team moving. And we're dead without a dragon hunter. Taash: We're dead either way!

Option: I know you feel bad. Rook: Taash, I know you're not feeling great right now... Taash: (Growls) It doesn't matter! Rook: Of course how you feel matters. Taash: No! It doesn't!

Taash: Ghilan'nain's Archdemon turned from a dragon into some horrible monster. Taash: The blighted dragons you brought me here to fight might do the same thing. Taash: And you're just telling me how important it is instead of giving me what I need to do it!

Option: The team needed this. Rook: I was trying to get the whole team to pull together. Taash: We're already together! We don't need to braid each other's hair to kill darkspawn!

Option: Bellara needed support. Rook: Bellara was in rough shape. She needed support right then and there. Taash: I need to know what I'm fighting and how to kill it! But we're wasting time talking feelings instead! That doesn't help anyone! Rook: It helped Bellara. Taash: It didn't help me!

Option: We're all hurting. Rook: Nobody came out of Weisshaupt feeling good, Taash. Rook: Davrin watched a lot of Wardens die. Lucanis is beating himself up for missing his shot. Taash: (Scoffs) They're fine. Davrin just needs to punch some darkspawn. Lucanis will get Ghilan'nain next time.

Taash: I don't know darkspawn. Or Venatori. All I know are dragons. If they've been changed... Rook: You don't have to know darkspawn. That's what Davrin is for. Lucanis and Neve are here for Venatori. Taash: At least they got their shot! At least they know what they're dealing with!

Rook: I don't think they see it that way. Rook: You help them, and we'll get whatever you need to handle these dragons.

Taash: I just... I don't want another Weisshaupt. Rook: Me neither.

Taash: We need to do better. I need to do better.

Option: I will get what you need. Rook: Taash, I promise you, we'll get you whatever you need to take down these dragons. Taash: Hey. I'll let you know what I need.

Option: I'm sorry. I messed up. Rook: (Sighs) Listen, Taash, I'm sorry. I'm still figuring out how to lead this team. Taash: Hey. Coming and apologizing is good leader crap.

Taash: You needed me to let you know I'd be there to help, and I didn't do that. That's on me. I'll do better next time. Taash: I will. I promise.

Taash: We can't have another Weisshaupt. We can't do that again. Rook: Agreed.

Option: We're all scared, damn it! Rook: You think you're the only one who's in over their head right now? None of us know what we're doing! Taash: I'm the one who has to stop the blighted dragons! Rook: We all got knocked down. Everyone else is getting back up to keep fighting. Taash: Why get up if I don't have anything to fight with? Rook: You gonna join us, or sit there and complain about it? Taash: What? So I get crapped on because I wasn't crying in front of everybody?

Taash: (Sighs) I'm gonna take some time. Punch something. Get my head on straight. Taash: But I'll be here if something comes up.

Rook: You are not doing this alone, okay? Taash: Okay.

Rook - Varric

Varric: Weisshaupt was a lot. You holding up all right?

Option: I'm sure you heard some of the shouting. Rook: I just talked with Solas. Which really didn't help after the day I've had. You probably heard the yelling. (reference to this) Varric: That little speech of yours left me worried. Where did that come from?

Option: I'm taking responsibility. Rook: The gods are loose because of us. Because of me. We have to stop them. We can't cry over the costs. Varric: What, it's too hard to think about the people you're trying to save, so it's better to just forget them? Rook: It's just reality. Varric: Rook, you can't escape from your feelings by working. Just ask my brother Bartrand.

Option: We have to keep working. Rook: We don't have time to stop and deal with this tragedy, Varric. Every minute we waste, the gods take more from us. Varric: You're not helping anyone by shutting down and focusing on work. You're making your team miserable. Rook: We have to face facts. We're fighting an overwhelming enemy, and people will die. We can't cry over each one.

Varric: You've definitely been spending too much time with Solas. Rook, Chuckles doesn't know what he's talking about. Varric: He never did. Don't take advice from someone who's broken the world twice. Three times, if you count this one.

Option: I'm scared to death. Rook: Honestly? I'm terrified. Ghilan'nain alone wiped out the Grey Wardens in their own stronghold. Rook: It took everything we had to kill her Archdemon, and she got away. No wonder Solas didn't try to fight them.

Option: I can't believe that happened. Rook: I'm honestly not sure how we go on. Rook: I think I'm in shock. So many people… gone just like that.

Option: We lost Weisshaupt. Rook: Varric. Weisshaupt is gone. The Grey Wardens… are gone. I have no idea what happens now.

Option: Varric. We're going to lose. Rook: Weisshaupt stood for a thousand years, and the gods just wiped it off the map. Rook: The Grey Wardens will never recover. I don't know if the world will.

Varric: Weisshaupt was bad. Anyone would be a wreck after that. But you're still standing. Rook: No, that was bullshit.

Rook: Taash isn't the only one who's pissed off after what happened. The Wardens should've been prepared! Rook: They had everything they needed! An army! A giant fortress! They even had an Archdemon trap, Varric! Rook: But they were so high on their own bullshit, they still fell! And took our chances of winning with them.

Rook (Grey Warden): And the Grey Wardens… we were supposed to be better than this. Our big battle finally came. And we failed.

Varric: Well, that sounds like self-defeating crap if I've ever heard it. Varric: How many stories did I tell you about Kirkwall? The Deep Roads expedition, the Qunari invasion, the Chantry… Varric: How many of my stories end with me stuck standing alone in ruins? Too many. Varric: There's no grand plan worth more than the people in the streets. Anyone who says otherwise is lying. Varric: Take it from someone who's worn a crown. The greater good is bullshit. Varric: Nobody fights for the world. They fight for the things in it that matter. So who are you fighting for? Really?

Faction option: The folks back home. Rook (Grey Warden): The Wardens were all I had. I have to do this for them. Rook: (Shadow Dragon) It's going to sound strange to say, "for Minrathous," but there are good people there… in and out of the Shadows. Rook (Antivan Crow): Viago's kind of terrifying, but the Crows are my family. I can't let Antiva fall. Rook (Veil Jumper): There's a lot of people still trying to fix Arlathan. I just want to give them the chance. Rook (Mourn Watch): I don't want to imagine the gods reaching the Grand Necropolis. It can't happen. Rook (Lord of Fortune): The other Lords, I suppose. They should never have to deal with this mess. Varric: That's a start. It's not enough to oppose evil. You have to care who lives to see your greater good arrive. Varric: Yeah, there's folks in Kirkwall I'm looking forward to seeing when this is over.

Option: The team. Rook: This team. Everyone here. This is all I've got, Varric. Varric: Right. Look after the team. You picked them for a reason. Varric: You've got to know you can't protect them from yourself.

Option: I don't know. Rook: I'm not sure I have an answer. Varric: My point is: You better know what you're not willing to lose. Looking away won't save them. Varric: You've still got the team, and you still have allies.

Rook: Bellara is gone. I don't know if she's coming back.

Rook: Taash is… gone. I don't know how to fix that.

Varric: The fight's not over until you give up.

Option: I won't. Rook: I wasn't planning to. Varric: No, you wouldn't. You're not the type to quit.

Option: Right. Back to the fight. Rook: Pick up the pieces and move forward. There's nothing else to do. Varric: Isn't that the truth?

Option: I don't know what to do. Rook: But I don't know where we go from here, or what comes next. Varric: Trust the team. Varric: You picked most of them, Rook. They're your team. Don't forget that.

Option: I'm hearing, "surrender." Rook: So, now would be a great time to retire to the Amaranthine Coast, I guess. Varric: It's never a good time to live out there. Rains more days than not. Varric: As bad as things are, you already have what you need.

Option: Want your old job back? Rook: If you make a sudden recovery, and want to take over for me, I won't say no. Varric: I would if I could.

Option: What about Bellara? Rook: How do I patch things up with Bellara? Varric: Give her some time to cool off, and then apologize. She cares too much to quit. Varric: And it wouldn't hurt to see if your resident dragon expert has any ideas.

Option: What about Taash? Rook: How do I patch things up with Taash? Varric: Let her cool off. Taash reminds me of Fenris sometimes. Has to hit something until she figures out what she's really mad about. Varric: And once Taash is back, maybe see if your dragon expert has any ideas.

Varric: You've got this, Rook. Don't worry.

Varric: You might want to check on Lucanis and Davrin to start. They were a little too quiet earlier. (maybe a reference to this)

[callikari]

PARANOIA ★ N.RK

PRECIS 。 a quiet love that shows up, stays, and never asks ...

西村力 x fem!reader 1322 fluff ─ emotional vulnerability implied loneliness skinship kissing quiet obsession

REBLOG FOR A KiSS

you meet riki by accident.

literally. your shoulder clips his as you’re rushing across laguna street, late for something you don’t even want to go to. he barely reacts—just side steps like he saw it coming, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, chewing gum lazily.

he glances at you once. cool, flat, unreadable. then walks off like it didn’t even happen.

you tell your friends later you think you saw a ghost in daylight.

you see him again in japantown.

he’s sitting alone at a café, feet propped up on the chair across from him like he owns the place. the same grey headphones hang loose around his neck, his deadpan stare distant but sharp. he catches your eye over the rim of his iced matcha.

“you’re the girl who ran into me.”

you blink. “you remember that?”

“you were going fast.” he shrugs. “kind of hard to forget.”

he doesn’t offer you a seat, but you sit down anyway. he doesn’t stop you.

riki isn’t shy. he just doesn’t care to fill the silence. when you talk, he listens with his eyes on everything but your face—his straw, the way light hits the foggy window, the sleeve of your hoodie he keeps tugging at without noticing.

but beneath that calm surface, he notices everything.

he sees how you bite your lip when you’re nervous.

he notices the small crease that forms between your eyebrows when you’re confused.

he watches how your fingers tremble when you’re cold.

he remembers how you always take your coffee—black, no sugar.

you don’t have to say you don’t like something—he just doesn’t do it again.

one night, you mention you hate people touching your hair. the next day, even when you lean into him, his hands stay firmly in his pockets. no accidental brushes, no casual grazes.

another time, you say you don’t like loud places. when you’re out, he subtly guides you away from the crowd without a word. no explanations needed.

he doesn’t ask. he just knows.

“you always come here alone?” you ask, noticing him sitting alone as usual.

“don’t like people talking to me when i eat.”

you pause. “you’re talking to me.”

he hums, like it’s the simplest truth. “you’re not annoying.”

that’s the closest thing to affection you get that day.

he starts showing up more.

not in a clingy way—he never texts first, never calls. but you see him everywhere: tucked in a corner of your favorite bookstore, walking past the painted ladies at golden gate park, once leaned against the railing of your apartment rooftop, looking like he’s been there for hours.

you don’t ask how he got in. he just tilts his head and says, “you’ve got a good view.”

as if that explains everything.

you start bringing him mochi from japantown. he never asks, but he eats it anyway. pulls it apart with long fingers, leaning back in your desk chair like he’s been living in your room his whole life.

“you always this quiet?” you ask.

he shrugs, that casual look never leaving his face. “you talk enough for both of us.”

slowly, you start letting him do the things you usually don’t let people do.

first, it’s his hand brushing against yours when you both reach for the same book in the bookstore. you don’t pull away. instead, your fingers linger, just for a second, before pulling back like you’re afraid you’re imagining it.

then it’s his fingers threading through your hair, absentmindedly smoothing the strands as you sit side by side, watching the fog roll over the bay.

you catch yourself leaning into it, like the warmth from those fingers calms the restless thoughts inside you.

he notices when you stiffen, and pulls back, but only just enough.

one rainy afternoon, you’re walking through japantown, sharing one umbrella. his arm brushes yours, then slides around your waist. it’s casual, like he’s holding onto you to keep balance. but your heart races.

the quiet of the rain makes everything feel intimate. the soft tapping of water on the umbrella, the smell of wet pavement mixed with jasmine tea from a nearby shop.

he doesn’t make a big deal out of it. never says “i want you” or “stay.” he just is.

the hugs come next.

not sudden or loud, but quiet and steady. when you shiver from the cold fog, his arms slide around your shoulders, pulling you close.

you try to pull away at first — you’re not used to letting someone hold you like that. but then you realize it’s not about needing something from him. it’s about the comfort of being seen.

and riki, with all his unreadable calm, sees you better than anyone ever has.

sometimes, when you’re sitting on the rooftop watching the city lights blur in the mist, he’ll lean his head on your shoulder, just for a moment. like he trusts you without having to say it.

holding hands feels like a secret only you two know.

he waits for you to move your fingers to his palm first — he never forces it. but once you do, he squeezes gently. just enough to say, “i’m here.”

sometimes he intertwines your fingers, sometimes he lets your hand rest on his leg while you talk. every little touch is deliberate but light, like a quiet promise.

riki kisses you like it’s not a big deal.

like it’s something he’s been meaning to do for a long time but forgot until the right moment.

he does it on the way home from a late walk—your hand brushing his, his gaze steady on how your lips move when you talk about dumb things like constellations.

“you think too much,” he murmurs.

then he kisses you. slow, barely pressing, like he’s tasting the words you didn’t say.

when he pulls back, he just says: “you’re cute when you’re paranoid.”

sometimes, he runs his thumb over your knuckles when you’re nervous.

sometimes, he traces lazy circles on your wrist when you’re tired.

you catch him watching you like he’s memorizing every little detail — the way your hair falls over your eyes, the way your smile breaks through the fog of your worries.

“what are we doing?” you ask one night, fingers tangled in his.

“nothing.”

“then why do you keep showing up?”

he shrugs, voice low. “…dunno. i like how you look at me.”

some nights, you wake up to him sitting at the foot of your bed, scrolling through your books or watching the fog outside. he never wakes you. he never says he’s staying over. he just… doesn’t leave.

and you let him.

because when riki’s around, nothing feels urgent. nothing feels fake.

you never know what he’s thinking—but you know, somehow, it always comes back to you.

vi says :: hi i love the marias! ♡

enhypen taglist :: @nocturnebite @jungwonbropls @cheruphic @chrrific @manariees @ijustreallylike2read @ijustwannareadstuff20

© CALLIKARI 

[smcubed22]

LOOKS SO FUN and I am procrastinating the APM chapter I owe oops. I did it for both Red (Anything Past Midnight a Durge/Wyll series) and Tav (A Guide to VERY HUMANOID for Dunces a Tav/Astarion series).

1. Is your OC a confident speaker?  Do they find it easy to express themselves verbally?  Or do they stutter or perhaps easily lose their train of thought?

Red - He’s definitely never held his words back, even when people wish he would. I think he’s allergic to staying on the same train of thought for an entire conversation, however.

Tav - Tav might not have been very good at Common, but he certainly never hesitated to muddle his way through a conversation. He doesn’t find it easy but greatly enjoys connecting with others in this way.

2. Does your OC use any expressions or slang terms that are unique to the area in which they grew up, or a specific community of which they were once a member?

Red - Most definitely uses more than his fair share of expressions. Most of them didn’t come from anywhere but that mad little head of his. But some of his speech patterns are relics of his old life as a Bhaalian priest.

Tav - For sure, he’s slipped into saying things a bit roundabout (calling moods/expressions “songs” and referring to death as “the waiting”) but has tried to be SUPER NORMAL and VERY HUMANOID please and thank you. He’s so good at this (he isn’t).

3. How often does your OC swear?  Is it something that punctuates their everyday speech?  Or is it so unusual to hear them use "bad" language that it would shock those around them?

Red - Could be rated NC-17 for language alone.

Tav - Tends to pull words from the people around him. He doesn’t curse frequently but an “oh hells” wouldn’t be shocking.

4. Does your OC have a particular accent?  Do other people ever judge or stereotype them on the basis of their accent?  How do they feel about this?

Red - Unless you have him thoughtful or listening, his words come out like they’re being chased. People have definitely assumed he’s half mad and stopped listening. This does frustrate him.

Tav - Sings his words when he’s not thinking carefully about it. He also is far too loud when he forgets he’s meant to speak more quietly. Between that and his broken/learning common, a few in the beginning took him for an idiot. He doesn’t mind -- he agrees with them.

5. Can other people recognise when your OC is angry or serious by the tone of their voice?  Or does their language become coarser?  Or perhaps more formal?

Red - Mentions of innards go up by like 120%.

Tav - Speaks more slowly with the full volume of his voice. Where it was musical before, something about it is highly abrasive on the ear now.

6. Does your OC show courtesy in their language around others - do they routinely thank others, or do they only do so if they perceive that person as being of a higher social status?

Red - Is learning to become super polite and courteous fuck you who said that he isn’t???? (No)

Tav - Thanks people often and is still working on what NOT to thank people for.

7. Has your OC much experience of public speaking or any formal training in rhetoric?  Do they find such things easy or intimidatingly difficult?

Red - Definitely led his share of cult ceremonies that he doesn’t remember.

Tav - No formal training but charisma and extroversion covers a lot of gaps.

8. Did your OC's parents or other caregivers use any specific terms of endearment for them as a child?  Do (or would) they use similar terms for their own children?

Red - “Mutt” doesn’t count Red, let’s just go with no.

Tav - Nope. Was just child, unless there was a need to specify among the children.

9. Does your OC consider their voice particularly "sexy"? Do they try to adopt a more seductive tone in romantic situations?  How successful are these efforts?

Red - He doesn’t consider his voice sexy (Wyll disagrees, he loves the rasp in it) and doesn’t change his tone. Though he might be more careful to speak privately.

Tav - He doesn’t consider his voice sexy (Astarion says it has its charms) and doesn’t TRY to adopt a more seductive tone but can’t quite manage to keep arousal out of his voice when it happens and he wants it.

10. Does your OC often punctuate their speech with filler sounds, such as "um" or "er"?  Or words such as "like" or "you know"?

Red - Oh absolutely. His speech pattern is full of pepper.

Tav - Some of this yes, but is more likely to pause and think.

11. Has your OC ever made a conscious effort to change their voice?  Perhaps by trying to rid themselves of a particular accent or making themselves sound more assertive?

Red - When disguised selfed in Chapter 20/21 of APM. It did not go well XD

Tav - Worked very, very hard to adjust his accent as soon as possible. Also worked very hard to adjust the volume of his voice, as his home language is very loud.

12. Are there any particular words that make your OC cringe?  Is this due to negative associations?  Or second-hand embarrassment?  Do they try to conceal their dislike?

Red - Disgusting, due to negative association. Also if Mizora dares to call Wyll pet one more time he’s gonna do a whole lot more than cringe. The first he tries to conceal his dislike, the second he does not.

Tav - Mercy, for reasons that will hurt everyone.

13. Is your OC talented at creative writing, whether poetry or prose?  Would they ever show their work to anyone else?

Red - No. Though Wyll certainly thinks his expression is creative.

Tav - I’m publishing his journal as we speak XD I would not call it poetry or prose, but the tadfools are having fun correcting him.

14. Are there any concepts or activities which are taboo in your OC's culture of origin, which they prefer to refer to euphemistically?  How do the respond to others who do not share these taboos?

Red - Not that I can think of. 

Tav - Nothing that I can think of that would be referred to euphemistically.

15. What is your OC's favourite or "go-to" swearword when under duress?

Red - Depends on what villain’s monologue he’s most recently poached. Though he’s fond of CUCK.

Tav -  Was definitely mispronouncing Tsk’va for awhile there. Now probably “hells”

16. Does your OC's body language sometimes give away what they might prefer to conceal?  Or are they practiced at ensuring that their physical presentation matches their stated positions?

Red - His body language absolutely gives him away. Anxiously pulling at Wyll’s clothes fools no one.

Tav - Has gotten far better at it, though his calm is certainly sometimes “too calm.”

17. Has your OC ever found other people struggle to understand them because of their accent?  How did this make them feel?  Did they resent the listeners?  Or feel bad about themselves?  Or both?

Red - Doesn’t have an accent but has definitely been misunderstood for other reasons and either resented it or thought it was funny.

Tav - Yes. He would patiently try to work it out with them in as many ways as he could phrase something, using gestures. I think he’d feel a bit defeated if he had to pull a companion over to help him.

18. How does your OC feel about other people with "posh" or "upper-class" accents?  Do they feel a natural deference to them?  Or a resentment?  Or do they not even notice?

Red - Hot.

Tav - Admiration. Words, like people, are so lovely no matter their shape.

19. To what degree does your OC amend their language and/or tone when speaking to children (or in front of them).

Red - Does not.

Tav - Is extra careful to speak more quietly and often crouches so he’s not looming down on them with a big voice.

20. Does your OC ever use technical or academic language when discussing their specialist interests?  Do others ever need them to translate these terms?

Red - No, though he definitely has his own weird shortspeak that very few understand

Tav - No

21. Does your OC like to ascribe nicknames or pet names to other people?  How well does this usually go down?

Red - Yes. Not very well lol.

Tav - No, names are very important.

22. What is your OC's singing voice like?  Does it surprise other people by being better (or worse) than they expected?

Red - Eerie, but not bad sounding. When he drags his words out in song they sound up to no good. The kind of whispery rasp a thirsty sailor would use to sing of a ghost ship.

Tav - Surprisingly beautiful and chorally, and not quite as deep as you think it would be for his size.

23. How confident is your OC at writing?  Do they regularly write letters or even academic papers?  Or is their writing stilted, awkward - or even a source of embarrassment to them?

Red - Doesn’t write much but can. His handwriting is a spidery scrawl and he would probably stop halfway through writing to draw something deeply disturbing instead.

Tav - Is working very hard in VERY HUMANOID: The Journal to become better at writing a quest journal. :) 

24. How does your OC's voice change when they are trying to persuade someone else to let them have their own way?  Is this particularly persuasive?  Perhaps only to certain people?

Red - Please please please please /poke poke poke poke. Come on, it'll be fun! It is not particularly persuasive. Wyll does have a hard time saying no to his smile.

Tav - His persuasion efforts have an increasingly subtle lilt as the game goes on. He is *very* persuasive.

25. Has anyone ever mocked or made fun of your OC's accent or the words they use?  What was the impact of this upon them?

Red - Is the bully mocking every villain in Faerun for their word choices and life choices.

Tav - Probably did not notice. Astarion stole from them.

26. What kind of compliments might your OC bestow upon another person?  Elegant flattery?  Crude sexual banter?  Measured, but positive feedback?

Red - Confusing and intense ones that might require some parsing and questioning to fully understand.

Tav - Direct compliments, simple in form and warm in intent.

27. Does your OC ever use deliberately offensive or abusive terms towards particular social or cultural groups?

Red - Monologuers! *shakes his fist* He’s also not fond of Wulbren so the Ironpans get some remarks.

28. How easy does your OC find it to say "no"?  Do they prefer to prevaricate?  Is this out of courtesy?  Or from a fear of rejection?

Red - If it’s someone he doesn’t care about, no is easy. If it’s someone he cares about, no is next to impossible. (If he’s not useful he’s useless, mentality.) Wyll is working on that.

Tav - Will do his utmost to make everyone happy but will say no if he needs to, especially if it’s to protect someone else.

29. Are there any words or terms that your OC finds particularly offensive?  Is this unique to their own experiences or something on which most people would agree?

Red - He didn’t much like “your kind” in reference to Bhaalspawn. Because his kind is who he chooses dammit! He says everyone agrees that everything that comes out of Mizora’s mouth is offensive.

Tav - He’s difficult to offend, but he would take offense to anyone belittling a group senselessly. He very much doesn’t like being referred to as “child.”

30. Is your OC particularly vocal during sex?  Do they tend to use actual words or even full sentences?  Or just noises?  How much control do they have over this? Red - You can’t stop him from yapping unless his mouth is otherwise full. This gets very disjointed when he’s pushed along in pleasure. Toward the end he might not even be sure of what he’s even saying.

Tav - Is loud, but it’s more noises than comprehensible words. Not much control at all.

31. How often does your OC raise their voice?  Is this always deliberate or can they sometimes not help it?

Red - All the time, he’s a little firecracker. Sometimes it’s deliberate, sometimes he’s just annoyed.

Tav - His voice is very loud by default and takes great effort to keep quiet.

32. Does your OC ever make idle threats?  Or do they only state very precisely exactly what the consequences will be?

Red - Every day. But he’s also ready to do it >D

Tav - No, will do what he says.

33. How long are the sentences your OC usually uses in conversation?  Do they tend to communicate in brief, or even terse, pieces of dialogue?  Or are they prone to flowery language - or even outright verbosity?

Red - Who’s that guy Brief?

Tav - Is usually briefer with longer pauses trying to figure out how to say what he wants.

34. Does your OC yell or scream during arguments?  Or do they become quiet and withdrawn?

Red - Bold that you would think I need a reason to yell.

Tav - Depends on the argument. He might lose control over the volume of his voice, but if he cared about a person, he wouldn’t be screaming at them necessarily.

35. Does your OC ever talk to themselves?  How aware of this are they?

Red - Yes, sometimes he’s aware.

Tav - Not to himself, but you never know which rock might actually be a wizard, okay?

36. What is your OC's laugh like?  Is it a genteel titter? A hearty belly laugh?  Or a snorting noise like a constipated donkey?

Red - It comes in two flavors - giggling and cackling.

Tav - Booming and warm, or a pleasant chuckle.

37. How wide is your OC's vocabulary?  Do others consider them eloquent or well-read?

Red - Wide enough to commit crimes. No and no, though Wyll claims he does have a certain way about putting things into perspective sometimes.

Tav - Widening rapidly, as he loves to learn and chat and has been trying to find the words that Astarion uses in various books. Gale has informed him that Jake’s Encyclopedia of Eels is not, in fact, a dictionary.

38. If confronted by someone who cannot - or will not - speak how would your OC respond?  If they cannot - or will not - speak themselves then how do others respond to this?  How do they make themselves understood?

Context would make a very big difference on this one, but I will try.

Red - Would watch their expression carefully to try and intuit their deal.

Tav - Would watch for their gestures or any other clues around to figure it out, if this person is attempting to communicate something.

39. Is your OC particularly loud in combat?  Do they yell?  Roar?  Or are they a silent and deadly presence? 

Red - Forever living the struggle of NEEDING to run your mouth but also LURKING.

Tav - Is loud in existing, clank clank clank. Other than battle communications though, doesn’t actually say much. A two handed maul with divine smite kind of speaks for itself.

40. Does your OC challenge others for perceived discourtesies?  Or are they unwilling or unmotivated to cause a scene?

Red - Would challenge god for 1 corn chip, chihuahua energy. WYLL SAID NO PICKLES energy.

Tav - Doesn’t care if you aren’t courteous to him, but don’t you go treating any of his companions disrespectfully.

41. Does your OC ever wish that their voice was different?  Are they ever embarrassed or ashamed of their accent or the volume of their voice?

Red - Wonders what he would sound like if Kressa didn’t rearrange him sometimes.

Tav - Wishes he could speak more quietly more easily.

42. Does your OC find any particular voices or accents especially alluring or stimulating?

Red - Loves Wyll’s voice, especially when he’s telling a story

Tav - Enamored with how emotive Astarion’s speech is

43. How often does your OC add new words to their vocabulary?  Do they hungrily pick up new terms and words?  Or do they struggle to remember such things?

Red - Will find a new word and repeat it until everyone is sick of hearing it.

Tav - Hungrily picking up the terms he needs to communicate with these lovely people of Faerun.

44. How eloquent is your OC?  Is their use of language beautiful, or at least skillful?  Or do they struggle to communicate without sounding clumsy or awkward?

Red - …I don’t know if eloquent is the word. Or beautiful. Skillful maybe? His communication is definitely creative.

Tav - Isn’t skillful or eloquent, but has a nice voice and speaks without reservation, even if his words are imperfect. His speech itself is clumsy but his delivery makes up for it.

45. Does your OC ever change their language or tone when moving between different cultures or social settings?

Red - May have started getting a little rhymier at the gate. And I think he’s caught a little of Wyll’s poetic vibe.

Tav - Definitely struggles to code switch in Oath, resulting in his voice being songier and expressing his emotion in tone rather than words.

46. What (if any) are your OC's go to "polite" expressions of disappointment or frustration?  Do they ever substitute words like "sugar" or "darn" for stronger language?  Under what circumstances might they do this?

Red - I tell them I’m polite and then I tell them to fuck off.

Tav - Sakvah :< 

47. Does your OC find it easy to talk about sexual activities or bodily parts?  Or can they only speak about them using twee euphemisms or obscure slang terms?  Or can they not speak about them at all?

Red - The things that come out of this elf’s mouth would make a sailor jump in the harbor.

Tav - Tends to be pretty direct and sees no particular reason to be embarrassed.

48. What would be the most offensive word or term to use about your OC?  How would they respond to this being used towards them?  Would it matter what the intent or understanding of the person using it might be?

Red - “Disgusting.” Might throw him into some mind skippies. He would either say I’M NOT or kind of shrink a little, depending on how he’s doing.

Tav - “Child.” If it was someone he felt he could talk to, he would correct them. He would not like it no matter the intent.

49. Was your OC quick to learn how to speak as a child?  Was their grasp of language encouraged by those around them?  Did anyone read with them?  Or recite poetry or stories to them?

Red - Was never quite a child, and his grasp on most things occurred under threat.

Tav - Learned about at the same pace as the other children in the facility, perhaps a little more slowly. The caregivers did read to them and tell them stories about the Heroes of Avernus and that they might someday join them.

50. Does your OC ever revert to baser, perhaps even coarser, ways of speaking when under stress or anxiety?  Or are they consistently poised and self-controlled, no matter how difficult the situation?

Red - Has been known to growl and threaten. Maybe talk about intestinal jump rope. If he’s very far gone, he might go into a sort of blank minded repetition.

Tav - Is very cool under stress, though he might slow his speech to properly think about his words. Though he does startle easily and might slip a little if you sneak up on him.

OC Language and Vernacular Questions.

Is your OC a confident speaker? Do they find it easy to express themselves verbally? Or do they stutter or perhaps easily lose their train of thought?

Does your OC use any expressions or slang terms that are unique to the area in which they grew up, or a specific community of which they were once a member?

How often does your OC swear? Is it something that punctuates their everday speech? Or is it so unusual to hear them use "bad" language that it would shock those around them?

Does your OC have a particular accent? Do other people ever judge or stereotype them on the basis of their accent? How do they feel about this?

Can other people recognise when your OC is angry or serious by the tone of their voice? Or does their language become coarser? Or perhaps more formal?

Does your OC show courtesy in their language around others - do they routinely thank others, or do they only do so if they percieve that person as being of a higher social status?

Has your OC much experience of public speaking or any formal training in rhetoric? Do they find such things easy or intimidatingly difficult?

Did your OC's parents or other caregivers use any specific terms of endearment for them as a child? Do (or would) they use similar terms for their own children?

Does your OC consider their voice particularly "sexy"? Do they try to adopt a more seductive tone in romantic situations? How successful are these efforts?

Does your OC often punctuate their speech with filler sounds, such as "um" or "er"? Or words such as "like" or "you know"?

Has your OC ever made a conscious effort to change their voice? Perhaps by trying to rid themselves of a particular accent or making themselves sound more assertive?

Are there any particular words that make your OC cringe? Is this due to negative associations? Or second-hand embarrassment? Do they try to conceal their dislike?

Is your OC talented at creative writing, whether poetry or prose? Would they ever show their work to anyone else?

Are there any concepts or activities which are taboo in your OC's culture of origin, which they prefer to refer to euphemistically? How do the respond to others who do not share these taboos?

What is your OC's favourite or "go-to" swearword when under duress?

Does your OC's body language sometimes give away what they might prefer to conceal? Or are they practiced at ensuring that their physical presentation matches their stated positions?

Has your OC ever found other people struggle to understand them because of their accent? How did this make them feel? Did they resent the listeners? Or feel bad about themselves? Or both?

How does your OC feel about other people with "posh" or "upper-class" accents? Do they feel a natural deference to them? Or a resentment? Or do they not even notice?

To what degree does your OC amend their language and/or tone when speaking to children (or in front of them).

Does your OC ever use technical or academic language when discussing their specialist interests? Do others ever need them to translate these terms?

Does your OC like to ascribe nicknames or pet names to other people? How well does this usually go down?

What is your OC's singing voice like? Does it surprise other people by being better (or worse) than they expected?

How confident is your OC at writing? Do they regularly write letters or even academic papers? Or is their writing stilted, awkward - or even a source of embarassment to them?

How does your OC's voice change when they are trying to persuade someone else to let them have their own way? Is this particularly persuasive? Perhaps only to certain people?

Has anyone ever mocked or made fun of your OC's accent or the words they use? What was the impact of this upon them?

What kind of compliments might your OC bestow upon another person? Elegant flattery? Crude sexual banter? Measured, but positive feedback?

Does your OC ever use deliberately offensive or abusive terms towards particular social or cultural groups?

How easy does your OC find it to say "no"? Do they prefer to prevaricate? Is this out of courtesy? Or from a fear of rejection?

Are there any words or terms that your OC finds particularly offensive? Is this unique to their own experiences or something on which most people would agree?

Is your OC particularly vocal during sex? Do they tend to use actual words or even full sentences? Or just noises? How much control do they have over this?

How often does your OC raise their voice? Is this always deliberate or can they sometimes not help it?

Does your OC ever make idle threats? Or do they only state very precisely exactly what the consequences will be?

How long are the sentences your OC usually uses in conversation? Do they tend to communicate in brief, or even terse, pieces of dialogue? Or are they prone to flowery language - or even outright verbosity?

Does your OC yell or scream during arguments? Or do they become quiet and withdrawn?

Does your OC ever talk to themselves? How aware of this are they?

What is your OC's laugh like? Is it a genteel titter? A hearty belly laugh? Or a snorting noise like a constipated donkey?

How wide is your OC's vocabulary? Do others consider them eloquent or well-read?

If confronted by someone who cannot - or will not - speak how would your OC respond? If they cannot - or will not - speak themselves then how do others respond to this? How do they make themselves understood?

Is your OC particularly loud in combat? Do they yell? Roar? Or are they a silent and deadly presence?

Does your OC challenge others for perceived discourtesies? Or are they unwilling or unmotivated to cause a scene?

Does your OC ever wish that their voice was different? Are they ever embarassed or ashamed of their accent or the volume of their voice?

Does your OC find any particular voices or accents especially alluring or stimulating?

How often does your OC add new words to their vocabulary? Do they hungrily pick up new terms and words? Or do they struggle to remember such things?

How eloquent is your OC? Is their use of language beautiful, or at least skillful? Or do they struggle to communicate without sounding clumsy or awkward?

Does your OC ever change their language or tone when moving between different cultures or social settings?

What (if any) are your OC's go to "polite" expressions of disappointment or frustration? Do they ever substitute words like "sugar" or "darn" for stronger language? Under what circumstances might they do this?

Does your OC find it easy to talk about sexual activities or bodily parts? Or can they only speak about them using twee euphemisms or obscure slang terms? Or can they not speak about them at all?

What would be the most offensive word or term to use about your OC? How would they respond to this being used towards them? Would it matter what the intent or understanding of the person using it might be?

Was your OC quick to learn how to speak as a child? Was their grasp of language encouraged by those around them? Did anyone read with them? Or recite poetry or stories to them?

Does your OC ever revert to baser, perhaps even coarser, ways of speaking when under stress or anxiety? Or are they consistently poised and self-controlled, no matter how difficult the situation?

[demie90s]

ex paige x ex singer reader, where no one knows abt their relationship and reader writes a heart break song (spread thin by mariah the scientist) and goes viral. Reader then performs the song in a award show and paige is there listening and reacting.

btw love ur works sm keep going, rooting for u girl!

-🐻‍❄️

(Yall insist on making me sad while writing these. But just for you my pookie wookie…I’m done❤️)

ᴘᴀɪɢᴇ ʙᴜᴇᴄᴋᴇʀꜱ x Ex!ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

That Doesn’t Stop the Show

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You and Paige were a secret, quiet thing—kept tucked between hotel rooms, off-camera moments, and missed calls. But when things ended, they ended. You didn’t speak on it—not until the heartbreak turned into lyrics.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Angst, Drama, Second-Chance Energy, Secret Relationship Fallout

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: Emotional heartbreak, public confrontation (non-verbal), toxic breakup themes, tension

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~0.4k

ᴠɪʙᴇ: cinematic. candlelit pain. raw and grown. a mic drop without yelling. revenge dressed in glitter and vocals.

The song starts. Just guitar and a soft beat—low, smooth, with that lazy kind of ache only R&B can carry. The crowd leans in. Nobody really knows what’s coming, but they know who you are now. The girl who vanished from the spotlight, only to reappear with a song that broke a million hearts and streamed ten million more.

You sit on a plain black stool, mic in hand. No flash, no theatrics. Just you. Hair pulled back, minimal makeup, loose pants and a fitted top. Clean. Intentional. You don’t need to dress the wound up. It bleeds fine on its own.

You glance at the band once, then look straight ahead.

And start.

“And now I cannot trust you…”

The crowd hushes. Phones lift, of course, but no one’s screaming anymore. They’re listening. Because this isn’t a performance. It’s a confession with melody.

Front row, Paige is still. Not stiff. Just quiet. She didn’t come here to be noticed. She came because she couldn’t not come. She told herself she was just here for support, that it was coincidental you were performing. But the second your voice hit that first note, she knew she was lying again.

“Thinkin’ of all your lies and cover-ups…”

You don’t point fingers. You don’t yell. You just sing. The way someone sings when they’ve said it all before—but never like this. Not where everyone could hear. Not with a beat carrying it and a crowd hanging off every line.

You keep your head low, eyes sometimes flicking to the side, but mostly you stare ahead. Not at her. Never at her. That silence says enough.

Paige’s jaw twitches. She tries to keep her face unreadable, but it’s there—the tight swallow, the blink that lingers too long, the way her foot taps just a little too hard against the carpet. She looks at you like she’s bracing for impact.

“You always think the only one who needs any attention is you…”

A few people in the audience murmur, damn. But you just keep going. You don’t rush. Every lyric lands like it was made to sit heavy in someone’s chest. Especially hers.

Because she remembers those nights. The excuses. The timing that never lined up. The “I’m just protecting us” that sounded more like I’m protecting me. You wrote about all of it. All the moments she pretended didn’t matter.

And now it’s playing in Dolby surround, live, on a platform she can’t mute.

When the song ends, there’s a second of silence before the applause hits. A pause like everyone just had to breathe. You stand. Give a quick, grateful nod. No bow. No theatrics.

And walk off.

You don’t look at her. Not once.

But she hasn’t taken her eyes off you since the first note.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Locked Out of Heaven 8

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, power imbalance, age gap, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your father invites a work friend to the neighbourhood barbecue.

Characters: Nick Fowler (Dad’s friend trope)

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

On the last stair, you trip. You catch yourself on your hands but can't avoid the noise. You hold your breath and listen to the house. 

You stand up and focus on getting your foot over the lip of the step. You exhale and tiptoe down to your too. You nearly screech as a door opens. Austin walks out, his headset on and his eyes on his phone. You stand against the wall as he passes.

For the first time, you're thankful for his oblivion. You wait until you hear him in the kitchen to move. You flit into tour room and nearly collapse. Holy moley.

You drop your purse and your shoes. You spin and sit down on the end of the bed. You're dreamy and a bit drunk. You're eyes are glossy with fatigue yet your adrenaline is pumping. 

A buzz keeps you from falling back. You blink and sway before you drag yourself to your feet. You stagger to your purse and take out your phone. There's only one person it can be.

Nick's message makes your cheeks burn even hotter.

'Great night with my girl. Sweet dreams.'

You giggle and type in 'good night'.

'I'll sleep good knowing you're mine.'

You're at a loss so you send a smile emoji. His reply is quick.

'No fun without me. Understand?'

You frown. 'What do you mean?'

'The toy. I'll tell you when you need to use it. First. Get some sleep. Send a pick of your pajamas so I know you listened like a good girl.' 

You stare at the message. You have a naughty idea. You think it's too much but you're all bubbly. He'll like it, won't he?

You put your phone down and strip off the skirt and blouse. You stand in just the bra and look down at you body. He seems to like you a lot.

You grab the phone and lean it against your pillows. You sit on your knees and angle so the camera can't catch your full pelvis. You set the timer and pose. Ugh maybe sit up taller. Another shot. No, push your chest out.

That's it. You stare at the photo and shiver. You're not really going to send it, are you?

You tap the arrow and drop the phone. You grab a pillow and hide your face. Oh gosh! You could delete and hope he didn't see.

The phone vibes. You're relieved the ringer isn't on as you fumble to answer the call. You whisper into the speaker.

"Hello?"

"Bad girl. You know I'm driving and you're sending me that." Nick drawls.

"Oh, I'm sorry," you murmur.

"You don't got to be sorry, baby. You gotta warn me. The way you got my mind racing, I nearly swerved out." He growls. "Mmph, I could drive back there and..." he stops himself with a snicker. "Well... I told ya I'd be patient."

"Oh, okay. I... I hope you have a good night."

"With that image in my head, think I will," he purrs. "But princess? Don't think I'll forget that. I owe ya for that one."

You sit in silence, a bit hollow as the alcohol settles in your gut 

"Alright. You better go to sleep. I need you to take care of yourself, baby."

"Alright, uh, um... good night."

"Mmhmm," he hums.

The line clicks and you blow out a deep breath. The timbre of his voice lingers in your chest. You can't believe someone like him is so into you!

You lay in the dark as your lips curve and your chest blooms with heat. More than that, flames lick through you, unabated. You close your eyes and you see him. You want him so bad. You never in your life wanted anyone like you do Nick.

💜

The next morning you wake up with fog in your eyes but otherwise you feel normal. As normal as you can after last night. You're trying not to think of it. You're trying to focus but you just can't stop. Last night was the most exciting thing you've ever done. You snuck out, you drank, you kissed...

For so long, life seemed to pass you by. You languish in your academic purgatory and everyone else gets to go out and have fun and be friends. Finally, you're doing something.

And with him. Everything about him is perfect. His eyes, his arms, his lips. You think about the day you met him, with his shirt off, the way his muscles were taut and rounded. And he's older. Everyone always says that's sexy.

Still, Nick can't change everything. He can't get rid of your dad, he can't extinguish all the expectations, and he certainly can't help with your advanced biology report. Back to boring.

You get your books set out and a tea to sip on as you work on your revised draft. Your phone isn't far. Just right there. You should have it on silent. You don't need the distraction. Even so, you jump when it buzzes. It's not even noon.

You glance over your shoulder and wait. Your dad's home for the day. It's the weekend. You thought he might go golfing but he's been yelling in the yard with Austin. They're probably working on a car or something.

You read the message quickly.

'Morning. Sorry I'm late.'

You dig your teeth into your lower lip, cheeks taut with a smile you can't contain. You send a heart emoji. 'Good morning.'

'Chipper. You feeling ok?'

'Feel good.' You send back.

He sends a wink emoji and the three dots of him typing bubble up beneath. When his message comes through, you reread it several times.

'Wanna feel better, princess?'

You rub your neck. You crane again, paranoid that your dad might sneak up and catch you. You return a question mark.

'Go get the toy.' His next message pops up. You gulp. Another message comes in. 'Baby. You're gonna be a good girl, right?'

Your hands tremble. You type in carefully.

'I'm doing schoolwork. I'll be done soon.'

You tap send and wait. Dread swells in your stomach.

'I didn't ask what you're doing. I told you what to do. Go and get the toy.'

You rock nervously and glance at the window. Hopefully, your dad doesn't find your books unattended. You get up cautiously and cross the room. You flit into the hall and hurry upstairs. As you get to your room, your phone shakes. Shoot.

You answer.

"Are you mad?" You ask.

"Baby girl," Nick tuts. "Not yet. Do you got the toy?"

"I'm in my room. Just looking..."

"Good girl. You just need to do what I say."

"Okay, er, but--"

"But," he echoes bluntly.

"Sorry, sorry. My dad's right downstairs."

"You don't worry about him. He won't know any better, will he?" Nick purrs. "Don't you wanna make me happy? Didn't I make you happy last night?"

You heart pounds and your stomach churns. You feel bad now. He did all that last night and you're arguing.

"I'll be good. I'm just... scared, I guess."

"Baby, it's cause it's new but that doesn't mean it's bad," he chides. "Now, pull down your pants."

You sniff. His command is sharp enough that you nearly drop the phone. You put him on speaker and place the phone on the dresser.

"One sec," you unbutton your fly.

"And your panties," he adds.

"Oh, okay," you push both down to your knees.

"Got the toy?"

You open the drawer and fish out the box from your clothes. "Yes."

"Kay, so, you gotta get yourself wet. How are you feeling?"

"Um... i don''t... know."

"Go on and touch yourself. It'll be easier."

You peek at the door. Your dad is going to come looking if he finds you gone.

"Okay," you reach between your legs. You squeak as you delve between your folds. Your fingers slide along your clit.

"What's going on, princess?"

"I... I'm a little wet."

"You gotta get more. Just... pretend it's me, baby. Hm? Like how I did in the car. Didn't that feel nice? My fingers all over you. The way I pet you good. Rubbed you up..." he rasps. "Mmm, you were so tight. So tight, princess, so I know you need to get nice and wet for me. You playing with yourself?"

"Yes," you quiver as your fingers swirl around in a mimic of what he did the night before.

"Uh huh, and it feels good?"

"Yes, Nick."

"Mmm, alright, well, I don't want you to cum. Not yet." He warns. "Take that toy out."

"Um, okay."

You pull your hand away from your cunt, keeping your wet fingers straight. You open the box and slide out the insert. You remove the toy.

"I preprogrammed it and got it nice and clean. You're going to want to lay down." He directs you.

"Okay..."

"Tell me when you're laying down."

You shuffle back awkwardly, your pants at your knees, and lower yourself onto the bed. You spread out along one side.

"I'm laying down."

"Good girl, now you feel the bigger part of the toy, you're gonna put it in you."

"In..." you repeat.

"Do it nice and slow for me, okay? You take it, rub it against your clit." He guides as his voice drags.

You do what he says, letting out a hum.

"Feel nice. Get it all wet."

You push it up and down your folds. Suddenly, it thrums. Just once. You squeak and he snickers.

"You feel that?" He asks.

"Uh... yeah."

"Good, it's working," he says. "You get it wet."

"Mmhmm."

"Then your going to push it just against your entrance. Wiggle it, okay, don't force it. Breathe. It should be too big. It's a small toy. I made sure."

"Right, I'm trying. It's getting wetter," you stare at the door, expecting it to open at any minute. Despite the shadow of what could happen, your body is tingling.

"Alright, you keep going." He coaxes. "You wanna know why I got you a small one?"

"Um, why?" You exhale as you press against your entrance.

"Cause, baby, I wanna be the one to stretch you out. I wanna feel you around me. How you need me--"

You whine and quickly stifle it as the toy dips into you. Only a little but enough. "It's going in."

"Mm, good girl. Deeper."

"Yes."

"Let me know when it's all in."

"Yes,it... I think... except--"

"The thin part you keep out. The end should go on your pretty little clit," he drawls.

"Oh. Okay," you move around the little flat circle and press it between your folds.

"Now pull your pants up." He intones.

"Huh?"

"No one will be able to tell. You're going to wear that for me and I'm going to play with you." He says.

"Um..." You babble.

"Better not be a no on your tongue," he snarls.

"It's not. I'm just... I'm learning," you sit up and twitch at the tightness of the toy inside you. "Oh, it's..."

"It's gonna feel a bit strange but it'll get better, baby."

You pull up your pants and button them. You walk with legs wide to take your phone. You groan and the toys buzzes on your clit.

"Oooh!" You exclaim and cup your hand over your mouth.

"Feel that?" he asks.

"Yes," you hiss through your fingers.

"How about this?" The part inside you vibrates. You squeak again. He chuckles. "This?"

It happens again, even more intense than the last time.

"Ayeee, yes," you bite your knuckle.

"Mm, you sound so good. I can't wait for the noises you make when I'm inside you. How about you, baby? You want that? You want me inside you?" He slithers.

"Y-y-yes," you stutter, your honesty lighting a new fire in you.

"You want me?"

"Yes," you whimper as you touch your pelvis.

"Yeah? Baby, I want you too. So bad."

"Yes, yes, yes..." you drone, barely able to think as the buzz thrums through you. Suddenly it stops.

"That's my good girl. Now, I know I interrupted you're studying so you go back down and finish," he orders.

"Yes, I... I'll try."

"Alright, you let me know when you soak through those panties," he growls. "Wish I could taste them."

You stop by the door, his words make you jittery. "My dad..."

"I know. Go. I'll be there. You'll feel me."

He hangs up and you sigh. You're relieved but not for long as the toy shakes again. You bite your lip and twitch. You grab the door and wait for the toy to stop before you go out. As nice as it feels, you're not going to be able to focus on your work.

[revelboo]

Hello:3 I hope you're doing okay 🙃😌😖 how's tfp megatron since we knocked him up 🤣🤣🤣🤣

You just know he’s going to be awful about it. 🔞 mass displaced mech 🌶️

Broken Arrow Pt 22

TFP Megatron x Reader

• Snorting awake as you’re dragged back into his heated frame, an arm draping around you as his clawed servos go straight between your thighs and he rocks himself against you. You’re not even really awake, yet, but apparently being sparked makes him not only unbearably annoying, but even hornier than normal. And he was already awful. “Your sparked carrier needs to be fragged,” he growls in your ear, spooning you and it takes everything not to try and elbow him in the face. Reminding yourself that you’ll just hurt yourself and it won’t phase him at all.

• Rolling onto his back and dragging you to sprawl on top of him and manhandling you onto your belly, he hooks a claw in your harness and tugs you down, head lifting to kiss you and laughing when you jerk back. “Well, I guess you shouldn’t have tried to knock me up then,” you snap, pulling against his hold on your harness before giving up with a huff. “You did it to yourself. This isn’t my problem,” you add, gesturing at all of him to make his optics narrow.

• “You should apologize with that mean, little mouth,” he growls, almost sounding actually hurt. “You’re a cruel and terrible spark mate.” Rubbing in his claim that the two of you are tied together for life, but you’re sure that’s a lie to manipulate you into doing what he wants. You can’t be stuck with him literally until death do you part, but thinking about it sends your heart racing, twisting you tight with panic. It has to be a lie. Maybe the sparked thing is, too. Another manipulation to get his way, except you know it’s not. You’d felt it echo through you when he’d fully bonded you and you’d felt when he’d tried to spark you.

• “Why me?” You ask, voice strained and he hesitates, cruel amusement with taunting and aggravating you faltering. “Why would you bond me for life? You hate me. I hate you.” Venting, he sits up and cups your face in his big hands, your frightened rambling faltering when he brushes the clawed end of a servo against your bottom lip. Do you really not understand? After all this time, you still don’t get it?

• Splaying a hand on his chassis as he tips your face up toward him, those red optics staring at you. Refusing to let you look away. “I hate you,” he growls, the words becoming a question. “Hate that I need you, that I can’t recharge without you against me, that I can’t stop reaching for you. Need the scent of you, your taste on my glossa, the feel of you under me when I’m inside you. You’re an addiction,” he snarls, lip curling to show his sharp denta. “And you understand absolutely nothing,” he adds, head dipping, glossa sliding against skin and his harness and you feel when he frees his spike, feel the head brush you. “I marked you as mine, claimed you, sparked and bonded you. Let myself be claimed.” And his mouth crashes against yours, not a kiss so much a domination. Big hands slide down to your hips and you lay your own hands on top of his.

• Lifting you and pulling you down on his spike with a snarl, he encourages you to ride him. To claim him as yours, his harness jingling with the movements. How can you still not understand he loves you? That he gave you all of him, made himself vulnerable for you. That he’d kill for you, destroy everything if anything happened to you. If you were taken or threatened, this world would burn until he got you back. Watching you move against him, using him for pleasure, his optics almost shutter as his servos trace your soft skin. Worshipping you with his body, still unable to say the words. Listening to your moans, the clink of the harness, and the wet sound of his spike pumping inside your slick heat. Loves you so much it hurts.

Previous

[agoraphobialt]

Priest John Price doing pussy inspections.

cw: power imbalance, religion, cnc.

After retiring earlier due to an injury on his leg that left him depending on a cane to move around, John decided that he needed to find something to believe, something that could explain why the world wanted him to stop saving the world, from that path he always thought he would follow until he died.

So he became a devoted man; he found some sense of the mess of his life there. He liked preaching, talking to people about the one above all of us. He liked to call himself the one who talked to Jesus, and people believed in him. He liked playing god, but that's no surprise.

No one doubted him; he was a well-respected man, everyone was the sheep, and he was the shepherd.

That's why when one day he called you to a private area in the church to tell you about a small problem, you got nervous; he always made your legs feel like jelly— but only because he was God's messenger!.

Once you were sitting in front of him, surrounded by the smell of his cologne mixed with his own scent and his smile that made your cheeks burn, he began to explain to you that there had been some rumours about you losing your purity, and it horrified you because you were incapable of doing such a thing before finding your forever one.... You immediately denied it, but he wasn't convinced at all. "I dunno, sweetheart… girls these days, eh? They can be dead sneaky, God forgive me for sayin’ it."

those words and the horror of disappointing him made your eyes burn. "Now listen, love…" he continued but softer this time, it wasn't in his plans to make you cry, he could never hurt such a small thing like you. "I know you’re not like all of these other girls, always doing everything but god wishes. That’s why I’m speakin’ to you— because I see the good in you, I do. All I’m askin’ is to let me do a small inspection... just so we can put all these rumours to rest, eh? No shame in it."

And of course you accepted. You would do anything he asks you, he just wants to help you because you know he has a pure heart.

So you didn't question when he asked you to stand up and to hold onto the desk; you didn't think twice about him standing behind you, and of course you let him manhandle you until your legs were split and your panties were pooling on your ankles. "Just need to make sure she’s still pure, y’see… like she's ought to be. Pure in the eyes of the Lord, untouched by temptation. That’s all."

He told you, and you sighted when his big and calloused fingers ran through your folds, jumping a little when he pressed one of them against your small hole. "I dunno,... might still need to check a bit more, eh?" And you just nodded because he just wanted the best for you: he was your saviour.

Your face was blushed, and there was an unknown feeling growing in your belly, and then you heard a "tsk" and then a "Sweetheart...you shouldn't be soaking down here."

That afternoon you left church with the promise of coming back the next day to continue with the inspections, because that was the only way of keeping the demons away from your body, or so he told you.

[mercurycft]

𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒 — 𝐋𝐖

## the bubble universe - leah x reader !!

hi everyone!! jeeeeez its been a while - back with some more fluffy writing! ive decided to create something called ‘the bubble universe’ where all of these fluffy fics i write will all intertwine with eachother within this universe! you can find this one & other related ones under the ‘bubble universe’ section of my masterlist! i’ve finally finished uni! everyone say congrats ru! so you guys can have my full attention again! missed you all so much - this one is a longgggg one! i hope you love reading it like i enjoyed writing it! love always - RGx

find THE BUBBLE UNIVERSE! — here

fluff and angst at times, no major warnings besides quite heavy details of IVF and fertility treatments - alongside failed fertility treatments, as well as relationship impacts and heavy emotions but also loved-up-ness. also not proof read bc fuck that.

5.8k words.

you don’t really mean to bring it up. it’s just one of those days; you’re curled into the corner of the couch with a blanket over your knees, a half-drunk cup of tea going cold on the table, and leah’s feet resting lazily in your lap. the telly’s on but neither of you are really watching it. you’re both too comfortable in the quiet, too used to each other to need constant conversation. every few minutes your eyes drift from your phone screen and up to the telly, watching absentmindedly as women and midwives scramble around the screen. you’re lost in the tv when leah shifts slightly, toes pressing into your thigh in that unintentional way she always does, and something bubbles up from your chest. maybe it’s been there for a while, tucked behind your ribs, but it feels new when it finally comes out.

“do you ever think about when we’ll actually... start?” you ask, not looking at her. your thumb traces a loose thread in the blanket.

there’s a pause. then she moves her foot and sits up properly, like she hears the weight in your voice and knows it deserves her full attention.

“start what, baby?” she asks, even though you both know what you mean. you shrug, still not meeting her eyes. 

“ivf. the baby. all of it.” it goes quiet again for a second, but not in a bad way. you can hear her breathing, slow and steady. then she scoots closer, pulling your hand into hers.

“i think about it all the time,” she says softly. 

your eyes prick before you can stop them. it’s silly; you’re the one who said it first, after all. but hearing her say that, that she’s been thinking about it too, like she’s been waiting... it hits something deep in your chest, something that’s been hiding in the pits of your stomach for longer than you care to recall. you nod quickly, like you’re trying to shake the tears away, but your voice cracks anyway. “i don’t know why it makes me so emotional. i just, I want it. so much. and i’m scared.” leah doesn’t flinch. she just brings your joined hands up to her lips and kisses your knuckles, one by one.

“of course you’re scared. it’s a big deal, making a whole human.” her smile is soft. “but we’re gonna do it together. and we don’t have to have it all figured out right now.”

you rest your head on her shoulder, letting her warmth soak into you. leah hums thoughtfully, eyes scanning your face as she listens to the way you try and regain your ability to breathe calmly. “we don’t have to rush. we’re engaged, not on a timer.”

you laugh wetly, pulling back just enough to look at her. “you’re so annoyingly calm about this.” she grins, brushing your cheek with the back of her hand. 

“one of us has to be. you cry at ‘call the midwife’.”

“shut up,” you mumble, but you’re smiling now too. it doesn’t solve everything. you still have questions, decisions to make, a whole unknown ahead of you. but for now, leah wraps her arm around you and tucks you into her side, and it feels a little more possible. like maybe, just maybe, this is the start of the ball rolling. 

━━━━━━

you don’t talk about it again for a while.

not because you don’t want to, not really, but life just sort of.. rolls over you, like it always does.

the season wraps up, which means leah’s schedule is all over the place. interviews, events, charity dinners, flying back and forth for end-of-year bits with the club. you get pulled into family things too, your sister’s moving house, your cousin’s baby shower (which is a whole thing on its own), and your mum keeps roping you into “quick” errands that always turn into all-day excursions. the days blur into heat and trains and too much coffee. leah’s home but not really home, you pass each other in the kitchen, in bed, quick kisses and quiet I love yous before sleep eats you both alive. it’s not bad. just busy. loud. life-y.

but then one night, weeks and months after the initial conversation, your mind reels again. truth be told it hadn’t stopped since you first discussed it, the thought always in the back of your mind. tonight the thought feels different though, not scary or intimidating, just there. you’re folding laundry at the end of the bed, back to leah and trying to make sense of the mismatched socks and crumpled t-shirts, the way leah somehow manages to wear three jumpers in a day when she’s home even in summer.

she’s laid out across the mattress behind you, one arm thrown over her eyes, hair still damp from her shower. every so often she hums at a song on the playlist, but mostly she’s quiet. soft. the kind of quiet you only get when you’re really comfortable. safe. you fold one of her hoodies and pause, hands hovering, then glance over your shoulder.

“i’ve been thinking about calling the doctors,” you say. it’s casual, like you’re commenting on the weather, but your heart thuds anyway. leah doesn’t move at first. then her arm shifts, and she turns her head toward you.

“yeah?” her voice is low, gentle.

you nod, eyes back on the laundry now. “just… to start the process. maybe ask some questions. get a sense of what it’d actually look like. i don’t know.” you feel the bed shift, and then her arms are around your waist from behind, her chin resting between your shoulder blades. she’s warm, her breath steady where it touches the cotton of your shirt.

“that sounds like a good idea,” she murmurs. “you been thinking about it a lot?”

“yeah,” you say, voice quiet. “i know we haven’t talked about it for a while, and we’ve both been too busy to properly talk about it again, but- but it’s been on my mind. not in a pressured way, just.. there. all the time. kind of like, when you want something and you’re trying not to scare it off.”

leah nods against your back. “i get that.”

you place the last shirt onto the pile beside you and let out a breath, leaning into her arms. “i just don’t want to wait forever, you know? i want time. i want to give us room for it to be messy. in case it doesn’t work the first time. or the second.”

she’s quiet for a long moment, then she presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. “i want that too.”

you turn in her arms so you’re facing her now, kneeling a little on the bed as she sits back on her heels. she’s watching you in that way she does sometimes, eyes kind and open, like she’s holding space just for you.

“so maybe this week,” you say. “maybe i call. just to see what’s what.”

“i’ll come with you,” leah says, immediate and certain.

“to the call?”

you both share a few confused and breathy laughs, leah leans forward, rests her forehead against yours. “no, idiot. to whatever comes after.” 

your chest tightens, but in a warm way this time, like something is settling into place.

“okay,” you whisper.

and leah kisses you, slow and steady, like there’s all the time in the world.

because maybe now, there is.

━━━━━━

it’s been about a month since you made the call.

it’s been a month since you made the call.

a real, grown-up, shaky-voiced call to the gp to ask how to get started. the woman on the other end had been kind, refreshingly unfazed, and walked you through the steps. first came a referral to a fertility clinic, which took a couple of weeks to process. then the clinic called, emailed you a pile of paperwork, and scheduled your first proper consultation. 

and somehow, that’s today.

you’re standing in the bedroom tugging at your jumper for what feels like the fifth time, even though you know you’re not going to magically look “more ready” than you already do. leah’s sitting on the edge of the bed, watching you with her hands loosely knotted in her lap.

“you okay?” she asks gently.

you nod, then shake your head. “i don’t know. i feel like the minute we walk in there they’re gonna tell us something awful.”

leah stands and crosses the room to you, wrapping her arms loosely around your waist. she smells like laundry powder and that face moisturiser she swears doesn’t make a difference. “they’re not,” she says. “but if they do, we handle it. together. alright?”

you nod again, this time with a small exhale. “alright.”

the clinic is modern and warm in that polished, slightly impersonal way. the front desk woman takes your name when you check in. you’re both handed another clipboard of forms, which you fill out slowly while seated side by side in the waiting area, your knees touching, leah tapping her pen against the plastic over and over.

when they call your names, the room feels suddenly too quiet.

the doctor is kind. older than you expected, with wire-rimmed glasses and a tone that balances both directness and softness. she walks you through the basics: bloodwork, hormone tracking, egg count checks, donor options. the emotional and physical implications. the fact that it can take time. you both listen closely, nodding, asking questions when you need to, and scribbling little notes in the margins of the folder you brought. then she pauses to glance down at her notes. 

“have you both talked about who’s planning to carry?” you freeze slightly. it’s not a hard question, but it’s heavier than the others. you’d been avoiding the answer, not because you didn’t know it, but because you were scared to name it out loud. scared it would sound selfish. final. real. you open your mouth to say something vague, but leah beats you to it.

“she does,” she says, clear and quiet.

your eyes dart to hers. “leah,”

“i know,” she says quickly, before you can start listing all the reasons that it should still be a conversation. “we can talk more. but we’ve talked about it, haven’t we? you want to. and i want you to.”

your mouth presses into a thin line. “you’re allowed to want it too.”

she tilts her head. “i know. but i don’t need it. you’ve wanted this for as long as i’ve known you. it means something different to you. you blink once. then again. you hadn’t expected her to say it like that, so simply. no big declarations, no guilt-tripping. just.. the truth. you clear your throat, trying to swallow around the lump that’s managed to sneak its way up. 

“yeah. okay.” you say lowly, eyes on leah.

the doctor, sensing the moment, nods and carries on. an initial scan is booked for next week. blood tests and health assessments this week if you're up for it. she explains the next few steps, the realistic timelines, the costs. none of it is sugarcoated, but none of it feels impossible either.

you leave with your arms full of leaflets, printouts, test forms. you feel a bit like you’ve just been hit by a very polite, very educational truck. outside, you take a deep breath and look at leah, who slides her sunglasses on like nothing in the world just shifted.

“well,” you say.

she nods. “yeah. that was a lot.”

“you sure about what you said in there?” leah doesn’t look at you, just starts walking toward the car.

 “yep, i wouldn’t have said it unless i meant it.”

you smile, something soft settling in your chest. not dreamy or dramatic. just solid.

the morning of your blood tests arrives faster than you expected, 3 days have blurred past and then suddenly you’re dressed in something comfortable but easy to roll up your sleeve in. a loose long-sleeve top and jeans, and leah’s already downstairs making coffee when you come into the kitchen.

“ready?” she asks, handing you a travel mug, “decaf, doctors orders,” 

you nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. “yeah. let’s just get it done.”

the drive to the clinic is quiet, both of you lost in your own thoughts. parking is easier this time, and you find yourself surprised at how normal the whole place feels now only after just one visit. the same white walls, the same soft hum of fluorescent lights. at reception, the nurse greets you warmly and asks if it’s your first visit for the tests. when you say yes, she hands you some paperwork to double-check your details and reminds you to keep hydrated but to avoid caffeine, leah reassuring here the coffee in the travel mug is decaf. 

you sit in the waiting room, leah close by. the minutes pass slower here than anywhere else, and your fingers twitch a bit, like they want to fidget but you’re trying to stay calm. when your name is called, you stand and follow a nurse down a bright hallway lined with photos of flowers and landscapes.

in the lab room, the phlebotomist is cheerful, making small talk about your plans for the weekend as she preps the needle. it helps, the way she talks, easy and friendly, like this is just another part of someone’s day, not a huge step towards something life-changing. once the needle’s in and the vials start filling, you steal a glance at leah, who’s sitting patiently nearby, offering a quiet smile that steadies you more than she knows.

afterward, the doctor pops in for a quick check-in. she asks if you have any questions about the next steps, about the hormone tracking, the scans, what to expect in the coming weeks. you ask about side effects, timing, how they’ll know when the best window for implantation is.

she explains it clearly, patiently. “the blood tests show your hormone levels, especially AMH, which helps indicate your ovarian reserve. the scans will track follicles during your cycle to find the optimal time for egg retrieval or implantation,” she pauses, flicking through a file in her hands. “it’s a bit of a puzzle,” she continues with a smile, “but it’s why we do all this monitoring,  to make the process as smooth and successful as possible.”

you nod, grateful for the straightforwardness. leah squeezes your hand under the table as the doctor finishes up, her presence calm and constant. you leave the clinic with a little more confidence, armed with appointment dates, instructions, and a clearer picture of what lies ahead.

the following week you have your first ultrasound. 

you sit on the edge of the exam bed, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest as the ultrasound technician enters with a friendly smile. “hi, i’m emma,” she says, “i’ll be doing your scan today. just so you know, it’ll be a transvaginal ultrasound. it’s the best way to get a clear picture of your ovaries and uterus. it can feel a bit uncomfortable, but it’s over quickly.”

leah squeezes your hand reassuringly. you nod, swallowing hard. “okay, thank you.”

emma pulls on gloves and applies cold gel, helping you lie back and get comfortable. as she begins, she talks you through what you’re seeing on the screen.

“so, here are your ovaries, you can see these small dark circles? those are follicles. we’re checking how many you have and their size. this helps us understand your ovarian reserve and how ready your ovaries are to respond to stimulation.”

you glance at the screen, trying to make sense of the blurry shapes. “is that normal?” you ask, pointing hesitantly.

emma smiles. “yes, those sizes are just right for this stage. everything looks healthy so far. your uterine lining is here — see how nice and thick it is? that’s important for implantation later.”

leah leans forward, curious. “how often do you monitor the follicles after this?”

“usually every few days once stimulation starts,” emma replies. “we’re tracking growth to time egg retrieval perfectly. if follicles aren’t developing as expected, we adjust meds.”

you take a breath, feeling a bit more at ease. “can you tell from this if there are any issues?”

emma shakes her head gently. “nothing obvious right now. sometimes things come up later, but this is a really good baseline.” the scan ends quickly, and emma wipes away the gel. the doctor steps in to review the images with you both.

“everything looks promising,” she says. “your ovaries are functioning normally, and your lining is ideal. we’ll start your hormone injections soon and keep close tabs on progress.”

leah leans over to brush a kiss across your temple, her voice low. “we’re doing this.”

you nod, a little overwhelmed but ready. “yeah. we are,” 

━━━━━━

the weeks that follow fly by in a dizzy blur. early mornings filled with carefully measured hormone injections, needle after needle, day after day, in the fridge, on the counter, in the bathroom. you learn the rhythms quickly, setting alarms, double-checking dosages, swallowing your nerves with every prick. leah’s always there, sometimes steadying your hand, sometimes just sitting close when you need to cry or rage at the unfairness of it all.

calls with doctors become a regular thing, updates on bloodwork, changes in medication, reminders about appointments. everything feels clinical but urgent, like you’re racing a clock that doesn’t stop ticking. your cycle tracking app lights up with notes and alarms, hormones rising and falling, highs and lows rippling through your body. mood swings hit without warning. one moment you’re hopeful and laughing; the next, you’re overwhelmed, teary, raw.

then comes the day of the egg retrieval. you’re groggy from sedation, but the ache afterward is sharp and real. leah’s voice is soft in your ear, reassuring but tired too.

in between all this, you sit with the donor profiles, faces, stories, medical histories, and the weight of choice presses down harder than you expected. there are moments you feel strong, ready to take it all on. but others when the hormones flood your system and you’re a mess, overstimulated, weepy over nothing, craving comfort and space all at once. time compresses and stretches. appointments, injections, scans, decisions. it’s relentless and through it all, leah stays your anchor. steady, patient, loving.

a few days after the retrieval, you’re back at the clinic, the tension almost physical as you wait for the call from the embryologist. leah’s beside you, fingers laced through yours, but you can barely breathe. you're both sat opposite your doctor, who is trying to make small talk from the other side of the desk as you await the call.  when the phone finally rings, the doctor’s voice is warm but businesslike.

“we retrieved twelve eggs. ten fertilised successfully. we’ll keep monitoring their growth over the next few days and let you know when they’re ready for transfer.”

you blink, the numbers swirling in your head, hope mixed with cautious optimism. 

the days after that are a blur of updates over the phone, embryos growing, splitting, some making it further than others. then, implantation.

you arrive at the clinic early, nerves buzzing under your skin. the procedure is quick, almost anticlimactic, but your heart pounds like it’s the most important thing you’ve ever done.

the doctor reminds you to take it easy, avoid strenuous activity, and keep stress low. the waiting begins. the two-week wait, the hardest part.

leah wraps you in quiet comfort, reminding you that no matter what, everything will be okay.  every twinge, every ache, every mood swing is magnified in your mind as you wait for that moment, that sign.

the two-week wait turns into its own kind of world.  one that exists just between the two of you. you don’t tell anyone. no texts to your best friend, no calls to leah’s mum, no vague hints to the people who might guess. it’s your secret. your maybe. and in some strange way, that makes it feel special. sacred.

there’s this hum of something soft and hopeful between you,  in the way leah kisses your shoulder before bed, the way she rubs your back absentmindedly while you brush your teeth, the way she leaves sticky notes on the fridge that say things like “growing team w.”

“what if it worked?” she whispers one night as you lie tangled in sheets and silence.

you smile into her collarbone. “then we get to tell everyone. but just us for now, yeah?”

“just us,” she echoes, pressing a kiss to your temple.

each day is a weird mix of hyper-awareness and pretending not to care. every twinge, every ache, every mood swing feels like a sign. but you don’t test early. you wait. just like they said. on the morning of day fourteen, your hands shake as you open the test. you sit on the edge of the tub, leah crouched in front of you in her hoodie, hair still messy from sleep, her thumb brushing lightly over your knee. you wait in silence.

and then… nothing. one line. not pregnant.

you don’t cry right away. just kind of sit there, blinking at it, heart heavy but quiet. like you’d already prepared for this exact outcome even if you didn’t want to believe it.

“okay,” you say, voice small. “okay.”

leah takes the test from your hand gently and sets it aside. pulls you into her lap like it’s instinct. holds you there until your breath hiccups and the first tear finally slips out.“we’re okay,” she whispers. “we’re gonna try again. we’re not done.” and even though it hurts, even though disappointment hangs thick in the air, you believe her.

the days after are kind of strange. you’re not exactly sad in the way you thought you’d be. not devastated or inconsolable. just.. flat. like someone pressed pause on everything inside you. your body feels like it’s been through something and your brain hasn’t quite caught up. the bloating, the soreness, the tiny bruises on your stomach from the injections,  still fading. evidence of all the effort, even though nothing came from it.

leah’s gentle with you in a way she doesn’t point out. no big speeches, no forced positivity. just warm tea without asking, her hand always finding yours under blankets, forehead kisses before bed like punctuation. you talk about it one night, two days later. half-wrapped in a duvet on the couch, takeaway between you, a rerun of some game on mute in the background.

“i thought i’d be more wrecked,” you admit, chewing on a bite of cold chip. “but i think i’m just... tired.”

leah nods. “you’re allowed to be. this whole thing’s a lot.”

you look over at her. “you still wanna keep going?”

she doesn’t hesitate. “course i do.” you let yourself believe that answer, lean into it a little. 

another few days pass before you call the clinic. it’s a short conversation,  they explain what comes next, when your period arrives, they’ll schedule your next baseline scan. adjustments to the medication, maybe. they’re hopeful. they remind you this is normal.

you hang up and say, quietly, “we’re on the list again.”

leah grins, soft but sure. “round two.”

━━━━━━

blood tests. scans. more injections. second round. retrieval day comes and goes again,  fewer eggs this time. you try not to let that sink in too deep.

implantation. wait. hope. test. negative.

you blink back tears, throw the test in the bin like you’re tossing away a stupid receipt. leah pulls you into her arms, doesn’t say much. there’s not really anything to say.

do it all again.

round three starts and you try to feel different this time, more grounded, more prepared. but your body aches before the shots even start. the bloating comes quicker, your moods crash harder. your skin feels tight over your bones. everything gets under your skin.

more bloods. more scans. another retrieval. fewer fertilised this time.

implantation.

leah kisses you tenderly before she leaves for international duty.

“i’ll be back before you test,” she says, brushing a hand over your stomach. “text me if you need me.”

you nod. but your throat’s too tight to answer. the wait feels longer this time. lonelier.

she sends photos from camp, teammates, training, hotel breakfasts. she means well. you heart them all, but don’t say much back.

you’re tired of waiting, of hoping. of pretending it still feels exciting.

you take the test alone. again.

negative. again.

you sit on the cold bathroom floor for longer than you need to. knees pulled to your chest. eyes fixed on the wall.

you still haven’t told anyone you’ve even started trying. not your friends. not your family. it was supposed to be your little secret, something sacred. now it just feels heavy.

you call leah, and she answers breathless, somewhere between the pitch and the gym.

you don’t say anything at first. then, just:

“it didn’t work.”

silence. then her soft, quiet, “shit. baby…”

your voice cracks. “i don’t know how many more times i can do this.”

and for the first time, she doesn’t rush in with solutions or promises. she just breathes with you. holds space through a phone line. and somehow, that’s enough. for now.

━━━━━━

you take things slower this time.

there’s no rush, no frantic energy like before. just small steps. quiet preparation. you go to your baseline scan and let the cold gel sit a little longer on your skin. you listen more closely when the nurse explains your hormone schedule. you ask questions this time,  real ones,  about timing, about statistics, about what your body’s been through and what it can still do.

leah’s there for every appointment, even the ones that don’t seem important. she’s gentler with you now. not careful like you’ll break, but present. solid. hers is the hand you hold when you get your blood drawn, the shoulder you lean on during the hour-long wait for the consultant, the voice in your ear telling you you’re brave even when you don’t feel it. you do the injections slower, too. no rushing in the bathroom before work. just quiet evenings with leah holding the ice pack to your thigh, reading the instructions out loud even though you both know them by heart. you still get bloated. still cry at adverts for nappies. still stare too long at the prams in shop windows. but it’s quieter now,  like grief and hope have learned how to sit beside each other.

one morning, while digging through a drawer for a clean hoodie, you find it. the tiny baby-grow. arsenal red. still folded, tags on. a stupid impulse buy after the first implantation, when you were still full of belief. you sit down on the edge of the bed and hold it to your chest. it smells like nothing. clean cotton. empty.

you cry, properly cry, for the first time in a while. not just for the thing you want, but for how badly you still want it. then you fold it back up, careful and slow. tuck it in the back of the drawer. hidden. safe.

just in case. you don’t tell leah. you keep going.

scans. bloods. retrieval day again.

you count eggs in your head while lying on the crinkly paper sheet.

you rest your hand over your belly and whisper something only you hear. “this time. maybe this time.” 

the two-week wait feels quieter this time. not softer, just quieter. like your body knows how to carry it now, you don’t talk about it much with leah. it’s there, unspoken, in everything,  the way she pulls you into her chest at night, the way she runs her hand over your back while you’re brushing your teeth, the way she makes sure you never take your vitamins alone. you both pretend to be casual about it. casual about everything. but sometimes you catch her staring at your stomach when she thinks you’re not looking, and sometimes she finds you sat in the hallway, just.. waiting. for what, you don’t even know.

you told yourself you’d wait until the full two weeks. no early testing. you swore you’d be patient this time.

but leah’s out running errands, twenty minutes she said, and suddenly you’re pacing the bathroom floor with a test in your hand and your heart in your throat.

you pee. wait.

you don’t even sit down. just stand in the doorway, arms crossed tight, watching it.

after three minutes, you glance. and you freeze. there. so faint you think maybe you’re imagining it. you tilt the test toward the light. it’s still there. a second line.

barely visible, like it’s made of shadow and hope and everything you’ve wanted for months. your hand flies to your mouth. you don’t cry, not yet, just stand there staring, like it might vanish if you breathe too loud. your chest feels too small. your legs go a little shaky. you grab your phone, snap a picture of the test in case it disappears by the time leah gets back.

and then you just, sit. on the edge of the tub. holding the test in both hands like it’s made of glass. it’s not certain. it’s not strong. it’s not official. but it’s something, and you tell yourself you won’t test again. but the next morning, before leah wakes, you’re back in the bathroom. sitting on the closed toilet lid, cold floor against your feet, heart thudding too loud. another test, you watch it like it’s a magic trick and there it is; again. the second line. a whisper stronger than yesterday.

you bite your lip so hard it stings. you don’t tell leah. not yet.

you slip back into bed like nothing happened. press your face into her back. let her warmth steady your breathing.

day 9. test number three. darker.

day 10. you save the wrapper this time, place the test gently on a tissue like it’s delicate, precious. you line it up next to the others you’ve hidden behind the cleaning products under the sink.

day 11, 12, 13. the lines are real now. clear. undeniable.

your hands still shake every morning. your heart still stutters every time it appears. but you don’t cry. you don’t jump to conclusions. you just keep going. like you're scared speaking it aloud will undo the spell. sometimes you stare at the row of tests like they’re part of some secret language only you can read. proof you’ve been carrying alone, too scared to share it, too afraid it might vanish. you rehearse the words in your head. think about how you’ll tell her. how you’ll say, “i think it worked.” or, “we’re really doing this.” but they never make it out of your mouth, and you wait. day fourteen is tomorrow. you decide that’s when you’ll show her everything, because the line is dark now. dark and steady and real.

━━━━━━

day fourteen begins before the sun rises. you wake to the soft hush of the house, the sky outside still painted in dark blues and muted greys. leah is asleep beside you, her breathing slow and even, one hand tucked under her cheek. you lie there for a moment, just watching her. the curve of her back, the little line between her brows even in sleep. you almost stay. almost let yourself drift back down. but the weight in your chest is too loud now, too full. you need to know. even though, deep down, you already do.

you slip out of bed quietly, careful not to disturb her, and pad barefoot down the hallway. the test is already waiting on the bathroom counter. the last of the pack, tucked behind the mirror where she wouldn’t see. your fingers tremble as you unwrap it, heart pounding harder with every second. the process is so familiar by now it’s almost mechanical: test, wait, watch. but this time feels different.

you crouch on the cold tile floor, arms wrapped tightly around your knees, eyes fixed on the little window as the control line appears almost instantly.

and then the second one. clear. steady. bold. your breath catches in your throat. you close your eyes for a moment, trying to steady yourself. but the tears come anyway. not the panicked kind you’ve cried through before. this time, it’s different. softer. quieter. like the kind of crying your body does when it finally allows itself to hope.

you wipe your cheeks with your sleeve and reach into the drawer beneath the sink. hidden under a stack of clean towels is the baby-grow. the tiny, red arsenal onesie you bought after the very first round. the one you folded away when things started falling apart. the one you couldn’t bring yourself to throw out. you smooth it gently across the counter and line the pregnancy tests beside it. all eight of them, fanned out like pages in a story only you’ve been reading.

you stand back and stare at the little display. it looks almost sacred. private and precious, full of waiting and want and weeks of pain. you take a shaky breath, touch the sleeve of the baby-grow once more, snap a secret picture with your phone and then slip out of the bathroom.

downstairs, the kitchen is still dark, the early light just beginning to stretch through the windows. you make coffee slowly, the routine grounding you. kettle on, mugs out, sugar stirred absentmindedly. your hands are still trembling when you wrap them around the warm ceramic. you sit at the table and wait. upstairs, there’s the sound of the bed creaking. the floorboards creak a little too, then silence again. then, the soft click of the bathroom door.

you don’t move. you just close your eyes and take a deep breath, counting your heartbeats like they might keep you still. she doesn’t call your name. doesn’t ask. instead, you hear the slow steps down the stairs, and then she’s there- standing in the kitchen doorway.

she looks like she’s been crying. the baby-grow is clutched in her hand, the other holding the most recent test like she needs it to ground herself.

her voice is hoarse when she finally speaks. “are you serious?”

you nod, your own throat tight, eyes blurring again. “i didn’t want to tell you until i was sure.”

she crosses the room in seconds and drops to her knees in front of you, wrapping her arms around your waist, pressing her face into the soft of your stomach. you cradle her there, fingers tangled in her hair, both of you holding onto this fragile, enormous moment.

“we’re really doing this,” she whispers, her voice cracking.

“yeah,” you say, smiling through your tears, “we are.”

and for the first time in months, it doesn’t feel like a maybe. it feels real.

[nekovale]

So, I don't know how many Bsd fans are also Fate/Stay Night fans...... BUT I AM and this is the only reason this exists Fate is one of my favorite series and I was listening to the Fate/Zero ost one day because it's one of my fav ost ever... and I started thinking about a possible crossover and it kinda snowballed from there lol Explanations and ramblings under the cut!

For who doesn't know what Fate/Stay Night is about: the gist of it is there's a recurring event where seven mages (masters) summon seven heroic spirits (servants) who fight between each other to win the Holy Grail. Basic things to know are: servants are divided in classes and each has a Noble Phantasm, aka a servant's ultimate weapon/ability; each master has three command spells which compel the servant to obey to three absolute orders; servants need mana to keep existing. said mana is usually provided by the master, but can also be transferred with bodily fluids (that includes sex) The pairs I had thought of for this au are: - berserker!Chuuya + Dazai (in this case the berserker's typical madness happens only with Corruption, which is Chuuya's Noble Phantasm and can be stopped only using a command spell) - saber!Akutagawa + Atsushi - caster!Nikolai + Fyodor - lancer!Bram + Aya - assassin!Nathaniel + Margareth - archer!Mark Twain + Lucy I have absolutely NO idea who to cast as rider lol Kunikida is the Church's overseer though (an impartial judge for the Holy War) I've thought about these combinations for fun since I don't have an overarching plot or anything, just some little disconnected scenes, but I liked the possible interactions with these pairs. I wanted to have characters from the main factions in the series (so like, the Port Mafia, the Agency, the Guild...) but since servants are heroic spirits of the past (and in this au they're not their irl literary counterparts, but characters on their own. Chuuya's real identity would be Arahabaki, etc) I wanted to pick characters who also could have a particular design while fitting the role........... I wanted to put Lovecraft in there too but he's definitely a berserker and I'm not giving up Chuuya for it lol This wip has been eating my brain for literal months, so here it is!! It got me back into doodling just for fun so it was a good time. I actually have more sketches but I feel like these are already a lot lol...... so I'll post those at a later time (also because I'm rewatching ubw now so I might end up doing more....)

[transboyswitchytales]

Caught In A Bear Trap

Request by Anon : Unsupervised you mentioned witch hunters.. I’d love to see what would happen if a witch hunter happened upon Baby, and Agatha and Rio track them down and decimated them because no one touches baby but THEM. I can’t get it out of my mind and I’d love to see your take on it!

Warning: TORTURE/GORE /BLOOD / ANGST /DEATH / HURT READER / Nicky mentioned / Upsetting story / Prequel to Unsupervised / short fic / DARKFIC /Angst for sure

Anon I hope this is ok 🖤 if you want a part two let me know! I made it short because it is ouchie.

'Oh, I know that I can't live without you But this world will keep turning if you do Would you even want me looking like a zombie? Would you even want me, want me, want me?'- YUNGBLUD

You would look back at this moment as one of your biggest mistakes.

You knew better. But it was the 60s in San Francisco. And it was just a small blip

Later Agatha would implement a rule for what you’d done, the carelessness and brazenness in which you ignored your gut.

Rio had always told you to trust your tummy. She said every animal was made with fight or flight. Just as a a hare’s big ears stand at attention for a rustling in the forest.

Rio said that the hare knows and doesn’t second guess before he runs.

And she grabbed your arm tightly and said this last thing, a thing you’d think of later.

“A hare is small but trusts its instincts and runs. Baby it doesn’t matter the size. A grizzled bear still sniffs the ground for hunters. If he doesn’t he’ll step in a trap.” She’d cupped your cheek lovingly, “trust your tummy, don’t step into a trap.” Rio said it like it was the most important thing.

And those words repeated over and over as they sliced your skin.

But it was San Francisco in 1961. You were on Haight Street. It was the age of hippies and acid. Rio had commented offhandedly that marijuanaha would never be as good as it is now. You didn’t ask why she thought that. You simply smoked and did magic and listened to music.

You’d begged Agatha to stay in this city. She’d been reluctant at first. But being a witch sort of blended in with these rough looking hippies. They’re dreads and bell bottom pants made your long hair and earthy life style sorta normal.

Agatha also enjoyed how happy you and Rio seemed to be.

So she and Rio found an apartment with the bay windows. All that light. Rio buying endless plants into the place. Agatha was happy to find her first queer book shop. It seemed people were finally putting up stories of queer people.

Even if it was smaller and hard to find.

You three were happy. It was a starling wake up call.

On a Tuesday afternoon Rio and Agatha had needed to go to the local apothecary. It was in china town and you didn’t want to go. Agatha didn’t like the idea of leaving you. But you told her you would stay in the apartment, listen to vynil and make ice tea.

Rio hesitated as well, but you promised them youd have dinner ready by the time they got back.

You hadn’t even realized.

Perhaps they should have trusted their tummy’s.

You thought you’d bake your sourdough loaf today. But you noticed a lack of bread flour and figured the corner store might have some. If not you’d head over to Gabriel’s Bakery. He always gave you stuff for free.

You left the house. Wearing your happy hippy attire. Double checking you didn’t forget your two wedding rings on the sink from doing breakfast dishes. You walked to the corner store.

You will never forget it.

You bought Rio a new strand of mint. She’d been talking about wanting to grow it and you thought she’d be happy to see it in your kitchen. You loved getting them gifts. Small things to make them know you were always thinking of them.

You made an extra stop with your basket in the grocery store to find a bag of loose leaf tea for Aggie.

You checked out, handing the guy cash, you thanked him, and grabbed your brown bag. Walking out the store like your world wasn’t about to change.

Because that’s the thing about big trauma, no one ever knows before it hits.

You can spend everyday worrying and you’ll never be prepared for the truly earth shattering events.

Like this one.

You stupid fucking rabbit.

You were walking, aware of your surroundings for the most part. You were a powerful witch. Trained in necromancy, potions, and even mind control. You’d recently been more interested in speaking with the dead. But that was a different story.

It was a sunny day.

You’d gotten comfortable in San Francisco. You’d grown soft. No longer paranoid of what lurked in the shadows.

And you should be. You should be.

They came from behind, and you never even saw them coming. Didn’t even hear your head crack on the cement. No, you walked right into a trap, silly rabbit.

But you woke up to men in surgical masks. You woke in pain as they opened your veins. Letting the blood come out of you like the plague times.

You were naked on a cement floor, in chains. Like how so many witches before had been.

How poetic.

History repeating itself it seemed.

They’d used magic, ironically, these assholes had tortured another witch to make runes. You couldn’t use your magic, it sat like a phantom limb.

You screamed as they used their scalpels and medical instruments. Dunked your face in water until you stopped twitching. Then they’d wake you up again. Your vocal cords gave up on your screams as they cut you open over and over. Seemingly amazed at your ability to heal.

A resilient animal you were.

You wept until you had no tears left and in your mind you disassociated.

You left your body as they played with you like a child plays the game operation with tweezers.

Your muscles begged for release. Your body lost so much blood. Your magic was depleted. You had no fight. You had no will.

You did not speak to them once. Not as they asked you questions and tortured you. They asked about your coven. They asked about how you acquired income. They wanted to know how old you were. What tricks you could do.

You had thought yourself powerful. A witch. A fucking Harkness no less. You thought yourself strong. You were not a rabbit. You were the bear. How had you been so foolish to forget a world full of traps?

A man kicked your naked bloody body with his boot in your ribs. You slid across the bloody cement floor with a thud. Scabs breaking open once more, puss and blood leaking from wounds you could no longer keep track of.

If Agatha were here she’d sing to you as Rio licked them close. Aggie would wash the blood out of your hair. You sometimes hallucinated her above you. Only for your eyes to adjust once more.

You weren’t sure, as there was no windows, how long you’d held prisoner.

You shivered on the cold wet cement. With a broken left shoulder, two dislocated wrists, and you couldn’t feel your right leg. You weren’t sure if the nerves even worked anymore. They’d drilled into your knee cap.

You closed your eyes and remembered the smell of Agatha’s hair. That perfect scent as she held you at night, the comfort of her arms. You focused on the gap in Rios teeth as she threw her head back to laugh.

You hoped Agatha would forgive Rio.You hoped Rio would forgive herself for the job she was about to do.

Because you would die soon. You hoped it would come fast.

And you were ready. You made peace with it around the point one of the witch hunters had taken a hammer to your fingers. Where were your wedding rings? What did a corpse need with wedding rings?

You were done.

You lived a great life. A life full of Agatha and Rio.

How fantastic it had been to be loved by them. How lucky you were to have gotten to hold them close. To share laughter and kisses.

You lay in your blood unable to open your left eye anymore.

And you hoped Agatha would find your Yule gifts. You knew San Francisco lit up for Christmas. You’d already bought their gifts. You’d already written the love notes. You wondered if Rio would be able to play your records, listen to your favorite songs. Or would Agatha shatter each vynil? Would she turn away from love. You hoped not. You wanted Agatha to love.

You hoped Agatha would forgive you for giving up.

You were just so tired. And you’d fought for so long. You couldn’t stay awake one more minute.

You wanted to see Nicky again.

You wanted Rio to take you in her arms. Place the last kiss you’d ever be given on your split broken skin. And you could just give in. Not hurt one more moment.

Your eyes lulled back.

The room grew quiet.

You no longer felt.

You opened your eyes to see Rio. And you coughed blood and Rio had her hand in your chest.

“Take…me.” You signaled and her eyes turned black. So deep dark black.

“I’m going to. I’m taking you home baby. Agatha HURRY UP!” Rio screamed and you looked to the side to see…

Agatha covered in purple magic.

She was killing so many. They begged for mercy and she tortured their minds and made them kill themselves, slowly too. One man was taking his own eyes out with his fingers.

Agatha was making them relive what they’d done to you….but to those they loved most.

She wanted them to see it. See it how she seen it in their minds.

“AGATHA WE DONT HAVE TIME! COME ON!” Rio screamed and you coughed again.

“No..no baby. Hey come on. I don’t want to do my job. Come on. We looked everywhere for you. Please don’t. Fight baby. You promised. You promised me. You said I’d take you when you were an old crone. Please don’t go. Please don’t. I can’t do it. I can’t take you. I’m not strong enough.”

Rio was shaking and her hands were in your chest cavity. She was beating your heart.

Your cold black heart.

“It’-s..o..—k” you rasped out and she shook her head.

“No. I won’t do it. They can take me. Take me instead no. I can’t do it again. Don’t make me.” Rio sobbed and Agatha must have heard because she fell to her knees.

“No..no, no baby. Please stay awake. You can’t go. No please no. I can’t do this without you. “ Agatha begged and you couldn’t speak

The sound of your heart being squished between Rios hands was louder now.

“RIO IF YOU TAKE HER I WILL NEVER FORGOVE YOU. DONT DO THIS TO ME AGAIN. FIX IT! Fix it now. PLEASE MY LOVE!” Agatha gasped and you couldn’t keep your eyes open. It was too much.

“NO NO! YOU STAY WITH ME! YOU PROMISED NICKY YOU’D STAY WITH ME!” Agatha screams at you.

And then it’s black.

Goodnight moon.

‘If I can’t reach you…let my song teach you?’

But you hear Nicky…he’s laughing. You smell the wildflowers of Salem. You feel warmth return to you.

“Mama!”

And then….

And then pain hits your chest and you inhale once more.

Your life flashes so fast by you. And you are no longer with your son.

Blinking a few times you see a fuzzy shade of red… a room. It’s not home, it smells of incense and fermented magic. You blink and realize you aren’t dead.

Magic inscriptions hang in the walls.

Pain, lots of pain in your body. But not dead.

You hear someone’s speaking Cantonese. And you know the language but you can’t concentrate on the sounds.

You realize as your eyes adjust that you are in someone’s basement in china town. At the local medicine woman’s shop. You know this room.

Rio and Agatha can be heard arguing with said elder. You try to move your hands but you feel heavy.

Agatha lets out an earth quake of a sob and you know she sees you are awake.

You are alive.

[etherealily]

ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟɪɴᴅꜱ // ꜰ.ᴏᴅᴀɪʀ

My other Finnick fics, if you have the time.

This was from my poll .

Finnick Odair + fem!reader. Cuss words. Slightly longer.

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

Desc. : Capitol-bred, out-of-touch, insensitive. You're everything he hates. But not quite. You're a crisis of his faith hate.

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Finnick hated this. He hated that he didn't have anything better to do on a Saturday night than move in to an apartment at the Capitol.

His best mates are at home, prepping the entire District two weeks before New Year's Eve, something he loved doing, and he was here, with a shiny old key to a dull new apartment. A penthouse, as if he cared.

As an extra-cruel addition, Snow had apparently installed venetian blinds that, when closed, looked like the ocean. Finnick felt like a chimp in an enclosure with trees painted on the wall, to make him "feel right at home". This is what you can't have, Finnick. What rightfully belongs to you. Jump around, little monkey.

Armed with the key and whatever possessions he could scrounge up that he didn't mind losing here at the Capitol (and a couple that he needed for sanity reasons that he would die if he lost, stored deep in his bag), he glared at the door. It was so fucking gaudy, he could break it down.

He put the key into the lock. The door swung open before he even turned it. It was unlocked?

Gingerly, he stepped in, dropping his bags onto the nearest chair and taking cautious step after cautious step into the room, half-expecting Snow to come out and give him one of those speeches that didn't do anything but show Finnick how absolutely out-of-touch he was.

Instead, he saw you.

"Uh, hello?"

You turned, slightly startled, from the venetian blinds that you'd been observing, before you smiled politely. "Hello, you must be Finnick."

Great! Just fucking great! Not only was he having to live in the fucking Capitol, now he was having a Capitol-bred roommate? Snow hadn't told him that!

"Yeah, uh, hi."

You gave him your name, reaching over to shake his hand. Huh. Where had he seen you before?

"Do I have to sleep on the couch, or...?", he laughed nervously, gesturing at the singular bed in the room.

You frowned. "I mean, y'know, if you want to? Is that how you sleep in the Districts?"

Beg fucking pardon? "What?"

"I'm sorry, did that offend? I wasn't given the proper greetings to use with you."

"Listen, if we're gonna be roommates, we're gonna need some ground rules—"

He didn't like your immediate sharp laugh at that. "Roommates? No, god, no. We're not roommates.", you informed, diligently.

"Then who the hell are you?"

Though evidently mildly taken aback by his use of the profanity, your cheery demeanor never faded. "Uh, no, I'm your mentor."

The world stopped, for a moment. The Games again? What?! This was not the fucking deal!

"Mags Flanagan was my mentor.", he replied, quietly and cautiously.

"Oh! Oh, yes, yes, sorry, yes, she was your mentor for the Hunger Games. I am your Capitol Fixture Mentor.", you announced, as if he was supposed to clap.

His what-fucking-who-now?

"One more time?"

"Your Capitol Fixture Mentor."

"English, please."

"You've been given this penthouse because President Snow thinks you're doing so well that you deserve to stay here."

Deserve. "Mhm?"

"So, you'll become a Fixture here at the Capitol. Capitol Fixture. And I'm here to help shape you right up."

He knew he must have looked like a jerk, his head tilted to the side as he eyed you up and down. You must have felt exposed, judged, even. And you'd be right. He was judging you hard. Who the hell did you think you were, unsettlingly-enthusiastic young thing — younger than him, actually — in your stupid Capitol outfit with your stupid Capitol makeup and your stupid Capitol dialect, telling him he needed to be changed`? Eurgh.

"Shape me up? Into what, exactly?", he challenged, his arms crossed.

"President Snow wants to put you in more advertisements, more promotions, y'know? More public appearances and whatnot. Make you someone of worth out here."

"I won the Games, little girl, I am of worth, and the deal was that if I won the Games, I could live out the rest of my life at home, in the Victor's Village, so you can t—" He cut himself off then. He couldn't threaten Snow back, he'd burn down his house, easy. "He told me I could go home.", he gritted out, his voice level and patient.

You frowned, the corners of your lips turning down. "Oh. I wasn't informed of such an arrangement. But I think you might like to know th—"

"I would like to know when I can go home and visit my family.", he spat.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'll... I'll go recheck if you want.", you mumbled.

"Yeah, I'd appreciate that.", he scoffed, watching you nod and leave.

What did Snow take him for? He'd already been having to try to live with the fact that the darling President had had him going on call after call to the Patrons, renting him out for God knows how much, but fuck, Finnick might actually drown himself if he had to go about promoting the Capitol, the Games.

Ugh, at least he could finally—

"They turned me right around.", you explained, defensively, as if he was about to maul you for being directed back in by Peacekeepers. Was it true, then? Did the Capitol really think people from the Districts were all animals?

Guilt prodded at him. You were a kid, what was he doing?

"Alright, it's okay. Just... relax. I'll unpack. Pretend like you already told me whatever you were instructed to t—", he sighed, in sudden realization. "You're mic'd."

"I am." Okay, if this was what you'd been trying to tell him all along, he was officially an absolute jerk.

Shaking his head, he yanked his bag from his chair. Apparently, it was unzipped, because he heard some stuff falling from it, but turning back would just be embarrassing. He had to save face.

In the mirror, he could see you frowning down at his clothes and bending over to pick them up.

"Leave them.", he ordered, not turning back.

"On the floor? Is that... is that how you keep them in the Districts? Because that's what the armoire is for."

"Alright, listen, kid, if you're gonna quote-unquote "mentor me", we're gonna have to set some ground fucking rules, alright?", he snapped, using air quotes before pointing at you as he swiveled around.

You nodded quickly. Yeesh. You were clearly going to make a habit of making him feel bad for his brashness, that's for sure.

"Number one : you don't talk about my District ever. Ever. I don't care what the context is, alright? Someone asks you to name all the Districts, you go "One, Two, Three, Five, Six, and so on." You get me? Not a word about my Four."

You nodded again.

"They don't teach you the word "Yes" here at the Capitol?"

"Yes."

"Good. Rule number two : you do not get to talk about the Games. You hear me?"

"Yes."

"Last rule. You're gonna...", he trailed off, reaching into his pocket for a pen of some sort. "You're gonna...", he struggled, trying to come up with a last rule to satisfy any listening ears. What is something Snow would expect him to fucking say?

As he was scrambling for an end to the sentence, he managed to find a pen at the edge of its life. Would have to do. He grabbed for your hand, scrawling on it : 'Give me a signal if you're mic'd.'

A finger at his lips.

"...Gonna not change you entirely?", you offered, nodding silently at the note on your palm.

Yeah, that'd be something Snow expected him to say. Okay, not bad.

He watched you open the blinds, the taunting ocean from Four disappearing, and sunlight shining through. That was your signal that you were mic'd.

"Yes.", he muttered, making sure whoever was listening in got that down. "Not change me entirely. I still wanna be Finnick, no matter what sort of training you give me."

"Alright. I, uh, accept your conditions."

"Rules."

"I'm President-appointed. These are conditions."

Alright, touché, he just got his ass handed to him in five words, he'll shut up.

"What were you supposed to do, again?"

"Well, today was just supposed to be about settling you in."

"Oh, you're the help, today?", he scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "Thought I'd get an Avox. Fine. Whatever. Just sit there while I unpack."

And, to his immediate guilt, you did. Fuck.

After about five minutes of silent unpacking, he sighed. Least he could do is humour you. "What's tomorrow?"

"Saturday?"

He snorted. "No, I mean what's... what's the itinerary?", he asked, gratefully accepting the hanger you offered him, before hanging a shirt onto it and propping it onto the rod inside the armoire.

"Oh, speaking. I tell you possible questions you may be asked, and how to avoid ones you don't know."

You talked so enthusiastically about this, he suddenly understood that you knew everything but the most important things about him. You knew he was seventeen going on eighteen. You knew he had won the Games. You knew he was from District Four. You knew he was very cooperative with Snow, maybe even (in your eyes) one of his "favourites"`.

But you didn't know what he was being forced to do.

You didn't know why he was a "favourite".

The agonized, traumatized sadist in him wanted to burst your bubble. To tell you. But these are not things that one does.

"Do it today. Since we're not, y'know, doing anything."

You nodded. "Alright. One moment."

You pulled a tiny notebook out of your pocket and he hid a scoff. "Alright, you are not to talk about the Games. Unless you become a mentor, that is."

"But Mags is the mentor for Four."

"For now. Mags is nearly seventy.", you explained, clearly not knowing how close he was to screaming and screeching and storming into Snow's home and shooting him point-blank in the head for making him mentor kids younger than him to die, too.

"Right.", he muttered, blowing at some dust as he placed his collection of shells at his bedside.

"In the Rip, you must have a huge screen. They always do, right, in the Districts? To watch th— um, to watch things on."

The Rip was a special part of District Four, Finnick's favourite, because when the Peacekeepers weren't looking, there was an old man who had a camera and props, and would take photos of you for a fair price. And he'd manage to print them out somehow, as well, by pulling a lot of strings, and then you'd get a physical copy of it.

Only during holidays, though. Strictly.

Good, you didn't mention the Games.

"Yes, we have a screen."

"Good. So, you might have watched uh... interviews..."

"With the tributes. Yeah."

"Yes. You might have noticed that their audios may not always sync up with the video."

Yes, he had, actually. "Yes? That's a... it's called a glitch, right?"

The corners of your lips tugged to the side in a grimace, before you shook your head. "Usually, yeah, but not when it comes to the G— not in this case."

Okay, this, he did not know. "Elaborate."

"With pleasure.", you scoffed under your breath, and he decided that was a little too adorable to be taken as smart-mouthing, so he let it slide. "Sometimes, people say things that could be misconstrued as anti-Panem which, of course, as a tribute is never the intention, but it tends to happen."

He remembered his own Games, how happy he was to be there, how much he was looking forward to honouring the Capitol. And then he got there, and Mags had retained her sweetness, and suddenly, Finnick's goal was no longer to win the Games and honour the Capitol, it was to win the Games to honour his District and his family, his District Partner (if she didn't make it) and Mags.

"Tends to happen.", he mumbled, rubbing at his jawline.

"Yeah. And editing the feed, especially live feeds, is very risky, complicated and costly. You need to know how to speak, not edit. Alright? We cannot afford to keep editing what you say."

"And what is this line of questioning?", he scoffed.

"Do you miss District Four?"

"What kind of ques— yes, of course, it's my home, I fucking hate this place."

An imaginary gun, composed of two of your fingers was pointed at him, and you fired it. "Wrong."

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "I'll just not answer."

"And make yourself look more guilty of treason?"

"Alright, what am I supposed to say?"

"Be as truthful as you can. Until you can't."

"Solid advice. You should be on TV."

You cocked the imaginary gun again. "So, Finnick Odair. You're from District Four. Do you miss it at all?"

He gnawed on his upper lip for a moment, his mind racing on what would happen if he just jumped out the door, beat up the Peacekeepers, shot Snow, and ran back home to his District Four. But whoa. No. He needed to answer, or god forbid, this annoying little Capitol girl would imaginarily blow his fucking brains out.

"I... miss... my family...", he began, and was only encouraged by your tiny smile. Alright, clearly he was on the right track. "...And, yeah, sure, I grew up in District Four, so... that's my home—"

"No. Uh, you had it until you said 'home'. You can't make the District look better than the Capitol. If it was, wouldn't everyone just move there?"

"It is, though."

"For you. Because you're so comfortable there, because you grew up there. You can't suggest that it's better than the Capitol."

"How should I answer, then?"

"Ask me something."

"Why are you so insufferable?", he snorted, before trying to rack his brain for an actual possible question to ask you. To his surprise, though, you cleared your throat.

"Well, I won't lie and say I haven't got that one before. But I just think it's me being incredibly dedicated to the assignment I was given, especially one to mentor someone as incredible as you, who really doesn't need mentoring, considering your phenomenal performance in the Games."

It's like you had a fucking script or something, that was fantastic.

"Whoa.", he murmured, tilting his head at you as if you were about to grow four heads or something.

"So, Finnick Odair. What is your favourite thing about now being a Capitol Fixture?"

He took a deep breath, looking into your eyes — fuck, those eyes! — before beginning. "The food. 100% the food. Although I grew up on District Four grub and it'll always hold a special place in my heart, the food here is the reason I understand the phrase "chef's kiss", now, honestly.", he explained, with a little charming chuckle at the end.

"The interviewers won't clap for you, Finnick, but I will.", you encouraged, and for the first time ever, he got applause that he felt like he deserved.

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"What the hell — should I have made "don't let yourself into my apartment" one of the rules?!", he yelled, sitting up as he heard you in distinct conversation elsewhere, through the ruckus of all the men walking past you, covering you entirely, actually, before going through his personal belongings and either replacing them with shinier, more Capitol-y bullcrap, or just tossing it down onto the floor. Like his childhood wasn't pretty enough.

At least the blinds were closed.

The men ignored him, and he did start at them, but he heard your voice from somewhere within the chaos. "You make a fuss, it's all the more reason for them to throw things away, because it makes you liability."

What were all these new rules he wasn't informed of but expected to know?!

Too many people, so he couldn't see you, but he could hear you over the shuffle of clothes and the clangs of trinkets being thrown haphazardly. "Hi, sir, this was a gift I got for my Fixture."

The burly man raised a brow, picking up the locket. His mother's. It must have fallen out of his bag, which is why you knew what it was. "You got a man a locket?", he asked, skepticism blooming in his voice.

"I didn't know that a locket was a particularly feminine thing. I spent a majority of my childhood at sea, you'll have to excuse me.", you replied, smiling and looking down.

"So you're, like... absolutely clueless?"

"Pretty much.", you giggled. "Embarrassing, huh?"

He couldn't see how you were doing it, but as much as he could eavesdrop, you used a different tactic for salvaging each item. "It would really be a cute token, I think, a seashell-collection? It's part of who he is, right?", or "It makes him look multi-faceted, that drawing. He isn't just a Victor, he's an artist. He's deep."

It took a while for them to leave. He'd been fiddling with the annoying fucking blinds again, watching the picture appear and disappear (why was that the only thing they left untouched?) before you cleared your throat.

"Finally. Here, I managed to save your locket, your shells, this little drawing, the poem, and the message-in-a-bottle with sand in it."

He turned. He almost wished he hadn't.

Finnick's heart crawled up to his throat.

Finnick's heart stopped in his throat, actually. Butterflies were past tense for him, he was dealing with unnaturally sized dragonflies, that poked their stick-like bodies at every square inch of his stomach.

You were breathtaking.

"What, uh...", he laughed nervously for a moment, rubbing the back of his head. "What are you wearing?"

"I was told I had to."

"Why?", he asked, immediately, a heat creeping up the back of his neck. You looked way too perfect. You were wearing the classic District Four dress he'd seen girls wear, growing up, your hair put up in the same way, and clearly you'd been instructed to stand the same way, somehow, too. But the rest of your body language? You were undeniably uncomfortable in this. Not because of the simplicity, but maybe the texture. Your skin was too used to soft Capitol silks for this.

"I was told it'd make you feel more comfortable, and it would also help model your clothes for the press—"

"God, how "good" do you think our President is?!", he snapped.

"What?"

"It's not to make me more "comfortable", it's to let me know I'll never have a fucking tangible piece of District Four here with me! You being here, looking like... well, that, serves the same purpose as those fucking blinds, with the ocean on them! It's not to make me feel more at home, he needs me to know this isn't my home!"

"You can keep these clothes, and I salvaged your keepsakes, plus you can alw—"

"Always what? Visit District Four? Yeah, for, like, a week, with surveillance and cameras and posing. And the clothes?", he scoffed, flicking at the collar. "You're wildly uncomfortable in them! You won't like to wear them all the time so yes, I have no tangible piece of District Four here with me, and thank you for that, thank you and President Snow!", he spat, gesturing wildly at the blinds.

The silence roared in his ears.

You nodded, subtly. "I am uncomfortable in this, but I could wear it for longer, and we could get inspiration for your outfits from this."

He sighed. You just didn't get it. He rubbed at the side of his cheek in exasperation, "I won't expect you to, and he knows that. Because that would be changing who I was. That would be selfish. That would be him."

"I'm sorry you don't have District Four with you."

"You can take it all off, now. Change.", he cut you off, waving before he turned to give you privacy.

"I don't want to."

"Yes, you do. Two people in discomfort in one room is way too Capitol for me."

You smiled. "Alright. The bag doesn't have other clothes in it, though."

"It's fine, borrow some of the crap the Capitol put into my armoire."

"Yeah?"

"Go ahead, I won't miss it."

"Thank you, Finnick Odair."

"Finnick. Just call me Finnick."

"Thank you, Finnick."

He fiddled with the cords of the blinds again, watching the blue of the faux-ocean — the fauxcean — flicker as he did.

"Um, I'm done."

Alright, this was getting ridiculous. His excuse for the previous emergence of the dragonflies was that you were wearing District Four garb, and he could pretend that you reminded him of some crush of his youth. But now? You were wearing Capitol stuff, oddly patterned and bright, and you still looked radiant.

"Bit big, huh?"

"Yeah." You shook your arms to show the flap of excess cloth.

"But better?"

You nodded. "Yeah, sorry."

"Hey, your comfort zone's my discomfort zone and vice-versa. Don't sweat it.", he assured, taking the Four garments from you and refusing to let you fold it. "We fold it a bit differently. Mind?"

"No, not at all."

"You can take that off, too, don't worry about it."

"My clothes? Again?", you asked, tilting your head and frowning.

He snorted, pointing at a tiny necklace on you, the only thing about your remaining outfit that was simple. Well, besides your hair. And he was glad you never wore your hair like the rest of the Capitol people, because hair was the second thing he noticed in someone. After their eyes.

Whenever he met someone new, he always pictured how the ocean breeze would treat them. If it was nice to their hair, he'd be nice to them. If the ocean hated them, well, Finnick knew to stay away.

Alright. He was bumming himself out. What ocean breeze, Finnick? You're stuck here for an indefinite amount of time. Get it together.

"What about that?"

Instinctively, you clutched at it, furrowing your brows. "What about it?"

"It's not yours."

"Sure is!"

"Right. And this penthouse is my birthright."

"Listen, I have been nothing but nice to you, but I do not appreciate being called a liar!"

He slid his fingernail under the anchor-pendant, lifting it up to examine it. "That is only made in the districts. I should know, my neighbour was a master welder who made things exactly like this."

"My great-grandmother agreed to become a Capitol Fixture just like you after having a child with a Harrington! And she passed this down! So there!"

Had he just class-shamed a girl he didn't know? God, Snow was rubbing off on him.

"You're District?"

"No.", you muttered. "Part. My family is."

"Which one?", he urged.

A pause. "Four."

Ah, he thought so! He could see the resemblance to some of his neighbours, honestly. "That's why you were assigned to me. To taunt me that the only connection I have to Four is contaminated by Capitol."

"Contaminated? You think I'm contaminated?"

"No, you—", he sighed. Okay, yeah, that's what it sounded like. "You're just... you're not pure District. You have Capitol in you. As far as I know, your grandmother didn't get married, right? Because that would've ruined the Harringtons. So... your mother was a Capitol mix?"

"And that makes us tainted?"

"No, no, I just mean—"

"Listen, you're not better than me because I have Capitol in me, alright?"

"Hey, that's not what I said. I'm not better. I know that.", he replied, slowly, clearly and warmly. "I just said... Snow knows I'm itching for District Four. I miss my home, Y/N, alright? And you... you're perfect, but you're supposed to be a reflection of what I'm going to become in a couple years' time. More Capitol than District. You understand?"

"I don't think you understand just how much President Snow thinks about you. You think he's out here to make your life worse, but he had these special-ordered from your District, and even put up signs all over to ask for a stylist from your District."

He was this close to actually jumping out the window. "He did not put up any signs. And even if he did, no one will come, alright? They think I'm a sell-out." His voice broke out of sheer exhaustion at the last word, and he felt like he was about to collapse.

Thankfully, you didn't try to double-down on your notion that Snow was Finnick's guardian angel, and instead, played around with your hair. At least that's what it looked like, to him, but no, apparently you'd reached back to unclasp the necklace.

"Here. Tangible piece of District Four."

"Oh, come on, that's on purpose, you're just trying to be all 'I'm-the-bigger-person', I'm so kind even though you're a prick, boo-hoo-me, and it's fucking manipulative.", he spat, shoving your hand back towards you.

"Or maybe I really just am a good person, Odair!", you scoffed, slamming the tiny anchor-chain down onto the table beside him. "Otherwise, why would I have salvaged your trinkets?!"

"Go ahead! Throw something that comes from the Districts away! We're only disposable to you assholes, right? Though you're part District!", he called, as you tried storming away. "And WHY? Conveniently, no one's telling me why my shit's getting thrown to the floor!", he bellowed, his hands out wide in exaggerated questioning.

"There's a Finnick Odair Penthouse Apartment episode this week on Panem Properties by Link Domus!", you yelled back, slamming the door behind you as you were, once again, pushed back in by the Peacekeepers.

"What?!" Oh, he fucking hated that show with everything in his heart! He used to make fun of it with his family, and now he was going to be on it?!

You nodded. "There'll be a camera crew coming in this weekend, and we really can't have it looking shabby. It should increase sales of a lot of products."

Products he had never and will never use. Good to know.

"So, there's a deadline, now? You have to make me the ideal Capitol Fixture by the end of the week?"

"Welcome to my discomfort zone.", you scoffed.

࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐

"I'm surprised you're normal about this.", he mumbled, more to himself than to you, but you were so close together, it made sense you'd hear him. "My escort during the Games hated coming to the District, even though we're one of the cleanest ones."

"I need you calm. New Years is coming up, and that means parties and interviews and events.", you responded, sternly, clearly avoiding his gaze.

"Hey." A nudge to your shoulder. "Seriously. Thanks. Apparently, people think I'm some sort of ladies' man. Which I'm not, I'm seventeen, but, y'know, being able to breathe here in Four is gonna do wonders."

"Oh. So I was right about my hunch. They fabricated it to make you juicier."

"'Juicier'.", he scoffed. "Where did that stupid expression even come from?"

"I guess when fruits are juicier, they're more satisfying to sink your teeth into.", you suggested, shrugging as if you hadn't just hit the nail on the head. "

Sink your teeth into. How apt.

He didn't like how nervously you looked out the window, as if District Four residents would attack you for not acknowledging your roots. And then, he realized you only probably thought that because of him, and how he had actually attacked you for it.

Fuck. Everything was coming up Snow, wasn't it?

"The Rip has this really cool spot.", he whispered under his breath. "It's all very hush-hush, but there's this man, Hector, who takes amazing photos."

"Photos? Cameras? Aren't they bann—"

"Yes, but he's a friend. Shh. We'll get some taken."

"I don't want to take a photo with you."

"You will once you see Hector's booth."

~~~~

"So, you're saying you know everything about District Four, the entire topography, but this is your first time here?", inquired Hector, in sheer fascination, with his wizened smile and gravelly voice.

"Well, yes, I'm part-Harrington, I was given the maps, and when I was bored, I'd study them."

"You seem smart."

"I do?"

"Yes. Here."

You took the prop from him, a headpiece that had a pink brain springing up from it, that wobbled when your head moved. You let out a sharp laugh, looking at yourself in the mirror. "I look ridiculous."

"-Ly cool. Come on.", instructed Finnick.

"The usual, Finnick?"

He nodded, and Hector presented him with a headpiece just like yours, although this had a slightly horrifying anatomically correct heart on it, clearly cut out from some sort of textbook, like yours.

And then there you were, squished into a photo booth nearly on Finnick Odair's lap.

"You know how this works, Finnick, yeah? Explain it to your girl, because my head is killing me.", grumbled Hector, and Finnick rolled his eyes, punching his chest.

"When is it not, with all that alcohol you drink, huh?", teased Finnick, before drawing the curtain. "Alright, so we're supposed to pose."

"Oh, I had no idea.", you gasped, sardonically.

"We're so cool, huh? Head and heart? How amazing is that?", he exclaimed, before gently directing your jaw to face the camera. "That's one. Three more. Wow me with your ability to not be annoying."

You scoffed. "You're one to fucking talk!", you hissed, at the same moment that he gasped at your use of the cuss word.

The photo clicked.

"Oh, so she does swear! Beautiful. Two more, honey, and then we're going to the beach."

࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐

His fingers traced the sand, aimless curves through it. "So, what do you think of District Four?", he asked, turning to you and squinting one eye to cover the glare from the sun.

"It's wonderful."

"Would you live here?"

"I wouldn't have minded it."

"So, you do understand why I miss it."

You thumbed over the copy of the photobooth pictures, shrugging. "Yeah, but we can't do anything about it. You agreed."

"I didn't agree to jackshit."

The breeze swallowed up his words, quiet as they were, but the anger festered.

He grunted as he stood up to go closer to the water, taking off that stupid fucking Capitol shirt and letting it flee with the wind. At least when he got to the water, you wouldn't be able to tell if it was his tears or the ocean.

"Whoa, wait, what do you mean b—"

But he was off before you could finish. Maybe he wanted you to race after him. Maybe he wanted you to turn him around so that he could hug you to avoid looking at your face. You'll never know. Perhaps he meant it that way. But holding Finnick Odair humanized him. And, to him, humanized you.

࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐࿐

"Sticks."

"Stellar."

"Reeds."

"Stars."

"Seashells."

"Stop with the 's's!", you giggled, swatting at his shoulder.

He gripped your nose between two of his fingers, pinching it. "I want to spend New Years here."

"We can't, Finnick, you know we can't, I'll get in trouble, you'll get in trou—"

"We have to. We have to. There's so much you, oh my god, you'd love the knot-tying, no, no, we have cupcake-wars, which is like, self-explanato— we quite literally have to stay, for my sanity."

"Why are you so insufferable?", you muttered.

He cleared his throat. Oh, no. What had you done?

"Well, I won't lie and say I haven't got that one before.", he parroted you from earlier in a voice that was such a poor attempt at mimickery you almost got offended. "But I just think it's me being incredibly dedicated to the assignment I was given, which is making sure you stay here— god, that was terrible, how did you listen to that with a straight face?"

"Who said I was listening? I spaced out after "assignment", man."

He laughed until the silence prompted him to stop.

But he fought it.

"You should wear the District Four outfit more often, though.", he mumbled, trying his best not to blurt out every thought in his head if only to sort his mind out and quiet it down.

"Yeah? Why?"

"It's perfect on you. Like you were made for it. Or something."

"You mean, it was made for me."

"No, not necessarily.", he informed matter-of-factly, allowing himself a moment to look at your side profile in the night. That looked like it was made for him. "It's not always things being made for people."

"No?"

He shook his head, moving so he was hovering above you. "But you know what it always is?"

"Mm?"

"People being made for people."

It didn't surprise you, really, that line. Seemed on-brand.

He gently guided you up so that he could be eye-level with you. "You're my piece of District Four. You and...", he murmured, gently pulling out the photos from his pocket. "...and this."

You nodded.

"You're okay with that?"

"The blinds are closed, Finnick. I promise."

That's what prompted the kiss. It shut you up for a good long while, and it really calmed him down, too. He grinned, forehead on yours, before a tiny gasp left him. "Almost forgot. Here."

A tiny circular locket glistened under the moonlight on your palm.

Your brows furrowed as you allowed him to pepper multiple kisses on your cheek. "Your locket? Isn't it your mother's?"

He nodded. "Look what I'm wearing."

You looked down. Your anchor-pendant.

You were both each other's piece of District Four, and now you had each other's piece of District Four.

This was the most poetic thing to happen to him since birth.

Take that, Snow.

Everything was coming up Finnick.

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

dear sex witch,

i'm really sorry if this question is inappropriate and too long, please delete if necessary. i am a 17-year-old cis girl who grew up in a sexually conservative culture/religion but stumbled into extremely taboo nsfw fanfiction (and later nsfw fanart once or twice) really young (probably about 12) without even registering that what i was doing was masterbation/looking at porn. i no longer think those things are objectively bad or sinful as i was taught when i was younger, and i consider myself probably more sex-positive than a lot of my peers irl, but i feel a lot of shame about specific things that i've read and i still consider immoral although obviously none of the content i consumed involved real people doing sexual acts, and i started experiencing a lot of taboo and guilt-inducing intrusive thoughts two years ago.

if it's possible would you be able to give some advice about how to move forward? i've avoided pornographic material for more than a year but i don't actually know if that's healthy or helpful. the shame around previous porn use and the intrusive thoughts have also led me to become very afraid to disclose my sexual orientation (i realised i was a lesbian last year) because i'm worried i'll be bad representation and that if people realise what my past experiences were it would reinforce their homophobic beliefs about homosexuality being perverse.

again i apologise if this isn't the sort of thing you are able or willing to deal with at all, or if i sound too reactionary regarding sex and kink: i have been trying to educate myself but i obviously still have a long way to go. thank you for the work that you do and i hope you have a wonderful day.

hi anon,

okay, so, first thing I need to say, right out of the gate: it's not possible for you to be "bad representation." you're not representation. you're a real human person who, like every other human, will make mistakes and have regrets and sometimes do things that you're not very proud of. the burden of ending bigotry is not on queer people; don't have to be upstanding paragons of morality in the hopes that people will stop being meaners to us. if someone is homophobic, that's not something that you can change personally by being the most perfect lesbian in the world. they're still going to be homophobic unless they personally decide not to be, a choice that you can't force anyone to make. please, p l e a s e do not put that kind of pressure on yourself.

also: you actually don't have to disclose your sexual orientation to anyone whose reaction you're worried about. if someone is a homophobe, they don't need to know that you're homo! I know a lot of importance is placed on the idea of being out in every aspect of your life, but that is fucking DANGEROUS for a lot of people - especially young people who are dependent on families that won't support them. being out to your family is never, never, NEVER more important than you being safe; don't get it twisted.

re: avoiding porn, it's none of my business if you want to look at or read or listen to porn. I do know in many cases that learning how to just look at a thing as it is, without judging yourself for doing so, is the most effective way to stop feeling so scared and worried about it. I have no idea how much you pay attention to my blog, but I've had numerous people telling me that watching me joke so much about an incestuous relationship about two brothers in a bad Marvel movie has helped reduce the anxiety they feel about fictional incest. if you feel able to do so, it might be really good for you to experience enjoying some porn and masturbating about it without anything bad happening.

it doesn't even have to be watching porn; any kind of content centered around sex in a positive manner can really help to make it feel more natural and less scary. I always recommend the channel Sexplanations on YouTube, which is quite frank about bodies and pleasure while also being lighthearted and education, and I think you in particular might really benefit from the podcast Sexvangelicals, which is hosted by two sex therapists who do a lot of work specifically targeted at helping individuals who come from high control religious groups unlearn shame about sex.

[wannaeatramyeon]

Lookism x Reader: Soft Spot

G/N. Gun, Goo, Vin, Samuel. You know you're their favourite. Masterlists

"There's someone here to see you," the receptionist says with a questionable look on their face.

Oh? You weren't expecting anyone. You follow them to the lobby, all the while they're casting furtive glances in your direction.

What the hell?

They look half impressed and half terrified. Who exactly is here to see you? You round the corner and-

Ah. Ok. This makes total sense.

Gun Park comes into view and you now understand their feelings completely. Looking larger than life, quiet and menacing and confident in an eye-wateringly expensive button-up and slacks that fit perfectly to his form.

My god.

Forget fight or flight, it's usually flight or goddamn when it comes to Gun.

But why is he here?

"You've forgotten this," he says holding out a bento box wrapped in a cute cloth with small chubby cats all over.

He came all this way just to deliver this for you? You soften and smile brightly. "Thanks!"

Gun nods, eyes concealed behind his sunglasses, but his fingers grazes and lingers on yours when he hands you your lunch.

.

.

"Can I try those on?" You ask.

Goo blinks owlishly. "My glasses?" 

"Yep!"

"Nope," Goo says, popping the 'p'.

"Please?"

"No."

"Please?"

"Sure."

"Really!?"

"Nope," he repeats, smirking in your direction and you pout, bottom lip jutting out and pulling your cutest puppy dog eyes.

Ugh. 

It's just that... Goo has pretty bad eyesight. Yes he likes to wear glasses because it’s called style, but he also damn well needs them. Not that he likes to admit it, because he's sure some bastard would use that to his advantage, though he's confident that he'll be able to beat the hell out of anyone that tries but why work harder for the same result.

So no, he has never let anyone try on his glasses except-

He frowns at you. Your eyes are impossibly wide and sad.

Goddamn it, you've learned this pathetic look from him. And it's also working. Ughhhh.

"Fine!" Goo sighs and he removes his frames. 

You beam at him as he places them on your face.

.

.

"Really?" Mary snorts, arching an eyebrow when she catches the song playing on his phone.

Vin doesn't bother to remove his headphones. Turning up his music with one hand, he flips her off with the other.

She rolls her eyes and walks off, cussing him out under her breath.

That was embarrassing.

What would have been even more embarrassing is if she saw Vin's playlist. She would have no doubt been able to put two and two together, that witch.

It started as songs that he liked. Kinda. He couldn't put his finger on why he liked them, he just knew he did. It was an eclectic mix, everything from ballads through to blues to hip hop. Yet the vibes, to him, were all the same.

He listens to the playlist everyday, even as it grew and more songs were added, he came back to it regularly.

One night, lying in bed, music loud and a singer crooning into his ear as he texts you back, he finally realises the running theme.

It's cringe, and a secret he'll take to his grave-

Because he doesn't actually want to stop listening to these songs, to stop feeling this way-

It turns out-

(Damn, he hates that he's admitting this, but-)

They all remind him of you.

.

.

"Tell me," a voice drawls into your ear and you nearly jump out of your skin.

"Why am I, your boss," A pause. "Or rather, your boss's boss's boss waiting for you to finish work you should have completed 2hours ago?"

"I- I'm sorry!"

You look up at Sammy, contrite and desperate because this report is taking far too long and you've made so many mistakes that your supervisor has rejected it twice before she went home and-

"Leave it."

You blink. Once. Twice. Your eyebrows knit together. "Huh?"

"I'll assign it to-" Sammy signals in the vague direction of your said absent supervisor. 

You think about her peacefully enjoying her evening then coming in the next morning to a monstrous report that is really your responsibility, as well as all her usual work and deadlines and-

You gasp, "No! You can't! I'll finish it in the next 30 minutes, I promise!"

Samuel peers past your eyes that are growing wetter by the second and your panic stricken expression and scans the screen quickly. Your report is almost done but he's already counted 17 errors on a single page.

This must be some kind of company record.

With a sigh, he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"This can wait," he decides. It really can't though.

"What, I thought it was for your meeting?" It is.

"Don't worry about it." You should be worried about it.

"Are you sure?" No, he isn't sure.

Samuel takes one look at your eyes full of hope and decides that yes, he will have to make this work either way.

He's confident that tomorrow will go well, it has to. With or without this report. And if not, some subtle blackmail and threats will certainly help.