#i know it’s silly but it hurts when people complain about men around me

[theyheoftheapocalypse]

being a trans guy (ish) is weird cause like. i sort of still socially identify as a woman. especially because i’m not physically transitioned. so i feel like i occupy that space. plus i was raised as female. but i conceptualize myself as masculine and i prefer neutral or masculine pronouns and call myself a guy and boy and brother and son.

so i feel caught between that sort of “all guys suck” mentality that cis women especially have, and “i’m a guy and that makes me feel kinda sad.” cause i know precisely what women mean. but also i am a guy who isn’t part of the patriarchy so hopefully i don’t suck and i would like not to be rejected by women i love and respect because they have a bias against the male gender. but also i know what they mean and i am also scared of cis men often. it’s a weird spot to be in

[beekneebabey]

I don't know how to say this intelligently but something is really bothering me about the reviews for the barbie movie complaining that she didn't go deeply enough into feminist critique? Like,,, it's the Barbie movie. It's not Feminist Theory 402. Also, it's a movie about how women are expected to be spectacular at everything they do and how exhausting it can be to be the representative for all women when you're just one of them and people really watched that and turned around to tell Greta Gerwig that the movie wasn't enough because it wasn't perfect?

It was heartfelt and funny and silly and hot pink and that is enough!! Where is the media literacy!! You all are legitimately hurting my heart with this trash take!! It's fine to not like the movie but how come movies about the "male experience" can be about SOME men but movies about women have to be the balm AND rage AND catharsis AND call to action for every woman ever??? It's the Barbie movie!!! Not Gloria Steinem's latest manifesto!!! Let it fucking be!!!

[leclsrc]

stay, at least for breakfast ✴︎ cl16

genre: angst, just. angst, fluff

word count: 9.2k

You love once and miss always.

notes... internet translated ita/fre, non linear format so might b a tad confusing but thats it

auds here... this fic is a tad long sry. many thanks to mack who recommended the most painful songs to me that got me through writing the last couple of scenes. ik i said i wasn’t sure when i’d release this but here it is :)

You’re the only person Pierre knows in New York, so you’re the first one he calls. You suggest you meet just at your place, so you can smoke more freely, because so many people complain about the smell these days. You stall. You say the L train is broken. You say you’re tied up with work at the firm. But Pierre sees through you and eventually you meet anyway.

He looks the same, and just seeing him reminds you of so much. Shadows and outlines of memories long gone. You try to keep up the pretense of being okay, to remember that truly, your mind has been elsewhere lately—off everything, off the memories, on work, on cases. You try not to bring him up, even if it’s inevitable that he arises; you keep conversation to a polite minimum. 

Pierre offers a cigarette, a Camel light. You’re a fourth’s way through the stick.

“He asks about you, sometimes.” And then just like that, your world has ceased to turn.

“Oh?” A beat. “What do you say?”

“Just the usual. You’re working on this and that case for the law firm… you went to Greece in the summer.”

You and Pierre are still close, but it’s difficult to forget why. You two are connected by Charles, by a friendship so sacred it warranted a dinner for a Pierre-exclusive introduction. You’d grown close then, and when the breakup happened, it became hard for Pierre to maintain close contact with both of you. 

Selfishly, you wanted him to see how broken you were, so he could report it all back to Charles, etch every last detail of your pain. But Pierre is more mature than he’s given credit for.

“Okay.” You say blankly, unsure of how to bridge a less tense topic.

Perhaps sensing the apprehension, Pierre does it instead. “Do you remember when we bought shaving cream and made Charles look like Santa?”

It was in here in Manhattan, you recall, when Charles had dragged Pierre along with him to visit you over winter, when he’d been dating you for nearly two years at the time. Your flat was just above a bodega that had a comical amount of cheap cans of shaving cream that you and Pierre had found so absolutely silly, birthing a series of Charles-related pranks. After your grocery run, you’d returned to your place, where your boyfriend was fast asleep, mouth half open.

Shh. Quiet, you’d said, spurting shaving cream along his chin, his jaw, laughing silently.

Pierre had followed suit until finally, a beard of Nivea Men bounded down to Charles’ torso. You’d snapped a picture; the shutter sound had woken him up to a red-faced you and Pierre.

He was a good sport about it, kissed you with laughter, so you, too, had a beard of froth. Pierre took a Polaroid with a gifted camera of you on Charles’ lap, arms entwined around his neck, both of you bubbly with the cream, cheeks achy with smiles and laughter. You pretend to forget where it is, to forget that it’s tucked in a box you open once in a while. 

“I miss him sometimes, you know.” The confession rips through you, exacerbated by the cigarette.

“I know.” Says Pierre, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You realize maybe it is.

I still have so much love for him, you wish to say. But where will I put it? Will I keep this inside of me forever? A great, monstrous, shameful thing it is, to love somebody who’s left. But here I am doing it, trying to fill a void that feels like a crater. Where do I put this love? Maybe I can give it to somebody else, somebody new—but I’d say it’s not the same.

You think you’ll always hold a torch to Charles, even when the fire burns through the wood, ash trickling onto your arm until it hurts. And even then, when the light’s gone, when the flame’s wounded you and licked deep into your heart and bones, like it has now, you’ll linger, still holding this torch, still yearning, still unwanting to let go. Still loving. How desperate, you think. How human.

You clear your tobacco-flavoured throat. “It’s em—it’s embarrassing,” you say instead, throat closing up midway, in a futile attempt to water down your intense emotions. They threaten to crawl up your throat, force secrets out of you with the ease of ripping a piece of paper in half.

“Is it?” He asks, open-ended. “N’est-il pas honorable d'être si aimant?”

“Pas si ce n’est pas réciproque.” You scoff.

But he’s relentless, persistent in his pursuit to prove a point. “No. Love isn’t embarrassing, or pathetic, when it’s one-sided. It means more that way, when it’s not reciprocated. It means you’re selfless. It means the love is real.” He turns toward you, and in a billow of smoke, asks, “Does it not?”

You stare, left speechless. All you muster is: “Va te faire foutre.” 

—

You exit the room at eight-thirty with your toothbrush still foaming in your mouth. You stretch your arms over your head, combing a hand through your bedhead. Your eyes are half-shut, and already you smell it before you see it.

Pausing in your tracks, you rub the sleep out of your eyes. “Charles?” You call out, still out of the kitchen’s view. You try to remember if he was in bed when you crawled out, but your mind was still cloudy then, and the desire to pee took precedence.

You turn toward the bedroom door. “Charles, come out here. I think something’s on fire in the kitchen. Babe!”

You speedwalk, concern taking over—you didn’t pay enough attention to fire drills in primary school, clearly. Once you peek into the kitchen, however, your concern is only exacerbated, but not nearly as much as the extreme confusion that begins to well up inside you. There, at your stove, is your boyfriend himself, clearly fully awake and conscious, and holding a frying pan in mid-air that’s billowing smoke.

Having heard your voice already, he feels your presence and turns slowly. His gaze blinks from the pan in his grip to your totally incredulous stare.

“I can…” He pauses. “I’ll try to explain.”

“Very smart save, babe,” you say, but it’s muffled by your toothbrush.

“You sound stupid,” he retorts.

You remove the toothbrush and try to speak as coherently as you can through the spearmint foam. “I don’t think you’re in a position to be giving me criticism right now.”

“Fair,” he says, flitting his gaze over to where he holds the frying pan in mid-air. “I will explain as soon as you rinse your mouth. I promise.” You narrow your eyes, wondering if maybe this is another tactic to get himself out of trouble, but you figure it makes sense. If you’re going to scold him, might as well not spray toothpaste everywhere.

You grab your phone on your way back, where the disarray has not subsided in the least. He’s wearing your kiss the chef apron, stained with grease and pancake batter, both vital ingredients to bacon and flapjacks, neither of which are to be seen anywhere.

“What’s going on, Charles?”

“I wanted to cook you a surprise breakfast. But I can’t get the stove right.”

“Tu es fou.” You laugh, inspecting the smoke-scented pan. “Pourquoi n'avez-vous pas simplement pris à emporter?”

“Je voulais être pensif!” He defends, pouting. “Sorry. I’ll clean up the mess.” He deposits a batch of dishes at the sink as you watch in amusement. Your boyfriend is usually a good cook, you’ll say—he makes a mean stack of pancakes, and anybody can cook bacon, really. You suppose this is all just one honest mistake, born from a desire to surprise you on this morning.

He’s scrubbing at the pan when you wrap your arms around him in a backhug. “Thank you anyway. You’re the sweetest, Charles.”

He turns, a bubble of dish soap on the tip of his nose and hums. “Does this get me boyfriend points?”

“Alright, Jesus, a hundred of them.” You smile fondly, meeting his lips in a soft kiss. He makes you toast as compensation, takes the time to cut the crusts off the bread and the pulp out of the orange juice and the big bits out of the jam. He does his best, perfecting the art of toast and breakfast and, by extension, making you happy.

—

“Un amaretto sour, une bouteille de rose et un dirty martini,” you order smilingly in smooth, sure French.

The waiter nods and after thanks are exchanged, he leaves your table alone. In your limited knowledge of Paris, you’ve chalked it up to a few things: many people will be rude, the serving sizes will be petite, and the men will be anything but trustworthy. You’ve tried them before and they all go the same way, slipping out of hotel rooms with disarming desolés, buttoning their polos as they go.

So here you are, characteristically silent, because your friend is flirting with a guy and you refuse to do the same. 

“You speak French?” The guy across you asks curiously. He talks like he’s always smiling, eyes turning into half-crescents. He’s accented, but you’re unsure of the origin—it sounds French, in the same way it kind of doesn’t. You nod politely.

“Ah? Où est-ce que vous l'avez appris?”

“Université,” you respond. “J’ai etudie le langue français, mais… est trés difficil.” He laughs, nodding like you’ve said the funniest thing in the world. Half-crescents.

“I’m Charles. I grew up—I’m from Monaco, so I speak it. And Italian. Joris and I.” He elbows his friend, who your friend is flirting with. Oh, Monaco. So… not French.

“I’ve never been,” you say, letting yourself loosen up a bit more. 

“It’s very small. You should go sometime.” An implication of something hangs in the air, like clouds over France. You smile, bashful, nodding along. 

“I’ll make sure to.” The drinks arrive and flow through the night, laughter passed along the table like wine. At some point you and Charles get up to dance, but are quickly put to your chairs by the waiter—you mutter some slurred remark about how why play music if you can’t dance?! 

But he is funny, and charming, and pretty. You find yourself staring at him in a very desperate, schoolgirl crush way, lip bitten and cheeks warm when he catches you.

Later that night, tipsy off the alcohol, Charles the Monegasque presses a kiss to your cheek and asks, shyly, if you’d like to come to his hotel. You tease him, just to see the half-crescents again, and then you’re in his car and in his room, top pulled off and bra unclasped, laughing drunkenly into his neck when the pleasure reaches its crux. And you hope he doesn’t ask you to leave the next day, drifting into sleep with his arm slung over your waist.

—

You like Charles’ voice in real life.

This is because it means you feel it more than hear it, a low thrum through his chest and into your ear. It lets you know he’s close by, which is the best kind of reassurance, because he never usually is. It doesn’t matter what he talks about—the day past or about to begin, racing, family—all you can really digest is the amount of love and care he puts into his words.

Most of the time you hear his voice through the layered, stuffy audio of your phone or your laptop, when they can’t quite catch up to his lips, when the Internet lag is just that awful. If you’re lucky, he sounds more like himself, but nothing compares to hearing it for real, the whispers and murmurs and roughness of it all. He’s here, and you’re home, content just to listen.

You’re in Monaco; it’s your fourth day here. You’re off school for two weeks before you dive into midterms, so you spend it in Europe, because you haven’t seen Charles in ages. Lately he’s been pixels, voice memos, bubbles of words. But now he’s Charles, real, tangible, yours.

Life has become easier when he’s around, a fact wholly owed to his presence. When he’s here, you feel at ease, like laughter is effortless and loving is natural. But there is a ticking timebomb you sleep on, and it’s your impending departure, your flight back to the city, your resuming of normal life. Of life without him.

“I’ll be in Geneva next week,” he tells you, voice throaty from having just woken up. They’re the first words out of his mouth after he hangs up the early morning phone with Andrea. It’s an invite, even if it’s phrased as a statement; he awaits your affirmation, should it come. He invites you to these things often, as a way to introduce you more into his world. The words rumble through him, slowly onto your fingertips that waltz silently across his bare chest. They skate while you formulate a response.

“Okay,” you say quietly, half-asleep still. “I have… a huge recitation coming up, so I don’t think I can make it. Criminal law.”

He tenses, and you feel it. But his words say something else. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I wish I could,” you say, as compensation. It’s what you’ve both grown used to lately, wishing. Wishes that, for all your trying, never seem to come true. I wish I could make it. I wish I could visit. I wish we could celebrate together. I wish I was there for the podium, or the grades release, or the job offer phone call. I wish, I wish, I wish, and not much of anything else. Just wishing. Wishing, wanting, never getting.

“Yeah,” he says, sighing. “I wish you could, too.”

The dissonance between the voice that rumbles through him and into you—comforting—and the words that leave—a touch too sharp—strikes through you like electricity. “I’m sorry,” you say achingly, and the morning is silent as you both fall back into ignorant, blissful sleep.

—

“Aaaaand that pretty much evens us out to a solid 12-3.”

You finish tracking the score on your Notes app, closing your phone and facing your boyfriend’s pouting face of defeat. 

As always, the loser packs up the chessboard first—the wooden pieces click noisily against each other as he folds up the game, to be won (by you, no doubt) another time. Between work and the general upkeep of a relationship that’s constantly long distance, you and Charles find it difficult to begin and maintain romantic traditions.

But there’s always the assurance of chess. To air out grievances, to pass the time, to play footsie under the table. You and Charles always play, keeping a seasonal tally of near-daily games—during flights, pre and post race, after sex, at brunches with family.

“You’ve been cheating,” he accuses jokingly, storing the chessboard and inviting you onto his lap.

You’re in Nice today, housesitting for a friend while Charles spends time off racing. He claims it’s sufficient practice for when you one day buy a place together; two, at that: one in New York and one in Monaco. The days have passed in chess games, pots of coffee, and slow dances in the kitchen while you wait for pasta to boil or rice to cook. 

“You’re just jealous,” you tease, clambering atop him. Your arms loop around his neck, his around your waist. “Don’t worry. The tally will restart in September.”

“I’ll best you then.” Here, in this still moment of silence, where the sunlight from outside filters in just right and illuminates every detail of Charles’ face, you can almost feel your heart swell to an unimaginable size. You connect the moles and freckles with the tip of your pinky, traveling lower until it rests softly against his lips. He smiles, flexing against your touch. 

“Sore loser,” you say, flirtatious, playing with his hair.

“I think I keep losing,” he starts, hands tightening around your frame, “because every time I see you, I forget how to do the most ordinary things.”

You bite back a smile. “Hey, don’t try to charm yourself into a win.”

“Can’t help it, the winner’s too pretty,” he teases back; your lack of retort leads you to press your face into his chest. He smells like he always smells, clean and woody and a bit like your own perfume, your pretty boy. You inhale, breathe him in and ground yourself. Here, miles away from Monaco, even farther from Manhattan, you are home.

—

“How do you tell people you broke up?”

“I say we wanted different things,” you reply, two puffs into your second Camel.

A white lie, a half-truth, a rehearsed answer after being asked the same repetitive question so many times. You and Charles broke up because at that point, nothing about you made sense. You were growing older, and with age came the stupefying realization that nonsense wasn’t always romantic. If it didn’t make sense, it never would. But you did want the same things, you suppose, at least to some extent.

You know you wanted marriage. After law school, it had to be, and in Europe, somewhere sunny and windy and flowery with a sea nearby. A small affair, family and friends. You know you wanted kids, two or three, a bunch of Charles lookalikes, tufts of light hair and bouts of crazy energy. You know you wanted a house—not a flat, a house, a brownstone in Manhattan, a big property in Monaco. You wanted so much of the same things.

Perhaps that is why Pierre will never understand the magnitude of the way you miss Charles. You dream of him when you’re awake, of the times you spent together that finished abruptly. You look for him in everyday objects. You keep the tissue paper conversations, you want to say, even if it’s so, so mortifying, so raw to admit it.

“But you didn’t,” says Pierre, because he knows it.

“We didn’t. But what other explanation is there?” Where a concrete summary of your breakup is supposed to be, there lies grey matter, webs of explanation spanning years and months and questions unanswered. 

“I get it,” he replies. But he’s not you, or Charles, so he doesn’t.

—

Charles looks at you and imagines your smiling face in every moment of his future. Holding a child, under a veil, half-asleep in the morning, flushed and warm after a few beers.

You’re—you’re you, and he just loves you, in a way he will never be able to articulate. He drives for a living—he looks at all kinds of statistics, worded and encoded onto machines and computer screens. But this love isn’t quantifiable. Not in numbers, not in speed, not in words, stanzas of Italian. His love for you is indescribable; it exists in a wordless plane, massive and all-encompassing, carved and chiseled finely.

When you’re absent, the world seems duller, a bit more empty. But it’s okay, he thinks—you’re here now, across the room, in nothing but lingerie, your dress pooled at your feet. You’ve both just arrived from another social gathering, with so many people, and an afterparty arranged by Max.

You’d utilized your well-used secret signal for parties that directly translated to “let’s go home”—bringing up peanut butter meant you were well past exhausted and needed to leave. One “the dessert would’ve been so good with peanut butter” later and you’re here. Years of being together means you’ve both created a vocabulary all your own, lexicon and phonetics making up a language of love and familiarity. Nobody else will ever get this, he thinks. It’s just yours.

You’re removing your makeup in the mirror, and oh, well, you’re beautiful. He wonders what he has to do now to be able to find you in the next life, to be able to meet your eyes again for the first time and fall in love with you the way he did.

You’re what he looks for after a race, after a win, after a DNF. So he can, if just for a moment, let his guard down and allow himself to be yours, yours and only yours, collapse into your arms from ache and overwhelm and find reprieve there. With you, he lets himself go, lets the façade fall, lets himself stay in your touch before he deems himself ready to be with the rest of the world.

“Hey, you,” you call, and he blinks. “Eyes up here, buddy.”

“I just love you,” he says sleepily. 

You tug on a nightshirt—his, from ages ago—and crawl into bed beside him, raising a teasing brow. “Sex is off the table.”

He laughs. “I wasn’t trying to get into your pants.”

“Good,” you half-yawn, yanking the lamplight closed and nestling yourself beside him. “I look horribly un-sexy.”

“The shirt’s kinda doing it for me.”

“Go to sleep.”

—

It’s raining today, for the first time in a dull stretch of weeks. The fall comes in angry, noisy sheets, made more furious by the wind. Wrapped in one of his hoodies, you clasp a mug in your hands, staring sullenly out the window, wondering when Charles will be home. Something has shifted in the weeks since you last saw each other, since you flew back out to New York and Charles didn’t finish in the last race.

Sometimes everything feels impossible to touch, like you don’t know what the next step is, let alone how to take it. There’s a certain uncertainty to where you stand, a possibility that, if the seconds tick just right, everything will crash down. This isn’t a feeling you’ve ever had before, but you suppose this is the only way to learn how to deal with it.

It’s comforting, then, when you hear the keys jingle at the door.

Your flat, as expensive as it is, has a quirk to it; the door only opens when you jerk it with your knee twice. You hear it, the double thump, and in almost childish excitement, you set your mug down and pad gently over to the foyer, so you’re ready for him when the door opens. Everytime you’re apart for this long, the routine is standard, and first thing you do is hug—so hard, so tight, your legs wrapped around his waist, his face in your neck.

“Hey,” Charles says, seeing you wait idly by the front door. You inch forward, but freeze. He heaves his luggage in, smiling softly, tiredly almost, pressing a brief kiss to your cheek and then disappears into the bedroom. The lump in your throat doesn’t go away when you slowly realize the hug you’d awaited, prepared for even, does not come.

You follow him instead, to the bedroom, where he’s still quiet, shirtless and picking out something from the drawers. He turns when he hears you. “Have you seen my grey hoodie?”

“Yeah, it’s in the wash.” You pause. “I used it last week, sorry.”

“I tol—it’s,” he says, inhaling, “it’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, taken aback by how affected he is. “I can get it dried.”

“It’s okay.” He insists, a bit sharply, tugging on a different shirt instead.

The air is thick, threatening to break, and you’re hopeless, lost, left wondering—what the hell is going on. You try your best anyway, humming as you take a seat on the bed and fold the bits of laundry you’d abandoned in the morning.

“Pascale’s inviting us over tomorrow,” you open, finishing a pair of shorts and depositing them into the drawers. Your arms wrap around him, and he holds them there. This is good, you think. This is okay. “For brunch, because Arthur’s going to be home. I told her okay—since I’m back in New York by Tuesday and you’ll be in Italy then, too. We haven’t had brunch with your family in forever. God, they’re going to be asking questions about marriage, and engagement, and ki—”

“Stop.” The room goes still. “Why did you tell her okay?” He asks, disengaging the hug and turning toward you fully. 

You’re like a deer in the headlights, confused, lost all over again.

“Charles?” You prod, gently. “Is… are you okay? I mean, we always greenlight brunch.”

You watch him pinch his nose bridge, exhale, close his eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” You echo, stepping forward. He steps back, avoidant.

“Don’t,” he says. “Please, just… don’t.”

You’ve heard this often lately. In fact, no—you’ve maybe felt this more than heard it. This—this distance, this space, this push. Every call unanswered, every flight missed, every text answered with a brief, apathetic OK. You can’t quell the fear, the panic swelling in your chest, because you can feel him floating away, just out of grasp.

“Talk to me,” you say, because it’s the only thing that can bring itself to leave your mouth. It’s weak, it’s desperate, lacking composure and firmness. “Nous pouvons travailler à travers cela.”

“Non,” he says, as if he knows it already. “This, I—I just. I think I just need some space.”

Space.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll be in the living room.”

“No, I’ll go,” he insists, like he’s doing you a favor. I’ll save us the nasty fight, he seems to convey. I’ll go. So he does—grabs a coat and wrestles himself out of the door, with barely anything left to reassure you, just a short kiss and a hand on your hair. It’s performative, you know this, but you’ll take it. You don’t have much to accept these days.

The night passes, still and quiet, without the jingle of keys or the double thump at the door.

Even in memory and introspection you will come to find this moment and remain capable of recounting every thread of detail, ones as small as the eyes of needles, every prick of pain that pokes at you. Because even if you see him the day next, and even if he greets you with a kiss, and pulls you aside to apologize profusely, and even if you feel so loved in this very moment, with hugs from Pascale and jokes from Arthur and check-ins with Lorenzo, the fact has secured, burrowed itself into the dark crevice of your heart.

You will look back on this one day, and think, with the kind of certainty so crushingly absolute: yes, this is when it all went wrong.

—

“Is he seeing anybody?” Halfway through the third stick.

“No,” Pierre says, blowing smoke out into the air.

“Be honest.”

He snorts. “D’accord. An Italian girl, few months ago, but it’s over. It was quick. Very. And you?”

The information makes you weak in ways you refuse to share. “Just… testing things out with this guy.”

“Does he know about Charles?”

The silence is telling. “About Charles” is an awfully broad topic. 

Charles was such a big part of who you are, and who you’ve been, and what you’ve been through. How would you even begin telling somebody about you both? The bits and pieces, the great figure eight, the tiny infinity. The moments within the moments, memories within memories. The love. The way you loved, the way you sought him, the way you have yet to replicate the feeling of loving him, the way you wait for the next life, so you can seek him all over again. 

There is “does he know Charles,” and there is “does he know about Charles,” and the two are so cruelly separate and different. Anyone can know Charles; he is, after all, world-famous. You don’t know how he’s doing in motorsport these days, because a lot of the time the Google search for his name suggests ex girlfriend right beside it, and that’s enough to stun you into not searching again. But still he’s famous and renowned, so of course he’d be known. But for someone to know about him, what he meant to you—it feels like you’d be reciting a novel in an effort to explain how the both of you began, became, and ended. Reciting sonnets and stanzas of prose, of moments painfully intimate, of habits that have yet to die, of things you wished to be taught by him. 

“So, no.” You nod softly.

—

The possibility of spending Christmas with either of your families grows thin as December begins. Between final exams and racing meetings, neither of you give, discussing over hours-long calls and coordinating calendars. You find that your only common free day is the seventh of January, which is effectively well past the holidays. You’ve sunk into a pile of misery at the very real chance of spending the holidays by yourself. It’s not a pretty idea, despite the fact that you’ve befriended loneliness lately.

Outside your window, Manhattan is caked in snow; it reminds you of Santa Claus Charles, with his foamy frizzy beard and kisses of froth and the Polaroid on the fridge. You wonder if Charles, wherever he is in Europe now—traveling multiple times a day—remembers you, too, in these little mundane things.

He’d called on the third of December, when it was three in the morning in New York. You picked up after two rings, busy studying, and mumbled a sleepy hello into the receiver.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, clearly excited over something. 

“Bit early, honey.” You’d said back amusedly, highlighting phrases on the textbook.

“Just saying it now, because the next time you hear me say these words, it’ll be in New York.”

You didn’t register his words until you realized you’d tinted two entire paragraphs fluorescent yellow.

You blinked. “Wait, what’d you say?” 

“I’m there by the twenty-fifth, evening. Found a sweet spot in my calendar thanks to Joris.”

“If you’re joking, Charles, I swear—”

“I’ll see you then,” he had said; even then you could hear his smile through the scratchy audio of international calls.

That’s what you’re doing here, over your stove cooking chicken to commemorate your first Christmas together. You stick a thermometer inside it, busying your mind with thoughts of dinner instead of the fact that you haven’t spoken to your supposed guest in over a week.

Like many fights lately, this began over something irrational and grew into a serious, temperamental discussion about your future.

About moving in together and how impossible it seemed. About raising kids or getting engaged. Everything was written on different pages for the two of you. Your plans were always years too early, years too late, never aligning. Bilingual paragraphs eventually devolved into exhausted intermittent texts, check-ins if it mattered, and barely any concrete discussion at all.

It’s mortifying to have to say the phrases “like many fights lately.” You wonder what it proves about the two of you, about the relationship you share. Has it gone sour? No, you tell yourself. But this yogurt dip will, if I don’t put it in the fridge. You wipe your hands off after you do, rechecking your phone; still no texts or calls or updates. He’d texted this morning, a brief and simple see you soon, but hadn’t responded to your text.

Chicken, mashed potatoes, candles ready to be lit. You fiddle with the pink Bic, lighting and unlighting, sighing. 

You dial the airline eventually. They man both public and private flights, so they should know something about his jet. Something, anything—any tidbit of information is useful to you right now. You’re embarrassed, alone on Christmas in a dress you thought was beautiful hours ago but now only seems over the top and mocking. A woman picks up your call after it’s transferred thrice.

I just need to know the ETA of this flight, you say. Under Charles Leclerc. He gave me the flight code. 

Silence. You hear the bustle of the airport on the other end and wonder if Charles is there in that bustle, in his puffer jacket he uses in the winter, holding a suitcase and waiting for the delayed plane. Or maybe he’s already here in your timezone, in a cab bumbling with excitement, or in the elevator, or right outside, fist posed in front of the door—

A snowstorm, she says, her voice tinny through the phone. The pity in her voice makes you want to smash the landline to pieces. So sorry. If you’d gotten your husband to book just two days earlier, you two would’ve been together. Why don’t you call him, sweetie?

She is right about the unsolicited booking advice, wrong about the title. Charles is not your husband. You hang up after mumbling something you can no longer remember, too exhausted to be rude or polite at this point, and turn to face your dining room. Your texts go unanswered, and in your earlier effort to save energy, the lack of heating has caused your phone screen to grow cold to the touch. The roast chicken is getting cold now, too, the mashed potatoes cool, the sourdough stale, the butter melted into ugly coagulated puddles, the wine sweating all over the table.

You eat two bites before depositing a clean plate at the sink. The flat smells of pine and citrus; it’s stronger because you’re by yourself, with no Charles to cloud the room with his own scent. Your phone remains silent, your heart drowning slowly in a cloud of imprecise sorrow. And you realize, remembering the airline officer’s words as you unplug the lights from the Christmas tree and let the moonlight swallow the room, that Charles is not your boyfriend, either.

He texts the morning next, says he’ll make it on the next flight, twenty-six. He doesn’t apologize and you unwrap presents alone, from friends, shipped from family. You wallow in your loneliness, humiliated by your need for him, a need that is met only on the seventh of January.

—

“Are you and Charles okay?”

Lorenzo is always the first to ask. He’s intuitive, and you think maybe it comes with age, but damn if it isn’t infuriating when he knows something is up before anyone else. You purse your lips, hope your laugh is a good enough substitute for an answer.

“Are you?” Obviously, it’s not.

“We’re… we’re just working through things.” You’ve had two glasses of bourbon, and your eyesight is blurring the way your words do. You’re in a big Manhattan ballroom, just several floors underneath your hotel room. Charles is somewhere socializing, because of course he is, and you can’t take your mind off school, because of course you can’t.

“But you’re good, right?” He sounds hopeful, like your answer is the only thing that can convince him. Does he think you aren’t? What has Charles been telling him? Your breathing quickens, grows frantic.

“Yeah.” It convinces nobody, not even yourself. He nods, smart enough to drop the subject, and you’re alone again. This is the umpteenth gala you’ve been to this week alone, all for something or other along racing. You grow used to the faces, the introductions, the gentle nos when asked if you two are engaged, because why would you be? It’s a farfetched idea, engagement. 

The bathroom is half-full when you usher yourself inside in your gown, almost tripping with how fast you try to make it to the mirrors. There are two middle-aged women beside you lazily drawing lipstick onto their faces, their French accents thick as they converse.

“…So I decided to divorce him.”

You stare deep into the mirror. You look like a caricature of yourself, a puppet. Where is Charles? He overestimates your capability to be alone.

The other woman goes, “I can’t believe he didn’t see it coming.”

“I know! You’d think he would notice, no? Bah, men.”

“You’d felt it for a while then, too.”

“Tch, I really did. Just goes to show.”

Before you digest it, you’re turning and intrusively asking: “How did you know you wanted to divorce him?”

They exchange a look that’s as condescending as it is patronizing. Here you are, a naive twenty-something asking for relationship advice like you’re some know-it-all. You feel like a child suddenly, meek and curling in on yourself. Answer me, you want to say, tell me how it feels, tell me how you knew. You look petulant.

“Well,” she says, eyes meeting yours as she closes the tube of lipstick, “sometimes, dear, you just know.” It clicks closed.

“Yes,” says the other. “You just know. When you wake up one day and you feel it, that’s just it.”

Bullshit. Easy answer. You won’t know, you want to say.

No matter how stupid, how cliché, it sounds, you’ll never know this feeling. This feeling of nonchalance over a relationship lost, of laughter over unsuccessful love, of casually coloring the same lips that talk so abrasively of a lover. Because you have Charles, and Charles has you, and what else is there to know?

The rest are candles on a cake, kisses under a blanket, orange juice served over toast, arguments that end with compromise and a hug. The rest is love. These two know nothing about it. They know hurt and heartbreak and denial. They know nothing but this sad, sad feeling.

It must be sad to know, you think, even if the exact suffocating feeling crawls up your spine and wraps around your throat on the elevator ride back to the room.

—

This is boring

You scan over the scribbled phrase on the embossed, no doubt above asking price, tissue paper given at this (granted, boring) charity ball. Stifling a laugh, you fish a pen out of your purse, rereading the words and judging your outgoing response. In neater penmanship, you quickly write a message below it.

OK let’s end things.

He laughs when he reads it, eyes crinkling into half-crescents, mouth in a wide, silent smile. He mulls over a response and when you get it—

No goodbye sex? Quelle poisse. You giggle, rolling your eyes and squeezing his hand underneath the table, putting your little game on pause lest you get in trouble for not listening to the speaker onstage. This kind of lovely, comedic push and pull is what keeps you always entertained with Charles; he always, without fail, manages to make you laugh. Your easy, instant, but equally profound connection to one another constantly has you revisiting the idea of soulmates, of destiny.

Prior to meeting, your and Charles’ lives were barely entwined. You were a law student in America, Charles a racing driver based in Europe. A year ago, to the date, you’d been in Paris on vacation, when a friend invited you out to get drinks somewhere along the Seine. You had three case studies waiting on your laptop, but something tugged at you to accept the invite. 

Had you not been up for drinks in Paris that night, for instance—you’d never have met. And the drinks wouldn’t have been suggested in the first place if Charles got home from a meeting early, expressing boredom over the phone to Joris, who relayed it to the girl he was currently flirting with, who relayed it to you. You would never have talked if you didn’t order cocktails in French, prompting him to ask where you learned the language. 

And if you hadn’t, in a haze of rosé and amaretto sours, accepted the handsome guy’s invite back to his hotel—where would you be now? The series of little things make up where you are now. 

“Je t’aime,” he whispers into your hair.

But, then again, Charles has never felt like a stranger. You’re so sure that if you’d declined, or if Charles’ meeting ended on time, or if Joris was single, or if you ordered in meek English instead, you’d still be here, laughing over irrelevant tissue paper conversations, holding Charles’ hand under the table.

“Moi aussi,” you murmur. So sure.

—

God is the best scapegoat.

You first realize this when you’re ten and your favorite necklace snaps in half. You’d been running around, you moved too fast, it stuck on a branch, and became forever unfixable. You’d skipped on the usual nightly prayers as some sort of petulant, rebellious counterattack. You’re fifteen when you’re friendzoned, a first for you. You convince yourself it’s God playing tricks on you. You’re sixteen when you get an F for skipping class too often; you tweet God wtf is happening to me and you giddily watch it get thirteen likes. You’re not alone in this revolt, you think. You’re seventeen and a half when you lose your virginity; it sucks. You’re on top and you learn the art of faking. So you lay on your bed and bemoan Him for the misleading introduction to sex.

It becomes easy to blame God, moreso than usual, when the matter is one of life and death and danger. Being with Charles puts you in this position often. You curse God when something happens during a race that causes your heart to snag in itself and skip a beat or go five times faster. Inversely, it’s dreadfully difficult for you, innately unreligious, to pay thanks to God. Charles knows this, and is always the first to say “thank God” when a race goes well.

You throw around the phrase a few times, but it’s rare. Most, many, all times—it’s “oh, thank fuck” or “I’m so happy you’re safe.” It’s almost like you actively avoid the phrase, so whenever you say it, Charles is momentarily stunned; sometimes it’s after a particularly nasty circuit, or a rainy race day when you physically cannot withstand the stress of watching the love of your life drive fast under such bad conditions.

You have nothing to thank God for.

The hotel room is thin-walled and cold. Just last night you’d been tangled into each other for warmth, but now you’re throwing your suitcase onto the same bed and shoving laundry inside. No folding. No organizing. You make quick, messy work of it to avoid the conversation Charles so desperately tries to coerce out of both of you. The chessboard from last night’s game—5-7—lies abandoned, folded up at the foot of the bed. You ignore it. 

“I’m sorry I left you alone,” he says, lazy almost. He seems to say oh, fine. If you need me to say sorry I’ll say it, here.

“You don’t understand.” You say, cutting phrases short to avoid saying anything you’d rather harbor inside yourself.

“Then enlighten me,” he shoots back. “Please, really. Dis moi tout.” He sounds sarcastic.

“I don’t fit here,” you respond cuttingly. If he chooses to be sarcastic, you think—then be it. You’ll be blunt. You’ll exaggerate. You’ll be impulsive, if for once in your life, you have to be.

“Here, in your life.” You clutch a shirt to your chest. “We don’t make sense. We never did, and you know what? We never will. I honestly don’t know why we keep trying. It’s pointless to believe this could ever work. In between our careers, friends, and schedules, it takes more work for us to see each other for just a day than to push a fucking rock uphill. Ç’est inutile et tu le sais—tout ce travail pour rien.”

Your words sting, join the draft leaving through the crack in the window, turn into dew that stains the vines of the hotel exterior. The ones about to leave his mouth, though, stay put, cement themselves in the grooves of your brain. You’ll think of this exchange years from now, and the words will never blur, sore on your tender heart.

A pregnant silence follows your soliloquy, prompting you to look up and meet his eyes. He says it then. “Pourquoi se disputer pour rien? Let’s just end things.”

“Fine, let’s just end things.” You repeat. Struck, hurt, and angry, you say one last thing, in a valiant attempt to get the last word in. “Thank God.”

The seconds tick by like days, where you look at one another, thinking the same thing. So that’s it? When did it all turn to this? You push past him, bearing your suitcase and messily wiping your face of tears, pretending not to notice the hitch in his voice when he mumbles a quiet goodbye.

Your steps to the elevator tick by like hours, and you take the time to think of how you’d lived much of your relationship thinking that, with how strong your and Charles’ personalities are, a breakup would be messy. Loud. A yelled out fight, tears, thrown curses and hurtful names. You’d always thought, with much conviction, that you would end with a bang.

Many previous fights had gone something like that. There was Thanksgiving, where you ushered him out of your family home to avoid anything escalating into a yelling match. Bang.

There was post-race, where, in the throes of frustration, you two had a heated exchange and you left the paddock in tears. Bang.

There was nothing, however, that couldn’t be solved without a shag and a kiss and an apology. So, reasonably, you expected the final fight to be the loudest. The angriest. This relationship, you were so sure—this would end in a bang. Because you and Charles love the same way: strongly, with so much conviction and noise, and the line between love and spite is more frail than you think. A great big bang, where finally you collided in ways you’d never done before, every frustration, every complaint, thrown back and forth like comets, like war.

But you are wrong. It doesn’t. 

It ends with you softly sighing, arms crossed over your torso to shield yourself from the ache in your chest, tears slipping then falling unstoppingly in the elevator. It ends with a night’s sleep taking up one side of the bed. It ends with Charles deceiving himself into thinking you didn’t just thank the Lord that your relationship has just crumbled to nothing in the bounds of this thin-walled, cold hotel room.

—

“Say something to me,” you say quietly, like you’re afraid to disturb the still morning silence of Paris. “In Italian.”

It’s a corny, cheesy request, no doubt inflamed by the butterflies in your stomach when you think about the night before and one romantic comedy too many. But you ask for it, anyway, your leg bumping his under the too-thin cotton blanket of his hotel. You found yourself here this morning after a night of sweet French alcohol and slurred, flirty conversation.

“Assomigli al resto della mia vita.” He says, smiling.

“Okay. What’s it mean?”

“I won’t translate it for you, because it’s a bit cliché.” He narrows his eyes.

“All of European language is cliché.” You laugh. “Come on, tell me.”

“I will one day,” he says, “I promise. I swear!”

The promise of “one day” is upsettingly romantic. Barely a day after you first met, first bonded, first kissed, first had sex. Okay, fine, you two hadn’t really gone the traditional route of dating, but here he is waxing poetic in Italian, finger tracing your bare arm. “One day,” you say, just so you’re sure.

“Yeah. One day.”

His hand finds yours, and fingers are laced together. Words wrestle themselves out of your throat nervously, a question that might seal the morning. “Should I go?”

The question rests in the air. How do you want your eggs, he wants to ask. Or would you want pancakes or waffles or bacon? Or bread, a croissant with coffee and compote? He wants to know all these things, hear all your answers, watch your eyes twinkle with amusement at the silly questions. So he’ll ask them, he figures. He’ll ask them if you don’t go.

“Stay,” he says. “At least for breakfast.”

—

Pierre leaves after a few more hours. He says Yuki texted him about some Mexican place they need to try. The night next, he is brought up in conversation: “Who were you with last night?”

“A friend,” you explain. “He’s an old friend, Henry.”

Henry Maxwell, the Wall Street guy you’re seeing, who’s inviting you to a charity ball a month into dating. To you, that’s basically a sign to end things, but you allow him to explain his invitation. Babe, don’t you think networking in New York is a gold mine for everything great these days? Don’t you think we need to network if we ever move in together?

“Henry, n—I mean. It’s just going to be another one of those stuffy city galas where everyone tries to out-wealthy one another,” you half-joke. In truth, the reason why you’re so adamant on not going is because this is just about the worst first date idea ever conceived—from experience, you’re sure you’ll have barely any time alone to get to know each other, whisked away to socialize with groups of other people.

“Oh, lighten up,” says Henry, with a sheepish smile. “You’re my plus one on the RSVP, so you can’t complain.”

“Am I?” You ask, chuckling. It’s a bit weird. But he’s excited, and asking, and convincing, so you tug a green silk dress out of your closet and take an Uber to the hotel address. Nevermind the fact that you’ve been here before.

You squeeze Henry’s hand when you walk into the massive ballroom, and not five minutes later you’re facing a crowd of people, drowning in taffeta skirts and wool suits and champagne and snooty small talk. Henry is charming, Henry is kind, Henry is a smooth talker.

He’s the ideal prototype of a guy you should be dating right now. His hand never leaves the small of your back, playing with the satin of your dress, laughing into your neck. You’ve faced several groups of business magnates and supermodels; right now, he’s introducing you to a big journalist for the Post.

She’s in the middle of talking about some hippie retreat to Thailand or somewhere or other when your eyes glide across the room, bored, searching for something to occupy you. To be frank, you really don’t care about ayahuasca.

The hands on the clock seem to halt just for you, just for now, suspending this moment in time like a mosquito in amber. Your eyes meet—and if you’d been less careful or maybe more tipsy, you might have mistaken his gaze for a stranger’s. But your heart demands hurt, demands the memories, demands the sick, sweet nostalgia threading through you like needle to cloth. Your heart demands you to remember, but the demand is so painfully easy to obey because you’ve never forgotten. All at once hate and love arise in you, like great big waves conflicting against one another, until you feel swollen with longing and spite, finding reprieve in the green of his eyes.

Timing, destiny, God. Whatever it is, it’s decided to play some silly joke, because here you are. In the precarious balance of a memory and a figment of your imagination, here you are. In the gap between never and always, here you are. You might appear to be strangers, stranded across opposite ends of this marble ballroom, but to both of you, the idea is almost unfathomable. No, not strangers; you two are anything but.

You are you, and he is Charles, here again in the place where it all ended.

He is never a stranger, and he could never be. He is Charles, your Charles, the beautiful boy who took up years of your life and explored every inch of your heart and mind. He is Charles, who broke your heart, he is Charles, whose heart you broke. But now, he is just Charles Leclerc, racing driver and charity gala attendee, conversing with the same crowds, mingling as he always does. Did. The usage of past tense is a painful pill to swallow.

Charles feels like it’s torture, suffering, a slow punishment, to be rooted to the ground and to do nothing but look. How can he look away now? He is rooted to the tiles, thick vines keeping him here, even if his heart tells him to go, run, now. He is stuck, tacked by the stillness of the memories that play back through his head, the love and the sorrow. You’re still you, hair a little shorter, brows a little darker, but you’re still you. The you he had once, held once, loved and lost once. The you he wishes to have, hold, and love once again.

For a moment, a fleeting, short, moment, he wishes to blink, to nod and to signal for you to meet him outside, on the balcony, so he can straighten his tie and press a polite hand to this person’s shoulder and say excuse me and leave, slip quietly into the night. So maybe you can tug on Henry’s suit jacket and say I’m sorry and join the crowd of gowns and satin and leave, run, go. Because you’re you. And what a sweet lie it would be if he said he wouldn’t do anything for you.

In the end you stay, and you stare, rooted still, time moving the way grass grows. When he smiles, you smile back, and the answers to what if are quietly fabricated in the limits of your imagination.

—

“I miss you. I know it’s—I know this is weird to say, after so long. After not talking for such a long time.”

“No, I understand. I miss you, too.”

“Right… well, how have you been?”

“Same old. You?”

“Yeah, same. How’s everything?”

“It’s… it’s okay. How’s life?”

“Tough, but great.”

“I noticed you were with someone.”

“Yeah, no. That’s—it’s sort of—I don’t see it going anywhere, really. It’s kind of over.”

“Oh? Is it?”

“Listen, I’m… sorry. For—just for everything. I’ve lived the past few years thinking about everything and still hoping I could someday apologize properly. I’m just glad I’ve been given the chance. And I think things ended without… without… I just don’t think we were mature enough. And sometimes now I think—it’s you, it’s still you.”

“Don’t apologize. Can you believe it happened right here?”

“I know. It’s almost crazy—”

“You left a bottle of scent at my place. It’s… it’s still half full. Sometimes I—nevermind. I mean, I think of you a lot. Probably too much for my own good. I think of us, our past, our relationship.”

“So do I.”

“—I love you. I try to stop it, I keep trying but I always end up here. Always here, back here, loving you.”

“If you didn’t see me tonight—would you have felt this way?”

“Oh, I feel… I feel it everyday. I think I’m always going to love you.”

“I’m always going to love you, too.”

[darkbluekies]

I have a silly ask-

So what if reader is also yandere for them.??

I wanna how would they react to it

Also I love the Doctor Kryx Silas you madee!!Been reading it like 50 times!!

Anon♡

Warnings: double yandere, suggestive themes, mentions of killing, jealousy

A/N: thank you so much!! I'm glad you like their chemistry <3

Silas: 

He can’t be more happy and worried at the same time. You want to do everything to please him without asking any questions, you want to cuddle up with him every second of the day and love him unconditionally. But you want to get involved in everything he does and that frightens him. You can’t see his violent side. You’ll cling onto him every time he has to leave for work and will send dark gazes to the men and women who help him.

“No, baby, I want you to stay here. I have to go work if I want to continue being a respected man. No, no, get your hands off of me, little thing. You’re making it harder for me to leave. If you continue- … stop that. Fuck. Fine. I’ll stay. You little trouble maker, if you weren’t as obsessed with me as I am with you, I’d throw you in the basement. But you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You like everything I do to you … and I love everything you do to me.”

Dr Kry:

He’ll be delighted to know that you love him as much as he loves you, but it’ll make it harder for him to make you stay in your bed. You want to be by his side at all time, want to hold onto him and kiss him. Dr Kry isn’t fond of physical connection — even with you. He loves to hold you every once in a while, but needs his own space too. He’ll let you sit in his lap while he reads for you. You take the initiative to all the physical affection and end up kissing him more than he is prepared for. 

“My dear, wait, you’re bruising my lips. You really need to take your nap now. You can’t keep stalling by kissing me. I’m really happy that you want to be close to me, but I have a job to do. My job is to protect you so can you please let go of my hair? No, I’m not going to let anyone flirt with me, yes, I will be back … no, I’m not letting you come with me. You have to take a nap. I love you, my little sweetheart.”

King Edmund:

He’ll enjoy you being obsessed with him. He will have you sitting in his lap while he’s on his throne, having you kiss his neck and run your fingers through his hair. Edmund won’t be able to hide his cocky smirk. Having you all over him while people talk to him might be the bes thing that has ever happened to him. You’ll whisper to him how you don’t like how certain people look and talk to him while they propose suggestions for him. He’ll turn his head to you and smirk. 

“My dear queen, are you a little jealous today? You want me to kill that woman for smiling at me? Yeah? You’d like that? Then I will, my jewel. I will get rid of everyone. You’re so cute when you’re jealous. You wrap yourself around me like a snake. I’m not going anywhere … and neither are you.”

Jerry: 

Jerry will let her guard down a bit. She will have no worries about you trying to leave her and “exposing” her sweet side to others. She’ll trust that you want her for the rest of your life. Jerry will give you more freedom, even letting you join in on missions every now and then. She'll be more human with you … and even more obsessed. Now that she has you for real, she'll never let you get away from her. And who are you to complain? This is all you could ever want.

"Are you hurt? Why the fuck did you do that?! I told you that I'd be fine! Why did you try to intervene? You could have gotten seriously hurt! Don't try to save me again, baby. I get that you wanted to protect me, but that's my job, got it? You're bleeding a little. You'll be fine. Don't cry. I-If I'm okay? Yes … yes, I am. Why are you more worried about me than yourself? Fucking hell, baby, you're unbelievable. I love you so fucking much. No, you’re not going to try to kill them, are you nuts? I’m not letting you get in more trouble."

Hedwig:

Hedwig will be the happiest girl in the world. She has everything she wants now. Every single thing. You'll hold her hand wherever you go and cancel plans to be with her. You’re clingy, loving and jealous. Can she even wish for more? Hedwig will be more open with you when she’s jealous and not hide her tactics anymore. Why would she need to now that you both think alike?

"Y/N, you’re so good to me. I love you so much. WHat did you say? Of course I’m yours, sweetheart. I’ll always be yours. What? Repeat please. You’d … you’d kill for me? O-Oh … I’m blushing. I’ve done that for you, Y/N. Multiple times. Or … not me personally, but … I’ve made sure to get rid of people for you. You’re not mad at me, are you? Thank you, honey. I love you so much. Speaking of that … that boy who was talking with you today … I didn’t like him. He seems like a good guy, but I don’t want him anywhere near you. Should we get rid of him?”

[sorcerous-caress]

Lol, I love that our Tav’s both horde their companions. They both had the same basic thoughts but it manifested so differently. Although I think they are the same level of protective considering Jubilee keeps casting Disintegrate on their former abusers. I love the silly little differences like that. My apologies for the extensive rambles but you seem to be having a good time with this so I’m gonna talk about how she is with each of the companions.

Generally, I think I’ve made it extensively clear in general she’s doting, affectionate and a sweetheart. She flutters around the camp giving everyone cuddles and kisses on the cheek and brings them their favorite pastries the way one would expect a cat to bring you a dead mouse. She also had a little system with her younger sisters when they were going places where she'd ask “are my little ducks in a row” and they'd go “Quack” “Quack” to let her know they were still their and following her and she keeps doing it to the companions and is completely mortified every time. Additionally, she's mortified that she hasn't so much as kissed anyone before and she really doesn't want her companions knowing. The core of her character is an Edgar Allan Po quote I like “Tell me every terrible thing you’ve ever done and let me love you anyway.” And that’s a pretty good summary of how she is with all of them. (I doodled her with that quote awhile ago)

Astarion- She’s completely immune to his flirting on account of not liking men like that lol. He gets it however she still lets him feed on her which baffles him. Jubilee says simply he works just as hard as everyone else on the team so it would just be unfair of him to be hungry plus Shadowheart can fix her up. Astarion is baffled for a long while and honestly just kinda gives up and accepts it. She and Karlach wear him down with sheer platonic affection; he's not sure how he got friends that care for him so much but he is complaining because he has a reputation but, it will not stop her from being his buddy and he doesn't want that no matter how much of an aloof cat he acts like.

Gale-So these two actually manage to avoid the normal sorcerer/wizard misunderstanding because they are a cook and a baker. With both sorcery and cooking you can feel things out emotionally but with Wizardry and Baking everything has to be super precise so they actually use that metaphor to get a really good understanding. Don’t get me wrong they both maintain the other one is a dork but it’s very loving. She also gets what it’s like to be in a messed up romantic situationship because the main reasons she’s never dated anyone is because she’s had a weird thing with an aasimar of Bahamut who kinda used her to be like Bahmut’s magic can turn even a being of the bells kind however Jubilee was madly in love with her while deeply resenting the assumption she’s bad because she’s a tiefling and it’s not the same but it’s sorta like gale’s thing with Mystra and they commiserate because deeply resenting someone and being madly in love with them is a hell of a ride that they both seem to be on.

Karlach- So between being a tiefling and a gold dragon sorcerer she is far more fire resistant than most, even before the engine is properly repaired they find that if they submerge themselves in water they can touch without hurting Jubilee. That however does not stop the flood of affection after the engine is truly fixed, Karlach is carrying her more often than not and almost always have their tails twined together. They are the snuggliest bugs in all of Baldur’s Gate. At first Karlach is still worried about the temperature hurting her bear so Jubilee will hug Clive and Karlach will hug Jubilee.

Wyll- “Stop using helping people as a coping method for your trauma!” “You first!” They are kindred spirits, best homies, bros. The two have a blissfully normal uncomplicated friendship which is surprising because they keep getting put in situations. Gestures vaguely at the plot

Shadowheart-Classic Black Cat & Golden Retriever Duo. Jubilee is making it really hard to be a dark edgy cleric by being so cute and pastel and bringing out the best in everyone, including Shadowheart despite her best efforts. Shadowheart in particular loves Jubilee’s singing voice and seeks it out the melancholy tone of Jubilee’s music hits really well with her. They fight over who gets to sleep with Scratch and Truffles (Jubilee’s name for the owlbear cub) the solution is that all of them cuddle, usually Karlach joins the cuddle puddle once her engine is fixed.

Lae’zel- Jubilee has a knack for asking just the right questions about gith culture to please Lae’zel. It’s very similar to her dynamic with Astarion where she gets worn down by kisses on the cheek and sheer platonic adoration. Jubilee also really tries to say hey you don’t have to go straight from following Vlaakith to following Orpheus you and your wants are important too.

Minthara- Unfortunately I haven’t actually had a play through with minthara in my party yet so I don’t really know much other than Paladin, Drow and Hot. I do agree with you that Minthara would probably call her out on everything. I also think Minthara enjoys the fact she has two moms and has no weak male genes. Jubilee is definitely horrified by drow culture because she loves her family so much and can’t imagine any of what goes on down there happening. The constant culture shock these two would give each other is entertaining though.

Halsien-God they are creatures and they make each other worse with all their guilt and sense of duty. I think they should be released into the woods together.

Jaheira- Also calls Jubilee out, jubilee really misses her moms so latches onto her as mother figure. Jaheira is confused as to why her but has no objections because well what’s another one. She is the only person in camp Jubilee is willingly vulnerable around. Jaheira acts annoyed with this but always gives snippy but good advice.

Dame Alyin & Isobel (INSEPARABLE!)- Things are very awkward at first because of Jubilee’s previous experience with an assimar, at first she distrust dame alyin and then she’s just jealous of Isobel getting what she wanted and couldn’t have and it’s not helping that both of them are so hot. However she recognizes that they have been through enough and keeps setting up nice little dates for the two of them because they deserve a break and the world (Alyin keeps suggesting she joins, jubilee thinks it’s a joke it isn’t) and asks a lot of questions about Selune because she really doesn’t vibe with Bahmut and ends up actually getting converted through traveling with them.

Minsc & Boo(inseparable)- Boo likes to perch on her horns and Minsc likes anyone who boo likes plus she gives him pastries. He would also join her when she goes creature mode. She likes Minsc but she loves boo more than life itself.

Mizora & Duke Ravengard (please separate them actually)- the only reason she hasn’t kicked their asses out is fear of making things worse for or upsetting Wyll. She is hissing at them. In hard denial that Mizora is hot because she is so angy with her for what she did to Wyll.

In game she ended up with Shadowheart, but I have a few different endings in mind for her with different love interests.

With Shadowheart, they get that farm Shadowheart wants near some major road and Jubilee has a little cart where she sells pastries along the roadside. They acquire some kids' very much the picket fence dream.

With Karlach, they go to avernus and live in the house of hope (they killed raphel) karlach helps guard Hope & the place from more malicious devils while Jubilee works in the kitchens.

With Alyin & Isobel, She generally does not join them on their adventures mostly because she doesn't want too. Adventuring isn’t her thing & never was, she’s very focused on ensuring that after everything they’ve been through they both have a safe home to come back to and caring for the children Alyin definitely insists on as she wants to pass on her blessing.

I also toss around the Alyin,Isobel,Shadowheart and Jubilee poly as well as a Karlach, Shadowheart & jubilee poly but that wouldn’t change the ending much for the former the farm would be the home for Isobel & Alyin to return too and in the latter Shadowheart also works guarding the house of hope.

I’m sorry I know these are a lot lol. I just really like my little creatures

You've put so much love and passion into this and it shows ♡

I really like the endings, the idea that even after Jubilee led them all to victory and became the hero of Baldur's Gate, all she wants to do is settle back in a domestic place. How adventuring isn't her thing after having gone on the biggest adventure of the century.

That picture of her is so wholesome and heartwarming, most companions would be really touched if she said that to them.

Also, congrats to her on having the most healthy Wizard Sorcerer friendship ever, My Sorcerer and Gale were at each other's throats constantly and occasionally had to strip mid combat to switch gears. In their defence, they ended up buying and teaching him every scroll in the game, which cost a fortune, but they still are better than him.

The Isobel Dame Aylin poly offer is tempting, but I can see why she'd feel left out or that it would remind her too much of her ex. I mean one time I thought Isobel was too dirty while in camp so I threw water at her to clean her and Dame Aylin Immediately became hostile and started a fight. So i have no doubt she is willing to do more than that for Jubilee if someone steps on her tail.

The Karlach ending is very cute too! Two tieflings who just want a quiet simple life but can never seem to catch a break, it's almost fate at this point.

[what-if-nct]

Hiii so I have to stay home for 6 weeks. From school they forced me to. After those I have to move schools for 12 weeks and then I can go back to my actual school. Nothing to complain I'd say I fucking hate that homophobic place made of shit. They dont do a fucking thing right so its good I stay home. At the same time I cant go anywhere and I'm restricted of chatting with people and using my phone longer than an hour. I hate my life.

Anywaysssss. YOUR VOICE IS SO CUTE!!!! Seriously I'm younger than you and my voice sounds older. You sound so fricking cute and Iove the way you spoke about your dolls. (I love you)

Also Mark Lee somehow I cant stop thinking about him. Also I dreamt of listening to the SHINee world by SHINee and Kibum walked up to me and asked if I was a shawol because I had it playing too loud and it could be heard through my earbuds. I said yes and he asked my fav member. I said Minho and asked him if he had a Minho kink too help 😭 He said something approving not directly yes but I dont remember more

Oh and Marks insta where his hat is flying in the air and the caption "hats off to my manager". He's been around Jaehyun too much now he has dad humor. I love them. Also Hendery is stuck in my head. I dont know why at all. (Also Kun) (And DJ Xiao) (My name is similar to Xiaojun I love my life again)

Oh and I've seen the full episode of the a team of Murdock being a bride. He actually canonically wrote a letter to the guy he almost married. An apology for leaving him at the alter. B.A. (Mr. T) called him a nut. Also because Murdock ate shaving foam. He started coughing bubbles. The story of the episode was that a girl named Jackie was forced into a marriage with Calvin Cutter after he killed her father, so that Calvin would get money. The team sabotaged the wedding by bringing a cake with B.A. in it and Murdock dressing up as the bride. At the same time, Hannibal (George peppard) the leader sabotaged their cars and Face got Jackie out of the house. Face had to marry then Jackie and he was so sad about that. It was hilarious. Also they crashed with a helicopter. B.A. was so happy about that because everyone got hurt except him. He's scared of flying (bro he came from nam) and every time they fly they drug or hit him lol

-sneeze

(That was long--)

At least time away from school is nice but it sucks you're kind of confined to your house. I really hope that you're feeling a little better and you'll get through this and everything will be better before you know it. Thank you, you're so sweet. But I seriously cringed so harder when I heard it back why do I a 29 year old woman sound like that. And I love you too💕

Mark has be everywhere for me for some reason usually my fyp,timeline and reelz feed is all Hyunjin. But it's been very Markie. Im starting to understand your love for him, I know why you can't get that little Canadian out of your mind. Like I don't go here but I see the appeal. Oh that's an interesting dream, sometimes if you imagine the dream as it happen your subconscious can feel in the blanks and you can figure out what he said but who wouldn't have a Minho kink. He's beautiful. Hendery kind just shows up in your house and eats your cereal and sleeps in your bed. Thats how he gets in your mind. Just from your description of Murdock and the little I've seen of him I just adore that silly little men, he gives me strong Winston from New Girl and Morgan from The Mindy Project vibes. My favorite character s in sitcoms are the silly little men who are the most ridiculous people that I laugh so hard I cant breathe. Those are the best characters. And that's what Murdock sounds like. I'm watching Will & Grace, the 2017 ver right now but once I finish it I have to watch A-Team.

[smartrelationshiptips]

Why Does My Ex-Girlfriend Hate Me: Top 5 Reasons?

Why Does My Ex Girlfriend Hate Me? I’m not sure what the exact reason is but a strong possibility is that she felt some major emotional trauma when you broke up with her. Maybe she never got over it and still has feelings for you. Women are more sensitive to emotion than men, so this could be one reason why she hates you.

None of these are definite reasons but just possibilities as to why your ex girlfriend hates you. You will probably just have to ask her directly what the reason is and see how she reacts.

why does my ex girlfriend hate me: Top 5 reasons

It’s hard to go through life without ever having a break up. The question of why your ex girlfriend hates you might seem like a silly one, but it’s quite an important topic. Understanding the answer to this question can help you turn things around and get back into their good graces.

Here are 5 reasons why your ex girlfriend may hate you:

1) You were abusive.

An abusive relationship is one of the most unhealthy and damaging relationships you can ever have. Even after you break up, this kind of damage often lingers into your ex’s future relationships. She may deal with trust issues or emotional trauma that results from being in an abusive relationship.

2) You cheated on her.

If the woman you’re dealing with has never been cheated on before, it can be devastating to her when she finds out about it. This betrayal cuts deep and often leads to many bad feelings that last for many years afterward. It might take time, but if your ex-girlfriend hates you right now because of cheating, she probably will eventually come around – especially if it was just a single incident!

3) You broke up with her or she broke up with you:

This one is quite obvious. When a relationship ends, we feel terrible, and in many cases, we hate the person who left us. It could be because they broke up with you or because you did that, but no matter the reason for your breakup, most of the time, you’ll end up hating them (even if only for a short period).

4) She is mad at something else:

When someone is mad at you for something real or imagined, they will often focus their anger on you. Your ex may be hating you simply because she got fired from her job, and it’s easier to deal with this situation by hating you instead of looking for a new job. This type of situation occur more frequently in younger people who don’t have

5) Lack of trust:

People easily fall into the trap of jealousy, and they tend to become suspicious even when there is no need. As a result, you may experience hatred from your ex just because she learned that you had kissed another girl at a party without her knowledge.

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How do you tell if your ex hates you?

It’s never good when an ex-lover hates you. But how do you know for sure? There are many signs that your ex is angry at you, ranging from the subtle to the obvious. Here are a few tell-tale signs that they’re not over it yet: 

1) They can’t seem to get through a conversation without insulting or attacking you in some way.  

2) When they talk about their new partner, they’ll compare them unfavorably to you and say something like, “I don’t have to put up with this crap.” 

3) They refuse to give back any of their belongings because “you deserve nothing.” 

4) They try very hard not to be alone in the same room as you or turn away when you walk by because if they see you, it’s a glaring reminder of what they once had that is now gone forever.

5) They’ve blocked your number but keep calling your friends and family to complain about how awful you are. 

What does it mean when my ex says she hates me?

When an ex says she hates you, it can be really hard to know what that means. It could simply mean the person is angry with you and doesn’t want anything to do with you right now. It might also mean that your actions or words so hurt her that she wants nothing more than for you to suffer too. And when a person tells their partner, they hate them in bed. It usually means they’re feeling intense sexual frustration.

Conclusion

This blog post concludes that it’s difficult to determine the reasons why your ex-girlfriend hates you. There are many possible explanations, and they could all be true, so there’s no way to know without asking her directly.

If she won’t talk with you about what happened or if she refuses contact altogether, then try talking to a therapist who specializes in relationships instead. They can offer you insight into how people think when their feelings have been hurt by others during past relationships and help guide you on the best course of action.

[prettyboykatsuki]

attention-seeking | k. bakugou

☆ tags ;; imbalanced power dynamics, dubcon!!!, caning, punishment, ambigious relationships, handjobs, reader is implied to be 'master of the house', bakugou is a brat kinda, age gap but reader is older, gn!reader, bkg is meant to be like 20ish, 18+

☆ wc ;; 1.3k

☆ a/n ;; sorry for being a sicko (lying). i know this is indulgent. leave me alone man.

☆ synopsis ;; you punish the maid boy who keeps acting out in your presence.

"Lift your skirt, boy."

This is beyond the realm of what you're supposed to be doing. As master of the house with duties to attend, important ones, one of the first things you learn is relegating to tasks to capable staff. Your head maid is a capable woman, one who looked after you near birth.

And she's never once made you intervene in house affairs. She takes cares of the maids and all the other servants, and only asks for assistance to sign off on new hires or something else administrative.

For her to talk to about some new hire is strange. More strange for her to complain. Apparently, he's the only son of the Bakugou family. A family of tailors which apparently their son doesn't wish to inherit. That his mother called in a favor for job in the house. He wasn't suited for other duties, he excels at housework and when he's not blowing a fuse - is very capable at that job indeed.

Your head maid seems very fond of him, exceptionally so. He must be a little younger than you, no older than 20. He's got the temperament of a spoiled brat, his face is all screwed up with tears. He swears often and only respects the hierarchy in the house when he wishes to.

And if he wasn't so adamant on disrespecting you specifically, you'd be willing to let him off without giving it much thought. The truth is you don't really care what people say about you. All sorts of rumors spread about you bedding men and women often, about your supposed gambling and drinking problem, about your cold temperament.

If you were a little younger, you think it'd hurt your feelings. It doesn't though, not really. It all just seems sort of silly. As long as people respect you in your presence, you're willing to let them sort out their own feelings.

But this maid, this brat - is insistent on getting on your nerves. Has been from the minute you met. You can't really understand why, what the reasons been for as long as he's been in the house. You're told he behaves well when he's not around you, but when he is around - he can't keep his snark around. And that's forgivable, passable when no one else is in the house.

But not in front of your esteemed guests and important clients. That just won't do.

This is beyond your realm of duties. Telling a maid off and disciplining them like this isn't something you enjoy. You've never had to do it before now, so his impudence and bad attitude is really starting to grate on your nerves.

"I have a name," He grits. You scoff, picking up the cane again. The room is dark, the moon illuminating the raised welts on the back of his calves. You want to smooth your hand over his skin, pristine and pale and red.

He looks a little like the moon. Beautiful as much as he is frustrating, you really aren't sure what compels him to be here. You're not stupid enough to think he simply wants to be a maid, but his motives are odd.

"So do I. I have a title too. You've yet to use either,"

He scoffs as he turns over to look at you.

"Titles are earned through respect,"

You frown.

"Respect is mutual. Maids I respect can call me my name if they wish, most just don't. I don't mind it. But they've earned it. What have you earned other than disciplinary action?"

"You're a scumbag,"

"Really? I thought you must find me quite charming since you always act out for some attention?" You must, holding the cane in both your hands. "That's the only good reason I could think of your attitude,"

He's silent at this. Easy to read, the tips of his ears are red.

"Step down from there and lean over that. Pull your skirt all the way up,"

"W-What?"

"I know you heard me. If you want to act like a petulant brat, you can get punished like one too. Now move,"

His movement is begrudging but he follows instructions hastily.

His skin is red when he pulls his skirt up. He's toned. His thighs are clenched with tension as the fabric pulls up over his ass. You aren't sure what you thought he'd be wearing, maybe briefs. The panties are pretty, white and lacy against. You resists reaching your hand out and touching it. Instead, you position your cane and tell him to count to 15.

The sound of the cane hitting fills the room, the dull thud echoing down the halls. You have to commend him for taking it well, that his sobs are soft even when it's painful.

When you're ready to excuse him back to his quarters, your eyes catch on something you don't think you're supposed to see.

Pitching a tent in the fabric of his panties, his cock is tucked and leaking against the back of your couch. You stare at him slackjawed.

"....That's unexpected, I must admit." You say, amused, "Getting aroused from being caned. Even for you, that's..."

"Shut up," He croaks, voice dripping with arousal. He makes no effort to move.

For your entire life, you've been nothing but good to your staff. Nothing but kind. You never fraternized or used your position, it always felt slimy. Against your better judgement, you fall victim to your temptation.

"Would you like some help?" You pose, gently, "Rather, is that you've been seeking out? Did pushing my buttons satisfy for your urges?"

He lets out a mewl, so pitchy you can't believe it's him.

"Turn around,"

He hesitates, but does so. His face is dripping with tears, spit pooled in the corners of his mouth. He's a pretty crier, and he can't bring himself to look at you. You cup his jaw, scratched your manicured nails along them until he's shivering.

"Would you look at that," You hum, glancing at him "You were acting like this because you wanted special attention, is it?"

"Fuck you,"

With your hand reaching up, you pull his skirt up over the top of his thighs till it's pooled at his stomach. His cock is hard, and there's a dark-spot right at the tip. You glance at him, than back down - reaching your hands to pull it away. The tip is pink, angry. It curves left, heavy in your hand.

Hesitant, you wrap your palms around the shaft. With your thumb over the slit, you watch him squeeze his eyes shut.

"I nearly can't believe it's the same person," You jerk him off slow, entertained by how easily he feels pleasure. Coming from a strict family like that, you'd bet he's never had the time. That he doesn't know "What a good boy you're being. I always thought you were incapable."

He moans, head dropping back throaty and hoarse. He's twitching in your palm like just a little more will push back. Saying good boy makes him harder in your hands, hotter.

"Oh, that's all it takes? You needed a little encouragement and you're eating out of my palm? You haven't earned it at all, but you want it anyway?"

He hiccups.

"N-no, I'm" He stops like he can't get the rest out "Fuck, please, it's—please,"

"Swallow your pride and ask for what you want this time,"

"Make me cum,"

"And tell me I'm—I'm good,"

"Good boy," You coo "Go ahead and cum,"

You watch as he spills into your head with a desperate hiccup, turning to tuck his head in your neck. You click your teeth a little, unsure of what else to say.

"Who knew you'd be so needy afterwards? I guess I do have a type after all,"

"Shut up,"

Your heart squeezes with unmistakable fondness. You close your eyes, beyond fucked. You let him cling to you anyways.

[joyofkinoko]

My Cross to Bear | three (1.0k words)

The Budget Ghostbusters are called in to investigate the allegedly haunted Gom Theatre in Seoul, and you are a rising actress cast in the latest show, ironically “the Phantom of the Opera”. With both the spirits of the theatre and the critics of the industry down your throat and out for your blood, you find your only comfort in Choi Beomgyu, the sweetheart YouTube cameraman.  

.: coworkers to lovers .:. female reader .:. fluff, hurt/comfort, paranormal :.

.: tw: paranormal elements, mature language, near-death experiences :.

.: masterlist .:. budget ghostbusters :.

You sat quietly in a seat in the front row, watching as rehearsals went on without you. Your script was in your lap, open, but given your predicament of a sprained ankle, you’d lost your appetite for rehearsing. It’s discouraging, being unable to do anything. And it’s also degrading, having to constantly ask for help.

Thankfully, the day didn’t stay too boring, when just past lunch, a group of five (surprisingly handsome) men came to introduce themselves. “Budget Ghostbusters,” they called themselves. You had laughed at the name when Director DK brought it up, but at least rehearsal could be less about your injury with them here.

They were, after all, just five friends who went viral and continued making content that they enjoyed together. Their obvious closeness and comfort with one another almost reminded you of your friendship with Nicholas, who you graduated theatre school with. Just friends chasing dreams together.

You didn't know much about them, except from whatever silly facts Sunghoon rattled off into your ear during lunch break (what a fanboy). But they seemed kind enough, well-intentioned, and, to your surprise, fairly respectful (at least more than the average content creator you've met in the entertainment industry).

“We won’t be doing much today. Just getting a few b-roll shots of the theatre, your rehearsals, and perhaps a few quick interviews,” their leader Soobin said with a soft, dimpled smile. He's the one Sunghoon hyped up the most, and you can't help but find his attempts to fanboy subtly endearing. Yeonjun, their oldest, is the one who hands out media consent forms to the cast and crew, including yourself.

After a few more anecdotes from the boys and your director, rehearsal resumes but not without DK pointing you out as the main victim of whatever phantom (if such one exists) haunts your theatre. “That’s YN, but people have been calling her Teddy since she played a bear in her first starring role,” DK kindly explained as you shot a glare at him. (It was an embarrassing role, but it certainly jumpstarted your career, so you suppose you can’t complain.) “She’ll be sitting out rehearsal for a while.

“Will she be alright by opening night?” Hueningkai, who you recognize from modelling ads in department stores (he must be the most popular), asks with a kind concern.

“Hopefully,” you reply indifferently.

DK shoots you a look. “Teddy-”

“Certainly!” you sit up with a sarcastic smile. “I’ll limp if I have to.”

“Right, you told me over the phone about the sandbag...” Soobin nodded in contemplation. “Is it still safe for the actors to be on stage then?”

“There’s really nowhere else for us to rehearse, and the owner of the theatre won’t let us shut down the show so...” DK frowned. “At the very least, all of the, quote-unquote, ghost situations haven’t necessarily repeated.”

Nicholas smirks. “He means to say that the sandbag was the first murder attempt.”

“Sounds... good,” Soobin nodded with unenthusiastic certainty. “Well, that’s about it for now. I guess you guys can start rehearsing again. Beomgyu here will be filming a little, and YN, If you’re ready, Hueningkai and I would love to speak to you about your experiences.”

“Well, I can’t really leave here on my own, so you can interview me whenever,” you lightheartedly joke, cursing at yourself internally for he injury.

“And uh, Taehyun will be walking around the theatre if that’s okay? He’s the one with the ghost senses,” Soobin asks.

“I don’t believe in ghosts. I just know the most,” Taehyun corrects him.

“That’s fine Taehyun. There are a few restricted areas, so just come back here and ask for someone to come with if you wanna go,” DK says, and the afternoon begins.

An afternoon which, quite frankly, is still rather uneventful for you up until a richly deep (think dark chocolate) voice whispers from behind you. “Hey!”

You jump in your seat, startled by what you think might be a ghost, but when you turn around, you find yourself meeting dark chocolate eyes holding up an expensive camera. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I forgot this place is meant to be haunted.”

“It’s fine!” you reassure him, adoring the cherry coloring his cheeks. “I was just a little surprised. I’m YN.”

“I know! I’m Choi Beomgyu, the cameraman, obviously,” he smiles brightly, caressing his equipment with care. His kindness and infectious energy endears you with the way it contrasts his mature impression. “It's nice to meet you, leading lady."

You don't think you've ever blushed so furiously. "No need to flatter me! I'm just a... well, ghost survivor I suppose."

"All the more reason to treat you with all the kindness I can offer," he smiles, offering a cheeky wink that sends your heart soaring. "No one gets to mess with the star! Not on my watch." The two of you spend a few more minutes giggling away as rehearsals continued, both of you almost losing track of time and purpose as you make pointless jokes and comments. It's distracting, sure, but it's welcomed in its warmth.

The conversation ends when you see Beomgyu glance over to the side where Yeonjun and Soobin are chatting with a few members of the crew. You barely notice, but you think you see Yeonjun arching a questioning eyebrow in your direction to which Beomgyu suddenly straightens his back and clears his throat. "You just happened to be sitting at the prime angle for filming the stage, so I’ll be sitting here behind you for a while to film, if that’s okay?”

You nod brightly. Back to business it is. “You've been sat here for a while, so yes. Of course.”

“And your leg... Are you okay?”

You look down.

You somehow forgot it’s why you were sitting alone in the first place.

You think you might be able to like this Choi Beomgyu.

You think you might be able to like him a lot.

You look up and smile.

“I will be."

send an ask to be added to the taglist!

@butterflx @insert-a-creative-url-right-here @moavill97

[hangovercurse]

Favorites

You work at the preschool next to Casie’s middle school. One day, you catch Colson’s eyes while working, and lucky for him you happen to know his daughter.

Request: “Hi!! Let me start out by saying that you are so so so talented!! I was wondering if you’d write something about colson falling for a preschool teacher? like he just sees her one day while he’s picking up casey from the middle school and he’s all soft seeing her interact with the kids and he makes up excuses to keep coming to see you!?”

Colson X Reader

Warnings: Cursing (maybe?)

A/N: I did that thing where I write too much… again.

Word Count: 2394

Colson tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, drumming softly to the beat of the music coming from his radio. He pulled into the school parking lot, the line already a million cars long it seemed. But he promised Casie he would pick her up whenever he wasn’t working so she didn’t have to take the bus. If that meant spending thirty minutes in a line of slow-moving cars, so be it.

As he was jamming, he glanced out the passenger window, finding a smaller building with a chain link fence outside, surrounding a child’s playground. The door happened to swing open while he was looking, and from there time seemed to move in slow motion.

Out of the door came a dozen or so toddlers, waddling their way outside, surrounding the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. The sun bounced off of your skin perfectly, making everything around you seem so much brighter.

Your skirt flowed with the slight breeze, making the scene more picturesque. He watched as you reached down, picking up one of the toddlers and holding him in your arms. The small boy seemed to be crying, over what Colson couldn’t tell.

You seemed to be speaking to the boy, bouncing him up and down in your arms to comfort him. Meanwhile, a little girl with pigtails made her way over to you. You spoke to her brightly, reaching the arm that wasn’t holding the boy to hold her hand.

Colson’s eyes followed you as you let her drag you over to the playground. You supported her as she climbed the small rock-climbing wall and reach the landing for the slide. You then smiled as she made her way down the slide, telling her good job when she made it to the bottom.

You then turned your attention back to the boy in your arms, making silly faces at him until he laughed.

All it took was those few moments for Colson to get hooked. If there was one thing he found attractive above all else, it was women who loved children. He refused to date anyone who wasn’t supportive of his relationship with Casie, so you were already ahead of everyone on his list. It also helped that you were breathtakingly beautiful.

Colson just got good vibes from you. From his brief observation of you, he could tell you were compassionate and kind, but also childlike and fun, much like himself.

The blonde man was pulled from his thoughts as the car in front of him started moving, signaling the line was moving.

 The next day, Colson had a plan. Instead of driving into the school parking lot, he pulled into the pre-school. He checked himself out in the mirror, praying he would see you working. He stepped out of the car, putting on his best confused dad face, and walked into the building.

And by some miracle, you happened to be speaking with the woman at the front desk.

You were even prettier up close, eyes meeting his and stopping him dead in his tracks. You smiled kindly, voice ringing out, “can I help you, sir.”

He returned your smile, “I was looking for the middle school but I have a feeling I ended up in the wrong place.”

You giggled slightly, “just a little. The middle school is just next door.” You pointed to your right. “Are you picking up a sibling?” You asked.

Truthfully, the man had caught your eye the moment he stepped into the door. It was rare you saw someone your own age, and he was exponentially more attractive than most men. What would it hurt if you got to know him a little bit?

“My daughter, actually.” He spoke, fiddling with the key in his hand. You tilted your head, his face seeming vaguely familiar.

You hesitated before speaking, “who’s your daughter? I substitute over there sometimes and you look vaguely familiar.”

He bit his lip, hoping he hadn’t blown his cover. “Casie Baker.” But surely, he’d have remembered you if he’d met you.

Your eyes widened at the name, “Casie? She’s my absolute favorite!” You grinned at the man, realizing immediately that their similar features made him feel familiar. “She’s awesome.”

Colson smiled, letting out a nervous chuckle, “thank you. Yeah, she’s great.”

“She tells me about you. Whenever I sub in her classes, she talks about how cool you are.”

Colson blushed lightly, rubbing his neck. “I’m Colson.” He reached out an arm to shake your hand, mentally kicking himself as soon as he did it.

You found it endearing, shaking his hand “Y/N.”

 A few days passed and Colson still couldn’t get over how soft your hands were, or how your touch sent electricity running through his body.

He felt ridiculous, leaving rehearsals and recording sessions to pick Casie up with the hope that he gets a glimpse of you.

After a few days of nothing, he almost loses that hope. Until he happens to arrive at the school a little bit early, windows rolled down to let the cool air in. He hears the sudden sound of children laughing, pulling his attention to the playground next door.

And there you are, in all your beautiful glory. Guiding the kids out, helping them into swings and onto the stairs.

Colson must’ve pleased some God because you looked over your shoulder and found him. Of all the cars in the line, you found his, eyes locking immediately. You smiled softly, reaching a hand over to him and waving. He waved back, trying to keep his cool. But really, he was freaking out.

He thought about saying something, or mouthing something, rather, as you were too far away to hear him, but he was stopped by the beautiful brown hair of his favorite girl in the world. Casie plopped herself down on the seat next to him, her backpack falling to the floor with a frown on her face.

She looked up to her dad, about to complain about her day when she saw his preoccupation. She followed his eyes, finding you in the playground. Immediately her mood was lifted, and she turned back to her dad with a grin on her face.

“Daaad?” She questioned, her voice lifting at the end of her question. The blond man looked down to her a soft smile in his face.

“Hey Case, how was school?”

“You think she’s pretty, right?” Casie ignored his question.

Colson scoffed, rolling his eyes, and shifting his car into gear. “She’s… pretty. I guess.” He mumbled, pressing lightly on the gas.

Casie continued smiling up at him, “that’s Ms. Y/N. She’s the coolest.”

“Put your seatbelt on.” He said, pulling out of the parking lot. “And I know, I met her the other day.”

Casie’s eyes lit up at the thought of her two favorite adults meeting. “Really? How? Did you like her?”

Colson chuckled at his daughter, “I went into the pre-school parking lot by accident and she showed me how to get here.” He blushed, knowing Casie would easily spot his lie.

And that she did, “I’ve been going here for almost two years, how did you accidentally go into the wrong parking lot? You pick me up all the time.”

Colson coughed nervously, “so, how was school?” He tried to change the subject.

Casie gasped, “did you go to the preschool just to see her? You like her!”

“I just met her Casie.”

“You like Ms. Y/N!” she sang, dancing in her seat.

“How was school, loser?” He asked, laughing at her.

She ignored him, again. “Does she know you’re my dad? Did she say anything about me?”

He rolled his eyes, chuckling to himself at her excitement. “Yes, she does, and yes, she did.”

“What did she say?” Casie practically yelled.

“She said you were the worst student she’s ever substituted for.” He smirked, flinching lightly as Casie slapped his arm.

“She did not say that!” The girl pouted, “Ms. Y/N is my favorite teacher in the whole world.”

He couldn’t help but smile at her affection for you. “She’s not even technically your teacher. But she did say that you were her favorite student.”

Her eyes twinkled, “really?”

Colson nodded, “she also told me that you talk about me in class.” He looked at the girl, raising an eyebrow, “any reason why?”

Casie sunk into her seat, a guilty expression on her face. “No.” Colson looked back to the road, but his eyebrow was still raised, “Okay, fine. I just think it’d be really cool if my favorite dad and my favorite teacher were… friends.”

Colson laughed, “I am your only dad, first of all, and second… don’t be weird.”

“But you said you liked her!” Casie pointed out, making the man’s ears turn red.

“I said she was pretty, that’s not the same thing.”

Casie sang again, “whatever you say.”

He rolled his eyes again, letting out a sigh and dropping the conversation, knowing he would lose. “Are you gonna tell me how school was or not?”

Casie sighed, hitting her back against the seat, “Mr. Clemmons was being mean today again. He said he’s not gonna curve our test even though only 2 people got an A on it.” She crossed her arms and huffed.

Colson pouted, bringing a hand to rub her shoulder, “what’d you get on it?”

She mumbled out, “a B.”

His eyes went wide, “dude, what? That’s awesome, that’s above average. You should be proud of that!” He always tried to encourage Casie, knowing the insane amount of pressure people put on their kids nowadays and not wanting her to feel that.

Casie shrugged, “yeah but my guidance counselor says if I want to get into a magnet program in high school, I have to get all A’s. And I have to get in a magnet program high school to get into a good college.”

His eyes went wide as he pulled into his driveway, “woah, woah, woah. You’re 11 years old! You don’t need to worry about that stuff and whoever is telling you that is wrong. Getting a B or even a C isn’t gonna stop you from getting into whatever program you want, I promise.”

Casie sighed, opening the door, and sliding out. “I don’t wanna talk about this anymore. Can we go back to talking about how you like Ms. Y/N?” She asked, her shoulders slumped.

Colson rolled his eyes, climbing out of the car and following her inside. “I don’t like Ms. Y/N.” He groaned.

“Whatever, but next time she substitutes my class, I’m texting you and you’re gonna bring me lunch and talk to her.” Casie said, going to her room and throwing her backpack onto her bed.

 A week and a half later, Colson was sitting in his car in the school parking lot, staring at himself through his rearview mirror. He looked at the bag of chick-fil-a in the passenger side seat and sighed. His phone buzzed, a text from Casie coming through.

Lunch is starting, where are you???

He chuckled and texted back.

Going to the office now, calm down

He grabbed the bags and drinks, opening his door and stepping out. He made his way through the office, getting his visitor’s badge, and moving towards the cafeteria. He opened the door, searching through the sea of children for his daughter, only to find your eyes instead.

You smiled brightly, head tilting as if to ask why he’s here. He returned the smile, holding up the bags to answer your question. Casie appeared next to you, waving her hand. Colson made his way through the pre-teens, trying not to crush any of them.

Casie and you giggled at his struggle, joking with each other. Eventually he reached you two, setting the food on the table that Casie had reserved just for you three. The girl took her place across from him, motioning you to sit down next to him. You laughed but followed her directions.

Colson took the food out of the bag, passing Casie her sandwich and fries and pulling his food out of the bag. He turned to you, a smile on his face. “Woah, they must’ve given me an extra sandwich.” He held it out for you to take.

You obliged, giggling lightly. “How strange.” You commented, your smile never leaving.

“Oh, right. Ms. Y/N, this is my dad, Colson. Dad, this is Ms. Y/N, the best substitute ever.” Casie said, pointing between the two.

Colson chuckled, “yes, Casie. We’ve met.” He looked over to you, hiding his laugh behind his sandwich.

“Yep. Someone got lost and found me at the preschool.” You said, your voice exaggerating. Shit, Colson thought, you were onto him. “Speaking of, Casie. I know you’ve been talking about needing volunteer hours. If you want you can come by after school some days and help me with the aftercare program? I can take you home afterwards if your dad can’t pick you up.”

Casie smiled brightly, nodding her head. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes!”

Colson watched the interaction, fondness in his eyes. If he wasn’t sure before, he was now. He was falling hard.

You turned to him, kindness in your eyes, “if it’s okay with your dad.” You said and he nodded.

“Yeah, if you don’t mind having her around. I’m cool with it.” He tried to hide the blush on his cheeks as you continued to look at him, taking in his features.

Casie squealed, “thank you!”

You simply smiled and shrugged, “it’s not a big deal. I get some extra help and I get to spend some more time with my favorite 11-year-old. Maybe her dad can even stop by and help sometime.”

You turned to the man next to you, who was sure he’d turned very red. He was never this nervous around women, but something about you made him incredibly self-conscious, like he had to impress you.

He mumbled out a quick “huh?” before registering your question. “Uh, yeah, sure. If you want me to come help. I’d be cool with that.” He turned to meet your eyes.

You giggled, holding the eye contact, “I do want you to. I’d like it a lot if you did.”

Casie looked between you two, suddenly regretting what she’d done, “are you two done? I’m trying to eat my sandwich.”

[genshin-impact-writings]

(I hope I did this right)

Howdy barista, can I get a:

Medium

Caffe latte

Hazelnut syrup

Whipped cream

Thief Venti X prince/princess reader

Thank you so much for your request! Here's your drink, my dear: A medium caffe latte with hazelnut syrup and whipped cream on top. I hope you enjoy! <3 (Reblogs are very much appreciated.)

Prompts: Hurt/comfort + royalty!AU + “Stay with me, please.” + “I don’t think I can do this anymore.” (400 followers event: JJ's coffee shop)

The price of freedom – Thief!Venti x royal!reader (gn!reader)

Growing up in a palace and being the only heir to the throne had always been tough for you. Between endless lessons about etiquette, history, politics and dancing you barely found the time to be yourself – or to have fun. Your whole life was strictly planned out by your parents, starting from the things you would do throughout the day through to the person you would marry in the near future.

And you were so sick of it. So sick of it that you had decided to break out of the golden cage around you to finally get some time for yourself at some point.

Therefore, sneaking out of the palace after dark had become a habit a long time ago. It was the only time where you felt like you could be yourself, like you could be truly (Y/N) without having to live up to your parents’ unrealistic expectations. When you were out there, you always felt like you could finally breathe again. There were no responsibilities, no lessons or meetings with members of the court who wanted to sweet-talk you into supporting their grand plans for the kingdom once it was your turn to claim the throne. It was so tiring to listen to their seemingly endless monologues which were nothing more than the jabbering of bumptious old men, at least in your opinion.

But the thirst for freedom wasn’t the only reason for your nightly wanderings. No, there was something else to it, something far more important than escaping your royal duties for a while. Well, not something, actually. Someone, rather.

Venti, the mysterious thief with the beautiful aqua-colored eyes who had tried to steal your wallet when you had first met and instead stole your heart. Up to this day, he hadn’t returned either.

Not that you minded it, though. Falling in love with Venti was the best thing that had happened to you in a long time, although you couldn’t deny that your relationship made your life a lot more complicated than it already was.

And it had gotten even worse when your parents found out about it. You would never forget the mixture of utter disgust and confusion in your mother’s eyes when your father confronted you about everything this morning. It still made your blood boil to think about the way they had spoken about Venti.

A worthless waste of space, your father had called him. As if he knew anything about him! They had no idea who Venti truly was and how happy it made you to be with him. Or maybe they knew and simply didn’t give a damn about your happiness, just like always. Why else would they insist that you’d never see him again?

“Don’t forget who you are,” your mother had said before telling you to go back to your studies, as if they hadn’t just shattered your whole world into a million pieces with a few words.

But you weren’t planning on giving your happiness up so easily. You weren’t the docile lamb they wanted you to be. No, you were strong and independent and hell-bent to fight for your right to be happy, even if it meant breaking your parents’ hearts.

One last glance at the palace, the place you had called home for so long, then you took a step towards the center of the town. Then another one, and another one, and before you even realized what you were doing, you were running.

Running away from the life you no longer wanted. Not when you weren’t allowed to share it with Venti.

*

You found him in front of the tavern where you had first met, showing some sleights of hand to bystanders who rewarded his tricks with polite applause.

Hesitatingly, you waved at him to catch his attention. When he saw you, a smile flashed over his face, his pretty eyes sparkling with joy while he started to gather his belongings, uttering apologies to the people who complained that the show was already over. “Come again tomorrow,” he chirped. “I’ll be here.”

You greeted him with a smile which he returned before grabbing your hand and dragging you into a less crowded area of the town. “You are insane,” he mumbled, just like he always did. “What if someone recognizes you?”

“Hence why I am wearing this,” you replied and pointed at the hood of your cloak that covered almost your entire face. People would have to come incredibly close to you to recognize you, and so far, that hadn’t happened. Or maybe it did because how else had your parents learned about your relationship with the infamous thief?

“I wanted to see you,” you added a little breathlessly as you tried to keep pace with Venti. Ignoring his cheerful “Obviously!”, you continued, “Please, it’s serious. My parents – they know about us.”

He stopped dead in his tracks, causing you to bump into him. When he turned around to look at you, the careless expression in his eyes was gone and replaced by a seriousness you had never experienced with him. “Say that again.”

You bit your lower lip- “My parents know about us. They have forbidden me to ever see you again and I-“

“You’re here to tell me that this is the last time we’re seeing each other, right?” Venti interrupted you, his voice shaking ever so slightly, although he was really trying to keep his composure. He had always known that this day would come – but he had never expected it to hurt so much. He wasn’t ready to lose you.

“No, silly, I’m here to ask you to run away with me.”

“(Y/N), please, don’t make it harder than it- wait, what?” He stared at you in utter confusion, completely taken aback by your words. “What did you just say?”

You gently squeezed his hand, locking your gaze with his. “Run away with me.”

For a few moments, Venti didn’t say anything. Your words kept echoing in his mind, your wonderful proposal to leave the kingdom to start a new life elsewhere – together. But could he really do that to you? You were born to rule over this kingdom one day, you grew up in a sheltered and luxurious environment and knew basically nothing about the world out there. How could he take all of this away from you just because he was too damn selfish to let you go?

“Why?” he finally asked, very well aware that you had expected a different answer. You were disappointed; he could see it in your eyes.

“Why? Because I love you! Because I want to be with you!” you replied, your voice getting louder with every word. “Because – because I feel like I can’t breathe in this damn palace where every step I take, everything that I do is observed and judged by my parents.”

Suddenly, there were tears in your eyes and you didn’t even bother with blinking them away. “Venti, I – I don’t think I can to this anymore. I constantly feel like I am not good enough, like I’m not the heir they want me to be and I – I just can’t go back there. Please, don’t make me go back.”

The tears were streaming down your face now, the sheer amount of sadness in your eyes tugging at Venti’s heartstrings. He hated to see you cry and knowing that he was the cause for your tears only made it worse.

“You will lose everything you have,” he finally mumbled. You sniffled. “I know. But I don’t care, don’t you understand? All of this means nothing to me when I can’t be with you. You are what matters most but if I have to, I will leave this kingdom alone. I want you by my side but I won’t beg you to come with me.”

It was only then when Venti realized how serious you were about your whole plan. You were ready to leave everything behind to start a new life – including him if he decided to stay which meant that he would lose you forever.

“Stay with me, please,” he said, the words coming out of his mouth before he could stop himself. Now he was the one begging you not to leave. “We’ll start a new life somewhere else; we will leave this kingdom if you really want to but – please don’t leave me behind.”

You wrapped your arms around his waist, burying your face in the crook of his neck. “Thank you,” you whispered your breath warm against his skin. Venti kissed the top of your head.

He still wasn’t sure if it was the right decision to leave everything both of you knew behind but as long as you were together, he wasn’t afraid to find out.

Taglist: @blissmal, @aimicoos, @sunsaturnn

[fandom-go-round]

Types of Love: Original Drider x Reader

Mod May Week One Story! I had a lot of fun with this, I hope everyone enjoys! This is a fluffy story about a modern drider x human couple figuring out their new home.The poll for week 2 will go live tomorrow.

Warnings: Implied Sexual Content

           It takes four different phone calls before you actually get past the word ‘drider’. The contractor’s website looks like its orcish run and you pray that this man isn’t just going to laugh you off the phone. That happened yesterday.

           “That’s an odd thing you’re requesting.” The orc’s voice is rough and low, sounding like gravel rolling down a hill. You give an exhausted laugh, leaning against your kitchen wall.

           “Tell me about it. You’re the fourth contractor I’ve called.” He rumbles over the phone, silence falling before he laughs loudly.

           “Fuck it? Ya know what, I’ve never built one before but we can figure it out.” You grin, face lighting up.

           “Really? Are you sure?” He snorts at your question, laughing again.

           “Of course. Give me your information and I’ll come out tomorrow to take a look.” You quickly give him your information and address, setting up a time for Luc’tic (turned out he was the owner of the company) and some of his men to come out. You hang up, feeling more hopefully than you had all week.

           You quickly move to the back of the house, tidying up as you go. You’re sure the orcs won’t care about the mess but you will, at least when they walk in. You stand in front of the wall you want blown out, letting out a slow breath.

           “Darling?” You jump at the sound of Dominic’s voice, watching as your lover comes around the corner. She smiles when she sees you, fangs exposed and black eyes crinkling. You grin back and walk over to her, standing on your toes to wrap your arms around her neck.

           “Hey babe, welcome home. How was work?” Dom sighs, giving you a squeeze and gently setting you back on the ground.

           “Work was alright, lots of people coming in. Wedding season is getting closer and I keep getting commissions.”

           “That’s great!” When she sees your smile Dom smiles back, leaning down to kiss your forehead and let out a short groan.

           “I know, I’m just tired and it means I have longer hours.” You hum, reaching around to gently rub the beginning of her abdomen. She shudders, leaning closer to you and wrapping her other set of arms around your waist.

           “I know baby. It’s exciting though, that the business is taking off.” Dom hums, nuzzling your neck and staying there for a moment before moving away.

           “So, what’s the plan for dinner? Do you want me to cook?” You hum, taking one of her hands and gently swinging her arm. Dom’s skin was soft like normal, the dark purple looking like satin in the soft light. You admire her as she begins to move back into the kitchen, her abdomen and legs moving lightly over the floor. It was always amazing to you that she was able to move so nimbly, even on the hardwood.

           “We can cook together. I want to help.” Dom turned to you with another smile, rattling off dinner ideas as she moved into the kitchen. You watched her go, vowing to make this surprise work for her. She deserved everything and then some.

                                                     xxx

           Luc’tic was a massive orc. His tucks were bigger than your head and when you opened the door to let him in, you could only see his chest until he bent over. You let him and two other orcs in, the entire group looking around as you led them into the backroom.

           Your house was far from conventional. To make things easier for Dominic, you had been remodeling the house. Mostly it was widening doorways and moving things like cabinets and the shower. There was one thing, however, that you wouldn’t be able to do on your own.

           “What did you call this thing again?” Luc’tic breaks you out of your thoughts, turning to watch the younger orcs as they begin to measure the wall. Both of them are younger, one with dark green skin and the other a lighter shade of moss. They keep elbowing each other and whispering, clearly talking about you. You watch as Luc’tic smacks them both on the back of the head and bark something in orcish. You laugh a little, answering his question.

           “It’s called a Spider Window. They’re popular in drider households and I want to see how much it would be to install.”

           “It’s just a giant window, right?” You turn to the moss-colored orc, giving a smile at his honest question.

           “Mostly. It’s a floor to ceiling window but it’s more like a dome. Some have beams so that driders can spin webs in them.”

           “What are you looking for?” Luc’tic asks, writing the measurements down as you begin to talk.

           “I know that for code reasons it can’t go all the way to the floor. I think that’s better actually because I’d rather have it span the wall, or as much of it as you can. I would like to have a frame built too, something sturdy that could hold her weight.”

           “This is gonna be a custom job.” Luc’tic looked up at you, raising an eyebrow. “It’s going to be expensive. You ok with that?” You nodded at the question.

           “Yeah, I figured it would be.” The orc nodded back, finishing up his notes and offering you a smile.

           “I’ll send you a quote. We should be able to get out next week if you like the quote.” You talk about the details a little more, walking them to the door.

           “Sounds like a plan. Thank you so much for coming out.” Luc’tic gave you a grin, taking his men with him. You watched them go, smiling to yourself and vowing that you would afford this room.

           Dom suspects something when she gets home, trying to pull you into her arms and you dance out of the way.

           “You’re in a good mood.” All four of her eyes narrow, looking over your face and trying to figure out what was going on.

           “I’m allowed to be in a good mood.” You tease back, gently flicking a towel at her as she moves closer.

           “What has you in such a good mood?”

           “It’s a surprise.” Dom hums at your response, starting to grin.

           “A surprise for me?” You laugh, shaking your head at her question.

           “You’ll have to wait until you’re back from your trip.” She groans, shaking her head.

           “That’s two weeks from now!”

           “Don’t worry, it’s worth the wait.” You wink and she chuckles, quickly moving over to you. Without a word she picks you up, moving towards the bedroom. Any cries to stop were ignored, Dom determined to make you squeal for her.

                                                       xxx

           It’s easy to hide the job from Dom while she’s out of town. You don’t mention the construction and she’s busy with her conference. She doesn’t call until the afternoon, once Luc’tic and his nephews had left. You’re exited that her sewing business is taking off, knowing that it’s been her dream for years.

           The orcs are impressive with their strength and timing; you would have never guessed they were new to building a Spider Window. It was fun to watch the boys, Kuter and Repurt argue and tease each other throughout the day. You could tell their uncle was exasperated by their puns, but it made the day go by faster for.

           The price was a little more than you wanted but this was going to be your forever home. You were going to start a family here and Dominic would be as comfortable as possible. Luc’tic was a good man under his gruff exterior and the two of you got along surprisingly well.

           It took a little over six days to get everything installed and configured correctly. There were some issues with the frame, mostly about how it was going to hold the combined weight of Dom and you but Luc’tic was able to add some more supports to make it work. The end result was perfect, a domed window that Dom could spin a web into.

           You only had a day to clean everything up and add the finishing touches, running around town to find good pillows and comfy things to add to the space. The natural light was beautiful, and you wanted to put your own style on it.

           “Babe?” You looked up from fluffing a pillow, grinning as you heard Dom begin to walk through the house.

           “Back here!” You heard her giggle at your call, moving towards you.

           “Are you with my surprise?” You laughed at her question, not able to contain your glee.

           “I am! You should be excited.”

           “I am! I really have no idea what it-“ Dom abruptly cut herself off, freezing in the doorway and staring at the window. You were grinning so hard that your cheeks hurt, moving out of the way so she could look it over. Her steps were slow, fingers gently trailing over the window and frame, front legs rubbing together happily.

           “What do you think?” Your voice snapped her out of her thoughts, Dom turning to look at you for a moment before scooping you up. You laughed, struggling weakly as she began to cover your face in kisses.

           “Silly human. You didn’t have to do this.” Her voice was thick with unshed tears, burying her face into your neck. You hummed, running your fingers through her hair, letting the red locks settle onto her shoulders.

           “I wanted to. It’s a gift, for you.” She whimpered, taking a few moments to collect herself before pulling back. She cupped your face and kissed you, hard. You moaned as she began to nibble on your lip, gasping as she began to move.

           “Dominic!” Your lover ignored the cry of her name, body quickly beginning to build a web. “What are you doing!?”

           “I’m going to fuck you in this window.” She moaned, her second set of arms quickly beginning to strip you.

           “B-babe…” You tried to protest but it was too late; she had you in her grasp and wasn’t going to let go. Not that you were going to complain. At least the window faced the woods; thank God for small miracles.

[chrizbang]

Pairing: Han Jisung x female reader

Genre: smut

Warnings: mature content, oral sex (m), lowkey sub!Jisung

Word count: 1.488

"Guys, are you sure about it?" Jisung asked. You were inside of the car, going on an adventure. "Can you guys stop acting like scaredy-cats? It's going to be fun. Besides, I won the bet so you guys have to do anything I want," you complained, turning around to look at Jisung. You were sitting in the front of the car with Chan, while he was driving. In the back were Jisung, Minho, and Cindy, his new girlfriend. You know it wouldn't last like the rest of his relationships, but at least they were having fun. You were heading to a place you always wanted to go to, a mall that has been abandoned for 20 years. It was far away from your house, in a less populated place in the city. You loved seeing pictures of abandoned places and always wanted to go to one, now you had a chance. "Of course you won, you cheated," Jisung protested. "How would I cheat on Mario Kart?" "According to the GPS, we are almost there," Chan said. "Awesome," Minho stretched his arms. "I can't handle Y/N and Jisung bickering anymore." You huffed, but you knew he was right. You and Jisung didn't stop arguing since you got in the car, but it wasn't anything serious. "We are here, let's go inside already. It's 4PM, we need to leave before it gets dark," Chan said, stopping the car in front of the gates of the mall. It was big but it wasn't the biggest one you've seen. "It's beautiful," you looked at it with admiration, feeling excited to go inside. You stepped out of the car, you couldn't wait anymore. "You're a freak," Jisung criticized, making a grumpy face. You didn't answer him, looking for a way to get in. "We'll have to jump over the wall," Cindy said, holding Minho's hand. You could see nobody was really enjoying this idea, but you weren't brave enough to go alone. "Come on Y/N, I'll help you out," Jisung suggested. You laughed. "Jisung, I don't think you're going to be able to handle me." He looked at you offended, you clearly hurt his ego, even though it wasn't your intention. He didn't have time to complain, Chan was already holding his legs and lifting him up on the wall. "Ugh, crap," Jisung whined, scratching his arm on the hard surface. "Sorry," Chan apologized. One by one, you jumped the wall. Chan was the last one, you were impressed by his abilities to jump walls like that. You needed to remind yourself to ask him how he learned that later. There was a vast yard around the mall. There were a lot of bushes, plants growing everywhere. "How are we going to get in?" Minho asked you. "I don't know, didn't thought about this detail." "Are you stupid?," Jisung stopped, looking at you. "Shut the fuck up, Jisung." "Guys," said Cindy. "There's a gap on the wall here. It's small but we can go through it." The gap was next to the entrance, probably because somebody went inside before you. The place was abandoned for so long, you expected this to happen. You went first, getting on your knees so you could go through it, lifting up your ass, knowing that Jisung was right behind you. You knew that both Minho and Chan were very handsome and you would be lying if you said you were not attracted to them. But you've been their friend for so long that you saw them more as your silly friends than as Hot Men™. Jisung on the other hand fascinated you. You met him after he moved to your city, to work with Chan and Minho, his longtime friends.  Since you were older than Jisung, he always looked awkward around you. He tried to look mature, to make himself tough next to you. To be honest, you loved to tease him. You loved to see his chubby cheeks go red because you said or done something that made him blush. Jisung was adorable. You thought he had a crush on you, but you weren't sure. When you were finally inside, you were blown away by the place. It had a lot of dirt, of course, but it had its own beauty. To think that this place has a history, that it had people living their lives inside of it, was amazing. At least for you. "This place sucks," Jisung complained. You rolled your eyes. "Can you at least pretend that you are enjoying it?" "I like it," Cindy said. "Thank you, Cindy." "Where do we go first?" Chan asked, looking around. "I don't think we should split up," Minho advised, looking concerned. "Let's go upstairs," you disclosed. You went up the stairs, admiring the place around you. "Wow, there was an arcade here," Chan said, while he ran to take a look at the place. Cindy and Minho followed him, but you were too busy looking the other way. You saw the entrance to a restaurant, it had a vintage decoration and you definitely wanted to go there. "Y/N," you heard Jisung whispering, calling your name, but you ignored him. "Fuck," Jisung said, following you. You stepped into the restaurant, admiring the place. The decoration had a 60's vibe. There was a huge balcony with some seats in front of it. Next to the balcony, there were five tables, that kind of table that had couches around it so people could sit together. The color faded but you could see it was pink. At the end of the corridor that was made by the balcony and the tables, there was a bathroom. It was small but so cute, you loved it. "Y/N, I don't think you should be alone in this place. What if there's someone here,  maybe a serial killer?" Jisung said when he saw you. "Look around. This is why I wanted to come. This place is beautiful." "Yeah, I must admit that's pretty cool, but I really think we should look for the others." Suddenly, you had an idea. It was bold, way too bold, even for you.

"Jisung, why did you come after me?" "Huh?" he asked you, not understanding your question. "I said..." you paused, getting closer to him. "Why did you come after me and didn't went with the others?" "I didn't want to leave you alone." "Why?" you tilted your head, seeing Jisung's cheeks reddening. "B-because it's dangerous." he stuttered. You pressed him against the balcony, locking him between two seats and your body. "Y/N, what are you doing?" his eyes widened. "You are so cute, did you know that?" "Y-yeah, of course, I know," you couldn't help but laugh at his attempt to look presumptuous. You grinned, running your hands through his hair. Jisung leaned into your touch. You got on your knees in front of him, holding on to his belt while you tried to unbuckle it. "Y-Y/N?" he asked. You pulled his pants down to the floor without fully taking them off and started to do the same with his boxers, freeing his dick. It was a thick, average-sized dick, with a pink tip begging you to put your tongue on it. "Somebody it's excited," you teased him. You could hear him whimpering and you smirked. You held his shaft, running your hand up and down. Jisung let out a little moan, giving you the confidence to keep going. After teasing him a little, you ran your tongue from his balls to his head, sucking on it and swallowing his precum. You kept sucking on his head while you rubbed your hand up and down on his dick. Jisung placed his hand on the back of your neck, holding tight on your hair. You bobbed your head up and down, hearing how Jisung couldn't control his moans no more. For a moment you were scared that someone would enter the restaurant and see you sucking Jisung's cock, but it lowkey turned you on even more. "Y/N, I-I'm gonna cum," he said breathlessly. You sucked harder on his dick and started to touch his balls. Jisung gave you one last moan before you felt his hot cum, some of it slipping out of the corner of your mouth. You swallowed all you could and then used your finger to collect the rest that escaped your mouth. You felt your knees aching because of the floor, but when you lifted your head and saw the look on Jisung's face, and you thought it was worth it. His cheeks were red, he had sweat on his forehead, he looked at you with desire on his eyes. You got up, running your hand on your knees to take the dust off. "Let's keep this between you and me, okay?" you told him. "Okay." You left the restaurant with a smile, knowing that now you had a little secret with Jisung.

Author’s note: thank you so much for reading, I hope you liked it and feedback is always welcome.

[mickeyhenrysgf]

Pick Me

Summary: After making a tough decision, you still get to have your way with  both of your boyfriends. It’s just virtual.

Pairings: Bucky x reader, Steve x reader

Warnings: smut! heavy use of daddy kink, spanking, degrading language, slight humiliation, voyeurism, unprotected sex

Your two men stared at you from across the living area. Bucky and Steve were both chosen to go on a mission but one could stay behind. Tony left it up to them. It would be a small and quick. Therefore, they didn’t need more people than what the aircraft could handle. Ever since the pandemic hit, even the avengers were taking the necessary precautions on limiting their travel. If the less could travel, the better.

You looked at both of your boyfriends in distress. They decided to leave the decision up to you. Their favorite girl. Whoever you chose would stay at home with you, while the other would go. If any one of them got hurt, it wouldn’t be your fault. Not even a scratch. They promised that the mission only consisted of surveillance and reporting.

But that wasn’t the problem. The problem was you didn’t want them to think you were picking favorites. Because, you loved them both... truly.

Steve stood up and sat on the couch next to you. “Sweetie... who do you want to stay with you?” He hummed lightly, rubbing your thighs innocently.

“She wants to stay with me, obviously” Bucky stated in a cocky tone, flashing the both of you a smile. You bit your bottom lip as Bucky winked at you.

“I-I don’t know-”

“Sweetheart. Yes you do... come on. Is it me?” Steve asked softly as he leaned in and pressed a wet kiss on your collarbone. You shuddered lightly, your hands running through his hair as a reflex.

“Woah—! Hey! You’re kissing her!” Bucky announced, standing up from across the room and heading over to you.

“Yes, she’s my girl...”

Steve’s lips found their way from your collarbone to your neck.

“Our girl.” Bucky corrected, sitting down on the opposite side as you were squished in between two super soldiers. Your boyfriends.

Bucky tucked some loose strands of hair behind your ear, as he looked at you. “Doll, one of us needs to start packing our bags. We leave tomorrow morning. Who is it?” Bucky’s lips now kissed your neck as well.

You felt overwhelmed. The two of them sending you over the edge for one little answer. It was too much.

“Listen Daddy takes such good care of you... don’t you love it when Daddy buries his face in that sweet little pussy?” Bucky whispered in your ear before kissing that sweet spot on your neck. Your toes already curling.

“Yes...” Bucky smiled brightly at your answer. He’s got you right where he wanted.

“I can hear you-“ Steve rolled his eyes. You almost forget about their super hearing. You giggled softly, your head falling onto Steve’s shoulder. His hands combing through your hair. Wonder, if they could also smell your arousal...

“And might I add, I’m the one who wrecks this pussy every morning and night. Grandpa over here complains about how tired he is” Steve stated.

“You son of a bitch”

You rolled your eyes pushing away from them both, standing up. Steve & Bucky quickly shut their mouths and looked up at you.

“I’m tired of hearing the two of you bicker over this. I just want to get over with it. So, I choose Bucky.”

The two men look at each other before Bucky breaks out into a wide smile. Steve rolls his eyes at him. He didn’t care. He knew you loved him just the same as you loved Bucky. They promised each other that whoever you chose, they wouldn’t take it to heart. Plus, whoever you didn’t choose was going to fuck you all night long.

“Thank you, baby girl, I always knew you loved daddy’s cock a little more” Bucky said playfully and Steve shoved him away, lightly scoffing as he stood up from the couch. His hands pulled you in.

“Come on, sweetie. Help daddy pack, gonna miss you...” you smiled and wrapped your arms around Steve’s neck before he hooked his arm under your ass and picked you up swiftly.

As Steve carried you to the room, you stuck your tongue out at Bucky in a mocking tone. Before you could even put your tongue back where it belonged, Bucky was jumping out his seat and slapping your ass as the three of you went to go help Steve pack.

“Baby, help! This thing is not working” Bucky grumbled as his hands tapped the laptop multiple times.

You walked over to where Bucky was sitting on the couch and sat on his lap. You giggled softly once you noticed his frustrated face.

“Whatcha tryna do ?” You looked at Bucky’s screen.

Poor Connection. The video will resume automatically when the connection improves.

Bucky sighed at the message as he wrapped his arm around your waist and kissed your shoulders.

“Video chat with Steve” he mumbled against your skin. You looked at the laptop and quickly found the problem.

“You have to turn the WiFi on, silly.” You explained and Bucky pretended like he knew what that meant. He watched in awe as you pressed a few more buttons on the keyboard. Before he could even speak, Steve’s face appeared on the small screen.

“Steve!” You gushed brightly and Bucky smiled too. It was supposed to be a surprise but technology was never his strong suit.

“Hey, baby girl...” Steve smirked slightly leaning against his chair. He was in a cabin hideout, the one thing he asked for Tony was WiFi. And well, his wish was thankfully granted.

“Now, who figured this whole video chat out. I know it wasn’t grandpa.” You laughed softly, and shook your head.

“It was our princess... of course. She’s so smart.” Bucky bragged, kissing your temple and you blushed.

“And has our princess been a good girl?” Steve questioned and you bit your bottom lip, watching the two boys exchange words.

“She sure has. Tell Steve how many orgasms daddy gave you last night...” the cool metal from Bucky’s hand sent goosebumps as it slid down your shorts but to his surprise you weren’t wearing anything underneath.

Shit. You forgot about that. Your breath hitched lightly as Bucky’s movements stopped. It wasn’t your fault. You were sore from last night & couldn’t even bear to put on underwear.

“What is it?” Steve asked again and Bucky chuckled darkly. His fingers rubbing against you folds and collecting your wetness. You shivered, your hips already bucking up into his hands. Bucky’s hard-on growing beneath you.

“Why don’t you tell daddy what’s goin’ on? Or maybe you’d like to show him...” Bucky cooed as a finger easily slipped into your hole. Your moans covered the silence in the room, your head falling back onto his shoulder. Steve already clicked the two things together. 

“Daddy is touching me...” you sucked in your bottom lip and Bucky added in a second finger, stretching you wider as he groaned. You heard a belt being unbuckled and thrown onto the floor.

Then, you heard it. Steve’s grunt.

“No, you know that’s not it. Don’t start acting dumb, tell him” Bucky slapped your cunt harshly making you yelp out. Shit, he was angry now. You could hear on the other end of the video, Steve sucking in a breath and his phone moved lightly. He was touching himself.

“I didn’t wear underwear today...” you stutter through your teeth, scared to look at the camera. You felt tears welled up in your eyes from the pain, pleasure, and embarrassment.

“Did Bucky say you could act like a little slut today?” Steve challenged, pulling his cock out from his underwear & began to stroke himself slowly.

“No, daddy! I’m sorry!” Bucky laughed from the tone of your voice, instantly spreading your legs wider. Your ass grinded against his painful hard-on straining against his sweats as he continued to pump his fingers into you.

“She’s so fucking wet— I’m thinking this was her plan all along.” Bucky pulled his fingers out of you, sucking on your wetness and then shoved his fingers inside your mouth. You moaned heavily around his fingers, the taste of your wetness and his salvia evident.

“Fuck. Let me see her pussy...” Bucky smirked at Steve’s words, pulling his fingers out your mouth and you nervously looked around.

They’ve seen you multiple times, but you never used any type of cameras or recording devices during intimate moments. This was new. Bucky leaned forward and and angled the laptop to your dripping pussy.

“Isn’t this the prettiest little pussy you’ve ever seen, Steve?” Bucky narrated as his fingers ran against your folds, before spreading your lips. You felt exposed but it was erotic, especially hearing Steve’s moans on the other end. You were a moaning mess, your breath getting faster, and he wasn’t even doing much.

“You know Daddy has to punish you, right? I’m not there but Bucky is...” Bucky pulled the laptop back, showing his face and yours again. You were too nervous to actually turn your head and look at Bucky. However, as you looked at the camera, he had a smirk plastered on his face.

“Because you wanna be a slut and walk around the house with no panties, you’re going to ride Daddy’s cock for me on camera, right now” Steve demanded as Bucky quickly stood you up and slapped your ass harshly. His hands wasting no time in pulling down his sweats and boxers to expose his angry cock. It was fully hard and already had the perfect amount of pre-cum where you wanted to get on you knees and kitten lick it right off. Your legs pressed against each other at the sight.

“Daddy is not waiting all day... strip” Bucky barked causing you to flinch heavily as you quickly took off your shirt and then shorts.

“Look at my little girl, only if she didn’t act like a fucking slut— go ahead, sit on your daddy’s dick” you heard Steve speak and turned to look at the camera.

Steve was naked. Fuck. He even positioned the camera, so you could see his cock as well. You didn’t even notice how long you were staring until Bucky slapped your ass again. His arms wrapped around your waist and sunk you down. The two of you moaning out. The sudden burn caused you to wince and close your eyes for a moment.

Bucky’s lips pressed and sucked against your skin as he began to thrust up into you. His thumb flicking your clit which only increased the pleasure. “Baby... eyes up here.” Steve snapped. Bucky grabbed your jaw forcing you to look forward. Your eyes fluttered open slowly as you saw your other boyfriend stroking himself. His cheeks were flushed. Head thrown back. Abs collecting sweat. It was utter blissfulness.

“I can’t believe my baby is such a slut, You like Steve watching us fuck, huh?” You moaned, clenching around his cock in response, moving your hips to match Bucky’s thrusts. “Tightest pussy in the whole goddamn world, Fuck-!”

“Shit—! you’re going to let Daddy fuck you too when he gets home, yeah?” Steve teased, thrusting into his hand.

You nodded, your mouth opening and eyes rolling back as Bucky began to pick up the speed. “I think Steve asked you a question.” Bucky slapped your cunt once more causing you to dig your nails into his thighs.

“Yes, daddy. You can fuck me whenever you want...”

“That’s my good girl” Steve grunted lowly. “Fuck- You close, Bucky? I’m bout to cum and I need to see my pretty girl cum with us...” Bucky nodded heavily, licking a stripe up your neck, his thumb pressing down against your clit.

“Daddy... I’m close—“ you announced, turning your head to look at Bucky and he moved in, kissing you deeply. It was all tongue, teeth, & salvia which only caused Steve to become chaotic on the other end. The sound of skin slapping against each other and his throaty moans increased by the second. Steve was getting off from the show you and Bucky put on for him.

“Cum with us” Bucky mumbled against your lips, as his thrusts become sporadic, the familiar knot in your stomach forming. With one look at Steve on the screen, you lost it, the wave crashing as you clenched and came around Bucky. Bucky was close behind, his thrusts stopping and filling you up to the brim before leaning against the couch. Steve watched everything unfold, saving himself until the last minute. And to your surprise, you got to witness as he unleashed ropes of cum across his chest, abs, and face.

“Holy shit...” Bucky announced and chuckled softly. I guess he was also watching Steve. The only thing you could hear now was the three of you panting. Bucky pressed soft kisses on your neck and shoulders as he occasionally whispered soft affirmations in your ear. You leaned back and closed your eyes, listening to Bucky’s soft voice, the two of you waiting for Steve to regain his energy.

“You’re an asshole” you heard Steve finally mumble as he grabbed a tissue and started to wipe his cum off his chiseled chest and then chin.

“Round 2, anyone?” You playfully slapped Bucky’s chest and he laughed, shrugging his shoulders. You forgot he had stamina for days. You heard the laptop beep, and as you looked closely, the battery was dying.

“Battery’s about to die...”

“That’s okay, doll. We can use our phones.” Bucky winked and you heard Steve laugh on the other end.

[theshelbyclan]

The Young Nurse

Summary: When it turns out Finn is more ill than anyone suspected, you don’t know what to do, apart from being practical about it and taking care of him

(Gif by @nofckingfighting​) A/N: The amazing @staygold-bebold​ send me her first request and I’m SO honoured: Hellooo there :) This is my first fic request *smiles shyly* I have this idea in my head for a while now... How about sick!Finn with reader taking care of him? I'm hoping for it to take place between seasons 2 and 3, so he is still soft. (before blinding the Changretta man in s4) Bonus if there can be an innocent cuddle in it! 😊 I love love love the way you portrayed Finn in your fics and how you never write too mushy fics even with fluff in it. Hope this is ok!You are such a wholesome sweetheart, I love this idea. Hope I did it justice! Finn’s fourteen in this one (so season 2) and the reader is of a similar age. Words: 2537

*** “I don’t feel so good…” “What?” you’d asked, but before Finn could answer, he’d fallen down and passed out already. 

At first, you had to laugh and you could hear others do the same. Everyone was down at the Garrison to celebrate and Finn had been sneaking whiskey all night. Tommy kept on taking it off of him, but John allowed it. Like it was really his first time drinking whiskey anyways… You were working at the bar. Officially, you were too young for the job, but your mother worked there and you occasionally helped out. Being only fourteen, you did work at the Garrison, but only during daytime, to clean. This is how you and Finn had met and he used to sit with you while you worked, watching and talking. He was a different boy away from his family. You never really talked much, it just wasn’t in your nature. But you could observe and deduce things that others failed to notice. For example, Finn was different with John. He was careful around Arthur, because he was the one to usually tell him to piss off. This annoyed Finn, as he desperately wanted to be seen as a man. With Tommy he was acting tough, trying to prove something, but never quite succeeding. But with John, he was just the little brother. John let him ride horses, let him drink and talked and played around with him. In all honesty, it seemed like Finn could make John forget all he’d seen and done, and allowed him to be a boy once again. So, it was John who’d given him the whiskey. When Finn fell down, you all laughed. Tommy took him back home and sighed deeply, “I fucking told you, didn’t I? And now I’m having to waste my fucking time on you, eh?” You’d seen many men fall down for the drink, but something didn’t feel right. Frowning but not speaking, you decided to keep an eye on your friend. ***

The next day, you went to Polly’s. She told you Finn was still in bed and that you couldn’t see him right now. “What’s wrong with him?” “Finn’s having his first ever hangover!” John called from the kitchen, grinning broadly. But Polly’s face showed some worry, “He’s puking his guts out, that’s for sure, and he can’t hold down any water. It’s the shortness of breath that’s worrying…” “Is he still drinking?” you asked at once. “What do you want with him?” John inquired, “Sit by his bed and hold his hand?” “Just wanted to see if he needs anything…” you mumbled. “Like his girlfriend maybe,” Arthur growled deeply. “I’m not his girlfriend!” you replied indignantly, but immediately you looked down again to hide your blushing. You’d never talked back to any other Shelby than Finn and it scared you. “Leave her alone, Arthur,” Tommy spoke from the shadows, “She’s a good girl, Y/N, sensible. She won’t do anything that isn’t proper or right, eh?” “Y/N,” Polly saved you, “Come back tomorrow. He needs to rest now.” And so you came back the next day, and the next, and the next, always being denied entrance into Finn’s bedroom. His chest pains had gotten worse and he had real trouble breathing now. You were tired of waiting. At home, you had started pacing for fear of the unknown. “What’s the matter with you?” your mother challenged, “You’re never like this. You’re supposed to be the calm one, I’m the agitated and loud one.” She was right. Sometimes you wondered if you and your mother were even related, because you couldn’t be more different. She worked at the bar, talking easily to all men and flirting always. You liked to hide in a corner and passed unnoticed. Your mother preferred the company during work, while you enjoyed the work in silence. Everyone knew your mother, but few even knew she had a kid. Your mother always complained how you were too boring, too practical, too silent, while you just whished for a mother to take care of you, not the other way around… All of this played out in your head, but you didn’t say a word. Then one night, it became too much to bear and you decided to do the bravest thing you had ever done in your short life. Silently, you crept out of your own bed and put on some clothes. While you were making your way out of the house, you saw your own reflection in the mirror, and you faltered. Strictly you said to yourself, “Y/N, stop being a baby. Do you want to go on the rest of your life not mattering to anyone? Finn needs you. Now man up, and go!” So you breathed in deeply and slipped out the front door. That was the easy part done, but now came the difficult part. Standing in front of the Shelby home, you cursed your own sudden courage but decided there was no going back now. Clattering up the drainpipe, you reached the roof of the houses at Watery Lane. Like a cat, without making a sound, you crawled towards the room in which Finn usually slept. Peering in, you saw he was alone: a stroke of luck. Getting the window to open was a lot easier than you’d feared. But what to do now that you were inside? You didn’t have much time to think it over, because Finn suddenly woke up and opened his eyes. “Y/N? What are you doing here?” You blushed again, “I wanted to see you,” you whispered. “How did you get in?” he said in a hushed voice. “I climbed the roof and came in through the window.” “Does Aunt Pol know?” “Obviously not, if I climbed the roof, silly!” you hissed. Finn frowned, “Is this a dream? It’s a dream, isn’t it… I’ve been having the weirdest dreams lately…” You quickly walked over to his bed and knelt down next to it, “I’m really here Finn.” “You climbed the roof,” Finn raised his eyebrows, “Y/N would never climb a roof. Without permission from Aunt Pol. In the middle of the night.” “Well, I did.” “In my dream you did.” “Finn!” you said, a little louder than anticipated, “It’s not a dream!” And you pinched him, “See?” “Ow!” he called out, “That hurt…” He actually looked a little betrayed and hurt, so you had difficulty in stopping yourself from laughing. You managed to hide it though, by taking a cloth from a washing basin and dabbing his head with it. He was burning up and worry took a hold of you. “Y/N?” Finn asked, “What are you doing?” “Taking care of you,” you said matter-of-factly. “Why?” “Well, I can’t imagine your brothers are doing much to help you,” annoyance slipped into your tone. “John’s scared,” Finn said softly, “We lost Martha and he doesn’t like people being ill after that. Tommy thinks it’s just the whiskey, maybe they all do. Arthur was never great with… anything really.” “What about Pol?” you asked, while taking his pulse with two fingers. Finn shrugged a little, “She’s got Michael now.” Full of sympathy, you looked at him. “I’m glad you’re here,” he smiled, “Got bored.” “Your pulse is fast,” you commented, “Have you been drinking enough?” But the two of you were rudely interrupted by someone barging into the room. Polly’s eyebrows rose, she looked like she was about to start yelling, but then motioned for you to follow her. Without a second thought, you obeyed. “Care to tell me what’s been going on?” she demanded once you were downstairs. You were officially scared of her, but answered, “He needs someone to look after him.” “Does he now?” “He’s seriously ill, Polly,” you said, but quickly followed it with, “Sorry, Miss Gray…” And for the second time, Tommy emerged from the shadows, “No need to stand on formal ceremony. How did you get into my house?” “Roof,” you practically trembled. “Jesus Christ…” Polly sighed, “Young love, that’s all we need…” “It’s not about that!” you called out, “He’s actually ailing! And he’s still vomiting after three days, he’s dehydrated, has difficulty breathing, a seriously high fever and his pulse is too fast. I don’t think it’s the whiskey, Mr. Shelby.”

“Not the whiskey, eh?” he slowly lit a cigarette, “Then what is your diagnosis?” “Influenza,” you said at once, “Saw my father die of it.” “And you checked his fever and pulse, you said?” Polly asked, in a much calmer voice now. “Yes, both elevated. He needs medicine,” you said in a practical manner, “I can see if I can get any Ginseng or elderberry, but I can’t get a hold of any other drugs.” “Surely it’s not that serious…” Polly objected. “It is,” you interrupted her, “he needs medicine fast and he needs fluids. He seems fine, but tonight might be critical.”

“Tell me, Y/N, how do you know all of this,” Tommy asked softly, seemingly unaffected by all of this. Again, you blushed, “I want to be a nurse.” “Makes sense,” Polly smirked a little. “I mean, I would like to…” you stumbled, “Can’t, but, I still want to help people…” Tommy understood at once, “If you can save Finn tonight, I’ll pay for your schooling. Now, tell me what I need to get.” Polly turned around and looked at her nephew with big eyes, asking, but not speaking out loud. He did reply however, “Y/N’s the most sensible person I know and she’s only fourteen, Pol. We’re not losing Finn. Let her take care of him.” For a moment, it looked like Polly was about to argue with him again, but then she closed her mouth. After a few seconds of silence, she asked, “What can I do?” “Do you have any green tea?” you grew shy at ordering a woman like Polly Gray about, “Green tea would be good for him…” “Tea,” she repeated and stood up to make some, “Anything else?” “Maybe you could send someone to my mother’s house, because I know she has the elderberry and Ginseng I mentioned.” “I’ll send John,” Tommy nodded and he told you, “Go sit with Finn. Let us know if anything changes.” Suddenly feeling numb, you walked up the stairs again. It was like this little conversation had only just made clear to you in how much danger Finn actually was. And it scared you, because Finn really was your only friend and you needed him. Sitting by his bed, he had lost consciousness again. It was as you had said: this night would be critical. Whenever he did wake a little, you tried pouring some of the green tea into him and luckily he kept it down. Still, his pulse was racing and his fever was blazing. Waiting and praying, you had no idea that downstairs Polly was doing the exact same thing. The next day went by uneventful. It seemed impossible to get him to drink enough, but you never stopped trying, mixing different drugs in with the liquids and teas, hoping it would be enough to save him. Every two hours or so, Tommy came walking up the stairs and when he came into the room, he only asked one question: “Has the danger passed?” You had to keep on disappointing him over and over. When Finn was awake, he ailed. ‘Awake’ was too liberal a term anyways, because you could no longer talk to him and his eyes wouldn’t focus. Sometimes he’d ask for you and when you talked to him and he recognised you voice, he became calm again and drifted off to sleep. “Y/N?” he once asked, “When I die, where will I go?” “Heaven, I suppose…” you muttered, “But you’re not dying, Finn, I won’t allow it. Now, drink this and rest.” “What do you mean, you won’t allow it?” “You’re young and you still have things to do!” you called out. “Like what?” he muttered, “Business? My brothers all think I’m just a kid… useless…” Angrily, you threw the wet cloth on his head again, “Well, I’d miss you. I need someone to talk to while I’m working and that’s you. Now, stop talking about dying.” “Okay,” he whispered, and drifted off again.

Another few hours passed and he wasn’t awake much. Was his fever going down, or were you just imagining it? Maybe it was wishful thinking…

The next time Finn woke up, he was complaining, “I’m cold. Is it cold? Because I’m really cold…”

And the concern was right back, because he was actually sleeping under five blankets already and even though it was Birmingham, it was in fact summer.

“Y/N,” he whined, “I’m really cold…”

“Sweetheart, I don’t know what else to do. Do you want some more tea?”

“That doesn’t help.”

So you decided quickly, “Okay, move. I’m going in.”

His eyes opened a little more in surprise, “In?”

“In the bed,” you clarified, “don’t get excited. I’m warm, boiling actually because of the fire, and I can warm you.”

So here you were, in bed with Finn Shelby. And for the first time, you felt your own pulse quickening.

Of course this was the moment that Tommy chose to check up on Finn again, taking half his family with him. They just stood there and stared.

“He was cold,” you explained meekly.

“Right,” Tommy said, smoking quietly.

“How is he?” Polly asked.

It’d been a few hours since you last checked and when you felt for his pulse, it appeared to have slowed down a little. Also, his head wasn’t feeling as hot as it had been before. He hadn’t vomited for a few hours now and when you looked at him, you saw he was wide awake, with a small smile of satisfaction playing around his lips.

“He doesn’t look unhappy,” John ventured.

“He has no bloody reason to be unhappy,” Arthur added with a grin.

“Tell me,” Tommy said simply.

And you sighed a sigh of relief, “The danger had passed.”

“Better thank your girlfriend, Finn!” John practically cheered.

“I’m not…” you sighed, but you didn’t have the energy to finish that sentence.

“Leave them be,” Polly said in a soft voice, “they both need to rest now.”

“I wouldn’t rest much with my girlfriend in bed…” John continued teasing.

You ground out, for what felt like the 20

th

time, “Not. His. Girlfriend.”

Finally, everyone left, which took some force on Polly’s part. You looked at Finn and noticed he was getting a bit of colour back into his cheeks already. He’d even complained about being hungry, which was surely a good sign.

“Y/N?” he asked.

“Yes,” you said softly, “what is it?”

“I have a question,” he tried to sit up, but you wouldn’t let him, “Thank you for taking care of me, but why?”

“You’re my friend,” you stated simply.

He shook his head, “No.”

“No?”

He didn’t respond for a while, but then repeated, “Y/N?”

“Yes?”

“Just ignore my brothers and whatever they’re saying.”

“They’re wrong,” you smiled, “They don’t even know us.”

“They don’t,” he confirmed and then he was silent for a few moments, fidgeting with the buttons of his pyjama’s.

“Y/N?”

“Finn?”

“I don’t want them to be wrong…”

“What do you mean?” you furrowed your brow while he stared at you with an expectant look.

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

***

Masterlist

[river-bottom-nightmare]

Nightwing 79 Review

i said i would and i will. i did like this issue! not as striking and attention grabbing as 78, but i think this issue was meant to be a foundation one, laying out the groundwork for the future. overall, pretty good. also there wasn't enough bitewing. as promised, overly extensive metaphors and me reading too much into things under the cut

i know i've talked about this cover before, but this particular thing is oddly important to me, so i'll talk about it again

this is me, once again screaming about how artists put nightwing in traditionally feminine poses and how every time i see it i just get whiplash. i mean, true, the main reason why is because nightwing is a so often sexualized character, and putting him in these poses just increases the objectification, which is a goal that dc producers have. but there are very few popular male characters that do this. the only one i can think of off the top of my head is deadpool, but that was so obviously a critique and a way to make fun of the media industry. when they draw dick like this, they’re being serious. they’re putting him in appealing poses meant to show him off, and that’s something that’s traditionally only been done to women.

it's a very direct and very loud breaking of traditional gender roles in media, especially for a character as high-profile and historic as dick grayson. colour also plays a factor in this. the entire background is pink. i was absolutely shocked when i first saw it, when the teaser came out, because i cannot think of any comic book covers of male comic heroes this high-profile where pink is even just prevalent in the cover, let alone the majority of the cover. the pink does look beautiful: it offsets and highlights the black and blue of dick's suit gorgeously, but does it with more finesse than orange or red. but the fact that the stylistic choice was made to accent and draw this cover with aesthetic and beauty in mind, completely ignoring traditional hard-set gender rules in art, was a conscious choice and one i wholeheartedly support.

just another example of the sexualization i was talking about. i remember seeing harley quinn in this exact pose in suicide squad.

so far, taylor's been pretty dead-set on bringing alfred to the forefront of importance in this series. he wants people to know how much he loves alfred's character, and how much the butler meant to dick growing up. he was dick's father too. but what i adore is how taylor managed to stress alfred's importance in a way that didn't insult or belittle bruce.

this is one of the best bruce and dick interactions i've seen, and it's done in one simple interaction. in this, bruce is tough and harsh. he knocked dick down hard, but then he reached a hand down and helped pull dick back up. let me analyze their dialogue for a minute

on your feet: this is bruce telling dick to get up. he's trained dick, he knows what the younger boy is capable of, he knows his limits, and he knows what dick can do. this is bruce telling dick i know you're strong enough to get up, so get up and prove me right

are you just going to knock me down again?: surface-level, it looks like dick's complaining. he doesn't like bruce's rough training, and he's tired of bruce knocking him down. but look at his face in this. he's smiling up at bruce, knowledgeable and a little hopeful. he knows that bruce is doing this to help dick better himself, he's completely on board with the rough training, because they both know the rewards are incredible. also, he's teasing. he's bantering with bruce. there's an ease in that joking statement, one that belies affection and intimacy. they've only known each other for a little bit, but they're already slipping into a close familial relationship.

it depends on how fast you learn: this is bruce bantering back. this is bruce not being a stoic, unfeeling asshole. instead, he's shown with the dry humor that a good batman writer knows is a staple of the character. he's teasing dick, telling him he'll basically whoop his ass if dick doesn't learn fast enough. it's incentive for dick to train harder, while also being lighthearted enough to tell dick that believes in dick and doesn't want him to push himself too hard.

gosh i love the titans. also it looks like wally's staring at dick's ass.

this was cute. a prod at dick's silly and playful sense of humor, while not dumbing him down for the sake of a laugh. instead, he's joking about food, which is stuff everyone jokes about. this is the kind of stuff that'll actually make me laugh, instead of just making me vaguely uncomfortable.

bludhaven's almost always portrayed as a cesspool of a city. and to be honest, it really is. but this panel gives the city a meaningful history, while also giving us a reason for why dick moved there.

it talks of a time when people still thought they could beat the monsters. that if they fought hard enough, they could win the fight. it was a tentative hope that you could always overcome hardship.

dick's little "i like that it's still standing" shows how he still believes that, despite what the rest of the world thinks. despite everything that he's been through, dick is still tentatively an optimist, and believes he can fight the monsters of the world and win. it's a beautiful testament to his character, and i'm like that they added his signature element of hope back in. it used to be what he symbolized as robin, and despite his growth and character arc from robin to nightwing, this is one aspect of robin that i'm glad nightwing still has.

remember when i said "things that make me vaguely uncomfortable??" yeahhhh,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

Shooketh Dick: A Sequel

(the expressions in this series are just,,,,on point)

this was an incredibly sweet and kindhearted thing for dick to do, but i found it kind of,,,,,,,,desperate? maybe that's just me, but let me explain.

dick's suddenly a billionaire, and he has entirely too much money that he knows what to do with. it's also alfred's money, what the man left to him, so dick forever links it with alfred. in addition to that, he's back and bludhaven and looking at it with "fresh" eyes. (at least, from a different point of view since he got shot in the head. then mind controlled.) he's desperate to do something with the money and he's desperate to help the people around him that so obviously needs up, so he comes up with an on-the-fly solution that's a little impractical and a little crazy, but it still helps and still does some good.

to me, dick seems a little lost. he hasn't completely found his balance yet, and he's trying to do things that will. he tries charity, because that's what bruce did and it's what he knows, even though he admitted that he always thought bruce could have done more as bruce wayne than batman.

they have a family group chat guys yall were right.

also, do i think that dick would ever actually get his wallet stolen?? no way in hell, he’d notice someone getting ready to pickpocket him a mile away. but i suppose it’s important to the Plot. 

okay this is getting interesting. first blockbuster, now maroni (+ the weird heart stealer guy). i can officially say that i am intruiged

this particular artistic quirk is shown a lot in this issue, and from this art team in general, but i feel like this panel is one of the best examples of it. it was stunning enough to take up a full page, and it’s well deserved.

the way they show dick moving is absolutely brilliant. as a reader, i like seeing these smaller versions of dick getting clearer and in more detail as they come closer to the screen. not only do they show depth in the picture beyond what a simple 3 dimensional piece of art does, it also shows the passage of time.

in addition, it showcases dick’s skill. dick spots these mobsters running after a group of petty thieves. he then, and follow me here, leaps off the roof of one building feet first, springboards backwards off the side of the adjacent building with his feet, gracefully continues his backflip, rights himself, shoots a line with perfect timing: just in time to soften his landing but not slow him down, execute said landing on top of a moving bus, keep running on the moving bus without missing a beat, shoot his grapple, use the grapple to swing, use the swing to build up momentum, then use the momentum to deliver a powerful blow to the mobsters. and he did all that fast enough to catch up with the mobsters, even though he was a ROOFTOP OVER. 

d a m n  s o n

this panel, the very first in the issue, is also another example of that art style, but a little more distinctive. i love the way they showed dick’s different costumes through the ages, along with him simply growing up. it’s a little heartbreaking, but a lot uplifting to see how far he’s come. thank god he got rid of the red. now all we need is the fingerstripes, and we’ll be golden

discowing my beloved. also i can’t clearly see discowing’s hair but it definitely looks like it’s pulled back. it looks like he put it in a ponytail. guys. guys. dick had a ponytail omg. 

he’s having a Hero Moment

are you talking about the city, dick, or are you talking about you? the kgbeast, the court, the joker. dick fell to each one of them, no matter how hard he fought. he won in the end, eventually and with his family’s help. but i think he’s feeling a little low, a little defeated right now. it’s almost like he needs a win, he needs to feel victorious, he needs to feel like he helped someone (hence the food and the hotel room), just because he needs to remember what it feels like.

these lines were supposed to resonate with you, and goddamn they did.

i looked at it from two ways. first, it’s the girl asking, begging nightwing not to hurt them. bludhaven doesn’t know dick the way gotham does, they’re still a little frightened of him. this child was brave enough to step in front of all of the other hurt and homeless kids and ask, to a strange man in a mask, if he was going to hurt them like the other men had. it’s heartbreaking, but commendable, and an echo of the city itself that dick’s decided to protect. they’re bloody and broken and terrified, but still gritty and brave enough to stare what they fear in the eye and ask it not to hurt them.

second, it’s dick seeing the question reflected in himself. recently, he got shot in the head and lost all his memories. while i think that the way ric reacted was a perfectly valid and human response to the situation, i think dick still regrets how callously and rudely he treated his family. then, he was manipulated by the court of owls, then he was brainwashed with a magic crystal by the joker. dick does have a guilt complex. it’s not a big as bruce’s, but it’s there. and right now, with this girl begging her not to hurt them, dick is probably thinking about all the times he hurt people, in control of his own actions or not, bc he “didn’t have a heart.” 

little ambitious don’t you think, dick?

also just look at the sunset colours loOK at the they could not make this any more obvious oh my godddddddddddddddddddddddd

in conclusion, i need more of her