#i want my one singular follower to know that i am doing this for them

[cerealmonster15]

the block button isnt enough i need to set things on FIRE

[lettersiarrange]

Since I just checked my ask box for the first time in a hot minute:

Just a note that tumblr doesn't tell me when I have new asks or messages and I rarely check my notifications. Helpful corrections of misinformation/any messages in good faith are appreciated (though it's possible I won't see them until weeks later, sorry), but if something I reblog angers you enough you feel the need to get hostile in my askbox on anon, I reccomend the unfollow button.

I'm also not comfortable posting asks asking for any sort of donations/directing people to your blog for donation purposes, sorry :// I just don't have time to vet asks like that

[egcdeath]

something old, something new

pairing: patrick zweig x f!reader

summary: when your childhood best friend asks you to get married, how are you supposed to say no?

word count: 7.2k

warnings: MATURE (mentions of sex but no explicit sex scenes), marriage of convenience, fluff, mentions of alcohol, patrick is a bad friend (but he improves), friends to spouses to lovers, fake dating, yearning and pining, everyone is bad at communicating, many feelings are being repressed, mentions of dieting in an athlete way, one singular creepy old man, no use of y/n

author’s note: i cannot get this tennis man out of my head!! i hope you all enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it!

It wasn’t every day that you could count on hearing anything from your childhood best friend, but it seemed like whenever you did hear from Patrick Zweig, it was always an ask for something more shocking than the previous one. 

As kids, you spent many evenings doing the homework that Patrick didn’t want to do, despite the fact that you didn’t really want to do more homework either. At boarding school, you’d somehow become his personal designated driver, answering his calls no matter what time and groggily picking him up from whatever party he’d found himself at. In your adulthood, you found yourself becoming a go-to stand-in for him at events he didn’t feel like attending. The amount of times that you’d shaken hands at charity galas and introduced yourself as Patrick’s girlfriend, despite not having a single romantic encounter with him, was frankly astounding. 

It seemed like whenever Patrick needed something, you were the first person he reached out to. After his parents, of course. 

You dreaded knowing the reason behind the simple hey, text message you’d just received, but you were sure that you’d find the reason out sooner rather than later–and that whatever the reason was could not have been good. 

Like clockwork, only an hour after you’d received his message, Patrick appeared at the doorway of your apartment. He came to you equipped with his secret weapon, the kicked puppy look that he often used on you before he asked you for a ridiculous favor, like breaking up with his girlfriend for him or telling his mom that he still wasn’t joining the board of the family business. 

You sighed as you took his less-than-stellar appearance in. Downtrodden expression, wrinkled and sweat-stained shirt, as if he’d gone to the gym to sweat out his feelings before coming to you, and eyes so red-rimmed, you wondered if he’d been crying. 

If you had to guess, he’d either been arguing with his parents, who knew exactly how to get under his skin, or his tennis friends, who also knew exactly how to get under his skin, or his latest girlfriend, who probably confronted him about his own wrongdoings. Regardless of who had upset him, he had obviously come to you to lick his wounds. 

Like always, Patrick stalked inside without asking you for any further permission. The two of you had done this song and dance more times than either one of you would like to admit. 

“How are you?” he asked, stopping in your kitchen to steal an apple from your decorative bowl of fruit.

“I’m good,” you said with hesitation, eyeing him once more. He really looked like shit. If he hadn’t looked so sad, you would’ve told him exactly how much shit he looked like.  

“Aren’t you gonna ask me how I am?” he questioned, a little pathetically.

“No,” you walked off to your living room, fully expecting him to follow you. You were unsurprised when he did exactly that. “Let’s just get right to it. Why’d you come over here?” you asked as the two of you sat down on your couch. 

“My parents are cutting me off,” he explained, voice breaking as he spoke.

Surely, this couldn’t all be over an empty threat. They seemed to threaten Patrick with this every few days. In fact, you’d been in the room with him when his parents promised that he’d never see another dime from them–more than once. Every time, it ended with them coming to their senses and throwing more cash at him. 

“That’s what, the twentieth time?” you laughed. “They always threaten to cut you off. What’s different this time?”

“This time, they mean it.”

You laughed even harder in his face. If you had a quarter for every time you’d had this conversation, you’d be richer than the two of your families combined. 

“I’m serious,” he inched closer to you. “They’re tired of funding my ‘tennis habit’. They want me to get serious about life. To join the board and start a family. My dad showed me an edited draft of his will and everything”

“So?” you prompted, trying to figure out where you fell into the equation. Hopefully he wouldn’t try to put you up to something absurd, like seducing his father into convincing him to not threaten Patrick’s inheritance.

“So, tennis is the only thing I care about.”

“Okay…” you trailed off. “What would you like me to do about that?”

“I need you to help show my parents that I have a vision for the future.”

“Again, Patrick, what exactly are you asking me to do?”

“Marry me.”

You weren’t sure what you expected him to say, but it certainly was not that. Your mouth instantly dropped open and you were sure that you were gaping like a fish. Maybe if he had asked you ten years ago, you’d have instantly said yes, but you’d let that naive dream die after you’d come to realize the transactional subtext of your friendship.

“What?”

“I want you to marry me. I was thinking… you remember when we were younger and we made that pact, that if we weren’t married by the time we were adults, then we’d get hitched?”

You continued to stare at him, completely dumbfounded and not believing a single word coming from his mouth. “I… I…” you couldn’t even form the words. “We were kids!”

He gave you a halfhearted shrug, as if that didn’t matter at all, and as if he didn’t just ask you to be legally and romantically bound to him forever.

“You are fucking unbelievable! You haven't talked to me for anything other than asking me a favor in years, I barely know you’re alive apart from the random drunk texts you send me, and now you want me to marry you? Do you even hear yourself?”

You scoffed and stared at him in disbelief. “And that has to be the worst proposal in all of human history. First you tell me that tennis is the only thing you care about and then ask me to marry you? You’re a joke.”

He let you finish your rant, but after a beat he finally asked. “…Is that a no?”

———-

Stranger things had happened to you than marrying your childhood best friend just a month after he’d randomly popped back up in your life. At least, that’s what you told yourself as you walked down the aisle on a beautiful beach off of the Amalfi Coast.

The last few weeks had been an absolute whirlwind, with what felt like every second of your time consumed by making guest lists and invitations, booking hotel rooms, and finding a dress that you liked enough to get married in. Obviously, you knew this was more of an elaborate scheme than a celebration of love, but you wanted it to be nice anyway. For all you knew, you may never get married again.

You don’t know what possessed you to say yes to Patrick. Maybe the small, desperate part of you that had been begging him to truly see you since you were old enough to realize he didn’t, or maybe the desire to finally have that fairytale destination wedding you’d been dreaming about from the time you learned what a wedding was. Regardless of the reason, both of your families were overjoyed by the union. In one fell swoop, you’d been able to satisfy both of your parents’ desires for you to settle down, and you’d done it with someone both pairs approved of. 

You had to give props to Patrick, the ceremony was beautiful. Given the short timeline, the two of you decided to divide and conquer the planning of the event. You were sure that he’d outsourced the work, since he was still in the middle of his tennis season, but whoever he hired did an excellent job at giving you the wedding you’d always wanted. 

Despite the very short timeline everyone had been given, you were able to wrangle all of your close family and friends to Italy to watch you elope. Your parents had insisted on inviting second cousins and shareholders to your wedding, but you’d somehow convinced them that you and Patrick wanted a smaller, more intimate ceremony. It was probably better to have less people there, lest someone notices the artificial nature of your union. 

Part of you felt like you’d pulled off the greatest prank of all time as the two of you stood up in front of your small crowd, gazing as lovingly as you could manage into each others’ eyes while the officiant said his spiel, but the other, more logical part of you filled with dread as the reality of the situation began to set in. Patrick seemed to have a way of always dragging you into a shitty situation, and you hoped for both of your sakes, that that wouldn’t be the case for your marriage.

After what felt like a lifetime, Patrick began to recite his vows, claiming to have loved you since you were children, and promising to continue to love you ‘till death did you part. If you had been marrying literally anyone else, your knees would go weak with swooning. 

Unfortunately, you were cursed with the knowledge of the reality of your situation, one where your vows sounded more like: “We only have to stay married until I retire, which should be sooner rather than later. We don’t have to do anything together: no galas, no family dinners, no family vacations. Hell, you don’t even have to come to my games. And we don’t have to be exclusive either. This is basically just a title, so feel free to see anyone you want to. I can already see the worry in your face. Stop that. We can hire someone to make us prenups, so the divorce will be an easy, clean split of our assets. See? It’s not that bad.”

The dichotomy between the words he’d said to you a month ago and the bullshit he was spewing now almost made you laugh, but that was clearly not the reaction you were meant to be having when the love of your life was publicly declaring their feelings for you. 

Once he finished declaring his romantic, empty words, you began to read off your vows. They fell in a similar vein to his, a proclamation of a lifetime-spanning love that didn’t really exist in the first place. But when you glanced up at him from your slip of paper, he was really selling it. He stared at you like he adored you, like he wanted to study every inch of your face after running off with you into the sunset.

The ridiculousness of it all finally hit you like a freight train, and you managed to pivot the laugh that was creeping up into your throat into a weepy sounding crack of your voice. Surely people cried during their own weddings. 

You finished off your vows, doing your best to pretend like this whole ordeal wasn’t the most ridiculous scheme you’d ever been dragged into. You imagined a world where he was less selfish and you were less selfless, one where you were exchanging these vows with sincerity, and it helped you to get through the words that you knew were almost completely meaningless. 

The two of you then took turns placing the ring on each others’ fingers, with Patrick giving you a ring with the largest diamond you’d ever seen, and you giving him a band that had been passed throughout your family. He’d agreed to give you the heirloom back once you divorced, so you couldn’t complain too much about giving it away in the first place.

The announcement of being able to kiss the bride rang out in your ears, yet you still found yourself surprised when Patrick eagerly wrapped his arms around you and kissed you passionately. Cheers erupted around the two of you, and you pulled away as the officiant declared you Mr. and Mrs. Zweig.

You had successfully tricked your audience, and yet, you still had the strangest feeling. 

Your reception felt far more natural than your wedding ceremony. After a change of outfit, a huge bowl of pasta, and a few flutes of champagne, you were feeling substantially better about the arguably poor decision you’d just made. You chatted up your friends, who jumped at the opportunity to comment on how cute of a couple you two were, did some light matchmaking between single guests, and placated both of your parents with manufactured acts of affection. You even managed to get Patrick out on the dance floor, after he swore to you that he didn’t dance. 

By the time the two of you were stumbling back into your villa, the woes of the day had practically been forgotten. When you were having this much fun, who cared about a massive, potentially life altering decision? 

You immediately made a beeline to the bathroom, anxious to get into your comfortable pajamas and to wash your face after a long day of wearing tight, extravagant dresses and a heavy layer of makeup.  

“So what did you think of your big day, Mrs. Zweig?” Patrick called out from the other side of the bathroom door, where you were sure he was also preparing for bed. “Was it everything you wanted and more?”

“I think this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” you paused as you thought about something before confessing, “but it was everything I wanted and more.”

“Yes!” he celebrated from where you couldn’t see him, though you could perfectly envision the goofy look on his face. “I owe it to you after everything I’ve put you through. I just hope you weren’t too let down by the groom.”

“What?” you drew out before blowing a raspberry. “Of course not. You looked very handsome today,” you complimented in between splashes of your face. 

“You looked pretty beautiful, yourself,” he complimented you right back. 

“Aww, thank you, honey,” you emphasized the pet name. 

“Hmm, I don’t know if I like that,” you heard the squeak of the bed from behind the door as you assumed that he’d sat down.

“Hey, you’re the one who made me marry you,” you pointed out. “Am I more than you bargained for?”

“Of course not, babe,” he emphasized his own pet name, which sent you into a fit of laughter. “It’s just so weird to hear you refer to me as anything other than an asshole.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, you’re still an asshole,” you replied as you walked out of the bathroom, donning an old shirt with the logo of your boarding school and an equally old pair of shorts. “Just a married asshole.”

You took in the sight of your now-husband as you made your way to your side of the bed, surprised to find that you quite liked the sense of domestic bliss you were feeling. The bed dipped as you sat down and glanced back at Patrick with the slightest bit of hesitation. 

“Is this weird for you? I can go to the spare room, if you want me to,” he offered, surely in reference to the two of you sleeping in the same bed. 

“Don’t worry about it,” you assured him, setting a steady hand on his knee. “What kind of couple would we be if we didn’t spend our wedding night together?” you teased. 

“The kind of couple that marries for convenience?” he suggested.

“Hey, who’s to say that this isn’t love? I had the biggest crush on you when we were kids. Maybe some of it lingered, or some shit.”

“Oh yeah?” he looked at you with that sleazy smirk that you both loved and hated. “What happened?”

“Hmm… I think I realized that you’re a dick,” you matched his smirk with a challenging one of your own.

“Huh. Did you have this realization before or after you started seeing Dan Thompson?” he questioned.

You were surprised by the mention of your first boyfriend, particularly because you weren’t sure that Patrick remembered any detail about your personal life, let alone your love life. “I realized it after you started treating me like your workhorse.”

“Oh okay, so you had a crush on me while you were with your boyfriend. Good to know.”

“Shut up,” you groaned and turned away from him as you finally full laid down. 

“Would it make you feel better to know that I also had a crush on you?” you heard the bed sheets rustle as he scooted closer to you, and you turned back to face him. 

“You’re lying.” You couldn’t see any world where that would make sense to you. In your youth, it seemed like Patrick was always off somewhere with a new person, and none of those people were you. Not that you had an issue with it, but the thought that the two of you might’ve had crushes on each other at the same time without either of you pursuing each other felt kind of weird. 

“Nope. You’re the first person I ever jerked off to,” he said as casually as if he were telling you what he ate for breakfast, not breaking eye contact with you.

“Ew, you’re so gross,” you gently pushed him, but your hands lingered where they sat on his chest. “Was that supposed to be romantic or something?”

“That’s not romantic to you?” he asked with all the sincerity of someone who was fully committing to a bit. 

The two of you broke out into laughter. Once you finally caught your breath, you began once more. “This is gonna be a long marriage.”

“Hopefully,” he remarked in response. 

“If you keep talking to me like that, I will literally go get our marriage annulled, like right now.”

“Please don’t,” he whined, grabbing one of your hands from his chest and kissing your fingers. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“Every time you promise to make something up to me, an inconsistent fairy gains its wings.”

“Hey,” his tone suddenly became very serious, completely catching you off guard. “I really am sorry that I’ve been a terrible friend. I don’t know that I’ve ever said it, but I am. You deserve so much better than me, and I don’t even know how I convinced you to do this for me.”

You almost started to laugh, unable to take the absurd situation seriously. You’d been waiting years to hear him genuinely apologize, and now hours after you’d married solely as a favor to him, he was finally telling you what you wanted to hear. 

“Please. I’m serious. I know you think I’m a piece of shit flaky ashhole, and I am, but I want to be a better husband to you than I ever was as a friend.”

You felt your heart stop beating for a second. The word husband sounded so foreign in his mouth. You couldn’t quite pin how you felt about it, but you knew you felt uncomfortable with the intimacy of his words. 

“Patrick, please shut up,” you squeezed your eyes shut, suddenly a little overwhelmed with the Patrick of it all. In fact, you couldn’t think of anything more encapsulating of your experience with him than the whiplash you got from that moment. He could be a complete asshat, but his occasional moments of earnestness kept you following him like a lost puppy, accepting his apologies and granting him ridiculous favors, despite your better judgment. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, moving closer to you to get a good look at you. You swore you felt your heart squeeze painfully in your chest. 

“I’m fine, I just-“ am overwhelmed by you being sweet? Can’t believe that I’m hearing you say this to me after so long? Also can’t believe that you and I are married?

None of the right words seemed to come to you, so you did the second best thing you could think of. 

You pecked his lips and pulled away as if you’d just touched a hot handle. You didn’t know what had come over you, and immediately began to apologize profusely. 

“Oh my god, I don’t know-“ you were cut off by his hands on your face, greedily and sloppily pulling you back in for another kiss, this one far more passionate and confident than the first. 

Your kiss was messy but fervent, years of pent up sexual frustration and non-sexual frustration behind your every movement. As you kissed, you moved to straddle him, feeling a little ridiculous in your ratty old clothes, but that didn’t stop him from groping you over your pajamas like you were the hottest thing on the planet. 

Maybe the strangest thing to happen to you that day wasn’t even your wedding.

——

That night was the first in a series of very strange events. You couldn’t even fully wrap your head around what was happening in your marriage. You just knew that the two of you had become closer friends than you’d ever been before, and that you slept together when either of you had the urge. It was basically a no strings attached situation, except, legally, all strings were attached. 

If you were confused by your arrangement, you were sure that your friends were even more lost, something they proved to you as they interrogated you over brunch. 

“So, just so we’re clear, you married him as a favor?!” your friend asked in complete disbelief. 

“Well… yeah, basically.”

“Shit. Can I ask you for a favor of a million dollars?” she joked, leading to the laughter of your other friends at the table.

“Well, that’s different. At least with our marriage, we both benefit. He gets his parents off his ass about being so focused on tennis that he doesn’t have any future prospects, and I get my parents to stop trying to marry me off to every single rich boy they find.”

“But you’re not like, actually married. Like you guys don’t have feelings for each other?” another friend questioned.

You sipped your mimosa before explaining your situation for what must’ve been the fifth time that day, “we’re basically friends with benefits.”

“But you’re legally married? Like, the wedding was official and stuff?”

“Legally? Yeah. But it’s literally just that,” you clarified. 

“Legal marriage and sex?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, hoping that they were finally catching on. 

“Then… are you guys seeing other people?”

“Oh yeah, what ever happened to that one model guy you were seeing?” another one of your friends pitched in. 

“It didn’t really work out,” you addressed that with an understatement. He rightfully flipped his shit when he found out you were going to be marrying someone else. “But neither of us are seeing other people. I don’t think either of us want to risk bringing anything back to one another.”

“That sounds pretty committed to me.”

“Not really,” you dismissed.

“Then why are you even together?”

“How many times do I have to explain how we both benefit from this?”

“No, not legally, or socially or whatever. Why are you hooking up with him? Aren’t you scared you’ll mess up your friendship or something?”

“Well, the sex is really, really good. But I’m really not worried. There's no romance between us. We’ve been friends for so long that it’s just… weird to look at him like anything other than my friend. It’s basically a loveless marriage of convenience.”

Your friend shot you a skeptical look. You just shrugged her off. 

———

The moment you found out your afternoon meeting had been canceled, you reached out to your assistant to make arrangements for you to go to Patrick’s tennis game. He’d been on a winning streak, and though he insisted that you didn’t need to come to his games, you knew that he secretly liked having you there. 

Over the past few months of your marriage, you’d grown to realize that he often didn’t say what he actually meant. Like the time he told you that he preferred to live alone, before breathily confessing in your ear that he slept better by your side. Or when he swore to you that he loved the pancakes you’d served him, despite the food being some of the worst you’d ever put in our mouth and him being on a diet. You almost found it sweet that he tried to prioritize your feelings over his own, which was surely a result of overcompensation from the way he had treated you for the majority of your lives. 

You arrived at his match just in time to watch him take a break, making your way into the stands and finding a seat where you’d have the best view of your friend as possible. You didn’t expect him to scan the audience and find you until much later on, but you were pleasantly surprised when the two of you made eye contact and he absolutely lit up. You waved, then gave him a thumbs up in hopes to communicate your support from far away. 

While you couldn’t always make it, you liked to play the role of supportive tennis wife. Getting dressed up and making an appearance not only publicly legitimized your sham of a marriage, but helped you to reconnect with some of your former boarding school classmates, who were often in the stands supporting a friend or a loved one. You also just liked to watch him play, as witnessing the passion and ferocity he had out on the court was extremely entertaining, and even at times, mildly arousing.  

With their break ending, Patrick went back out on the court and played just as well as you expected him to, crushing his competition, and looking up into the stands at you to celebrate once he’d scored the winning point. 

At first, it was surprising how proud his wins made you feel of him, a feeling that you explained to yourself by arguing that if he wasn’t giving his absolute all to tennis, then your marriage had basically been all for nothing. Although that did still ring slightly true, the truth was that you were simply proud of Patrick. Whether you liked it or not, the two of you were a unit now, which meant that his wins were your wins and vice versa. In some ways, it was kind of nice to be part of a team. Or at least his team.

You met Patrick down on the court, where he paused from packing his bag to immediately greet you with a kiss to the forehead, a small act of intimacy that was typically reserved for situations far different from the one you were currently in. 

“Hey! I didn’t know you were coming!” he exclaimed, pulling you in for a half-hug. 

“I didn’t know I was coming either,” you instinctually wrapped your arm around him in response to his half-hug. “Great job out there. You kinda demolished him!”

“I did, didn’t I,” he said just loud enough for you to hear, still wanting to appear like a good sport. “I have to go get ready for the press conference. Do you want to meet me at my hotel?”

“Of course. You don’t mind me staying for the night?” you probed, despite knowing the answer. He wouldn’t have asked you to go to his hotel in the first place if he’d minded.

“You know I never mind you staying for the night,” he gave you a cheeky wink.

“You’re so sleazy,” you commented with fake disgust.

“You started it,” he replied, reluctantly pulling away from you and reaching into his bag to grab his hotel keycard. “I’ll text you when I’m heading back.” 

The moment you received a message about him being on his way to the hotel, you made a very lengthy phone call and request to the restaurant in the building. Technically, he shouldn’t be eating any of what you ordered, on account of him being on a strict diet plan, but you figured that he deserved it after playing the way that he did. Besides, Patrick liked thoughtful acts of service, and you figured that this would count as one.

“You know me so well,” he practically gasped as he stepped into the room, taking in the platters of food you’d laid out for him.

“What kind of wife would I be if I didn’t?” you teased, though your sentiment was somewhat accurate, and it was clear that the two of you had grown to know each other far better over the past few months, you hoped that your friend wasn’t interpreting your words in too serious of a way. 

The two of you laid out on the pristine hotel bed, eating the feast that you’d ordered without much dialogue between you, other than a comment on how good something was, or a request to pass an item to one another. It felt oddly domestic, and oddly enough, you liked it. Maybe you liked it even more than you’d been willing to admit.

“I’m gonna go shower,” he announced after tossing his napkin onto a cleared off plate.

“Want some company?” you offered, raising your brows at him in a playfully suggestive manner.

“Is that what this is all about?” he feigned offense. 

“Maybe,” you trailed off. “Or maybe I just wanted to celebrate the greatest tennis player of all time,” you purred.

“Come on. You and I both know that is far from the truth.”

“Well you’re the greatest player in my heart,” you praised, much to his chagrin.

“Ugh. Shut up and come shower with me.” 

As you sleepily ran your fingers through his damp hair, you were surprised when he broke his silence with a comment seemingly out of the blue. It was more of a mumble than anything else, but you’d grown accustomed to his muffled words over the course of your marriage. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he randomly complimented you.

“You know you don’t have to compliment me to get into my pants, right?” you asked with a hint of laughter in your tone.

“I’m not trying to,” he pecked your arm–the limb he had the easiest access to at the moment–as if he was trying to emphasize his point, though all it did was bring heat to your cheeks at the reminder of the way he’d pressed slow and meaningful kisses along your calves and inner thighs while the two of you were in the shower. “You just looked so good today, I couldn’t not comment.”

“I don’t look good every day?” you asked facetiously, trying to deflect from the warm and fuzzy feeling his compliments and affection were making you feel. 

“Of course you always look good,” he reassured you rather than playing along with your game of joking instead of addressing your feelings. “I just don’t tell you that enough.”

You weren’t even sure how you could respond to that. Clearly, he wasn’t in the mood to mince words tonight, but you couldn’t bear to match his genuinity with cheap jokes. The only real, genuine thought to pop into your head were three ridiculous words that you immediately batted away. You couldn’t think of anything more embarrassing than randomly declaring your love to a husband who wasn’t really your husband in a marriage that wasn’t really a marriage. 

Out of ideas, you hit the lamp on your side of the bed. “I appreciate it. Goodnight.”

“Night,” he parroted back to you, remaining snug against your chest, despite the fact that your hands had stopped threading through his hair. 

Deep down, you knew that those three words had been on the tip of Patrick’s tongue, too.    

——

Being in the social circles of filthily rich people meant you often found yourself at random charity events, hosted by the nonprofits of families and business owners looking for a particularly large tax break for the year. Over the years, you’d felt that you’d seen and participated in it all: marathons raising awareness for a serious, but extremely rare disease, date auctions to raise money for a cause that certainly didn’t justify you having to go on a date with a man almost forty years your senior, or galas for nearly-extinct sea creatures that were essentially used as an excuse to stand around and network while drinking expensive alcohol and eating hor d'oeuvres.

You seemed to find yourself at a lot of events like the latter, including the one you were standing at now. The gala, which took place in the art exhibit it was raising money for, was a rather standard one, filled with the typical suspects who regularly attended those events. 

It was slightly ironic to be at the event with Patrick as your plus one, as this was the exact type of event he would’ve texted you about an hour before it began to ask if you would play his concerned partner for the night who told everyone a flimsy excuse about him being under the weather. 

It also served as somewhat of a reminder to you of the massive growth that your friend had undergone since the two of you became legally bound to one another. It finally felt like Patrick saw you as a true friend, instead of a reliable person who would do his dirty work. It finally felt like he cared. In some ways, your marriage was the best thing to happen to your friendship. 

Patrick returned to where you were standing, this time with two flutes of champagne and a delicious looking appetizer in his hand. 

“You’re too kind,” you said as he passed you your drink. 

“Anything for my wife,” he mockingly bowed in front of you and you chuckled and shook your head. Over the past year, the two of you slowly became slightly more comfortable with referencing each other as husband and wife, but only really as a joke. You guessed that in a lot of ways, that’s what your marriage was—a ridiculous inside joke.  

He was just about to feed you a hor d'oeuvre when you were approached by a wildly unwelcome figure: the man who had purchased a date with you a few years ago. Despite your one very awkward, stilted date, he never really seemed to get over you–which he made a point to prove at every event you both happened to be at. And unfortunately for you, his generous donations landed him on the guest list for the majority of these events. 

You were used to fighting him off on your own, as he seemed to come and flirt with you regardless of how inappropriate it was for the setting of the event, or even when he already had a beautiful young bombshell hanging on his arm. At this point, you’d learned to just tune his every word out and flee as soon as you possibly could. He was annoying, but he wasn’t dangerous.  

“Hey, honey,” he greeted you way too comfortably. You’d given up on asking him to call you by your name a very long time ago. 

“Hi, John,” you reached out to shake his hand and cringed internally when he kissed the back of your hand. 

“Oh honey, who is this?” Patrick immediately lept in, surprising you with his unsubtle passive aggressive tone and ridiculous use of a pet name. 

“You don’t remember me? I swear, we’ve met a few times.” John asked, trying to smile despite clearly being agitated by the presence of competition.

“Some people are more forgettable than others,” he said with a shrug. “How do you know my wife?” He emphasized the word and you pushed down the small inkling of pride you were feeling. Whether it was from watching Patrick try to scare this annoying man away from you, or being so proudly referred to as his wife, you couldn’t be sure.  

“Finally settling down, eh?” he directed at you, then directed his next statement to Patrick. “We went on a date back in the day.”

“It was for that one date auction thing,” you quickly added context, but paused when you took in John’s less than pleased look. He was a large donor at your own family’s nonprofit, and you were sure that your parents wouldn’t be too pleased with you if they found out he pulled out over you hurting his feelings. “We had a lot of fun, though.”

“We definitely did,” he chuckled and smirked. You wanted to punch him in the mouth. “We should definitely do it again sometime.”

It was clear that Patrick was not taking kindly to seeing you be flirted with so brazenly in front of him. Part of you wondered why he would be possessive, since part of your initial deal was that you could see whoever you wanted, even if that happened to be a creepy old man with a lot of money. The other part of you was enjoying seeing him so fired up. Particularly, seeing him fired up over you. 

“Our schedule is just so busy. Between work and us trying to start a family, I just don’t know when we’ll have time to see you again.”

Trying to start a family? That was definitely news to you. Although, the idea didn’t sound awful. Wasn’t it everyone’s dream to start a family with their closest, most dear friend? 

“Well, she knows where to find me, right, honey?”

“Mhm,” you mumbled, looking into your glass like it was the most interesting thing in the world. 

“Now if you don’t mind, my wife and I are going to go check out the exhibit,” Patrick announced, grabbing your hand and taking a step away from John. 

“You two have fun,” he said before clapping Patrick’s shoulder and leaning in to begin a stage whisper. “Make sure you treat her right and cherish her. If you don’t, I might have to swoop in and do so myself.”

He winked at you and you bit back a gag. 

“Don't you worry your wrinkly little head. Nobody lov- cherishes her more than I do,” he theatrically patted his back much like he’d initially done to him. “See you around.”

Did he almost say what you think he almost said? Surely you misheard him, or he was just playing up your relationship to scare away that creepy man. It really wasn’t anything to think twice about. 

Once the two of you had walked away far enough to be out of earshot, you finally addressed what had just happened. “Thank you, bodyguard. You don’t even know how much I despise that man.”

“He seems like he’s the worst,” he agreed with you, looking back over his shoulder. 

“That’s because he is,” you emphasized. “This is so random, but did you mean what you said earlier?”

Patrick suddenly paused, his face going pale like he’d just seen a ghost. You were a little confused by this reaction, as he’d said nothing to warrant that level of fear. 

“Do you actually want to start a family? Obviously not now, while you’re still playing tennis, but maybe eventually? I know we don’t have the most traditional marriage, but, I don’t know. Neither of us are getting any younger, and it might be fun to co-parent with my best friend,” you were clearly rambling now, but luckily, Patrick came in to rescue you for the second time that night. He looked far less aghast now. 

“I would love that,” he said to you with a genuine smile. You matched his with one of your own. 

———

“Do you have any big plans for retirement?” a reporter asked for the final question of the press conference. 

“Mostly just eating a lot of burgers. And maybe learning how to play pickleball,” Patrick responded, never one to give a serious answer to questions that weren’t explicitly about tennis. 

It was a ridiculous note to end on, but it felt right. You’d found that to be the case with most things in your life that pertained to him–most notably your marriage, which ended up being far more than you ever expected it to be.

After the press conference had come to a close, Patrick met you outside by the car, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips, then leaning down to peck your baby bump. 

“How does it feel to be retired?” you asked, ruffling his hair while he was still bending down.

“It feels like you might divorce me,” he joked. Obviously your marriage deal was only meant to cover the time that he was still playing tennis, but after years of a complicated marriage that suddenly became significantly less complicated once you finally confronted the fact that the two of you very obviously loved each other, it seemed unlikely that your union would end any time soon. 

You glanced down at your baby bump, then back up to him skeptically.  “I hope you’re not being serious.”

“Come on, I never know with you. You’re the one who friendzoned me the entire first year of our marriage!” he exclaimed.

“That was a lifetime ago,” you countered before taking his hands in yours. “If you’re really worried, I have zero intentions of ending our marriage.”

“That’s all I wanted to hear,” he grinned, stepping away from you. “Let’s get going. I don’t want us to miss our reservation.”

You nodded and obliged, passing him the keys before heading to the passenger side of the car.

Once you sat down, you were overcome with the urge to say something. You had spent so much time bottling up and pressing down your own feelings, that it was now hard to resist letting things out when they came to you. 

“I’m so proud of you,” you blurted. “And I love you. So much.”

Patrick smiled at you genuinely, before his look turned into a slightly more devious one. “I love you so much, too. One might even say I love you more.” 

“Don’t even start with that,” you laughed, not in the mood to have the kind of back and forth with him that you had at least once a week. Considering that you were carrying his child, you were pretty sure that you were the winner of the love competition.  

“Fine. We love each other equally,” he conceded.

“That’s more like it.”

You tried to think back to one specific moment where your marriage had crossed over from being one of convenience, into a union with genuine feelings attached, and realized that you weren’t exactly sure. It could’ve been the first night you spent together, when you’d finally allowed yourself to consider what your relationship might look like beyond a simple friendship, or maybe it was even earlier than that, when you gazed into Patrick’s eyes as you read off your vows. The look of pure adoration he gave you was one that you had grown familiar with throughout the course of your marriage, but you hadn’t realized at the time just how genuine he had been. Or maybe even the moment Patrick asked you in the living room of your apartment, when you’d been the first person he thought of to carry out his ridiculous scheme, and you’d said yes despite every logical part of your brain that screamed at you to say no. 

Whenever it began didn’t particularly matter. What mattered now was that the two of you fully intended to spend the rest of your lives together. 

[finalgirllx]

thunderstorms

took some heavy liberties with week 3 of @thatdammchickennugget and i's jinxed july challenge to write the forced proximity mattheo riddle fic of my dreams. i hope you enjoy it just as much as i do. and also big thanks to @pizzaapeteer for proofing, i love you! 2.5k words | fluff? i think | f!reader implied

Snap. Another twig breaks underneath the tattered soles of your shoes while you continue the trek along the less-traveled grove. The air is thick with the scent of wildflowers and earth, and sunlight filters down on you through the leafy branches, casting shadows on the greenery that litters the forest floor. It is pristine, seemingly unaffected by too much human activity. 

That is until Mattheo and you embarked on an increasingly futile mission imposed by your one common interest - your mutual friend Enzo. He had eagerly insisted that it be the two of you that forage for an ingredient native to the area, claiming that adding it to a drink mix can get you wasted quicker than any brew sold in shops.

The pair of you had done well not to stumble too far from Enzo's parents' summer home. A generous invitation had been offered to your friend's group - a chance to relax and kick back there over the long weekend. A relatively secluded area, it is sparsely populated by second homes of the upper class or rickety cabins so old that not even magic can prevent them from slowly succumbing to the elements. Everyone tries to enjoy the spoils of the location's offerings, as it is a sweet spot to spend the few warmer months in Britain.

"Y'know, I am not an outdoorsy guy," Mattheo complains after another branch scrapes his forearm. "This is the dumbest mission Enzo could have sent us on."

"At least we can agree on one thing," you mutter exasperatedly. "I should have known you'd have no sense of your lefts and rights."

Two steps ahead of you, Mattheo pauses and looks back, his expression suggesting, 'You want to go there?' His brows raise, and his chocolate curls still fall perfectly over his forehead despite endless collisions with twigs and branches. Honestly, you were unsure if his looks or personality irked you more. You glare back so he knows exactly how you feel about the situation.

"Right, take no accountability for being one-half of why we are still out here," Mattheo responded in kind, then turning back to continue leading the way.

"You are rid-"

"Ridiculously handsome? I know. Come up with some new material, sweetheart," Mattheo interrupts with his unending cocky attitude. Preparing to unleash more insults, you are startled by the feeling of a cold drop on your head. Then another. And another.

A loud clap echoes above, booming in the sky, followed shortly by the rapid motion of overcast clouds moving in, blocking out any remaining sunlight. A second roar of thunder bursts, sending out another warning that a storm is fast approaching. The sudden singular drop quickly builds into a consistent shower, and the panic sets in over the both of you. Mattheo takes charge, gesturing for you to follow him and for once, you decide to take his lead without talking back, which might have been a mistake as you continue deeper into the forest and further away from the house.

Minutes felt like hours under the increasingly ceaseless downpour as you and Mattheo scrambled through the grove. Finally spotting an old cabin structure, you make a break for it and dash underneath the awning for some reprieve. Mattheo vigorously jiggles the knob of the dilapidated door, seeming to forget his wizarding abilities. Propelled by a clash of thunder, you watched Mattheo resort to brute force, managing to barrel through the door and get you two inside. 

Solely focused on escaping the pouring sky, you follow him in while heaving from the chaos.

"Nice going, genius," you admonished Mattheo while catching your breath. "Forget a first-year unlocking charm?"

"Ungrateful as ever," Mattheo responds gruffly, his amusement overshadowed by temporary exhaustion as he steps over and shuts the door that is barely held up on its hinges. "See? I got you out of the rain, and the door still works." 

The two of you take some time to shake yourselves off in a meager effort to eliminate that soaked feeling. Squeezing out your top,  you silently curse at the unpleasantness of your damp hair that now clings to your face. You looked over and watched Mattheo shaking his head, his hair splattering leftover water all over the vicinity.

"You're like a wet dog," you feign disgust, unable to resist a chance to tease.

"What else am I expected to do?" Mattheo countered, brushing his hands through his hair and hoping for the best.

"Be more tasteful with it," you suggested, suppressing a snort afterward at your own poor choice of words.

"Tasteful? You seriously went with tasteful?" Mattheo caught on, his disgruntled look from the uncomfortable wet transforming into a grin. "Bloody hell, sweetheart, I know you love my perfect curls, but that really is the least of my concerns." 

You coped by turning away to continue drying yourself off, hoping he did not see your disconcerted expression.

Once Mattheo reached a state of dampness he could live with, he stepped toward the intact windows to watch the storm outside. It was miraculous that a cabin as worse for wear as this one held its own against the onslaught.

"Well, we might be stuck here for some time. I suggest you get comfortable," Mattheo announced with a resigned sigh, glancing back to the room for potential spots to sit or, more accurately, the lack thereof. "The floor. The floor will do."

He follows through, eyeing spaces on the rickety floorboards to settle down. You roll your eyes at the idea, though the increasing weight of your legs after all that running starts to wear on you and beckon you down. So you give in, finding your own spot to settle, a perfectly reasonable distance from him. His eyes bore into you with an unreadable expression, a bit too analytical for your comfort. You are not too fond of him watching your every move. Not at all.

"Could you look elsewhere? I am not your prey to stalk," you finally snap. 

"What? This is just how I look at things. You cannot blame me; it is either you or the rotting walls," Mattheo retorts, emphasizing his point with a gesture of his hands.

"Your eyes are… they look too hard!" you complain amidst a struggle to find the right way to explain why his gaze ruffled you so much.

"Too hard? She thinks I look too hard, whatever the hell that means. Salazar, help us, a true wordsmith in the midst," Mattheo complained to himself, ensuring his frustration was loud enough to invite further squabbling.

"I am just saying! Look elsewhere!" you insisted.

"I can't help it. You are more interesting-looking," Mattheo justified through gritted teeth, his increasing annoyance evident.

"Interesting-looking? And you accuse me of being unable to talk today. Is that meant to be a compliment?"

"Tell me you would not have my head if I called you pretty, so interesting it is!" Mattheo growled in a harsh but earnest tone. He shook his head, jaw clenched to the point of discomfort over what he admitted. Just to add to the pettiness, he scooted to face even further away from your direction.

This development undoubtedly took you by surprise, silencing you momentarily in your conversation. You always had a comeback for Mattheo, but this was the first time you had absolutely no clue how to retaliate.

"Pretty?" you repeated, pushing aside your dignity to clarify you had heard correctly.

"Yes, pretty," Mattheo confirmed, his voice huskier than the bellowing moments prior. "Is that such a shock to you?"

It honestly did feel like a shock. In all the time you had known each other, the words you exchanged were cheeky at best and plain disrespectful at worst. A more tender way of describing you was not something you expected to come from Mattheo at all.

"It is. I thought I was just your favorite punching bag," you admitted. 

"Oh, please. Do you honestly believe I would answer you at all if I really could not stand you? Perhaps you are more dimwitted than I initially presumed."

"I just thought—"

"And given that I have seen you quite literally punch some poor bloke who truly bothered you, I assumed you fell into a similar train of thought, no?"

Hell, you hated it when he was right. Something about Mattheo kept you coming back for more in a way that couldn't simply be attributed to the proximity of your friend group. The feelings creeping up inside you now had less to do with being stuck in a cabin with him through a storm and more with how this predicament forced you to come to terms with how you truly felt. You visibly shifted where you sat as feelings you had no clue how to handle washed over you more intensely than the rain still pouring outside.

Mattheo rose again without warning and stalked around the cabin, this time on a mission.

"What are you doing?"

"A blanket, a towel. Something to warm you up," he replied, his attention fixed on his newfound goal, which was an insatiable need to help and protect you in your wetted state. 

"You do not have to! It will probably be full of mildew should you even find one," you protested through your sheer surprise at his kind gesture.

Initially written off as too damp to use, the fireplace centered on the cabin's back wall was suddenly vital to Mattheo's mission. Finally remembering that he was a wizard, Mattheo reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wand, and crouched in front of the fireplace.

"Incendio…" he spoke the incantation, causing a flame to spout from his wand toward the firewood on top of the grate, hoping they were not too far gone from the elements.

To your shared relief, a small fire came to life before your eyes, its glow brightening your dampened spirits which was soon followed by an embrace of its much-needed heat. 

"Yes!" Mattheo hissed excitedly, hurriedly gesturing you to come closer, and you did. The previous distance you had created no longer mattered, as you were now shoulder-to-shoulder with him for a chance to enjoy the warmth provided by the lit fireplace.

With the both of you too focused on warming up by the crackling flames and learning to ignore the blaring storm outside, peaceful silence hung in the air. A mutual respect arose between you as you ruminated over the afternoon's events.

You glanced at Mattheo, whose shoulder you were now definitely pressed against, and seized the opportunity to check him out shamelessly. He was right; that penetrative gaze remained even in his resting state. The light from the fire highlighted the warmth in his eyes that usually matched the dark of night, and his brown locks that had dried into bouncy coils perfectly suited his chiseled structure. The last remaining baby fat on his cheeks softened his enigmatic look, especially in more calm instances such as this. Few were treated to such a view of him, let alone have the capacity to appreciate it like you did. Wait - appreciating him? He seems to catch on simultaneously, the corners of his lips twitching in satisfaction over your turn to gaze.

"I am not your prey to stalk," he abruptly spoke up in a high-pitched, mocking tone to mimic your previous dramatics. You pushed your shoulder against him further as a hollow threat to get him to quit his teasing.

"You look too hardddd."

"Stopppp," you plead, pressing against him again, which causes him to turn to you finally. That stupid, intense gaze again was now much too close for comfort.

Mattheo scoops your hands into his larger, calloused ones, suddenly enclosing yours. He begins rubbing them, his touch creating a friction that warms your fingers, and despite your confusion, you don't immediately pull away.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to warm you up."

"It is still summer. They are not that cold, really…"

"Let me just have this excuse to hold your hands," Mattheo says hushedly, shutting down all of your protests. His touch is comforting, so you allow it.

"Forward this evening, are we?" you still can not resist asking with a raised brow.

"Maybe. But when else will we be trapped for a night like this?" Mattheo was right again, blasted. The bubbling chemistry was now utterly unavoidable, and this night was simply the catalyst for this new beginning.

Still, it was so recent that you likely would not change your behavior towards each other once you returned to your friends, who were probably worried sick about your whereabouts. The storm was still raging, so you just accepted that it would be easier to call it a night instead of waiting for it to pass or even worse; risking your safety by trudging through it. You silently agreed with Mattheo to let this evening run its natural course, showing your reciprocated feelings by allowing him to continue creating friction with your hands via a similar technique used to make a fire.

The rest of the evening went by uneventfully as you cozied up to each other, finding yourself leaning more into him as your lids grew heavier with tiredness.

Mattheo took on the role of a pillow, pressing his back to the floor and letting you lay against him, going as far as draping your leg over his and resting your head on his chest. The resistant part of you wanted to claim this was merely to survive the night, but Merlin, he was easy to sink into. No longer fighting the call of rest, your last conscious moment was the feeling of Mattheo pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before sleep took over.

—-------------

The chirping of birds and light rays seeping into the small windows of the cabin signaled it was time to wake up. You two had stayed wrapped up in each other for the night, which was probably the sole reason you felt at all rested.

The warm embrace of Mattheo kept you tucked cozily into his arms, providing a warmth that was now overwhelmingly hot in the morning summer heat. Suddenly, the chatter of approaching voices traveled around the hollowness of the cabin before the distinctive voice of Enzo called out. "It only took a dangerous thunderstorm to bring you two together," he remarked, a wicked grin matching his chirpy tone. You looked up to meet his gaze through the cracked window, which illuminated your intimate position with Mattheo. The cheeky disturbance startled Mattheo awake with a jump, groaning at the loud intrusion of his mates' voices.

You observed through squinted eyes as Mattheo and Enzo began quarreling. Amidst the light-hearted chaos, you heard snippets like 'It's not what it looks like!' and 'The ingredients search was a load of bollocks, wasn't it?' The goal to save face came second to your relief at rejoining your friends.

A ruse that had gotten way out of hand landed you in the last place you would have expected this morning, but the possibilities it offered left you nervous but hopeful. You watched a bit longer before stretching and getting up to join, armed with your own silly defenses over why you were caught in Mattheo's arms as the lot of you made your way back to the summer home.

[diazsdimples]

Evan Buckley being bisexual is so much more to me than a step closer to Buddie and here's why.

Evan Buckley being bisexual is the representation we are so lacking in today's media, of a man, in his 30's, who has been marked as a "ladies man" since day one, finally able to be authentic and true to himself as he learns and grows through this journey.

The reason this is personal to me is as follows.

I have always been into men. To the extent that I never really had to come out as gay as it was just... known, ya know? The grass is green, the sky is blue, James likes dick. I am gay. BUT. In the last 2-3 months, I've been having feelings that maybe I might not be? For years I've only been interested in men. I am married to a man!!

But then, a singular woman came along, was extremely hot, and fuck, my entire identity of being gay and solely into men was spun around and fucked bodily against a wall. And it was scary. It still is! This is the first time I've like, openly acknowledged that yeah, I think I'm bisexual, without feeling like I'm going to panic or freak out, or feel like I have to deny it.

And then, imagine going through all this, questioning your identity, suddenly seeing women (plural, this has been lifechanging) in this new light, as not only people I desperately want to be friends with and work alongside, but also maybe have sex with? Whilst still being married TO A MAN!!! And now, sitting there minding my own business, watching my happy little wee woo show, and Evan fucking Buckley, the man who I relate to most, kisses another man and realises that fuck, he might be bisexual too?? To see my own experiences reflected on TV at the same time as I'm experiencing them??

I genuinely wept.

Because now, Buck and I get to explore our bisexuality at the same time. And I feel a little more confident to do so, because seeing this on TV is like the breath of validation that I needed. It's okay to come into your own later in life (I say at 23 but still), it's okay to not have everything sorted in your teens, and it's okay to just be yourself.

Because that is what Buck is doing, and I'm going to do it too. Thank you, to ABC, Oliver Stark, and Evan Buckley for giving us - giving me the representation and the validation that is needed.

[oh-mother-fucket]

man itd be crazy if there was tumblr in nevada.

0 notes

🥷wimbletins follow

we should kill people who annoy us

💀hostage005 follow

even me?????

🥷wimbletins follow

of course not hostage 005. i love you.

140 notes

🚬smokin-hot follow

gonna shove hank in the chamber wish me luck loyal followers 🙏

🚬smokin-hot follow

WHERE AM I

25 notes

🔴god-emperor-of-nevada follow

NEWSFLASH, NEXUS CORE, I'VE BEEN ALIVE THIS ENTIRE TIME!!!!!

🪶prophet-of-bouyancy follow

please im so tired

🔴god-emperor-of-nevada follow

You have to come work for me boy.

🪶prophet-of-bouyancy follow

i cant fucking do this man

14 notes

🛑clownin-around follow

DOES ANYONE WANT TO PLAY SAW TRAPS WITH ME HANK DO YOU WANT TO PLAY SAW TRAPS WITH ME

🥷wimbletins follow

please. no more.

235 notes

💀hostage002 follow

its so cold and dark in here

💀hostage005 follow

there are skins in the corner if you need warmth

💀hostage002 follow

im so fucking hungry man i might eat them instead

💀hostage008 follow

i havent seen the outside world in years youll get used to it

✂️2bdamned follow

can u guys stop bein so dam dramatic and help with dinner. its not even that cold

💀hostage002 follow

easy for you to say

✂️2bdamned follow

we dont have ac you stupid bitch

47 notes

🪝torture-luvrrr follow

why nothin fit me no more :/ everythings so tight tshirts are like crop tops nowadays

🪝torture-luvrrr follow

thanks for the one singular like deimos i know what you are.

🚬smokin-hot follow

hey. whats up man.

⭕aahw-asset-573744858 follow

hey smokin-hot jsyk op is a literal torturer and kidnapper and conspirator you shouldnt be so buddy buddy w them

🚬smokin-hot follow

yeah i know

⭕aahw-asset-573744858 follow

then pls unfollow and block them, i dont wanna add you to the callout post

🚬smokin-hot follow

serious question why do you follow me

⭕aahw-asset-573744858 follow

idk i think youre cool

🚬smokin-hot follow

oh my maker. dude. ohhhh my maker this is so fucking funny

buddy, im A DISSENTER

⭕aahw-asset-573744858 follow

thats a shame, i rlly liked u. pls consider reformatting bc dissenters have done nevada so much harm... i wish u the best

🪝torture-luvrrr follow

what the fuck is happening on my hornybait post

4362 notes

[mysteria157]

Moment Two: Your Daughter's First Pair

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Black Fem Reader

CW: fluff, profanity (not really), sexual suggestion, slight angst (very minimal).

Word Count: ~3.4k

Summary: Nanami joins you and your daughter for a family tradition, but he may not be as strong as he thinks.

Set in the It Had To Be You universe but you don't need a lot of backstory to follow along.

Notes: This was a random thought that I had based on something that has always been a thing in my family that I wanted to write out. There is nothing significant about this, I have not written Nanami in a LONG time, so I'm trying to warm myself up again. I am so rusty but I'm using fleeting moments of inspiration and taking advantage of it.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are always welcome! Happy reading!

Divider: @saradika | Header: myself

| Twitter | Ao3 | Masterlist | Moment One | Moment Three...Eventually

©mysteria157, all rights reserved. DO NOT copy, plagiarize, reupload, modify, or translate (without permission) my work to other accounts and platforms.

MINORS DNI

“You don’t need to hold her so tight.”

“I’m protecting her.”

“And what am I, a goat?”

He raises a brow at your jest, autumn wheat and elegant but nonetheless annoyed as he glares at you. He doesn’t mean it, you know that—it’s all nerves.

“Ken, we don’t have to do this you know? If you’re against the idea, we can wait a few more years.”

“I’m not against it,” he reassures you, adjusting your daughter in his arms. Ulani babbles up at him, her chubby hands digging into a sharply cut cheekbone. He carries on without complaint, already used to her behavior. “This is a tradition, and I understand it but…”

You turn a key chain in one hand, your thumb smoothing along the glittery face of a dog—or is it a cat? The rack is filled with key chains of different colors, animals and objects, bringing back memories of middle school when you would drag your best friend Omelia into this same store in Sendai before it closed down. Despite the many years that have passed, the store chain still has its subtle hues of purples and pinks, earrings punched through purple cardboard paper, pens with wonky erasers, and headbands of different designs.

“But what?” you try to finish for him, smiling up at his nervous form as he lets Ulani talk to him in her own baby language.

Kento pulls in a deep breath as if to steel his nerves and prepare for the inevitable. He’s praying to whoever will listen, trying to use every coping mechanism in the book. He’s wearing jeans that hug his fit thighs and a dark blue short sleeve that shows too much bicep for your liking (you should give him a dress code). There are only so many single and married women and men that you can glare at in a day, and the redhead over by the register is pushing it.

“Will it hurt her?” your boyfriend’s low timber pulls you back, filled with apprehension, and he keeps mahogany eyes on his daughter to avoid showing you just how scared he is. You rub his back to soothe him, tracing the bands of muscle that are tense behind the soft fabric.

“I-I’m worried.”

“And you shouldn’t be. It’s a simple thing, lasts two seconds. Just like when she got her first shots.”

That’s not enough for him, because now Kento furrows his eyebrows in frustration, bouncing his daughter in his arms to entertain her and also soothe himself. “There are a lot of things to consider. The risk of infection. Rejection. What if she hates them? What if they get caught on her clothes? Or her curls? Or—”

“Are we ready?” one of the employee’s sing songs from behind you both, walking towards the singular chair perched against the glass wall of the store.

“I—” Kento croaks, clearing his throat and swallowing loudly. He looks down at you. “Are we?”

In the time you’ve known him, you’ve only seen Kento visibly nervous a handful of times. That stoic demeanor is a smooth, stone-like shell to everyone else besides family and close friends, but you know the weak spots and have glimpsed into the fragmented sections only visible to your eyes. Right now, he’s nervous and fearful beyond belief. That all encompassing love and attention that he shows you from sunup to sundown extends to his daughter as well. If there is one person besides you, who can make Nanami Kento show his emotions freely and without reservation no matter the date, place, or time, it’s Ulani.

“How about you hold her?” you suggest and give him a small push towards the black chair. Two employees work at the small kiosk next to him, unwrapping sterile materials and cotton swabs. Kento’s eyes watch every movement, searching for any sign of threat that can give him the ammunition to take his daughter and never come back. You can practically hear his thoughts:

“Is that up to code?”

“How long has that been sealed?”

“What is the name of the manufacturer so that I can ensure it’s reputable?”

Your roll your own eyes, knowing how right you might be.

When you found out your pediatrician would be on her own maternity leave, you let Kento research every establishment in Tokyo until he found one in Shibuya. Reputable, good reviews, and well-practiced in this procedure.

Of course, you’re nervous too. She’s your daughter, a combination of you and Kento, conceived from a very drunken night of disdain but grown out of eventual love and adoration. The thought of her crying in pain makes that maternal part of you flare with anger and the consuming need to protect her forever. But you’ve prepared for this for awhile.

Kento? Not so much.

“Is that clean?” your boyfriend asks one of the employees, clutching his daughter a little tighter. It’s a little rude, but the employee smiles at him in a way that conveys understanding of his trepidation. This isn’t their first rodeo.

“Completely sterile from the package. I promise she’s in great hands.” Deep eyes free of steampunk-esque glasses flicker up at her in doubt, but he simply sniffs and looks back to his daughter instead to withhold a scathing remark. “How about one of us on each side, and we do it at once?” she suggests, addressing him directly. It helps, as he gives her a somber but curt nod.

He situates Ulani in his arms so she’s sitting fully on his lap, his large hands holding her up with a slight tremble. The sight is enough to remind you again that this is new territory for him. What has always been a normal tradition for you and the other females in your life, is a foreign concept for him.

Ear piercings are a milestone in a young girl’s life. You got yours as a baby, and so did your mother. Omelia got hers as a baby, as did all her female cousins, as did her mother and the mother before her. If you interacted with your mother’s side of the family, then maybe you would know if your cousins also did the same.

But that’s another thought for another time, and you refuse to let painful memories tarnish what should be a memory you are crafting on your own, right now.

You step closer and run your hands through thick blond locks that are free of gel. You brush the strands from his forehead, letting the soft texture slip past your fingertips as he relaxes instantly. With his place in his chair, he’s at the perfect height to rest his head on your stomach, and he does so a second later.

One of his hands brushes light brown curls from his daughters ears. You can feel the unease radiating from him with every deep breath he takes, and you scratch that spot at his nape that makes him shudder, hoping it will help.

The muscles in Kento’s neck bunch together instead when one of the employee’s leans toward Ulani to make marks in deep purple, and even your own stomach turns in response at what’s to come. 

“Okay, we will do this on three. How’s that sound honey?” one of the employees coos at your daughter. Ulani, who is a carbon copy of her father, stares up at her, observant and sinking into her daddy before offering a gummy smile. “She’s so pretty.”

“She’s beautiful,” Kento corrects, slightly rough but still appreciative of the compliment. “Aren’t you, my dove?”

He tickles her side and offers a rare chuckle as she squeals up at him, wiggling in her father’s embrace. The sight makes your heart do flips because this is your world, day in and day out. Just you, Kento, and the person you’ve created together.

You step around to squat in front of him so you’re eye level with your daughter, a hand coming up to wiggle the toes covered in a tan sock. Her eyes catch you immediately, and she holds your gaze long enough for the two employees to position themselves on each side of her. 

Kento holds his breath.

“Alright, here we go. One. Two. Three.”

They both move in sync, pressing down on the plastic gun so the studs slide through the soft lobe of Ulani’s lower ears. Kento’s eyebrows furl together immediately. Ulani’s eyes widen for a second before her face contorts, her mouth opening in a silent cry. Your heart hammers and your chest tightens in an sudden flood of sadness and desperation that crashes against you like a tumultuous wave when Ulani takes one heaving breath in….

And screams.

His reaction is quick. Kento bounces one leg at a tempo that alarms you, his handsome face flying through different stages of grief, anger, and pain as he watches the employees adjust the diamond earrings to ensure they heal without complication. His mouth opens and closes, jaw grinding to keep his rudeness in check, because you know what he wants to say.

He was the same way when she got her shots; all glares and sharp stares at everyone else because they were the source of her discomfort. But like that time before, you are the cooling balm for his hot anger as you wiggle your daughters toes and murmur soothing words at her, to show him that she’s going to be just fine.

“It’s okay, baby,” you smile softly and it’s enough to capture her attention even though she’s squealing and crying from the sharp but quick pain in her ears. But all too quickly, you’re not enough for her, because the daughter that you carried for almost ten months turns away and reaches for her father, crying loudly in his arms. It’s a sting that you prepared for, but nonetheless hurts with a severity that takes a few seconds for you to recover from.

By the time you pay one of the employees and exit the store, Ulani has already calmed down. Kento digs into the diaper bag on his shoulder and pulls out a cotton cloth, wiping her nose as she sniffles and whines into his shoulder.

“I know honey, I know,” he coos to her, wiping the tears from her light brown skin and swaying back and forth. “But you were so strong, weren’t you? Hmm? A lot stronger than me.”

He pulls her away from his neck, smiling softly at her, and that one smile makes your chest bloom with satisfaction. It’s times like these that remind you how your life has surprisingly fallen into place. Who would have thought that the man who used to drive you insane would be the only one fit for you? 

That small twinge of hurt you felt minutes ago when Ulani turned away from you resurfaces, but reassurance cools it’s prickly edges. Even though this is a moment you may have been more connected with, it’s Kento who feels the painful side of it a lot more.

So you give him his own moment. You watch quietly as he kisses her chubby cheeks repeatedly, smiling into her skin at the giggles that leave her. You fall into the hum of the world around you as you watch him tuck away the cotton cloth and smooth the curls away from Ulani’s ears, finally admiring the diamonds that twinkle on each side. The lobes will be red for a few days, but for Ulani, she will never think of them again until she’s old enough to pay attention. Until she’s old enough to change them out to match the outfits she decides to wear, different colors and gemstones, and multiples if she ever has a streak of expression in her teenage years. Like you did.

Kento finally looks down at you, chestnut browns sparkling as he takes you in from head to toe. The harsh Shibuya sun beats down on bustling city square, but the rays are soft when they touch him. Tan skin is illuminated gold on his cheekbones, his hair luminous in the sun. You reach up to run a hand through his locks for the second time this afternoon, your heart still not used to the incessant hammering that arises when he leans into your touch.

You lift an accusatory eyebrow at him and hold back a chuckle when you speak. “Our daughter was the soldier this afternoon, and yet I’m coddling you?”

“Keep coddling,” he demands, voice tinged with mirth as he turns to place a kiss inside of your palm and then leans back into your stroking. “Today was very painful for me, have you no shame?” 

You snort and dig your nails into his scalp in retaliation, enjoying the groan that rumbles in the air from your ministrations. “Don’t blame this one moment on your entire day. You had a great run, remember?”

“My slowest three mile run yet.” Quick on the draw, and you already know where this is going. Kento rarely complains, but when he does, it is about the most trivial things as a means to get and keep your attention.

“You made me pancakes this morning.”

“Not my best work. Too much cinnamon in the batter.”

“We made out two hours ago?”

“Ulani woke from her nap and interrupted what would have been a very enjoyable afternoon.” That complaint leaves his mouth in a grumble, and you purse your lips to hold off the laughter that sits in the back of your throat. He’s truly pouting, and god do you love him.

“And now seeing your daughter cry from her first ear piercing was icing on the cake of a bad day, I imagine?”

“Exactly.”

You finally giggle and playfully pull a strand of his hair. He narrows his eyes at you, mischievous yet still carrying that ingrained indifference that you know and love. Ulani shrieks in his arms, finally past her blip of crying and now ready for her parent’s attention. You take in her drool of a smile, slightly red ears, and brown onesie-dress, and the possibilities flood your mind. It’s…very overwhelming when the thoughts hit you: how she will grow into herself, develop her personality, her wants and desires, her hobbies and her dreams. 

“Pay attention to me,” he interrupts your thoughts, and you can’t help the bark of laughter that you give him in response. Ulani mimics you, completely oblivious.

“You’re such a baby, and we have a baby,” you tease, snorting at his level expression and dusty cheeks, slightly shy but absorbing your presence. “You and Ulani have had it rough today. So how about a reward?” You look to your daughter when you ask, knowing damn well she has no idea what you’re saying but you want to include her anyway.

“How about frozen yogurt?” I.e., the unsweetened applesauce in the diaper bag for Ulani and matcha-flavored frozen yogurt for Kento from a favorite vendor a few blocks away. It’s an obsession of his that’s been appearing in the freezer with numbing regularity.

Kento remains unphased by your suggestion, though his lips twitch with the desire to smirk down at you.

“Seeing our daughter in pain was more heartbreaking than I thought. Food may not help, I’m afraid.”

Kento is milking his “pain” at this point, and you’re far too in love with him not to entertain the idea you know is floating in his head. You love this about him, just how playful he is when it comes to you.

“You’re a tough nut to crack.” You tap your chin as if you’re thinking hard, humming in contemplation. “How about…” you trail off, a hand sliding up a muscular bicep before massaging his nape again, relishing in the shudder he gives in response, his eyes twitching to hold back the urge to roll into his head in satisfaction. “Since you’ve suffered so much today…we can go home…and I’ll do that thing you like.”

You have the privilege and skill of being able to read Nanami Kento like a book. You don’t miss the glee that dances across his features—the uptick of one side of his mouth, the slow brow lift, the darkening of his irises. He knows exactly what that thing is. You’re pretty good at it—a master at it—and he made you promise that the day he ever turns that thing down, is the day you can leave him.

His cheeks explode in blush, jaw ticking before he clears his throat and smooths a sweaty hand down the dark blue of his shirt.

“I see,” he ponders, looking up to the sky as if in deep thought, and you know if you roll your eyes again, they’ll get stuck. “Well.” He situates Ulani in his arms and presses a few kisses to her cheek again to pull those giggles from her that you both love. “Who am I to deny your mother?” he suggests to his daughter. “Not a moment to waste, Ulani.”

“You’ve got to be kidding—”

“Quickly, before you change your mind.” He slides a hand to the small of your back as a means to hurry you along, pressing softly and turning you in the direction of the car.

You try to bat his hands away from you, giggles growing in volume as he dodges all your attempts to get rid of him. “I’m not going to change my mind, Ken—”

“Quickly.”

He takes your hand and you let him pull you, beaming at his back as he increases his pace. Ulani is happy as can be in her father’s arms and babbling as he talks softly to her.

“A snack before nap time sounds good, doesn’t it? What kind of applesauce would you like today?” She gurgles. “Cinnamon again? Hmmm, we should always try new things, Dove. What about the strawberry ones I bought you yesterday?” A squeal. “Strawberry it is. I think…”

The rest of their conversation fades into the background as you walk with them, warmth coursing through your veins with each step. It’s a warmth that catches you off guard, but has been ever present since Ulani’s birth. And you love every bit of how it feels. How it flows through you with every breath you take. How it only grows every minute, every hour, every day that you create a life with them.

After Ulani is buckled in her car seat and you slide your seat belt into its latch, Kento leans across the armrest, a warm hand sliding against your cheek in a gentle caress before he slants his lips against yours. It’s a surprise, but the shock dies as quickly as it forms as you melt into his touch—full lips that know your own and soft blonde locks brushing your face.

That affection that he pulls from you every day is given back in this moment—freely and without restraint—in the parking lot of Claire’s in Shibuya, where your daughter got her ears pierced for the first time.

When he pulls away and whispers his love for you against your lips, you repeat it back to him without thinking. It’s a motion that you both carry out whenever you can. 

“No more piercings. My heart will probably give out.”

“Do you feel better?” you ask in a tone that is filled with the teasing nature that sticks to you like a second skin.

He loves it, but doesn’t take the bait, and instead kisses your lips again, each cheek, and the tip of your nose. “I will soon.” The innuendo is so obvious you can taste it. He’s been with you too long to be a blushing and awkward man. “Once Ulani is asleep.” You push him away with a giggling huff and savor the deep chuckle that falls from his lips, permeating the air of the car.

As Kento drives through the crowded streets towards your shared home in Nakameguro, the hand not on the steering wheel envelops yours, a thumb stroking the skin of your palm. You look out the window and observe the colors and cars that zoom by, and the sound of a deep breath behind you makes you look back. And when you do, your heart gives a painful but welcoming lurch as you gaze at her. Your daughter already asleep, her head dipping to the side—curly locks askew and sticking to the drool on her face, and her new diamond earrings shining back at you.

Thanks for reading!

[lovebugism]

Hi I am begging on my knees for more of your steddie x reader it’s so good I’m crying

BIZARRE LOVE TRIANGLE | baby fever

summary: steve's got a bad case of baby fever. it's not so bad until you start getting sick with it too. eddie has to come up with a solution before all of you fall ill.

pairing: steve harrington / f!reader / eddie munson

a/n: i just realized i haven't posted anything steddie related in almost three months. i am so sorry. this is a total travesty. please enjoy this 3k blurb and find it in your heart to forgive me <3

You squint at the grocery list scribbled on a bright blue sticky note. It’s a mish-mash of all your different handwritings. Some are certainly neater than others. “This just says crabs… I think...”

“It doesn’t say crabs, you loon,” Eddie laughs from where he mans the shopping cart beside you. He’s steering the thing about as well as his van. “It says cereals.”

“No, it says a bunch of gibberish that no one can read but you,” you retort with a giggle of your own as you follow him down the breakfast aisle. “And we just need one box of cereal, alright? Singular.”

He turns to you with a cartoonish pout on his lips. “But why?”

“Because you’re like a kid, Eds. You eat the entire thing in one sitting, and then you’re absolutely haywire for the rest of the day.”

And, just like a child, the boy stands in front of the vibrantly colored boxes of cereal with a wide grin on his face.

The local grocery store was smaller compared to the others in town, but they had every brand of the breakfast food known to man, stacked in neat rows from the floor to ceiling. 

Eddie’s got a twinkle in his eye as his gaze runs over them all. And even though you think it’s all boyish and hilarious, you let him have his fun. 

He grew up unable to enjoy all the goodness of overly sweet cereal because bills and food with actual sustenance were always more important. Now, he’s got a halfway stable job with Wayne at the car shop, and he’s living at his own place with his boyfriend and girlfriend, and he can buy whatever the hell kind of cereal he wants. 

So, as far as he’s concerned, everyone who said he’d never amount to much can suck it. 

And you know you’ll let him buy the whole damn grocery store out of their cereal if that’s what he wants. It’s the least you can do for the world’s best boyfriend — a title he begrudgingly shares with Steve The Hair Harrington.

You’d give him the world if you could, but for now you’ll have to settle for a couple of boxes of Lucky Charms.

“Okay, so the OJ’s we got last time tasted like absolute shit,” Eddie mutters, mostly to himself as he crouches to peer at the lower shelves. “I saw a commercial for Waffle-O’s this morning, and they looked pretty good. But I know you like Breakfast With Barbie and Steve ate a bowl of C3PO’s every day for, like, two weeks, so…”

You stand by the cart and laugh at his rambling. You turn to look behind you with a lighthearted joke sitting on the edge of your tongue. It dissipates when you realize Steve isn’t next to you. 

Instead, he’s still standing at the end of the aisle with his back to you and Eddie — like his feet forgot how to work when he caught sight of the family across the store. It’s a mother and a father, dressed in their mid-weekday finest, with a baby swaddled at their chest and a toddler bouncing in the seat of the shopping cart. 

And you know it’s got the boy totally lost in his own head. You know he's picturing you and him and Eddie as that happy family — the one fills every store you walk into with baby babbles and bubbly laughter. 

Steve told you his senior year of high school he wanted a baby, that he wanted six of them, and that he wanted them all with you. And you were just a stupid seventeen-year-old girl who would’ve done anything he asked you to, though you definitely drew the line at babies. 

But you’re older now, and far more settled than you had been all that time ago. Steve’s ready for a family, but you don’t think you’re anywhere close.

“How about we just compromise and get all three?” Eddie finally concludes with the boxes already in his arms. He dumps them into the cart and notices that your attention is elsewhere. He realizes then that Steve’s gone too because his attention is stuck on a nice family minding their own business. 

“Not again…” he murmurs to himself while you go rescue the boy.

“I’ve never seen someone so sick with baby fever in my life,” you laugh as you drag Steve back to the cart by his wrist.

“I can’t help it!” he defends weakly. “They were so cute! They were all matching and I couldn’t stop thinking about how I can’t wait to coordinate outfits with our baby. Doesn’t that sound like the cutest fucking thing ever?”

“It sounds very adorable, Stevie,” you nod understandingly and try to ignore the way your stomach twists at the thought of him and his baby girl wearing matching pastels every time they step out of the house. “And we can be just like them in five years—”

“Five years?” he gapes.

“Maybe even ten,” Eddie shrugs and nonchalantly tosses a box of Count Chocula into the cart.

“Ten years— You guys are insane if you think I’m waiting ten years to have a kid!” Steve protests with a pair of buff arms crossed boyishly over his chest. “I’m not getting any younger over here, you know that, right?”

“You’re twenty-five, Steve, stop being so dramatic. We’re just now trying to get settled. I’m still in school, you’re still working at Family Video, Eddie’s still… Eddie. Don’t you think we should have actual careers before we have a kid?”

Steve huffs and rolls his eyes, feigning annoyance even though he knows you’re right.

It’s not like he wants to keep working at the stupid store on Main Street. He keeps putting off the conversation with his dad about another job, because he puts off every conversation with his dad. He’s scared of what asking for a position at his firm will do to his pride.

“She’s right, and you know it, Steven,” Eddie tells him, then scoffs. “I mean, can you really imagine me with a baby strapped to my chest on tour?”

You and Steve both pause and tilt your heads to the side as you picture the sight, terribly in sync as always. You can imagine it, quite perfectly actually, tangible enough to touch.

“Well—”

“That’s the cutest thing I think I’ve ever heard,” Steve finishes your thought for you.

Eddie cowers at the sudden attention. “Okay, stop looking at me like I’m a piece of meat, alright? We are not having a kid right now. There’s no fucking way.”

Steve all but deflates at the rejection as Eddie pushes the cart down the aisle, desperate to escape the bubble of tension the conversation had created in the cereal section.

You smile sheepishly over at Steve and wrap your arms through the crook of his elbow, standing on the tips of your toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “He’s being grumpy about it, but he’s right… It’s just not a good idea right now— but it will be, okay? One day. Just not… to-day.”

┄

The day, for you, comes exactly seven of them later. 

You accompany Steve on his morning run and his routine stop for coffee. You’re not quite sure how he’s still mobile because your muscles are screaming, even after the warm shower you took to soothe them.

You left him alone for all of half a second to use the bathroom while he ordered drinks for him and you, and something extra for Eddie for when the boy decides to roll out of bed.

When you return, you find him bouncing a baby on his hip — a young thing, maybe three if you had to guess, with two buns in her hair like bunny ears and a sparkly pink dress to match the bows she wears in them.

Steve smiles down at her, talking to her in a baby voice and saying something you can’t hear because you’re frozen in place. You resemble him at the grocery store a week ago, when he was thrown into a daydream so suddenly that his body all but shut down. 

You look at him now, tickling the baby’s sides just to hear her giggle, and you see him with your firstborn — sleep deprived, covered in spit-up, and still the most beautiful human you’d ever seen.

You have to shake your head to remove the thought before it ruins you entirely. 

Freshly jostled from your stupor, you walk over to him. “Steve… Please tell me you didn’t steal someone’s baby.”

He laughs. “What? No! She was just a little fussy, and I offered to take her while her mom looked for something,” the boy explains. You look just behind him to see the woman bent over at one of the smaller tables, sifting vigorously through a large baby bag.

“She doesn’t seem very fussy now,” you observe, eyes flitting between his and the child's and noticing they’ve both got matching grins.

“She doesn’t, does she?” he smiles, softly scratching at her sides again to make her laugh. And she does, most enthusiastically so, tilting her head back and letting the giggles spill from an open mouth.

He turns back to you, with wide eyes and raised brows and a bemused grin. “I like she likes me.”

“Of course, she does,” you scoff. “Babies always like you.”

The mom returns with a snack in hand and a relieved smile. Steve passes the baby back to her with little effort. She whines at the loss of him, though the brightly packaged treat is quick to quell her sorrow. 

“Thanks for taking her,” the mother's grateful smile falters with exhaustion. “If I don’t give her the same snack at exactly the same time every day, she tends to go a little nuts.” 

Steve tells her that it’s no problem, that he was a part-time babysitter at one point in his life, and that her kid was better than those little shits combined. He censors himself before the swear slips out, though.

You go your separate ways when the barista calls out your drink orders and walk hand in hand back to your place.

“Did you get their names?” you ask him before taking a sip of your latte.

“The mom’s name was Maeve and the kid’s name was Harper—”

“Holy shit,” you mutter.

Steve snaps his head over to you because he thinks you’ve burnt your mouth. Instead, he finds you with a distant smile on your face.

“Those are the cutest names I’ve ever heard. It sounds like something out of a fucking cartoon or something.”

“Yeah…” is all he can say because his mind is preoccupied with a million other thoughts. He doesn’t tell you them, obviously, but you know they’re there. The sly smile pulling at his lips makes it obvious.

“…Why are you looking at me like that.”

“Because I’m totally gonna wear you down,” he grins and brings his coffee to his mouth, sipping through his smirk.

You only scoff in response. “Never.”

┄

It doesn’t take you very long to realize that Steve was right.

You spend the rest of the day thinking about it — about him with a baby and how perfect he'd be as a dad. The thoughts plague you far more than they usually do. They take up the entire frontal cortex of your brain and make it nearly impossible to think about anything else.

You’re self-aware enough to beat yourself up about it. 

You were just telling him that it wasn’t time yet, and you knew you were right. As far as you’re concerned, you still have another few good years before you’re ready to even start seriously considering it. 

But here you are, having to calm yourself down every time the thought of Steve Harrington with a baby, your baby, crosses your mind.

You wait until the boy heads to bed to talk to Eddie about it. You find him in the kitchen, eating handfuls of Breakfast with Barbie like a maniac. You’re too preoccupied to make a snarky comment about it.

“Steve wasn’t lying,” you warn him.

“..About what?” he wonders through the mouthful.

“About him not waiting ten years to have a baby! He wants one now!” you explain through a yell-whisper hybrid. “And he told me he was going to wear me down, and he was right.”

Eddie’s eyes go wide too, like he’s just learned you caught some sort of plague. You have. It’s called baby fever, and it’s only a matter of time before the entire house is afflicted. “Shit…”

“So you have to be the strong one, Eddie.”

“Oh, god,” he whines with pinched brows. “Why does it have to be me?”

“Because I saw him hold a baby today.”

“…And this is a bad thing?”

“Of course, it’s a bad thing! My hormones went crazy, okay? It’s like my brain stopped functioning, and I started thinking with my ovaries or something! All human instinct told me to lay down and procreate the second we got home!”

Eddie laughs to himself. “Are you sure it was human instinct, or was it just you on a normal Wednesday?”

“I’m being serious, Eddie,” you tell him, a sudden solemnity to your features. “You have to put your foot down whenever Steve talks about it because I will cave.”

“Alright, alright, have some Barbie cereal and settle down,” he tells you with a playful grin.

He offers you the box and you pout for a moment before sticking your hand into it and pulling out several red and purple butterfly pieces.

The boy wraps an arm around you with his free hand. He pulls you closer and noses at the crown of your head. You sigh as you relax into him. 

“I’ll take care of it, okay? I actually have the perfect idea.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” you waver through a mouthful of cereal.

“Don’t worry about it,” he lilts with a grin, smacking a kiss to your forehead. “Let me take care of it.”

┄

You and Steve are tangled in bedsheets, both slowly rousing but trying desperately to go back to sleep. 

You’re laying on your stomach, face smushed into the pillow you clutch to your head. Steve lays halfway on top of you — his legs knotted with yours, arm splayed over your back, and softly snoring in your ear. 

Both of you noticed the lack of Eddie’s presence, but chose not to linger on it too much, figuring he must’ve gone for a breakfast run. 

He returns hardly a moment after the thought of him crosses your mind. You hear the door open and shut again, then the shouts of your names entwined with a muffled barking.

You groan at the intrusion on your sleep.

Steve huffs and shifts against you, voice gruff with fatigue as he wonders: “Why do I hear a dog?”

The mixture of confusion and subtle knowing has you both shuffling out of the bedroom and trudging into the living room.

You round the corner and find Eddie standing by the door with a rowdy goldendoodle bouncing at his feet. He’s trying hopelessly to undo its leash when the thing starts to squirm at the sight of you and Steve.

Eddie’s eyes flit to the both of you when he notices you standing across the room. A smile bursts like early morning sunshine on his face. “Surprise!” he beams.

The metal of the leash clicks when he finally gets it unbuckled. The dog dashes your way, all but jumping into Steve and then spinning in circles with excitement as it tries to figure out who to accept attention from. 

“You got us a dog?” the boy wonders, head cocked back to dodge the thing as it licks at his chin.

“You said you wanted a baby,” Eddie shrugs. “So, I got you a baby.”

“This is so not what a meant,” the boy grouses in response, though he’s got his arms wrapped around the dog like he’s hugging it. “I mean, it’s not even a baby— it’s huge.”

“The woman at the shelter said he was eight months old. And he is a he, so stop calling him it.”

You crouch beside Steve, scratching the dog behind his ear. He pants with his tongue sticking out, almost looking like he’s smiling. It makes you smile too. 

“We don’t even have dog food. Or toys. Or a bed,” you stress. “What are we even gonna name it?”

“Well, I took care of exactly one of those things,” Eddie lilts with a grin. “They only had that gross artificial shit at the grocery store, but they did have some badass collars and an engraving machine, so…”

You and Steve peek through the dog’s golden curls and find a black band with silver spikes dotted around the neck. “Super metal, huh?” you hear himEdiejoke as you reach for the dangled heart pendant handing around the collar.

“…Ozzy?” you recite.

“See what I mean?” he beams. “Metal.”

[blacktobackmesa]

SO I MADE A PROOF OF CONCEPT.

music used: kirby's epic yarn, mort garson's plantasia

voices: my beautiful self

Transcript:

GORDON

“Am I the asshole if I yelled at a clown?” Now I’m gonna pre-empt here. I’m gonna say it first, nobody else gets the satisfaction: What’s Gordon doing yelling at a mirror? Ha ha. Ha ha ha ha.

BUBBY

What-- Gordon, don’t be so hard on yourself!

TOMMY

We’re not gonna call you a clown, Mister Freeman. 

BENREY

Yeah, I like clowns. 

GORDON

Is “I like clowns” your way of saying I’m not a clown? Or are you just saying it? Just saying it to say it? [Beat.]

Benrey, do you not like me?

[Beat.]

BENREY

Clowns are cool, I don’t know what else to tell you. 

[SFX: The Banjo-Kazooie Jiggy Collection Jingle plays. This is Gordon’s stream donation alert.]

COOMER

Gordon, please tell us a story.

GORDON

So! “So I live in Brazil--”

[SFX: The Brazilian Football/soccer goal fanfare. An echoing voice shouts “BRASIL!” and is followed by upbeat music. The sound cuts off abruptly.]

GORDON

Thank you, Benrey. “I live in Brazil, and it’s a little common to have people in clown attire and makeup trying to sell you stuff at the subway entrance, and they can be a little annoying. They even started carrying a credit card machine so people can’t use the old excuse of ‘I don’t have any cash on me’.

DARNOLD

I love the wording of the singular credit card machine for all Brazilian clowns. 

GORDON

[rereading]

“Started carrying a--” I didn’t even notice that.

COOMER

They’re sharing!

BUBBY

“When I was your age, we only had ONE credit card reader, and we had to go all the way to São Paulo to borrow it for ONE customer!”

TOMMY

That must be why they hang out at the train station! 

BUBBY

Right! They have to travel!

GORDON

Come on, guys. Are you really gonna do this to someone who speaks English as their second language?

TOMMY

Oh no! We don’t want to make fun of them. We’re, we just like their words!

BENREY

English is hard. You gotta embrace when you say wrong shit. It’s like art.

COOMER

Gordon, we are creating derivative works from the words of the clown yeller. 

GORDON

Alright, fair enough. “I was walking to the subway that I usually go to. It was early for me, nine in the morning. I was going to work because my boss asked me to go early so the cleaning lady had someone there.”

BUBBY

Nine A.M. is EARLY work hours in Brazil? What the hell are we doing here?

DARNOLD

If I showed up to the Mixology department at nine in the morning, I’d be demoted back down to working at the gift shop!

COOMER

Doctor Freeman was able to hold down his position in spite of his frequent tardiness! 

DARNOLD

Doctor Freeman started the end of the world. 

COOMER

Darnold, that sounds like a skill issue.

GORDON

[beginning with a raised voice to restore order]

“Keep in mind that I was at work until midnight the night before and was going to work until midnight again, so I was a little tired and thinking about my day.”

DARNOLD

You guys got to go home between shifts?

Okay, that-- that sounds a little closer to my work schedule.

BUBBY

GORDON

“Getting close to the subway, I saw the clown and-- [laughs]

[SFX: Gordon’s stream alert faintly goes off. It is followed by the Geraint TTS voice, which says “BRASIL CAMPEÃO DO MUNDO”.]

GORDON

 --I saw the clown and immediately thought, ‘Oh fuck. He’s going to stop me’.”

COOMER

Gordon, I can award you one PlayCoin for every time I have heard that arrangement of words in that order.

GORDON

“‘He’s going to stop me to try to sell me stuff.’ So when I was approaching him, and he already started to talk before I even finished crossing the street, I was already putting my hand up and saying, ‘Sorry man, I’m good’.

BENREY

“No thanks. I already ate.”

GORDON

Exactly. “He tried to make me stop, even though I was on my third ‘dude, I’m good.’ And when he was still trying to make me stop, something came over me.”

BENREY

Lust.

GORDON

No.

Tommy, Darnold, Coomer and Bubby break into laughter. Gordon eventually laughs as well. 

GORDON

No-- [clears throat] “Something came over me, and I just yelled, ‘DUDE!’ and looked at him while I was still walking.” Presumably in Portuguese, so the tone might be a little different from “Dude”.

DARNOLD

Does anyone here know how you say “dude” in Portuguese?

BENREY

You don’t. 

TOMMY

Probably Mano.

GORDON

Chat says “cara or mano”. What was that, Tommy?

TOMMY

Mano.

GORDON

Mano. Good to know. “He looked fucking pissed, and when I was a few good steps away from him, he yelled: ‘I’M JUST WORKING! FUCK!’ And I yelled--”

TOMMY

He broke the clown code!

GORDON

--And I yelled back, ‘FUCK, AND I’M GOING TO WORK!”

BUBBY

A traditional call and response.

GORDON

And it closes with “Did I just create the Joker? Lol.”

DARNOLD

I dunno. I think the Joker would be pretty embarrassed if his entire backstory was getting yelled at once at the train station. 

BUBBY

“You wanna know how I got these scars?”

TOMMY

Yeah. Brazilian Joker-- 

BUBBY

“From sharing one credit card reader!”

[SFX: Gordon’s stream alert goes off once again, followed by the TTS voice saying “Five months. Lust.”]

TOMMY

--he would be a lot cooler than that.

GORDON

So aside from that, is OP the asshole for yelling at a clown?   

COOMER

I think they made a friend!

GORDON

You do? By yelling?

COOMER

These two working class heroes shared an important bonding moment about the difficulties of earning a living.

BUBBY

Yeah, some days you just need someone to scream the Fuck word at.

GORDON

Well, shit. 

BUBBY

OP made that clown’s day.

GORDON

I’m convinced. Yeah, all agreed?

TOMMY

Yeah.

DARNOLD

Yeah, no harm done.

BENREY

It’s part of that circle of life.

GORDON

Well, there we go. Not the asshole.

COOMER

The real clown was capitalism.

[SFX: A fanfare noise plays. This is followed once again by the Brazil Football fanfare, this time played in full without a cutoff.]

[hollisxwrites]

Hi, can you do a short piece for Luke Castellan x reader, where Luke saves a mortal reader from a monster and they fall in love please?

as long as i'm with you, hero

gif is not mine!

THANK YOU FOR YOUR REQUEST!!!

word count: 1.1k

warnings: one singular swear word, reader calls luke a pretty boy, slight mentions of violence, overall just fluffy and cute, probably a little ooc and definitely doesn't follow the main plot.

summary: after luke saves the {reader} from a horrifying monster, they fall in love. that's it, that's the plot.

Before I even knew it, a creature I had only ever heard of in myths was approaching me. I was terrified when I saw the Antaeus, an ugly, brooding, red creature nearing where I sat on a bench in Central Park. I looked around, hoping someone saw the demon too, but no one even looked up. I felt crazy, deranged even, hoping, and praying to any and every god I knew possibly existed. I didn’t want to die today. I was frozen onto the cold, metal bench, not knowing whether to run for my life or not, wondering if I was hallucinating all of this. The creature was ten feet away from me. Well shit. I thought. I didn’t know I was dying today. 

Suddenly, as the creature continued to tramp towards me, a young man, about my age, in a highlighter orange tee-shirt ran at the monster head on. I was shocked. I thought I was the one who could see the horrible thing, but apparently, the handsome boy with the dark curls could see him, too. His sword slashed at the creature, but every wound the boy inflicted on him was healed by the Earth. I guess Gaea was his mother. The boy, then coming up with a strategy, jumped up on the monster and hoisted him up with his...what is that? Flying shoes? Then, he sliced the head of the monster, and it turned into ash. The boy fell to the ground with a sickening smack. He didn’t move, so I rushed towards him. No one in the crowd looked at the poor boy, except me. Could no one see what was happening except me? I rushed to the boys side, kneeling down on the ground. I placed a hand on his chest to make sure his heart was beating, and it was. His breath was steady, but it looked like he must of fainted from impact, possibly having a concussion. I couldn't tell if he hit his head or not. I shook him slightly, and then again, when eventually his eyes fluttered open, and oh my god, his eyes were stunning.  

“Are you alright?” I asked, concerned about the boy. He winced a little bit when he tried to sit up, obviously embarrassed to be lying flat on the cold ground.   

He sighed and winced at the sun that was directly in his eyes. “I’ve been better. Who are you anyways? Did you see everything that just happened?” 

I nodded my head. “Yeah. I feel like I’m the only one who saw the Antaeus until you came out of nowhere.” 

“Well, I guess you’re just different, like me.” He met my eyes, and I swear I could feel my heart beat out of my chest just looking at this stranger. “What’s your name?” 

“My name is {reader}. What’s yours? Thank you for saving me, by the way. I would probably be dead by now if it wasn’t for you.” 

He finally sat up to meet face me, ruffling his hair, trying to make it look a little more presentable, I assumed. “Luke. Luke Castellan. And, you’re welcome. Never hurts to help a pretty person like you.” 

“Nice to meet you, Luke.” I said, blushing slightly. “Now tell me, what just happened and why could I see something no one but you could?”  

That day, Luke told me all about the world of demigods, Greek myths, and gods, and how everything that I have been told about them is real. He told me that his father, Hermes, abandoned him to fend for himself a long time ago, and now, nine years later, he was here, fighting off monsters for a camp that he felt didn’t appreciate him.  

Something else I discovered that day was that I am in love with Luke Castellan. His dark eyes and scar on the side of his face that I wanted so badly to kiss, and his demeanor of confidence that I learned was a ruse all made me fall deeply in love with him.  

All of this happened six months ago, and now, this mysterious demigod who saved my life is my boyfriend, and I am an honorary member of Camp Halfblood, due to my inclination to see through what the people at the camp call the mist, which put me in danger. The camp was beautiful, and I learned skills such as sparing, archery, and sword fighting. I spent time with Luke on the beautiful sunny days that seemed to last forever at the camp. 

I was walking across the archery field in my camp tee-shirt and bathing suit, using my hand to cover my face from the sun. I was alone, or so I thought, when all the sudden I heard footsteps following me to the lake. I looked back and saw the beautiful face of my even more beautiful boyfriend. I paused my walking and let him catch up to me. He picked me up in his arms and spun me around. I let out a joyful laugh, holding on to him in order not to hit the ground. He sat me down carefully and looked into my eyes, smiling his gorgeous smile that captivated me all those months ago. 

“Hi.” He said, smiling down at me. The sun hit his face at the perfect angle, illuminating all his features that I loved so much. He looked like a god, and I guess that was fitting, because he technically was partially one.  

“Hi, pretty boy.” I replied, in awe of him. My hands rested on his shoulders as I continued to admire every part of his face. My fingers went up to trace the scar on his face up and down. He relished the feeling, leaning onto my hand. I moved to caress his face, embracing his warmth.  

His eyes fluttered to my lips, and I smiled at him, pressing my body closer to his. He pressed our lips together, and every time, I felt blissful. He tasted like sugar and sunshine, and he was so gentle and soft with me. He started to press kisses all over my face, causing my face to warm up, not due to how hot it is. He placed one more lingering kiss to my lips, grinning into me. He grabbed my hand.  

“Let’s got swim, sweetheart.”  

“Anything as long as I’m with you, hero.” 

He smiled, pressing a kiss to my neck as we walked. I hoped in this moment that these days of sunshine and my pretty boyfriend never ended.  

[kalamity-jayne]

Sorry for asking but I am a cis male teenager (well, I thought I was.) but lately I have realized I think I might be a trans girl? I am very scared to drop my masculinity. How did you find out you were trans if that’s okay to ask?

Of course it's ok! I am always happy to help someone who is questioning their gender. However, this is actually a pretty loaded question, because while there is a lot of talk about "when my egg cracked" in trans circles, figuring out you're trans isn't always attributable to any one singular event. Some folks might crack through and emerge from their egg in one swift motion but that is not true for everyone, it certainly wasn't true for me. Sure I could tell about the moment the first crack in my shell appeared, but a single crack in the egg is a far cry from actually breaking out. For many it's a process that can involve a series of revelations and tends to require lots of self reflection and learning how to love yourself. So, there is no quick and easy answer for this. However, I think my story will have a number of different lessons relevant to your question.

Before getting into all that though, I feel I must point out that cisgender folks rarely ask themselves these kinds of questions and when they do entertain these thoughts it's brief and comes with very little agony. The fact you have gone so far as to reach out to trans woman for advice, the fact the you are clearly worried by the prospect of being trans, is a pretty clear indicator that you probably are trans. Regardless of whether you actually are transgender or not, I want you to know that either way, it's ok. You will be ok, no matter what conclusions you come to.

Now, the story of how I figured out I was trans. Bear in mind, the first “aha moment” was 20 yrs ago and things were very different back then. I was about 17yrs old at the time and the term transgender didn't have the currency then that it does now, there wasn't the robust set of terminology that we have today, there were far fewer resources to turn to, no social media, and the overall public opinion was significantly more hostile towards anything LGBT. Anyway, more below the cut.

I didn't follow the typical trans narrative of the time in the sense that, as a child I didn't really care about my clothes so long as my favorite cartoon characters were on 'em, I liked toys typically marketed towards boys, I looked like a boy and everyone referred to me as a boy. So I thought I was a boy. However, I do have a vague memory from early childhood, somewhere between the ages of 4-6, of sneaking into my mother’s room and stealing a pair of her satin underwear and trying it on (it surely would have been too big on me but I remember liking the texture of the fabric) and hiding it under my bed. This memory has since been confirmed during my adulthood by my brother who shared a room with me at the time and had apparently found the hidden stash.

From an early age I was explicitly shunted towards masculinity. I was regularly told to “stop acting like a girl,” and “quit crying like a girl,” and even at one point to “stop walking like a girl,” by my peers and one of my brothers. By the time I was a teenager I was doing my best to be as masculine as possible going so far as joining the highschool wrestling team, a sport that is as homophobic as it is homoerotic, and I hated every minute of it because being manly didn't feel natural to me (and it definitely didn't stop the bullying). It felt like I was trying to ice skate uphill. I fit in but only imperfectly for I was merely acting.

I was also very confused about my sexuality. I thought maybe I was gay or bisexual (turns out the latter) but that didn’t really explain what I was feeling. Around 17yrs old I got curious about transsexuals, thinking maybe the answers would be found there and hoped on to the early and oh so clunky internet. Now I knew of transsexuals conceptually but I didn't know anything about them. Sadly, pornography was really the only reliable way to actually see what a trans body looked like back then. I was stunned because the women I saw did not look at all the way I expected. I was blown away by how so many of them, genitalia aside, looked indistinguishable from cisgender women. And they were all absurdly beautiful. I felt an immediate attraction but there was something else I felt too, envy. And that realization was the first crack in my eggshell.

After that I couldn't get the thought of crossdressing out of my head. So, I dug through a box of my mother's old clothes and took a few items she no longer wore, an old white tennis skirt and a very very 70s sleeveless orange blouse. I was so comfortable in those clothes and when I looked at myself in the mirror I felt good, really good. So, I continued exploring, shaved off all of of my body hair, went to department stores that were open late at night to buy girl clothes (deathly afraid someone would recognize me), I would stay up late at night to watch HBO because at midnight they would occasionally air stuff about trans people, (I remember two documentary shorts in particular and the movie Soldier’s Girl) and I scoured the internet for more information. The internet search brought me to a website called TG list (at least I think that’s what it was called, this was 20yrs ago after all) which was a directory of resources ranging from The Breast Form Store (which still exists!), a myriad of gender identity quizzes (I took nearly every single one), and Susan’s Place.

Susan’s place was one of the few reliable places to hear from actual transgender adults. Unfortunately, while Susan's Place had a lot of useful information the forums there were full of horror stories, a never-ending supply of all the things those women had suffered. So needless to say, there was little to no positivity around transness to give me hope. I was afraid to call myself trans as a result, afraid of what it meant for my life, my future, and my physical safety (you have to remember that back then Mathew Shepard wasn’t old news, his tragedy was practically current events). So I called myself a crossdresser but for reasons I didn't understand at the time I deeply resented that label. I think deep down, no matter how much I tried to deny it and bury it, a part of knew I wanted to be a girl. So when I came out to my parents as a crossdresser and explicitly told them I wasn't trans, that I didn’t have any desire to transition to female, there was that lil voice at the back of my mind calling me a liar. That voice would follow me until my late 20s.

Coming out was a real struggle for me because not only did I think my life would literally be in jeopardy, I thought everyone would think I was making it up, having not followed the stereotypical models of transsexuality. When I came out to my parents they didn't disown me or anything but they were noticeably uncomfortable around me when I was in girl mode. At a certain point I needed their help (credit card) to buy a gaff for tucking and that was when my parents, out of a misguided desire to protect me, pushed me back into the egg. Because of their rejection I spent the rest of highschool and most of my college years trying to hold the egg together with even more denial and by doubling down on masculinity. While I did have some fun during my college years, on balance I was miserable and depressed. I chafed at my male costume and I knew I was lying to myself the entire time, and I hurt myself a great deal.

During my senior year of college I started privately dabbling with crossdressing again, the desire had been nagging at me incessantly. A short time after graduating I met my wife who accepted that side of me and she introduced me to the BDSM/kink community, and the overall culture of nonjudgmental acceptance there cracked the egg for good, because is provided spaces besides my own room where I felt safe being a girl. From that point on I slowly but surely came out of the egg, first calling myself a crossdresser, then genderfluid for awhile, then GENDA passed in NY making me an explicitly protected class and for the next 2 yrs I presented as a they/them genderqueer woman 100% full time without HRT (I was still reluctant to call myself a woman).

I wrestled a long time with the choice to go on HRT. Ultimately that was always a big stumbling block for me. Therapy had gotten me pretty far but I was still afraid of so much and was unsure I would be happy with the changes because my parents had initially rejected me as their daughter in very paternalistic fashion I struggled to trust my own instincts. I still struggle with that sometimes. Eventually, I befriended a trans woman in my neighborhood who pointed out HRT works very slowly and that it takes a long time for any permanent changes to take root. So, she suggested I give it a try and if it didn't feel right I could stop.

I was also taking gender identity quizzes again. Now most of these claim to be diagnostic and those ones a generally misogynistic garbage (they ask stupid questions like, “are you good at math?” and assign a gendered value to the answer) but I happened upon one that started with the disclaimer that it wasn't diagnostic and instead only offered questions that are good to think with. Two questions in particular were very helpful. The first asked, "If you could take a pill that would allow you to wake up tomorrow as a girl, would you take it?" My answer was a hesitant yes, but that yes was bolstered by the next question, "If you could take a pill that would allow you to wake up as a man, in your current body, but without any dysphoria or desires to be feminine, would you take it?" My answer was an emphatic no because that would have felt like killing an important part of myself off. I then at the age of 33yrs old started HRT and 4yrs in I am incredibly happy. That was one of the best decisions I have ever made.

Now, I know that was a lot of fucking text to read but I wrote all of that because I know the prospect of maybe being a trans girl feels scary to you right now but I want to assure you that as daunting as it may seem there is so much about being a trans woman that is full of beauty and joy. I love my trans womanhood and despite the hardships, I wouldn’t give it up for anything. In fact the opposite is true. Knowing what I know now, I would give up almost everything in order to be a woman. So if you feel like you want to give girlhood a try, do it! You can take small incremental steps and you can always stop if it doesn’t feel right, either way you will gain a degree of self knowledge most cisgender people lack completely and that is absolutely priceless! Plus, unlike me when I was a teen, there’s all kinds of resources and information available to you now and an entire community of people ready to help you, and unlike the women in the forums from my past, we aren’t all gloom and doom.

As for your fear of giving up masculinity, don’t let that fear lure you into the denial trap like it did me. Denial is like quicksand, once you’re in it becomes hard to get out, the more you struggle the deeper in you go and it is so very suffocating. And the thing is, you actually don’t have to give it all up. Back when I was presenting full time as woman without HRT, I felt like I had to be ultra feminine all the time, full face of make-up, dress, heels, the whole nine yards. Now that I’m 4 yrs in with HRT I don’t feel that pressure anymore and have since reclaimed certain aspects of masculinity I actually liked. I sill like presenting high femme from time to time but these days I mostly rock a soft butch aesthetic, flannel/t-shirt, jeans and the only makeup I wear daily is just a lil bit of blush. At certain point you become comfortable and realize that gender is just a sandbox to play in and experiment. Masculine and Feminine are just concepts, they aren’t real! so regardless of being cis or trans, don’t let those mere concepts box you in! Just do what feels natural and right to you!

I hope all of that was helpful to you anon, and that at the very least you walk away from this knowing you don’t have to have all of the answers about yourself right now. Now, I don't no the particulars of your situation, so I’m happy to speak with you further if you have follow up questions, just send another anon.

Best of luck to you anon, I am rooting for you!

Big hugs,

Mother Calamity

[jsmifty]

ONE MORE NIGHT FNAF AU CHARACTERS - THE SUIT - Part 1

Above is the SpringBonnie suit from my FNAF AU/rewrite called "ONE MORE NIGHT".

More info under the cut!

This is the first of many posts showing off some of the characters designs. I will talk more about the AU itself in other posts, however since this is the first I might as well give a basic rundown, it will be at the bottom of this post. William Afton himself will get his own post but this is just about his suit.

Anyway. This is the SpringBonnie suit from my FNAF rewrite!

I never really liked the completely butt naked suits, it always looked really weird to me. Generally when i draw the other animatronics I stick to the basic canon design (without the clothes), but with Springbonnie I realllyyyy prefer the design with some clothing over the top. idk why, it just makes him look siller.

Also if those things are being worn, I can imagine they're stinking hot during the summer, and I know the three piece suit is probably no better for keeping cool but at least he looks cool while dying of heatstroke. :)

There is also an animatronic version version of the suit of course!

Axe > Knife

The suit (SpringBonnie) was made as a suprise gift for William for the opening (By Henry Emily).

The suit has two varients. The summer varient, and the other one. Specifically in the hotter seasons, the suit is only worn with the head, paws and feet + usually a purple suit.

The other version, is the full suit, which covers the full body (is featured in the small doodle to the left). The full suit sometimes features a bowtie, or an undercoat (just to decorate it a little). And you'd be suprised by how quickly it can be put on. William got springlocked in this version specifically.

When specifically William wears the suit, his hair being too long, pokes out from underneath the head of the suit. It sometimes gets tangled in the springlocks! This makes it difficult to take off, ESPECIALLY if the springlocks are released.

Some more art of him (all a bit old):

---------------------------------------------------

The rewrite, which will be uploaded to Ao3, is split into 4 to 5 parts (it will be put into an folder on Ao3 to make it more organized). The timeline follows off canon for the most part, however most of the events have been organized into a specific timeline. The order of the games specifically that I am following is below.

(if the text is unreadable: FNAF 4 → FNAF 2 + Sister Location → FNAF 1 → FNAF 3 → FNAF 6)

PART ONE is centred before the main six games, and overlaps FNAF 4. It is centred around Henry Emily and William Afton (and their families) during the early stages of their animatronic making endeavours.

The other 3-4 parts have been planned out but I won't talk about them that much right now.

The AU leans a lot more on the characters, their motivations, and their relationships with other characters. It focuses more on telling the story in full than in hints, like the games do.

It is likely not going to be completely accurate to canon, so if the timeline changes with new FNAF releases then big whomp I've already made a timeline and I'm not touching that thing again.

If anyone wants like, a clearer rundown of what the fic is about if you are interested please feel free to comment or go on my asks i really appreciate any interest shown in this project, its annoyingly important to me LMAO

IF YOU READ THIS FAR, THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! like I yap so much, and this is me holding back and ive already written wayyyy to much for a singular tumblr post :( but yeah

If you'd like to see a specific character from FNAF in my AU/Rewrite, feel free to ask!!!!!!!

[evilminji]

(Ironically) Oh My God... ( o.o)

Do... okay, so there are many, MANY religions... JUST here on earth. Right?

Not all of them think there is "an afterlife". Some think there is a NEXT life. Potentially MANY lives. Some also believe in JOURNEYS you must take, to reach THE Afterlife. Or perhaps periods of judgment. Evaluations of WORTH. So forth and so on.

What I am saying is?

There? Are Ghosts who probably just straight up REJECT the premise that they are dead. Oh sure, YOU might be. Or BELIEVE you are. But they KNOW they aren't.

Because The Gods Said So.

Some, are also, AWARE they are Dead. But reject that? All this? This is it. No, no. This is the MIDDLE. They are supposed to GO somewhere. They haven't FOUND it. But when they DO. They will, as a community, make a map for those who follow and head on in! It'll be great!

There are FAITHS in the Zone.

Beliefs that were compatible enough, that they Did Not Die.

And they'd probably like to tell you about it.

Why WOULDN'T they? It was a VERY important part of their daily life, originally. And NOW? Is frankly a Highly Topical Subject, don't you think? The discussion of "is there a God?" Is KINDA important to have, when you're stand outside the gates to SOMEWHERE, and none of who can agree on WHAT is on the other side.

Is it better to stay here? Were we abandoned? Is this a punishment or a blessing? An accident? Freak occurrence? Are there Gods HERE? And if so, does that mean WE can become one? What does that MEAN, if we can?

All HIGHLY important topics to discuss.

But! It's made all the more pressing because? There's all these OTHERS! Who have never even HEARD of your gods teachings. And therefore? Don't know where they are.

They, innocent people, have been TRAPPED HERE, for centuries if not longer. May be condemned to be trapped FOREVER. Anyone with even a scrap of empathy would be HORRIFIED.

The problem is that THEY are horrified too. Think YOU are trapped. And of course, your first impulse is to tell them they are Wrong... but?

Are they?

What if NEITHER of you are Wrong? Elder Beings keep insisting this place is INFINITE. It is therefore ENTIRELY possible, this is a place to simply? Store the place before afterlifes. Like a busy road.

After all, your Gods certainly never mention these new people. And THEIR God (singular, correct? Right.) never mentioned YOUR people. Surely they WOULD have, if it was important!

And such concensus starts to build. Because everyone is trying to move on, pray, ascend, or otherwise do as their holy scriptures told them too. They are ALL rather lost and confused. And UNLIKE those Fight-y violent sorts? THESE fine religious folks are pleasant and sensible.

Even if no one can quite agree. Meh. SOMEONE is right here and I shall live assuming it's me until proven otherwise, respectfully and as the gods preached.

And it's quite literally like religious Fandoms, to make light of things a bit. There is bickering. And "stop that infernal CHANTING, I can't here my self pray!" *chanting grows louder in protest* "ARGH!". And trying to make new, confused ghosts welcome.

It's one of the ZONES within the Zone. Like slowly gravitating towards like, until the Zone itself started to just naturally shuffle them all together in clumps. Like with the academics.

Now why? Do I even bring this up?

Because! I think it would be HILARIOUS if everyone wanted to convert the Newly Crowned Ghost King to THEIR religion, under the belief that he could? As some sort of Holy Divine King, ask GOD(tm) : "Bruh. Wtf are we supposed to be doing? We are SO LOST. Can we have a hint?"

And yeah, half of them are like "just for fiiiive minutes! We can totally kick you out of the Temple afterwords if you don't like it! You totally WILL, obviously, because it's AWESOME. But, like, if you WANT too! Five minutes! Pleeeeeease???"

While the others are just shooting Informative Pamphlets out of alien potato cannons in FULL religious regalia. As Danny flees at full speed. Getting pelted.

Maybe some real weird Space Monk is just ( o-o) *is under Danny's Bed. Makes eye contact when he leans down to look for his shoes* "one of us? One of us?" "How did you even get passed the ghost sheilds?" "The Gods have many paths." "Not helpful! And terrifying! Get out from under my bed." *awkward scurry* 👉👈 "one of us?" "No. Back to the Zone, you know better." *sad mantis-otter Space Monk noises*

Just? As a writer, I am a bastard. And I think Danny should get harrased by Court Officials wanted him to Govern more. It's funny. He is a teenager and doesn't know shit. It's like watching an Esteemed Academic Conference being lead by someone's toddler. They don't know what's going on! But they Sure Are Giving Answers! :D

@hypewinter @ailithnight @mutable-manifestation @hdgnj @nerdpoe @the-witchhunter

[mingtinys]

[1:36 a.m.]

pairing : song mingi x gn!reader

angst , hurt / comfort , boxer!mingi

warnings : language , descriptions of wounds & needles , mentions of illegal fighting

word count : 1.3 k

requested ? no

a/n : if you can't tell, the rocky music video still hasn't left my brain

The moment your door swings open, Mingi's aware you're pissed. And not in the "need a moment to cool off" type of pissed. But in the "Mingi might need to hurry up on writing his Will" type of pissed. The unwavering silence that follows only affirms your anger rests specifically with him.

You don't so much as extend a courtesy invite inside. Already having disappeared down the hall in a split second. Not much sense in exchanging pleasantries when you both know why he's here. The purpling bruises and dark crimson stains on his clothes speak for themselves.

He teeters his weight back and forth between his feet, standing awkwardly at your welcome mat. Was he supposed to follow you? You didn't slam the door in his face, but you didn't exactly tell him he could come inside. He hears rustling coming from your kitchen, then the squeak of a faucet being turned on. Ultimately, he decides to seek you out, limping quite pitifully through your quaint apartment. 

When he finds you, you're at the sink, lathering antibacterial soap between your palms. The dining table in the corner is already set with various first aid supplies, along with two singular chairs facing each other. Mingi takes a seat in one of them and waits.

The silence grows thicker with each minute that ticks by. Becoming so palpable Mingi can taste the bitterness of it on his tongue. Even as you take the seat in front of him and begin working away at his wounds, albeit rather impetuously, you say nothing. Your hard-set eyes and cold demeanor aren't exactly helping to lighten the atmosphere either.

He makes it through the length it takes for you to disinfect his cuts and rub ointment on his bruises. But another few minutes pass as you thread a needle and that's about all Mingi’s patience can tolerate.

"You haven't said anything since I got here."

"Am I supposed to have something to say?"

Your tone is callous. And there's a preparedness to it that makes Mingi think you were expecting him to be the first to cave from the silence.

"You usually– ow!" Mingi yelps as you push the needle through the already inflamed skin of his shoulder. You barely even react aside from a not-so-subtle roll of your eyes. And that simple action kills all hope he has of garnering any sympathy from you this time around.

"You usually do."

You sigh, tying off the thread and cutting it before starting on the next stitch. "I can sit here and lecture you about how dangerous this is. How much I want you to stop. How much it hurts seeing you like this." You don't as much as spare him a glance as you speak. "But you and I both know that won't matter."

Another two sutures down. It hurts more than usual tonight.

You pull the thinly woven thread through one last time for the fourth and final suture. "So no, Mingi, I don't have anything to say anymore."

The urge to ramble off one of his usual apologies surfaces, but your chair screeches back and you're standing before he can even get the word "sorry" past his lips. "And you can keep your shitty apologies to yourself this time." Okay then, Mingi thinks and pulls his lips into a thin line to avoid pushing your buttons any further. He simply sits there, speechless as you slap a thick white bandage over his newly sutured wound and return to the sink to wash your hands of his blood.

Realistically, Mingi knew it'd be only a matter of time before you finally reached your breaking point with him. In all honesty, he's surprised it didn't happen sooner, and now he wonders if he'd mistakenly taken your kindness for granted all those times before. Back when he'd show up bloodied and bruised beyond repair from a fight and you'd greet him with teary eyes and a gentleness he'd never known possible.

You used to kiss his wounds better and massage the soreness from his muscles. Scold him for being so wreckless in between your pleads for him to stop fighting until you inevitably fell asleep in his arms from the exhaustion of it all. Not just slap a bandaid on and call it a night. Treating him like an inconvenience to your life rather than the man you'd claimed to love.

And the worst part of it all? He really only has himself to blame for it.

"Go ahead and get yourself killed in that damn ring if you want. But stop dragging me down with you." Mingi looks up to find you hovering above him, your tired eyes staring back at him expectantly. His gaze falls to your open palm, two ibuprofen in the center of it. You huff when he doesn't move to take them and roughly slap the pills on the dining table. 

"Make sure you lock the door when you leave." With that, you're gone. Hurried steps carry you to your room down the hall. Mingi knows he should say something, preferably something that'll soothe your anger. But all his brain can seem to come up with is, "Can I use your shower?"

"Don't care." You call back, and then your door slams shut.

Mingi knows he should leave. He's well aware of just how selfish and unfair what he's about to do is. But he can't stop himself. He wants– no, needs you. Because for as many times as he's dragged himself to your doorstep, it's never been your meticulous medical skills that always make him feel whole again after a fight. No. It's the subsequent hours he spends holding you through the night that heal him. Your warm body curled into his side grounding him to some semblance of a normal, white-picket, life.

No, it's not fair at all. Expecting the same treatment as usual despite having already expressed your desire to have nothing to do with him tonight. Yet still, even as guilt floods his veins and the soreness in his shoulder protests his actions, Mingi grips the handle to your room and pulls.

The cold air hits his damp hair, sending a shiver down his spine. It's dark, and you're already bundled up under the covers. Your face is hidden, so Mingi can't tell if you're awake or not. But you don't immediately tell him to fuck off, so he tiptoes quietly around your room, dodging furniture and other objects concealed by the darkness. Even when the bed dips with his weight and he shuffles under the covers behind you, you say nothing.

Gently, Mingi pulls you into him, back against his chest and his arms hugging your torso tightly. And then he hears it. The tiniest of sniffles that escapes your facade of sleep and buries itself deep within his heart.

He curls around you and his lips delicately press against the feverish skin of your shoulder. A guilt-ridden satisfaction wraps itself around Mingi's airway when you flip yourself around and cling to him. The back of his white cotton shirt bundled up in your fists while you gasp and sob into his chest. Your trembling won't stop, no matter how tightly Mingi seems to hold you.

"I can't keep doing this." You confess. "Please, Mingi."

You don't need to verbalize what you're asking for. You've pleaded with him enough times at this hour for Mingi to fill in the blank himself. And Mingi's given the same answer enough times for both of you to know it's a lie. But he says it anyways, hoping it'll bring enough comfort so you sleep through the night.

"This is the last time, I promise."

[eddiediazismyhusband]

Buddie in S8 and Slow Burns:

so those of you who follow me or see my posts popping up in the buddie tags know that i am still apprehensive of believing that we will actually get buddie canon in s8. tim has done too much to destroy my trust in him as a writer, and the show has baited us with buddie far too many times for me to easily take anything as a “clear/obvious sign that buddie is happening” when it is just as likely that we are being clowned yet again

that being said, IF we get buddie canon, it needs to happen fairly quickly. I have seen a lot of people saying things like “I don’t want buddie to go canon until the s8 finale” which, i disagree with.

I know a lot of people are saying this because they want a mutual pining era, but i don’t think these people are grasping the fact that if they waited until the finale, that is 18 episodes of tv to fill with something of substance for buddie. Another eighteen episodes; almost eighteen hours of tv. Even with a mutual pining era, that is far too long for them to continue dragging this story out.

Yes, i know that if they are going for a slow burn, that that takes time, but good lord it’s been 6 seasons of actively building up to a relationship… they’ve had six years of stalling, they need to go ahead and fucking commit to it, not take 18 more agonizing episodes of them dragging their feet. If you commit to them having acknowledged feelings for each other, they don’t need more than one or two episodes of mutual pining before it would start getting old.

realistically, we could have a fully fleshed out queer arc for eddie AND mutual pining leading to buddie canon within 8a. 8 or 9 episodes is MORE than enough time to build up to that with what they have to work with— they’ve reached the point for conceivably going canon so many times that it feels like there isn’t any build anymore; it feels like they’ve parked the bus a half mile from the station, and have started doing a thorough inspection on all the parts after driving almost the whole distance.

i know we love drama and angst and slow burns— that’s the appeal of buddie as a ship; but this slowburn has been way beyond fully cooked since s4, and there is no need to keep cooking it (unless they’re just baiting us, which in that case we need to decide when enough is enough and call it a day on this show)

this is not a fanfic that has no expiration date. this show isn’t going to last forever. i ship buddie because i want to actually see them navigating a relationship— i don’t ship them to be edged for 7 years just for them to go canon for one singular episode. i want to see them bask in each other’s love, i want to see them living together with the happiness they’ve been chasing their whole lives, i want to see them encounter speedbumps, and go through hardships together. That is why i ship characters. The chase is fun for a while, but I actually want to see what happens once the chase is over, and them going canon in the last episode is not narratively satisfying to me, and at this point feels like a copout for the writers.

We don’t know how long past s8 this show will last. we don’t even know if we’re getting a s9, let alone more. it’s already unheard of for tv shows to reach this longevity post-2016, we can’t just go into each season assuming that we still have all the time in the world for them to give us buddie. the reality is we don’t have all the time in the world, and this is the make-or-break season.

we don’t need 18 more episodes of stagnant growth. if they’re going to give us buddie, they need to stop dragging it out and just give it to us if they actually intend to, not cop-out and give us a last minute kiss in the season/possible series finale.

anyway, getting off my soapbox for now, but i just wanted to get those thoughts off my chest.

[ironunderstands]

I've seen some people mention that at the end cutscene of 2.2, while everyone else in the dreamscape looks to be waking up/seems dazed, Ratio looks composed????? Like this is a normal Tuesday and said people said "what if he's been awake from the Order dream for actually a while lol"

Thoughts, o Aeon of Reading Comprehension?

Knowing Ratio, yeah, he probably figured out he was in a dream pretty quickly, perhaps even as early as 2.2.

There are two things that confuse this though:

It doesn’t linearly become Ena’s dream, there’s no specific moment in time where everything is no longer reality. Rather, the entirety of Penacony is slowly falling into the dream, with people like the Trailblazer going in first because of their sensitivity to Memoria. Honestly the Ena’s dream thing is very confusing, but what I’m trying to say is that it’s difficult to pinpoint when exactly Ratio woke up, but we can make a few assumptions

We just don’t see shit from Ratio’s end like, at all. The amount of screentime he has versus his importance in the story is nuts, to the point where I think they are almost deliberately hiding what went down on his end. Like bro how did you figure out Dormancy, what happened 😭

However, even with these limitations I still have somewhat of an idea of what I think happened.

The Ratio we meet next to Aventurine and Topaz following our “defeat” of Sunday likely isn’t the real Dr. Ratio. Because well, look at him. And look at them for that matter 😭 “The IPC is going to leave Penacony alone” “I Veritas Ratio am working with the Genius Society” this seems more like wishful thinking on the Trailblazer’s end rather than something that could ever happen in reality, especially since in what universe would Ratio find the time to somehow convince and work with the Genius Society on a topic neither he nor they would care about.

Moreover, this scene is also meant to make the audience go “hmm, something’s up” so the twist that it was all a dream had more impact. However, in that scene, Himeko and Welt also comment on how weird their behavior is, which makes me wonder. Were Himeko and Welt (and by extension Dan Heng and March) also experiencing the same dream as TB, or are they also fake, and TB’s closer relationship with the other members of the Astral Express makes them more realistic in Ena’s dream, objecting to the IP3’s behavior in a way they would in reality?

Anyways, tangent over, the point is, that Ratio wasn’t real, so where is the real Ratio? I’d say he’s experiencing a perfect dream of his own, just like everyone else on Penacony.

Which is why he woke up so early. Sure, the memokeepers could have sensed he was useful and woke him up so he could help wake others up, something which we can assume he’s doing based on the singular frame he gets in that cutscene.

Just based on vibes, it looks like he just helped those two people in the back wake up, and now he stands up to look at the Hunt arrows/stars/meteors? Shooting across the sky.

However, I want to entertain the idea that Ratio woke up on his own, because realistically, he 100% could.

Ena’s dream, and well, Penacony in general offers a perfect reality, and that’s not something Ratio believes in. He would immediately notice everything is too good to be true, and that would cause the dream to fall apart. Interestingly, Ena’s dream also seems to tailor itself to the individual, so what would be too perfect for Ratio to ever believe it could happen in reality?

I’m sure you have already guessed the answer.

How was it, Veritas Ratio? Having the thing that unraveled your dream be the one thing you have wanted all your life? How does it feel, knowing that being acknowledged by Nous is something that could never happen to you in reality?

How was it?

I still think it could have happened in other ways, or maybe he avoided falling into the dream in the first place somehow, but ultimately, I prefer my idea the most.

I hope this satisfies your question