#like I’m not going to eat the glittery shiny thing?

[gravyburner]

Today’s prompt inspired chaos. While wondering what on earth I was going to draw for today, I had a vision: a miserable person in a room full of wild bouncy balls, specifically those tasty looking ones from those school prize things. Those things looked so dang tasty! But they were definitely hazards, hard as a rock and fast as lightning. The premise was: what would happen if someone took a handful of them and threw them down as hard as possible on the floor? The result: someone suffering the consequences of their actions.

Also can we take a moment to appreciate the left hand? It's very nice. Don't look at the right hand. It's dead to me.

[chryblossomjjk]

practice (pt. 2) | jjk

⇢ PAIRING: fuckboy!jk x inexperienced reader

⇢ RATING/GENRE: m/18+ | college au, fwb, smut, fluff, angst

⇢ WC: 8.1k

⇢ WARNINGS: implied family issues, photography major jk in full effect, casual titty sucking (lol), oral sex (f receiving), ass eating and motorboating?, handjob, unprotected sex (crowd boos and throws tomatoes), a bit of spanking, talk of sex toys, orgasm denial, forced orgasm, slight dom and sub oc, slight sub and dom jk, shower head as vibrator (everyone w a clit has done this pls-), some manhandling, anal play, shower floor sex !!!, very slight cum eating, creampie, oc reflects on how far she’s fallen, oc still hates men, maybe unrequited love, maybe not

⇢ SUMMARY: everything is wet. you and jungkook tangled up on the shower floor. your eyes afterwards.

⇢ NOTES: yOu’Re WeLcOmE rEaDeRs. this was only going to be a one shot but i was manipulated into making it a three part series bc of u all >:((! lol kidding love u babies! tbh i'm a bit disappointed with this piece. i really loved it when i outlined it but for some reason it just didn’t come together how i would’ve hoped. i tried my best guys rip. hopefully part three will be better. anyways, feedback is greatly greatly appreciated!! thank you again for all the engagement on part one if you’re new pls go read it and check out my masterlist here. ALSO HUGE THANK YOU TO MY BBY @here4btsfics FOR BETAING LEGIT COULDN'T HAVE DONE IT WITHOUT U!!

⇢ SERIES MASTERLIST

“You look miserable.”

You were miserable. 

The air at the frat party was suffocating. Sweaty bodies grinding against one another, nudging your shoulder as they shimmied by. The strobe lights made your vision splotchy and the blaring speakers had your head pounding. Plus, you could already feel the makeup sinking into your pores. An oil cleanse is needed asap.

“You look like a hot mess,” you snap at the boy in front of you. His stringy bangs stick to his clammy forehead, poking out from underneath his black bucket hat. The neck of his dark gray t-shirt is stretched to one side from the pull of petite, manicured fingers. Pink lip gloss is smeared across his lips, making a glittery trail down his neck. Sore red marks already blooming. “It’s late.”

“It’s only like-” Jungkook looks at his watch. “1 a.m.”

“Yeah, late. I have a test in the morning.”

“Go home.”

That was the problem. The two only people you really knew at the party, Mina and Taehyung, snuck off into a grimy bathroom to fuck eachother’s brains out. That was an hour ago. How long could they really go at it? You explain this to Jungkook with a sigh. “If they’re not back in the next twenty minutes, I’m going to flip.”

“Don’t be a buzzkill.” Jungkook chuckles, plopping down on the brown corduroy couch next to you. A drop of alcohol spills over the edge of his red solo cup, landing right on your bare thigh. “You can’t go by yourself?”

“I’m a woman, Jungkook.”

“Ah, right,” he nods, thumb brushing away the dark liquid on your skin before putting it in his mouth. Goosebumps form instantaneously as you watch in utter shock. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Bambi, but I don’t think a dude would touch you with a ten foot pole. You’re kinda fucking scary.”

You glare at him, fluffy brows furrowed into sharp slants. Deep scowl on your shiny pout.

“See?” He laughs, tattooed digits coming up to pinch the baby fat of your cheeks. “Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

“No,” you huff, slapping his hand away. The subtle touch was enough to feel how surprisingly soft his skin is. “I’ll go get Mina and Taehyung-” you scoof, getting up from the tattered material under you. 

“Chill.” His fingers catch the ruffled hem of your dress, knuckles brushing against the back of your thigh. 

The audacity.

“Let them do their thing. I’ll take care of you.”

“Aren’t you in the middle of-” your eyes flicker over to Nayeon, who had been attached to Jungkook’s neck all night prior. She’s on the opposite side of the room, swaying back and forth, watching him cautiously. No doubt wondering if the illusive man had slipped from her grasp, onto the next girl that caught his fleeting attention. “-A thing?”

“Nayeon is cool.” He glances over his shoulder, gnawing on the silver ring on the corner of his lip. He nervously rolls the material of your dress between his thumb and index finger. Your eyes widen at the motion. Why was he being so… handsy tonight? “She’ll understand.”

Even from a distance, you can see the disappointed glint in her eyes when he explains that he’s heading out for the night.

The air outside is much nicer. The wind brushes through the cracks in the trees, kissing the leaves with a seemingly soft gust. The brunt of the blow isn’t felt until the wind is gone, and the unsuspecting leaves slowly dwindle to the ground. Confused as to how something so delicate and graceful led to their demise.

“Ugh, fuck,” Jungkook snarls, sticking out his pink tongue after taking a sip of whatever drink he had been nursing. “Shit’s like battery acid.”

You giggle, turning your head to get a better look at him. He looks so pretty in the moonlight. Even prettier than usual, you think. Your eyes dart back to the sidewalk under your feet. 

“Here,” he passes the plastic cup towards you. “I can’t drink anymore.”

“Ew, I don’t want your backwash, Jeon.” You scoff, holding your balled fists to your chest in disgust. 

“I’ve been known to spit in a mouth every now and then… never had any complaints.”

God, he’s so crude. 

“I told you, I have a test to take.”

“Oh please,” he persists. “I take all my tests hungover.”

“What tests?” You surrender, finally accepting the poisonous drink. A quick whiff of the mysterious liquid confirms his earlier sentiments. It was most definitely battery acid. “You’re a photography major.”

“Chug! Chug! Chug!” Jungkook chants, pumping his fist in the air for emphasis.

“Stop peer pressuring me!” You say exasperatedly, words riddled with broken laughter. He’s so insufferably annoying but… weirdly adorable.

He continues, shouting louder until you down the drink in one big gulp, gagging at the putrid aftertaste. He cheers, no concern for the sleeping students who can surely hear his booming voice through their thin dormitory walls.

“I’m a bad influence on you. You’re turning into me.” 

“You wish.” 

“Not Bambi anymore, hm?” He takes his hat off, ruffling his hair before plopping it onto your head. “Gonna have to call you my baby.”

The breeze does nothing to ease the burning in your cheeks. “You’re an idiot, Jungkook.”

“Oh God… you sound like my parents,” he laughs. It wasn’t the one you had become accustomed to throughout your brief friendship. The high-pitched infectious one that always coaxed a similar sound out of you. 

This laugh was sarcastic. Devoid of joy.

“I’m so drunk that you look like ‘em too.” 

You glance up from the crushed cup. He looks… sad. You’ve never seen Jungkook sad, or even serious for that matter. His lips are pulled into a tight line, chin covered little dents as he tries to contain his emotions. 

Whatever he was feeling, you never want him to feel it again. 

“What do you mean?” 

“It’s nothing,” he shakes his head, back pressing against the entrance of your building, prepared to push it open for you. 

“It doesn’t sound like nothing,” you frown, halting your steps. You can’t leave until that heart wrenching expression stops tainting his features.

“My parents are like… old school,” he shrugs, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. “I was so sheltered growing up. I feel like I missed out on a lot and I just… they wanted me to go to law school. Can you believe that? Me? A lawyer?”

Jungkook was a person you never expected to relate to. Sure, you were casual friends, but you chalk that up to circumstance. He just so happened to be a friend of your roommate’s boyfriend. Your interactions up until this point had been playful banter. Nothing incredibly deep. 

Honestly, you didn’t even think he was capable of complex emotions.

You feel guilty about that now.

“They sound like mine,” you admit. “They completely tie my worth to my academic success.”

“But you’re good at that. Thinking.” His fingers tap against his temple before rubbing in soothing circles, trying to coax the cogs in his skull to spin. “You’re the most intelligent person I know and I’m not just saying that because I like you.”

“Thank you,” you peep. You’ve always suspected that Jungkook secretly hated you.

Hate is a strong word and you’re very dramatic.

But nothing about your lifestyles are parallel. They’re perpendicular, moving in two completely separate directions. Only crossing paths every now and then.

Too different and incompatible. 

“My brain doesn’t work like that- watch your step,” he warns, pointing at a divet between the concrete and tile as you finally step inside. 

“I don’t like to think. I like to see. I’m a visual person.” He’s talking with so much passion, hands moving about to show you what his words couldn’t. You watch in awe.

“They don’t get that. Like when I got these,” he holds his inked arm out for your viewing pleasures. “My dad bugged out. ‘You’ll never get a good job with those doodles on your arm.’”

His tone was so exaggerated that you couldn’t help but giggle, shoulder knocking against his as you walked. He laughs too.

“I don’t really give a shit about the future. I care about now. I want to experience everything I can, right now. To me, life is about living in the moment. Photography is literally like-” his eyes squint, darting around the hallway as he looks for the right words. “Like- snapshots of the present.”

He got so carried away that he didn’t realize you had reached your destination. You blink at him.

“I’m sorry.” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That was stupid,”

“No!” You lower your voice immediately, embarrassed at your sudden outburst. “I actually…” You pause, contemplating your next words.

“I wish I was m-”

“I want to be-”

You both pause this time. Jungkook nods his head towards you, giving you the green light to speak first.

“In some ways, I wish I was more like you.”

“Yeah.” He hums with a soft smile, leaning against your doorframe. So delicate and graceful. “I was gonna say the same thing.”

You gulp, completely and utterly rattled. Your shaky hands fiddle with your keys, struggling to fit them into the lock. 

Why are you so nervous all of a sudden? It’s just Jungkook.

He laughs, steadying your jittery hand with his own and helping you slot the metal in. 

“Thank you for walking me home,” you say meekly, avoiding eye contact as you enter the dark room. “For what it’s worth… I think your tattoos are really cool.”

“And I think you’re really cute when you’re flustered,” he smirks, backing away from the doorway and waving at you. “Goodnight, Bambi.”

Much to your dismay, the compliment makes your cheeks heat up.

“Jungkook, wait! Your hat!”

“Nah, keep it!” He shouts down the hallway. “It looks better on you anyway!”

“Jungkook, stop,” you whine, back arching off your white cotton duvet. The soft tongue twisting around your nipple makes it incredibly difficult to focus on your cracked phone screen. “This episode is important. We meet Sailor Mars.”

“Sorry, Bambi,” He grunts, wet mouth reluctantly popping off your stiff bud. “Got distracted.”

It’s been a little under two month of this. Of you and him. 

Having sex, exchanging sweet words and touches, going back to just friends. Rinse and repeat. 

Blissful peaks and exhausting valleys. A rollercoaster of emotions with no logical endpoint in sight. You tried not to think about that part often though.

It was easy to distract yourself from the truth when Jungkook brought you lunch during the gap in his classes, or when he agreed to watch Sailor Moon in its entirety without much pushing. Atleast you could pretend he was yours in those little moments of affection.

You huff, pulling the crumpled t-shirt, his t-shirt, back over your chest. Your heart was still pounding from your last round an hour or so ago, and him casually sucking on your nipple while streaming a cartoon didn’t help.

“She’s your favorite?” He questions, propping his head up on the heel of his hand as he lays on his side. You nod, gaze flickering over to him. His previous activities had made his teddy bear headband slouch forward. You use one of the plush brown ears to pull it back into place.

Although sweet and attentive, Jungkook wasn’t immune to the innate disadvantages that came with being a man. 

Like not knowing how to wash his face properly. 

You watched in horror a couple weeks ago as scrubbed his face in your bathroom sink. Bangs and all. An order for a cute bear headband, the same brand as your kitty ones, was placed immediately. The way he smiled when you gave it to him would forever be burned into your memory.

“Makes sense,” he hums. “Mars is the planet of war.”

You side-eye him, knowing exactly what he was implying with that snide comment. “Just watch the show, Jeon.”

“I am.” His wavering attention turns back to your phone. “I love 90's animation. It was basically all done by hand, see?” He points at the scene behind Usagi; a blue watercolor sky fading into a baby pink. Clearly hand drawn. It was a detail you never noticed before.

“And the saturation is higher so the colors look brighter.”

“Your major is showing,” you say, using an eye roll to suppress the smile dancing on your lips. You don’t want to disturb the hydrating sheet mask on your face, resting in just the right position. You also don’t want to clue him in on how cute you find his artistic rambles.

“Speaking of that,” he laughs, resting his cheek against your chest, unable to stay in one position for too long. He’s like that in the bedroom too. You sigh as dry bits of his face mask crumble off his temple and onto the black fabric. Baby steps. “You’re still coming to the showcase, right?

Jungkook’s big end-of-semester project was to create a photography portfolio on a topic of his choosing. There was going to be a cute little gallery event to display the work of him and his classmates. It was hard not to get your hopes up when he invited you. 

That was a sign that maybe, just maybe, the feeling was mutual. Right?

“Right,” you answer him curtly. “Now tell me what topic you picked, demon.” 

“Nah, you’ll have to be a good girl and wait,” he grins teasingly, lifting up to steal an airy peck. “Besides, I need to get one more sho-”

Ding.

“Thank fuck!” He groans, springing up at the sound of your timer. “This feels like sandpaper. What the fuck are you doing to my face?”

“Oh, don’t be a baby,” you scold, pressing pause and tossing your phone onto your bed. He’d have to meet your favorite character some other time, clearly too distracted and antsy tonight to focus. 

“Bambi,” he says indignantly, pointing straight ahead at Mina’s floor mirror with wide doe eyes. His skin is cracked and painted gray. The reflection is startling to the skincare newbie. “Look at how dry this shit is!”

“Jungkook, it’s supposed to look like that. It’s a clay mask.” You laugh, peeling your more gentle one off and tossing it into the little trash bin near your nightstand. “You have oily skin, so it’ll help clear out your pores and reduce excess sebum production.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” he laughs, climbing out of bed and rolling his shoulders, arms numb from laying down too long. He’s topless. You can’t help but eye the way his back muscles pop out with every circular motion. 

How yummy. 

“Do you mind if I hop in the shower?”

He doesn’t need to ask. Jungkook has become a permanent fixture in your dorm, like the color pink or your twin bed. Whenever Mina is gone, he’s there. 

His presence is also similar to your bed in the sense that it doesn’t extend past the four walls of your room and mind.

A bed is warm, though. Comforting. And you long for it when you’re not in it.

That longing leads your wandering feet into the steamy bathroom.

“Jungkook,” you peep softly, knocking gently on the glass door before sliding it open. “Can I join you?”

The unexpected noise makes him jump, a large palm hitting his bare chest with a wet smack. Once his mind registers the sound as your voice though, his body language softens. Your voice so sweet and melodic in his ears. “I would never turn down an opportunity to see your tits. Wet.”

‘You could see them more often if you just fell in love with me already,’ you think to yourself, peeling off your cherry-printed thong and oversized shirt before stepping into the warm shower. 

He looks so dreamy in the sauna of your shower.

Your pupils pause when they land on the unbelievably minuscule nipples that you always tease him for. His cheeks and chest are a soft baby pink. Your favorite color. Whether it’s from the scalding water or him nailing you into the rickety mattress earlier, you can’t tell. All the fog makes him look even more heavenly than usual, like an angel descending from the clouds.

You’re down bad. 

There’s a speck of clay still on his chin, covering that little brown freckle you love so much. You cup the side of his face, thumb swiping away the leftover mask. He leans into your palms, lips chasing your finger to press a soft kiss on the pad of it.

Why must he make things so difficult for you?

 “I got it,” he mumbles, snatching the pink face cloth from your hand and reaching for what his peanut brain thinks is body wash. 

“Jungkook, that’s shampoo.” 

“What? No way,” he shakes his head confidently, picking up the slippery green bottle and reading the label with squinted eyes. 

You were right, of course.

“Oh, I fucked up then” He smells like lavender and mint. The scent fills your nostrils when he grabs the actual body wash from the bamboo wall shelf, suctioned to the tile near your head. It's the same fragrance of your very fancy, very expensive, shampoo. 

You glance at the bottle. It’s nearly empty. 

“Jungkook! You’re such an idiot!”

“It’s not that deep, Bambi. Relax,” he chuckles nonchalantly.

“It’s not funny!” Read the shower, Jeon. Haircare is no laughing matter. You cross your arms over your chest, titty-viewing privileges revoked until further notice. “That stuff is expensive, Jungkook. It’s Paul Mitchell...”

“Not Paul Mitchell,” he humors you, bottom lip jutting out dramatically. His shiny silver lip ring and eyebrow piercing do nothing to aid his faux innocence. “I’ll buy you another bottle, I promise. I used it because it reminds me of you. Smells so good.”

Jungkook squeezes the soap onto the pink cloth before running it over your body, lathering the vanilla-scented bubbles on your skin. Hands caressing every part of you so gently, as if you’re the most fragile thing he’s ever dealt with. Afraid to break you in his careless and clumsy palms.

He’s cleaning you so tenderly that it makes your lovesick heart pound.

He’s diligent too, squatting down awkwardly to wash your manicured toes, balancing your foot on top of his knee. He lets out an airy laugh when your foot jerks under his sneaky tickling fingers. 

Even on your most intimate parts, his touch stays pure and delicate. He cups your breasts, cleaning under them and around them. The damp cotton barely ghosts over your nipples. He’s never been shy to pinch, suck, or even bite them before. It doesn’t feel right to him in this context though. He doesn’t want to make you uncomfy or ruin the moment by doing or saying something dirty. 

Sometimes, Jungkook makes you feel so… important. So cared for. 

You cling to him when he washes your back, wrapping your arms around him and nuzzling your face into the solid surface of his chest. You stay like that for a moment. Holding eachother under the warm stream of the shower. Savoring it while he’s still with you like this.

Blissful peaks.

The gentle swirls and shapes he draws against your skin lulls you into a trance. All you can hear is his heart beating. 

It’s so close but so out of reach. 

You count the seconds between the faint thumps. So distracted and content that your ears block out the sharp sounds of water hitting tile. All you hear is him.

Jungkook. Jungkook. Jungkook.

A quick swat to your ass brings you back to reality. 

You peep out a small moan, jolting forward from the impact. 

“You like when I do that,” he deduces, the corner of his lip pulling into a crooked smirk as he massages your stinging behind. “When I have my way with you. Don’t you, Bambi?”

You nod, cheek still smushed into his wet chest. How humiliating.

“You’re a lot more submissive than I thought you’d be.”

“You thought about me before we started hooking up?” You counter, voice taking on a teasing tone to hide the flutter in your chest. He wanted you too. The thought was reassuring.

“Mm, maybe.” His hardening cock, brushing right against your inner thigh, tells you the answer. “The version of you in my head was confident, though. Knew what she wanted and took it.”

He whispers the last part, gaze floating down to your lips and licking his bottom one in preparation. The telltale signs of an incoming smooch. You close your eyes, expecting a sweet kiss-

“I get that you’re still learning how to fuck,” he shrugs. “So no biggie.”

Asshole. He's taunting you.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

“It’s not a bad thing…” he coos, patronizingly. “Just the Bambi I know would never let a man tell her what to do.”

Any implication of you being compliant and passive, especially to a male counterpart, would normally send you into a rampage. He never understood how someone so kind could also be so viscous. When angry, you were comparable to a fire-breathing dragon, destroying villages and burning people alive with your blazing articulate tongue. Jungkook would never tell you that though, lest you think he was calling you ugly and reptilian.

That couldn’t be further from the truth, because he found it so fucking sexy when you were mad. And the bubbles of irritation were already brewing in your stomach.

You’re falling right into his trap.

“I don’t,” you argue through gritted teeth. “And I always take what I want.”

“That’s not true,” Jungkook tutts his tongue at you. “You want me so bad and you haven’t done anything about it.”

Your heart drops. Is it that obvious you have a big fat crush on him?

“Why don’t you show me a little bit, then?” He huffs, voice pleading and whiny. He grabs your hand and guides it around his semi-hard member, engulfing your’s in his tattooed one. “Touch me how you want.”

Oh, he meant sexually. You let out a sigh of relief. 

Even partially soft, his cock feels heavy in your hand. Your fingertips barely meet around the shaft, pink mushroom tip poking out of your tiny fist. Two months. Two months of seeing his cock every three to five business days, and you’re still intimidated by the sheer size of him. How could you not be? He was massive.

He knocks his wet forehead against yours. His gaze is trained on his growing cock, tongue fiddling with his lip ring as he focuses. So visual.

Hm. It could be fun to take control. Especially when he was practically begging for it. 

Jungkook prefers to be the pleasing partner. Foreplay usually consists of him licking and touching every square inch of you until you’re squirming. You’ve never seen him so needy and desperate before.

Most dicks were ugly. Monstrous even. In the flesh, you’ve seen a whopping total of three penises throughout your lifetime, Jungkook’s included. A small sample size for your age. But you’ve watched enough porn to know that they were anything but aesthetically pleasing.

You’ve always been drawn to the finer, pretty things in life.

And his is so so pretty.

It’s not overly vascular. The veins running along his shaft are subtle, you can only feel them when you give him a hard tug. His skin is smooth and supple. Pelvis clean-shaven. Despite his little skincare mishaps, you can know he takes good care of himself. It’s a quality you found extremely attractive. 

Languidly stroking up, you twist your wrist over the swollen tip. Your grip isn’t as tight as he likes and you know it, purposely dragging over the upward curve with an unbearably loose fist. The running water makes the glide easy as you pump him languidly, stopping at the crown and squeezing to give him a little relief. 

He peeps out a dreamy sigh when a pearl of dew leaks out of the slit. You coo at the sight, using your thumb to smear the wetness around his sensitive head.

A dirty Jungkook-type thought pops into your head.

“Put it in your mouth,” you command, holding your glistening digit in front of his big nose. 

He hesitates for a moment. It’s fair. You were literally asking him to taste his own precum. His black pupils dart to your thumb, over to your face, and then back to your thumb. 

Has he never done this before?

He’s apprehensive, but fiercely competitive to the core. Never one to turn down a challenge. You’ve known that since you met him, when he nearly had a meltdown over losing a simple game of beer pong. 

He takes the pad of your thumb into his pink pucker, sucking on it like a sugary lollipop. His lustful eyes lock onto yours when his tongue just barely grazes over your skin. They’re pleading, so desperate for your approval. 

“Good boy… now spit.”

You feel his cock twitch against your stomach, wet tip leaving a sticky trail to your belly button. He obliges, letting a string of spit land in your palm. You hum contently, wrapping your hand around his shaft again. Coating him in his own saliva. 

“I love that,” he moans out, voice so turned on that you have to clench your thighs together for friction. They’re already clammy with arousal.

“Love what?” You tease. “Praise or my hand?”

“Both,” he admits with no hesitation, hips recoiling and subtly thrusting into your palm. He slicks back his bothersome bangs to get a better view. 

He looks so good with his forehead out.

“Does that feel good?”

He nods halfheartedly, tunnel-visioned in on the way you’re just fucking milking him. The nasty wet clicking noises filling the air only make his impending orgasm build up quicker. Jungkook has always prided himself on his stamina, but he’s already feeling that overwhelming pooling in his balls.

“Are you gonna cum?”

“Yeah, Bambi...” He sighs, mouth dropping when he’s done speaking. Thick brows knitting together. Face contorting in the way it always does when he’s about to bust.

 You tug him hard and fast until he’s teetering on the point of no return-

And then you stop.

The muscles at the base of his cock contract and expand, making it bounce up against his pelvis. The creamy skin at the base transitions into a vibrant flush at the tip. So swollen and angry. So ready to cum.

“Fuck!” He shouts, slamming the side of his fist against the tile wall, snarled teeth look too ferocious to be bunny-like. The hooded gaze he shoots you is scary, even angrier than his cock. 

It looks painful.

You feel bad, truly.

But it was a small glimpse of the pain you felt when he blue-balled your love and affection.

“I cum first,” you taunt with a smirk, pressing a gentle peck on his lips. He doesn’t reciprocate, pout cemented in a firm straight line. “Then you.”

His tattooed knuckles sneak under your wet hair, curling around the back of your neck. The other is grips on your shoulder, trimmed nails digging into the delicate skin as he shoves you forward. You gasp, bouncing breasts squished against the shower door, cool slippery glass brushing against sensitive nipples. 

Jungkook usually takes the lead during sex, gently coaching you through the motions until you’re both silly-smiled and starry-eyed in post orgasm bliss. You’ve never seen him so domineering. A sharp juxtaposition to the whiny boy who was desperately seeking words of affirmation a few minutes ago.

His duality has you embarrassingly wet.

“I’m sorry,” he grunts, nuzzling into your shoulder and placing a few gentle, apologetic pecks on your skin. “I don’t mean to be so abrasive.”

Abrasive.

That was a big word, for him atleast. His vocabulary has expanded a bit. The thought makes you gleam. 

“You’re just-” The words are broken off by an airy chuckle. “I’m so fucked.”

There’s no time for you to mull over the hidden meanings of his words. He nudges your legs apart with his knee, muscular thigh pressing right into your sopping sex. You moan at the contact, grinding down on it until it’s rudely snatched away. 

“Isn’t someone greedy?” His voice is muffled, lips preoccupied with kissing a messy trail down your spine before dropping to his knees behind you. Right on the shower floor. “You’ve already cum. Twice.” 

You had sex just a few hours. And he did indeed, make you cum twice. Once on his fingers and once around his cock.

It wasn't enough, though. Never enough with him.

“Want more...”

“I know you do, just…” His words dissipate when spreads one cheek to the side, distracted by the mesmorising sight of your glistening slit and puckering hole. “Stay still. Let me look at you.”

The lack of sensory information has you on edge. From your position, you can’t see him. Only catching blurry glimpses of a tattooed arm when it extends into your field of vision. It’s hard to hear the nasty declarations that pour out of his mouth over the pitter-patter of water. There’s no perceptible clues that help you predict his next movements. You have to wait until you feel them.

His big hands knead your skin, making the fatty parts jiggle with his thumbs resting under each cheek. “Wow…” he peeps in admiration before shoving his entire face in your ass, vigorously shaking his head side to side. 

He’s so lewd.

You squeak when his sneaky tongue pokes out.

“No…”

“Why?” 

“That’s so… dirty.” You don’t mean you, of course. Even in the drunkest of states, you could execute a ten step skincare routine flawlessly, facial rollers and all. You were referring to the act.

“I mean… we’re kinda past that, don’t you think?”

You hum a contemplative noise. He had a point.

“Don’t you like it, baby?” A soft kiss is placed against the cinched muscle. “When I play with you like this?”

Baby.

He hasn’t called you that since he walked you home from the party. Your stomach somersaults. 

“I love it,” you confess with a sigh.

“Then why is it dirty? I’m just making you feel good, aren’t I?” He coos, placing the pad of his thumb on the untouched area. There’s no pressure behind it, just light strokes around the rim. “I can make you feel so good, if you just let me do what I want.”

What he’s implying is nerve-wracking. Anal play was something you never even considered dabbling in.

“I’ll be gentle, I promise.”

You trust him and you’re consumed by lust, so you give a small nod. 

“I need to hear you say it.”

“Do whatever you want, Koo… anything.”

There’s a sharp exhale and then soft fingers massaging tight circles on your clit. You relax into the touch. A tried and true method of making you feel good, and hopefully, ease you into the uncharted waters with little tension. Jungkook lets a string of spit fall between your cheeks, knowing you’ll need the extra lubrication. 

“Fu- hmm,” you hum through curled lips when his thick thumb slowly prods in, only up to the first knuckle. It’s not as painful as you expected. A little strange and unfamiliar, but the stretch was oddly pleasurable. “S’ good.” 

“No one has ever been in here before, right? Only me?”

“Only you.” You mewl, grinding back into his hand. The confession makes him moan. The thought of defiling you, ruining you, does things to him and to his leaking cock. 

“Maybe if you’re good, I’ll get you a butt plug.” He pauses, before adding an afterthought. “A small one with a pink gem.”

You don’t respond, enjoying the feeling of his hand too much to speak.

“Yeah,” he hums to himself. “Gonna double dip you one of these days.”

“Koo,” you whine. “Please do something.”

He can’t deny you. Not when there’s those dreamy, desperate hues in your voice. Jungkook spins, sitting on the ground before shuffling backwards until his back is against the shower door. Positioned directly between your legs. Right under your leaking cunt.

“Ride my face,” he whimpers. “Please…”

In your limited experience, and via the data you’ve collected from third-party sources (Mina), guys only ever beg to receive oral sex. 

But Jungkook is different. Here he was, fully prepared to devour your pussy like it’s his last meal on death row.

Hopefully the crime committed isn’t breaking your heart.

“Jungkook, you don’t- fuck!” His mouth is on you before you can even finish the sentence. Toned arm wrapped around your thigh, pulling you down onto his thirsty tongue like you’re a refreshing drink on a hot summer day.

The cool metal of his lip ring brushing against your outer lips as he delivered long unhurried licks between them, had your thighs trembling. You were so worked up and he’s barely even touched you.

The position is great, amazing even, but it’s hard to hold him like you want. You twist awkwardly reaching behind you and letting your fingers trace the outline of his sharp jaw. You can literally feel his tongue working under the skin, collecting as much of your sweet dew as possible before swallowing it in big gulps. 

The combination of your juices and the running water makes Jungkook-

“Feel like I'm drowning,” he laughs, sending hot breaths into your core. 

You peep an apology before standing on your toes, trying to create some breathing room.

“I didn’t tell you to stop.” His free hand grabs your ass, fingertips digging into the plush surface as he pulls you back down. The motion makes his large nose brush against your clit, bulbous tip sneaking under the hood, tickling your most sensitive spot.

“Fuck, baby.” you whine, already feeling a sticky hot climax approaching.

“Don’t be shy.” The thick thumb, still hooked inside of you, begins rocking back and forth, moving your hips in tandem. Encouraging you to grind onto his face. “Use me.”

Despite the assertive facade, you were deeply insecure. You’ve never felt more liberated, more comfortable, than when Jungkook’s hands were on you, though. Caressing every undesirable part of you. Touching you in ways that made you swoon. Completely worshiping you. 

With that in mind, you build up the courage to move freely. Humping his face like you do your pillow when you’re alone and needy for him.

You find yourself saying this often with Jungkook, but you’ve never felt so good.

There’s little muffled moans under the sound of the shower. Between the wet strands of hair, you can see his thick brows pulled in at the middle. Features contorted to form that cute little yummy face he makes every time he eats good food. Or in this case, your pussy.

You giggle deliriously, gently pushing back his wet tresses. They’re silky and pliant from your conditioner. Your thumb smoothes over one of his brows in an attempt to tame the angry arch. Afraid to hurt him, you stop immediately when you feel his piercing. 

The look he gives you when he peers up at you sends you spiraling. There’s something so raw behind his eyes.

It almost looks like…

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You shout when your orgasm washes over you, hips jerking wildly and uncontrollably. Powerful waves of pleasure run through you. One after the other in rapid succession, leaving your legs shaking and your petite fingers clawing at his scalp. 

He doesn’t stop until you make him, with a fistful of hair and a rough yank. Wet lips smacking together as he coos, taking in the sight of the overstimulated body before him. You feel empty when he removes his thumb from your sore hole and climbs to his feet.

“Your mouth,” you whine. “It’s too much.”

“I know,” he hums in agreement, hugging you from behind before continuing with an airy chuckle. “Nayeon told me that I have an oral fixation.”

Nayeon.

Your heart drops at the mention of her name. 

Why was he thinking about Nayeon? Especially now, when he was being intimate with you-

‘Don’t overthink it,’ you tell yourself. It was probably just a flippant comment he made without thinking…

“Oh no,” Jungkook groans dramatically, tattooed hand scrubbing over his face in frustration.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, craning your neck to look at him.

“I only brought one condom,” he says in distraught, emphasizing the one like it was the biggest mistake of his life.  “And we already used it.”

Hm. Now seems like a good time to ask him the question you’ve been avoiding for weeks.

“Are you sleeping with anyone else?”

An eerie pause fills the air. You don’t like the way he hesitates.

“No… I always use protection anyways… and I just got tested last week.”

You don’t like the way he answers. Almost like he didn’t want to lie, but he didn’t necessarily want to admit the truth either.

You don’t push the matter further. You're afraid that if you do, he’ll drift away. Float onto the next shiny, less complicated, thing that catches his wandering eyes. 

“It’s okay. Just fuck me, Jungkook.”

“Are you sure?” He looks at you with wide, sparkly eyes. They appear almost animated, hand drawn in the same style as your favorite cartoon. “We don’t have to. I would never-”

“I want to.”

You just want him. 

“Are you on the pill?”

“Mhm.” 

He exhales a sigh of relief, head dropping to thank whatever higher power exists for making this happen. The stars aligned to make this happen. He gets to fuck you now. Raw.

When his hands land on your ass, they’re shaky and unorganized. You can’t tell if it’s from adrenal of excitement. His cock is at the perfect angle to slot between your cheeks without the help of his hands. Jungkook pushes them together, rutting his hips into the tight squeeze, moaning softly when his pink tip pokes out at the top. 

“No more teasing,” you huff with a pout.

“Put me in then, sweetheart.”

Another term of endearment. You wonder if he’s doing it on purpose. If he knows how you feel about him and is levying that affection against you. Using sweet words to lull you into any situation of his choosing.

You sigh, reaching between your legs. His couch is so touch-starved from the foreplay, the orgasm you denied him, that the contact makes it jump. You rub the engorged head over your clit, flicking it up and down over the swollen nub.

“Thought you said no teasing.” He gruffs, strained and fucked out.

You nod in response, licking your lips as you guide him to your entrance. His heart beating so sternly in his chest that you can feel his pulse in the crown of his cock. So turned out and it’s all because of you.

Your mouth forms an ‘o’ shape when he slides in slowly. You’re both so wet from the shower and your own arousals, that there’s barely any resistance. Just a smooth glide until he’s buried to the hilt. Hushed, needy gasps escaping from both of you.

“Ah- fuck,” he grunts, hips jolting forward even though there’s no more length to give, pelvis mushing into you. You have to brace yourself with flat palms to prevent your head from knocking into the glass. “I’m in love with this pussy…”

The sweet, filthy words make you clench around him.

Jungkook watches with parted lips as he pulls out. Top lip twitching in a snarl when he sees how creamy and shiny you made his cock. You always do, but this is the first time he’s actually witnessing it, feeling it, without any barrier.

“My favorite pussy…” he whispers, gripping your waist as leverage before he starts pounding into you. Closing his eyes to focus on his rhythm, savoring the way your warm, wet, natural ridges feel on his cock

Even from behind, his curve does wonders on your g-spot. The smooth underside deliciously strokes that sweet spot with every deep plunge. Your breasts bounce when his hips crash into yours, making the very tips of your nipples teasingly brushing against the wet glass. The coolness sends tingles through your burning skin.

“When can I really play with you?” He pants. “Use my vibrator until you’re cumming buckets, huh?”

“Whenever we stay at yours…”

He doesn’t respond, leveling you with a simple hum instead.

“Nah, I prefer going to the girl’s place-” Jungkook had slurred to Taehyung, projecting his voice over the static of the party. Loud enough for your unsuspecting ears to pick up the sound. “I feel bad for asking them to leave after, so it just makes things easier.”

That was before you started hooking up, but the memory still stings.

A lightbulb turns on Jungkook’s brain as he watches the running water hit your back. He reaches for the shower head, clicking the silver lever three notches to the left. Jet mode.

The ugliest sob rips though your chest when he places it directly on your clit.

“Jungkook!” The stream is so powerful that it sends you into a panic.  “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t!”

“Yes, you can,” his lips are smushed to your temple, trying to shush your cries. “Gotta practice for the Hitachi, don’t you baby?”

The constant stimulation from the water and his cock makes your orgasm build up much quicker than anticipated. There’s wetness on your cheeks. It's not from the splashing water pummeling directly into your clit. You feel so euphoric and overstimulated that you’re crying. There’s nothing you can do to stop the unbearable pleasure that’s coursing through your veins. 

You nearly blackout when you cum. Vision blurry. Hearing fading in and out. Legs giving out underneath you. Jungkook has to catch you, abruptly dropping the shower head to wrap his big arms around your waist before you plummet to the ground in bliss.

When you can support yourself again, he hangs up the forgotten metal, maneuvering you around until you’re facing him. He picks you up with an inked arm hooked under your thighs, free hand grazing over your back in soothing circles.

“I didn’t push you too far, did I?” He asks worriedly.

You shake your head. He did, but you absolutely loved it. You peep when you feel the tip of his cook, still achingly hard, against your backside. “What about you?”

“Don’t worry.”

“No,” you protest. “Want you to cum too.”

He looks at you, gnawing on his bottom lip like he’s contemplating something. “I’ll be quick.”

Jungkook lays you down on the shower floor gently, the same way he does on your twin bed. A grimace laces through your features. Over the last month, you’ve been swamped with homework, putting a wedge in your normal routine. The last time you cleaned out the shower was two whole weeks ago.

Disgusting.

All complaints are forgotten when he’s inside of you, though. You would brace the bacteria and germs to have Jungkook between your legs. 

“You’re so pretty,” he huffs, admiring the way your hair fans out across the white porcelain. Leaning forward, Jungkook presses his entire weight on top of you, nuzzling his head into your shoulder. There’s a gust of wind on your shoulder as he breathes in your scent. 

The whole atmosphere feels different.

The slow sensual grind of his hips makes you dizzy. You swear you’re hallucinating when you feel his hands graze up your arms, fingers interlocking with yours. 

“Look at me.”

You crane your neck, wide eyes meeting his hooded ones. You breath hitches in your throat when you take in his expression. He’s looking at you the same way he did earlier.

If you didn’t know better, you would say he’s looking at you like he’s in love with you.

“I’m close,” he whispers, nudging his forehead against yours. He kisses you so delicately. There’s no heady teeth or rushed tongues. Just a sweet, soft kiss. “Where do you want it?”

“Inside.”

When he cums, it’s gentle and low. His hips never falter from their slow pace like they usually do when he climaxes. He doesn’t moan lewdly or say anything dirty. He just stays clung to you, panting softly until he rides out his high.

You feel so warm and happy when he fills you up. 

He stays on top of you while he catches his breath. You don’t mind, petite hands scratching over his back. Listening to the calming, rain-like sounds of the shower.

“Do you want to go to bed?” You peep after a few minutes.

“I can’t sleepover tonight, Bambi,” he coos, sitting back on his knees. You feel empty when he pulls out.  “I have a test tomorrow.”

“Oh… well, you’re still coming over tomorrow, right? So can we finish the season?” You question, recalling the pinky promise he made you last week.

“Raincheck,” he pouts. “I have something to do for one of my classes.”

You follow him to the door once you’re both dried off and dressed.

“Goodnight,” he places a dramatic kiss on the top of your head, pulling away with a little ‘muah’ sound. Something in the corner of your room catches his eye before he leaves. “Did you steal my hat?”

Your eyes follow his finger, pointing straight to the black bucket hat on your desk.

“You gave it to me.”

“I did?” He looks at you in confusion. “I don’t remember that.”

“Fuck off,” you groan, cocooning your blanket over your disturbed ears. You wanted nothing more than to rewatch Sailor Moon and mope, but the fireworks would not fucking stop. Where is campus police? And why are they letting dumb frat boys light off explosives?

You sigh, watching Usagi and Rei fight over Tuxedo Mask again. You know what the outcome will be. The thought of your favorite character falling victim to the unforgiving strain of unrequited love makes your heart hurt.

You tilt your head. Tuxedo Mask kinda looks like someone you know. 

The show was supposed to be distracting, make you forget the fact that you got stood up but a guy you’ve been crushing on for months. But even your alone time has become daunting. Consumed by him. Everything reminds you of Jungkook. 

Jungkook. Jungkook. Jungkook.

You sigh, closing out the app in favor of scrolling through Instagram. The first picture you see on your feed is of Nayeon. Just your luck.

It was posted two minutes ago. You recognize the ugly brown couch in the background. She’s clearly at a party, form-fitting black mini dress complimenting her figure perfectly. 

Your self-loathing mind guides your self-loathing fingers to zoom in on every little detail and compare yourself to her. Pretty hair. Perfect makeup. Tiny waist that curves out into her full hips. Long legs. Jungkook. Straight, pearly white teeth. Nice jawline-

Jungkook?

You do a double take, eyes scanning the photo until they land on him again. He’s lingering in the background, back against the wall, looking down at his phone. You stay zoomed in on him for a while, staring at your phone screen until your vision goes blurry. 

Every doubt and insecurity you’ve harbored over the last few months hits you in a drowning, suffocating wave. 

Exhausting valleys.

Why did you even agree to this? This stupid friends with benefits relationship.

You knew you would get hurt, but you didn’t think it would hurt this bad. Not only did he lie to you, he was with Nayeon.

Nayeon. You can’t fucking stand her-

You shake your head furiously and throw your phone to the foot of your bed. 

You don’t mean that…

Since when were you the type to hate another woman over a dumb guy? Or have unprotected sex? Or let someone so careless and selfish infiltrate your heart and mind?

How could you compare yourself to Nayeon when you two are in the exact same position?

You think about the night you fell for him, when he walked you home in the moonlight. She must have felt the same you do now. You’re similar in your desire to be with him, knowing you'll get hurt in the end.

Because being with Jungkook for a little while was better than not being with him at all.

It’s his eyes. They’re dark but so tender. The way they look at you like you’re the only thing that matters. The way they glow when he talks about things that interest him. Or how they dart up towards his forehead when he can’t find the right words to say-

“__?” Mina calls, standing in the doorway with a takeout bag. You hadn’t even noticed her come in.  “Why are you crying?”

“Huh?” You peep, eyes fluttering down to the little wet spots on your blanket. 

Without even realizing it, you had grown to love Jungkook so much. 

You spent the rest of the night sobbing in Mina’s arms.

© chryblossomjjk 2022 [do not copy, translate or repost]

[deliciouskeys]

6 and 7 for Homewell

25 for Butchlander

26 for Maevlander

:)

Meme Link. These were challenging lol! “You really had me going there” - HL to SB

6 homewell, undercover in a bar

As part of media/social training for a NYC based celebrity, Vought wants to make sure HL knows how to politely demur when men come on to him. He goes to a gay bar in plainclothes (plainclothes being a crop top and itty bitty shorts). Madelyn comes along to observe. 18 year old HL gets an overwhelming number of solicitations, eventually ending up dragged to the dance floor unwillingly and has to escape and cling to his “best friend” Madelyn to get out of there.

7 homewell, pretending to be married

This one is also training but done in private as they assess whether HL is better off being married to Maeve (PR would prefer he stay vaguely single but the psychology department thinks some stability would do him good). Madelyn tells him to just roleplay it, but HL starts assuming this is a trial run for the real thing, that she’s just been too shy to tell him she wants him to propose. Culminates in him getting down on one knee and saying something like “Madelyn, you should have said something, I thought it was off the table, I had no idea you actually wanted me!” and she has to work really hard to maneuver out of that nightmare interpersonal tangle and keep his ego intact.

25 butchlander, circus au

I have no idea what this trope even is haha, but!

Billy gets dragged to attend a traveling circus show by a friend who’s really into this Vought Circus. It rarely visits the UK (based in the US and features these weird supe freaks that only ever get born in the US for some reason). But Billy is kind of taken with one of the performers, although he won’t own up to it and when his friend gushes about the show, Billy is dismissive that it’s grotesque to watch these people with congenital malfunctions prance around in skintight glittery leotards. Billy’s friend has a backstage pass, so they get to see the performers after the show and Billy’s kind of shocked that they’re confined in cages for people to gawk and stare at. He talks to the supe that caught his attention and finds HL is not the shiny smiley fake looking ken doll he is on stage. He’s brusque and rude and clearly a diva but is also clearly living a life of a show horse, and… feelings are caught, slowburn yada yada, Billy tries to get him out of that life.

26 maevlander, language barrier

When they just start dating, Maeve gets the fun task of teaching HL all the millennial slang that Vought never bothered to (he still doesn’t really go online on his own, even after being let out of lab, and certainly hasn’t hung out on urbandictionary). So when she says “I’m shook” he just stares at her blankly. And his sexual vocabulary is a complete black hole, so “eat me out” also garners a wide eyed scared expression from him before she realizes he might try to guess what it means and quickly specifies what it means before something horrific takes place.

[kechiwrites]

katsuki, izuku, and shouto as types of doting dads

🌿 gender neutral!reader

🌿 sfw drabbles, lots of domestic fluff under the cut, 

🌿  warning: bakugo swearing, of course

🌿 w.c: 1.2k (approx. 400 each) 

🌿 a/n: thank u to my angel @mindninjax​ for naming katsu’s tiktok. sorry about the formatting, tumblr hates me.

katsuki

Bakugo’s kids are not spoiled, fuck you for even insinuating it.

Bakugo’s kids get what they need.

And what they need is a four tier bento box, every school day.

Insulated, of course, because “they aren’t fucking animals.”

And what starts as Bakugo just being a very attentive father, grows into you recording him coming home from his early morning run and grumbling while he puts on the frilly, lemon yellow apron your kids got him for Christmas two years ago, which grows into him carefully arranging a camera setup over your kitchen countertops, “because you’re the shittiest director alive, dumbass.” Which leads to the tiktok account dine-amight, where Bakugo uploads his intermediate-level character bentos, full to bursting with perfectly seasoned rice balls shaped like All Might and Hello Kitty, star and moon shaped fruits and veggies and occasionally, when your kids beg for them, Bakugo’s famous rainbow mini pancakes.

And of course a pro-hero with a reputation like Bakugo doing anything domestic is worth coverage and acclaim, blowing the account’s followers into the hundreds of thousands in a week.

In fact, people are shocked that Bakugo can even find the time. But he’d do anything for your kids, do anything to see them bring home empty bentos, bragging about all the kids drooling over their lunches that day. Anything to watch their missing tooth smiles when he asks how they were.

And if that means a couple of extra grocery trips at the end of the week and really early morning runs and gentle kisses on your forehead while you mutter and shift in your sleep before he starts the rice cooker, then so be it.

“Katsuki, they are not going to eat caviar. They do not need caviar.” Honestly, you were less surprised he was dropping it in the cart and more surprised your local supermarket even carried it in the first place. 

“They’ll eat whatever the fuck I give them.” He bites, pushing the cart just shy of too fast through the aisle, head swivelling back and forth for god knows what else. An elderly woman casts your husband a dirty look as he just barely swings the metal buggy to avoid her, to which Katsuki helpfully spits “Keep it movin’, hag!” 

“They’re 10!” 

“Doesn’t mean they need to choke down dry ass chicken nuggets and grape juice all day.”

izuku

Birthday party dad, the absolute worst party dad. Thousands of dollars on his kids’ birthday parties. Princess parties, pirate parties, any theme your kids can gurgle about liking and Deku has pulled out his tablet and is putting a pinterest board together before you can remind him that the twins’ birthday was two months ago. 

“We can get an early start on next year. What’ll you think it’ll cost to turn the pool into an ice rink?”

          “My sanity.”

        “Don’t be dramatic.”

Gets almost ridiculously bitter when the family across the street throws an All Might themed party when he knows, he fucking knows, they overheard him talking about throwing one for the boys months ago, But he is not changing his plan. Naw naw naw, your kids are gonna get their All Might party, they’re getting the All Might Party. Every single attendee is getting a vintage, tin All Might lunchbox stuffed to bursting with All Might merch; toys, branded candy only released in Sweden, keychains, those little retro bubble charms, anything he can cram in there. The yellow, red and blue bouncy castle he rented rivals the size of your house. And then, because there is not a soul on the planet pettier than your husband, he forces every pro hero he’s ever known to get in costume and take photos with the kids. He makes the one with the twins your yearly christmas card, then hand delivers it to the family across the street.

In October.

You bake apology pies for weeks.

“You know this is ridiculous right? Deku, she’s 2” you stress the number, pinching the bridge of your nose. “She isn't going to remember any of this.”

“I'm not listening, I didn't hear that, I am busy putting little princesses on cupcakes, a task you said you would help me with.” He’s grinning when he turns to you, and when you hold out your hand, he places a piping bag full of baby pink frosting in your open palm. 

Together you hunch over the kitchen island to ice and decorate twenty-four strawberry vanilla cupcakes, nudging and snickering at each other’s lopsided princess figures until the two of you are smearing icing on skin and tossing edible glitter into hair.

shouto

You know those “girl dads”? That’s Shouto. He takes her everywhere, takes pictures of everything that little girl does. School plays, holidays, playdates, you name it and there’s a dedicated, timestamped album that Shouto is begging to show every visitor, mailman and coworker. 

He prints them out, and maintains an instagram account filled with his favourite daddy-daughter moments, updated. daily.

Nevermind that he hasn’t used his own personal account in 9 years.

His favourite thing is buying and wearing matching outfits, carrying her in one arm. “Yes, I know she can walk, she’s very talented, she can do anything. She just likes to be as tall as daddy is.”

Whenever he picks her up from school, your husband slides her sweet little coat on and gently secures her into her car seat, right where he can see her when he looks in the rearview mirror. Then, Shouto drives your daughter wherever she wants to go. 

Wherever.

If it’s the zoo, they’re going, and they’re coming back with a gigantic, stuffed red panda to add to her own (not so little) plushie zoo at home. If it’s Starbucks, she comes toddling through the front door holding a VENTI, frozen hot chocolate frappuccino (no coffee, of course) and a brownie. Shouto asks them to make it special, he would never let her handle anything too hot.

“Shouto, stop. You’re gonna rot her teeth, she can’t even finish that.” Which is totally true, the cup’s as big as your daughter’s head. Not that she seems to mind, the way she hefts it up for you to see from the entryway while Shouto undoes her glittery blue shoelaces.

“I’ll finish the rest.” He shrugs, picking her up and plopping her down on the living room couch next to you, pressing a light kiss to the top of your head before shuffling off to hang up their identical winter coats.

He doesn’t even like chocolate.

“Why would she need a iPad?” You grab Shouto by his shoulders and make him look at you. 

“For…school.” His voice is quiet and subdued and you almost feel bad...before you remember your husband is clutching an $800 tablet he intends to give your 6 year old kid to his chest in the middle of an electronics store.

“Baby...she’s in elementary school…They aren’t even using calculators yet.” You try to pry the package out of his grip, steadfastly ignoring the gentle downturn of Shouto’s mouth at the development. 

“She’s very advanced for her age.” The frown is a full on pout by now and you shut it down as quick as you can. 

“No. Uh uh. Put that bottom lip back in. Then put the tablet back.”

It’s wrapped in shiny purple paper by December 19th.

🌿 join my taglist here 🌿

[dragonologist-in-the-making]

Paper Rings

Pairing: James Potter x Reader

Summary: On his first ride to Hogwarts, James befriended the girl who was obsessed with shiny things. Over their schooling together, their friendship turned into so much more.

A/N: lmao I suck at summaries. Also I’m back sorry for the random hiatus (and sorry that posting will almost definitely not be consistent after this either). I had this idea months ago, inspired by Taylor Swift’s Paper Rings, and I only just got around to writing it asdfghjkl. Still obsessed with James though rip me I just want someone to love me like this.

Warnings: Mentions of eating (briefly), otherwise just a lot of fluff.

Wordcount: 4k (wow)

...

Little James Potter waved goodbye to his parents as the train took off from the platform, nervous about his first journey to the infamous Hogwarts, but excited to discover all the great things his parents had told him for himself. First though: finding a carriage.

Trying not to show his nerves, he wandered along the corridor, peeping into the carriages to see if there was one he could join. For the most part, he found them all too full, too loud to juggle his nerves, or the students too old and intimidating. The days would come where James would rule the corridors of the castle, but the eleven year old boy on the train was just hoping to make a friend he could share this new adventure with.

As fate would have it, he found just that and so much more. In a carriage to herself sat a young girl, his age, her face turned away from him looking out the window. The only thing he could see was a petite sparkling bow, sitting neatly in her (y/h/c) hair.

Without thinking about it, he knocked gently on the compartment door, sliding it open as she turned to look at him inquisitively. Her (y/e/c) eye’s glittered as her lips pulled into a smile, creating a complete sense of comfort for James to ask. “Do you mind if I sit?” She nodded eagerly, gathering up a few books she had dumped on the opposite seat and dropping them into her lap. “I’m James.” He smiled.

“(y/n). It’s nice to meet you.”

They sat in a comfortable silence for a short while, listening to the laughs of older students, friends reuniting after a summer apart, and watching the landscape whip by them out the window.

“I like your bow, by the way.” James spoke up, feeling glad he did when an excited smile broke across her face, looking as if he’d told her she’d won the lottery.

“Thank you! I love the way it sparkles.” She said, gently pulling it from her hair and twisting it in the sunlight, showing how rainbows danced in the glitter and were thrown across their compartment. Satisfied, she used it to clip back the hair that was now falling into her face, and their conversation moved on, following each and every thought they were having, becoming fast friends. James didn’t think the journey could get any better until two boys showed up at their door and asked if they could join them, setting everlasting friendships in stone.

As the train pulled up to Hogwarts, any nervousness James had been feeling was gone. Instead, the only thought he had was that he couldn’t be more glad he sat in the compartment of the girl with the sparkling bow.

…

Their first year passed in a blur, and the Marauders spent the majority of it in each other’s company, laughing their days away.

Now, summer had come and gone, and their second year at Hogwarts was in full swing. They walked into their charms class together, laughing about a joke Sirius had made at James’ expense. (y/n) sat next to the curly-haired boy at their desk, as Remus Sirius and Peter sat at the one adjacent to them.

“Hey, it’s not my fault I didn’t make the team last year! No first year has made a house team in like 80 years! I’m telling you though, I’ll make it on this year, and I’ll be the best chaser this school has ever seen.” James protested, huffing as he put his textbook in the middle of the table for him and (y/n) to share. She laughed at him softly, hand patting his shoulder as the other boys got lost in their own conversation.

“I know you will, Jamie. And I’ll be there cheering you on every step of the way.” His cheeks redenned at her words, but luckily their attention was turned away by Professor Flitwick.

“Now students, the charm I’ll be teaching you today is more of a fun one to start off the year than anything you’ll likely need in your everyday lives. As always, I don’t expect you to create chaos by using these charms” – he turned his gaze to a particular group of students at this point who were all busily looking elsewhere – “but simply to enlighten yourselves and to show you what magic can do. So, the charm we’ll be learning today is how to make things glitter.”

James heard an almost inaudible gasp next to him, and he could feel the excitement radiating off (y/n). He chuckled, expecting nothing less; he’d known her for a year now, and if it wasn’t the bow in her hair there was always something shiny on her at any given time.

Flitwick talked about the details of the charm, how it could be applied subtly, only giving a faint sheen, or how it could be made much more obvious. Finally, he gave them the charm and told everyone to repeat after him. “Now, like I said, just because this is a fun charm doesn’t mean it’s an easy one, and I don’t expect you to get it on your first attempt. Just keep repeating the charm and-oh!” He broke off suddenly, just as James’ vision went hazy. Once he’d focused, he saw he was surrounded by a cloud of individual glitter specs floating around them, almost as if they were in their own galaxy. His gaze shifted to its centre, shining most brilliantly of all as her proud and excited smile dazzled him, making him forget entirely they were still in their charms classroom.

“Well done Miss (y/n)!” Flitwick’s voice broke through their bubble, and slowly each star seemed to fade out of existence, until they were back in their regular old classroom, thirty pairs of eyes trained on them. “You certainly felt the spirit of the charm and went above and beyond. 10 points to (y/h). Now, if you could help Mr Potter whilst we all get back to it!”

Chatter burst out the classroom almost immediately, partners working together trying to enchant an object of theirs to take on the glittery effect. Sirius turned to her, rolling his eyes half-heartedly.

“Becoming a teachers pet now are we, (y/l/n)?” She rolled her eyes back, waving her wand to produce a cloud of glitter that settled in Sirius’ hair, contrasting sharply against its darkness.

“It’s sparklesSirius, what did you expect? Now c’mon, this is the one lesson I won’t let you not do the work in. Make some glittery greatness and I’ll bake you all some cookies when I next steal James’ cloak to go to the kitchens.” With those words, the three boys turned their entire focus to the task at hand, while James still seemed slightly awestruck next to her. “You alright, J?”

“That was amazing (y/n/n). I had no idea you could do that.”

“Well I guess you can’t know until you try.” She shrugged, picking up her quill and placing it in front of him. “Charm my quill.”

“Why me? You could just do it yourself.” James asked, confused why she didn’t do it herself since she was clearly more than capable. Once again, she shrugged, looking into his eyes as she uttered the words so nonchalantly that would stick with him for years to come.

“Well, Flitwick said you needed to practise. Plus, it’ll mean more to me if every time I look at my quill I know that you’re the reason it’s shining.”

Within a heartbeat, James had uttered the incantation and a subtle shimmer had settled over the feather, imperceptible until it was moved and caught the light. The smile he saw when he looked over at (y/n) made him vow to himself that as long as he was around, she would never have an ordinary quill again.

True to his word, every time she brought out a new quill, he was quick to snatch it from her and place the simple charm on it. It became an unspoken promise between the two of them, and every time James saw that sparkle from the corner of his eye, he couldn’t help but smile to himself.

. . .

True to her word, (y/n) was there for all of James’ games, cheering him on from the side of the pitch, always the first to reach him when the game was over. High or low, win or lose, she was always there to remind him that he had played amazingly, and that she was proud of him.

After one such game in their fourth year, Gryffindor narrowly losing to Slytherin, she was at his side so quickly that he would have thought she had apparated if he knew this wasn’t possible. She wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly, feeling the slight shaking of his shoulders. “Oh, James.” She quickly ushered him off the pitch before he attracted eyes, assuring him that Sirius and Remus would collect his things from the changing room and bring them back to his dorm. Once they reached his dorm, she sent him to shower, promising that she would be there for him once he was back.

Sure enough, he came out of the shower in fresh clothes and damp hair, and she was still on his bed, patiently waiting for him. She held her hand out to him, a silent invitation, and as soon as he took it she pulled him to her side and once again enveloped him in a hug.

“I’m so proud of you, Jamie.” She whispered, squeezing him momentarily before drawing back and looking into his glassy eyes.

“Shouldn’t be.” He murmured, avoiding her gaze. “We lost.”

“And yet you scored more goals than anyone else the entire game.” She pointed out, sincerity lacing her voice. “It’s just because the snitch is worth a stupid amount of points, honestly the game has a lot of flaws.” James smiled weakly, they often had these debates about Quidditch and it always ended in some silly way.

“I did hit Malfoy in the head with a Quaffle.” He admitted, and (y/n) could see the weight falling off his shoulders.

“The highlight of all our years.” She laughed, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a little box. “I got you something.” She handed it to him, and he pushed it back to her, head shaking, doubt returned.

“No I didn’t do anything to deserve it. Keep it.”

“We already had this argument and I’m not taking no for an answer.” She shoved the box into his hands and folded her arms across her chest, waiting for him to open it.

Reluctantly, he pulled the lid off the box to reveal a snitch, the snitch he normally kept on his person at all times, now shining with a slight iridescence. James looked up at her, thankful but a little confused at the present.

“I’ve actually been saving it for when you lose a game. Which has been hard because that’s hardly ever.” She broke off to give him a playful glare along with her words, quickly broken by her soft smile. “I know you play with the snitch when you have a lot on your mind, and when you start to doubt yourself. I wanted to remind you that you’re incredible and you should believe that yourself. So, when you see the snitch and you see it sparkle, you’ll think of me, and you’ll remember how great you are.” He was speechless, and in the silent air, she did what the two of them did best, and started to nervously babble. “Well, that’s assuming you think of me when you see sparkles, and quite frankly after all this time I’d be slightly offended if you didn’t-oof” her rambling stopped when James tackled her into a hug, knocking them both back onto the bed.

“Thank you.” Was all he said, but she could hear the emotion behind each word, everything he was trying to communicate. All she did was hold him tighter.

It was then that Sirius and Remus walked into the dorm, carrying all of James’ equipment from the game, causing James and (y/n) to jump away from each other. Blushes arose on both their faces, not that the other would have noticed, each too busy looking at opposite walls of the dorm. Sirius and Remus exchanged a knowing look, but decided to let it slide, knowing there was an inevitability to it anyway.

…

Once again, (y/n) was boarding the Hogwarts express for another year of school. She knew this year would be a stressful one, with their OWL exams coming up, but she also knew that as long as she had her boys by her side, she would be absolutely fine.

Speaking of her friends, she was currently walking along the train trying to find them. She knew that Lily and Remus were prefects now so they’d be at the front of the train, but she was struggling to find anyone else. Eventually, she found James, sitting in a carriage by himself, absentmindedly watching the view. She chuckled to herself at the situation, the reverse of their meeting all those years ago.

She slid the door open, catching his attention and his ever-so-addictive smile. “Got room for an old pal?” She asked, sitting next to him when he patted the seat, his hand enveloping hers as soon as she had, a silent communication. I missed you.

“I was starting to think you’d gotten cool and forgotten about me.” He joked, nudging her playfully.

“Piss off Potter, I was always cooler than you.” She teased back, glad to see that nothing had changed despite their time apart. It never did, they were always James and (y/n), inseparable no matter how hard anyone tried. “Where is everyone?”

“Lils and Moony are doing prefect duties, and Sirius enlisted Peter’s help to try and sneak into their carriage and get the insider information.” He rolled his eyes light-heartedly, forming air quotes around Sirius’ words as (y/n) laughed, eyes closing in amusement. “What’s that on your eyes?” James suddenly asked, stopping her laughter short as she tried to figure out what he meant.

“Oh!” She remembered. “I went to see Lils in the holidays and she was showing me this glitter eyeliner that muggles wear! Why, do you not like it?” She suddenly felt self-conscious, wondering if it really was too much despite Lily’s reassurances. It was a subtle white, but still, it was glitter on her face.

“The opposite!” James was quick to answer, rushing so much to not hurt her feelings that he wasn’t thinking about what he was saying. “I think you look really beautiful (y/n/n), with or without the makeup. Besides, the glitter brings out your eyes.”

At this point, they were both blushing furiously, and James was still holding her hand, neither of them willing to let go. (y/n) couldn’t help but smile to herself, and remembered to thank Lily for the recommendation the second they were in the dorm together that evening.

…

James climbed the last step into the astronomy tower, seeing (y/n) leaning against the railing already, gazing into the night sky, a blanket and an array of snacks out on the floor behind her.

It was a ritual they’d started who knows when, a chance to wind down and escape the chaos of everyday life, to enjoy each other’s company and to feast away on whatever snacks they had managed to stow away for these evenings. Tonight’s selection looked to consist mostly of cauldron cakes and chocolate frogs, with the occasional sugar quill hidden amongst the rest. “Heavy on the sugar tonight, I see.” He broke the silence teasingly, settling himself so that he was sat at (y/n)’s feet, still able to see the clear night sky above them.

“If I don’t consume my own bodyweight in sugar I think I’ll pass out I’m that exhausted.” She commented back, sinking down next to him. Automatically, his arm wound around her shoulder, pulling her into his side and resting his chin on top of her head. There weren’t words to describe the feeling of pure content as she melted into him, completely at ease.

She reached out and grabbed a chocolate frog, unwrapping it and handing the card to James with a sigh upon seeing it was one already in her collection. She bit into the chocolate, her gaze on the night sky as his was unable to break away from her, the way she settled so peacefully against him.

“The stars sparkle too, you know.” She broke the silence, voice quiet but still holding its signature melodic tone. James finally broke away from looking at her, joining her eyeline and looking at the constellations above them. Even though he wasn’t taking astronomy as a NEWT, spending so much time in the tower with (y/n) as she mapped the sky meant he knew precisely what he was looking at, and traced the constellations with his eyes.

“You know, six years of friendship and I don’t think I ever asked you why you like shiny things so much. I always just accepted it as a part of who you are.” A smile graced her face as she unconsciously twiddled her fingers.

“Don’t laugh.” She warned, and he solemnly shook his head. “I think there’s something so entrancing, so beautiful about them. I think it serves as a reminder that even the most seemingly dull thing,” she picked up another chocolate frog box at this point, waving her wand to create a light sparkle over it, “is wonderfully brilliant if you just remember to look at it in the right way. It’s a lesson we should all carry with us, and I try to remember it whenever I can. Everything is beautiful if you give it a chance.” The sparkles on the box faded in the moonlight, as (y/n) finally looked up at James, only to find him already staring back at her.

Body thinking quicker than brain, seeing her (y/e/c) eyes glimmering up at him, James leant down and pressed his lips to hers. She stifled a gasp, quickly moving her lips back against his as her hand wound gently around the back of his neck. He poured all of his admiration into the kiss, everything he had been feeling for her since he didn’t even know when, feeling his heart soar to be here with her in that moment.

Eventually, they broke away for air, and a breathy laugh fell from (y/n)’s lips, blush rising on her cheeks as she turned her face away. James reached for her hand, interlacing their fingers and gently rubbing circles on the back of her hand with his thumb. “I’ve been drawn to you since the day I saw you in that train carriage. You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met, your soul. I didn’t even realise the outside matched until we came back from that summer you spent with Lily. But god, every day since then I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I like you, (y/n/n). I really like you.”

Around them, a shimmering cloud exploded simultaneous to a wide grin spreading across (y/n)’s face. It was their own galaxy, just like all that time ago in the charms lesson, but she was still in the centre, still giddy with excitement. “I like you too, Jamie.” Her smile turned a little sheepish. “And sorry, I think my emotions got a little out of control.” The star-like sparkles slowly dissipated around them until there was nothing left, and this time it was (y/n) who leaned up to James, connecting their lips one more time.

“You taste like chocolate.”

“I’m sure that must be awful for you, Potter”. Nothing had changed, and yet nothing would be the same either.

…

James was sat on the floor of his dorm, textbooks open in front of him, although this late in the day he was struggling to pay any attention to them. What he was focused on instead was his girlfriend, tucked into the alcove of the windowsill, absentmindedly writing away on a piece of parchment.

Her (y/h/c) hair was in plaits down her back, and in the candlelight the silver threads that James had helped her braid in this morning were casting light across the room that shifted with every little shake of her head or shrug of her shoulders.

“You’re staring again, Jamie.” She chastised, although the humour was clear in her voice. He pushed himself up from the floor with an exaggerated groan, making his way over to her and pulling her gently into his chest, pressing a soft kiss into her hair.

“Can’t help it love, you’re an actual angel.” He didn’t see it but he knew she’d be rolling her eyes as she buried her face in his chest to hide the blush that was forming on her cheeks.

“Stop being so cheesy.”

“As if you don’t love it.” She pressed a kiss into his chest, resting her head against him as she went back to her writing. He tried not to pry, but he couldn’t help but catch notice of his name and his interest piqued. “Who are you writing to?”

“Euphemia.” She replied nonchalantly, not pausing her actions as he took a step away, face scrunched in confusion.

“My mother?” she paused at this, looking up at him with false exasperation.

“Do you know many other Euphemias?” She deadpanned. He shrugged, admitting her fair point, moving back to her side where she immediately snuggled back into his warmth.

“How long have you been writing to my mum?” She paused for a second, contemplating.

“Since the start of term I think. She sent an owl, I responded, we haven’t really stopped talking since. Oh, I’m coming over for Christmas by the way, she invited me. Said it wouldn’t be Christmas without the whole family there” (y/n) looked up at him, flashing a mischievous grin, expecting him to whine childishly like he normally would, complaining that he was supposed to ask her. Instead, looking more solemn than she’d seen him in a long time, he crushed her against him, holding her so tightly before he leant down and connected their lips. The kiss was bruising, but it was packed with adoration, and it left (y/n) slightly breathless. He broke away, leaning his forehead against hers as she tried to catch her breath back. “What was that for?”

“I love you. So much. You’re absolutely perfect, and I swear, I can’t wait until the day I can put a ring on that finger and make it official, make you a Potter for real. I promise, it’s going to be the most sparkling, dazzling gem you’ve ever seen. It’ll shine just as brightly as you, and it’ll always remind you that you’re beautiful, in every way, and just how much I love you.” Her hand had come to rest on his cheek, smiling throughout his little speech, parchment cast aside and forgotten about at this point.

“Don’t be silly, James.” She laughed, stroking his cheek with her thumb. “I love shiny things, yes, but I don’t need one to be reminded of how amazing you are, or how much I love you. Hell, you could ask me to marry you with a paper ring and I’d still say yes in a heartbeat. I’m saying yes to you, to a life. You don’t need to win me over with some ridiculously expensive piece of jewellery.” He nodded slightly, pecking her lips before moving back to where he had been sat on the floor.

(y/n) picked her parchment back up, continuing on to the letter she had been writing to Euphemia Potter, unable to help themselves from planning the Christmas festivities despite it being early November.

Deep in concentration, she startled slightly as she noticed movement coming from the corner of her eye. She looked to the side to see her boyfriend once again, although this time he was knelt before her, holding up a piece of parchment that he had hastily fashioned into a ring, coupled with a sheepish smile.

Laughing merrily, she hopped down from the windowsill, pulling him up by his jumper and kissing him passionately as she slid the piece of paper onto her finger, looking forward to the day when they were older, when they could promise this for real, knowing that they had the rest of their lives ahead of them to love each other unconditionally.

When James first stepped on that Hogwarts train, he was hoping to find a friend he could share every moment with for the next seven years. He had found that in her, a best friend, now a lover, for seven years but for so much longer. The girl with the sparkling bow turned out to be his soulmate, and he sent a prayer of thanks to the stars every day.

[wifeboys]

Third Time’s the Charm // Wilmon

Summary: Wilhelm kisses Simon three times before he gets the hint.

Word Count: ~2600

A/N: A little in-universe fic to tie us over. Based on prompts from this prompt list *shamelessly plugs my prompts blog @deity-prompts *. Also I haven’t written fanfiction is a while so I’m a little rusty.

gif credits: @princewilhelm

Wilhelm kisses Simon three times before he gets the hint.

The first time is at Rosh's soccer final. The pair (and Ayub) had gone to every single game of the season, rain, or shine. They stood at the side lines. The night air gripped them through their puffy coats. Flood lights illuminate their breaths. Wilhelm and Simon pressed shoulders to 'help keep them warm'.

The game is intense. The ball is sent over and back again and again. Fouls are left and right. Fights even break out. The crowd hold their breath, each moment electric. Simon is so focused on the game that he forgets where he is. He forgets who he's with and who he is. All he can concentrate on is Rosh.

The whistle blows, once, twice, three times. Rosh punches the air with a victorious scream. The crowd erupts. Everyone rushes onto the pitch. They clutch each other into hugs, exchanging "congratulations!" and kisses on the cheek. Simon sprints to Rosh, grabbing her tightly. She slaps his back and yells something he can't hear. Ayub pushes him out of the way and hugs Rosh. Simon staggers back with a laugh. Wilhelm is in front of him. His eyes sparkle with happiness and Simon can't help but smile. Before he can hug him, Wilhelm places his hands on Simons cheeks and quickly kisses him. The kiss barely lasts two seconds, but time seems to freeze. Simon short-circuits.

Before he can process or kiss him back, Wilhelm is already hugging someone else and Ayub is grabbing Simon. "SHE DID IT! FUCKING YEAH!" The night moves on. Everyone goes out to celebrate, still full of energy until they part in the early hours. As Simon celebrates, he can't help but think about Wilhelm kissing him. Did he kiss him or did he imagine it? No, it definitely happened. He can't imagine the electricity pulsing through him. He can't imagine the rush and heat he felt.

But that doesn't mean Wilhelm wanted to kiss him. It was an intense game. Everyone was celebrating. It was probably just a "hey bro, we did it! let's celebrate!" kiss. Wilhelm would've kissed anyone, Simon just happened to be there.

That's what Wilhelm is acting like. He's hugging everyone he comes across. Simons not sure if that's because Wilhelm is a hugger or because he's buzzed on celebratory drinks. Either way, he's not treating Simon any different. He's still talking to him like they're regular bros who like regular sports and other regular things.

It was nothing, Simon decides.

• ❤︎ •

The second time is at Felice's birthday party. She spares no expense. The common room is decked with streamers, balloons, and stocked with alcohol. Everyone is wearing the most extravagant outfits they have. The birthday girl has braided her hair short as a boys, and wears a purple robe that reaches her heels. Simon wears a black, glittery blazer over his bare chest with waist high black trousers. The lack of shirt was probably a good idea, considering people keep bumping into him and spilling their drinks.

The music is practically deafening. You can't walk two steps without knocking shoulders with someone. Simon keeps to the back of the room, fiddling with the hem of his blazar as the party unfolds in front of him. Sara keeps him company, chatting his ear off about something he can't hear. The only thing he can focus on is a certain prince across the room.

Simon barely notices when Sara tugs at his sleeve. "Si! I'm going to find Felice. Don't just stand here for the whole night. Go talk to someone"

She disappears into the sea of drunk teenagers. There's no way Sara was telling him to go talk to Wilhelm specifically, but that's all Simon wants to do. Actually, he wants to skip the talking and pin Wilhelm against the wall.

But Simon can't do it. He's glued with his back against a wall as people make out around him. He can't mess things up with Wilhelm. He can't scare him off. He can't lose a great friend on the tiny chance he might get a boyfriend. Simon repeats this like a mantra to the beat of the music.

None of this stops him checking out Wilhelm, the crowd acting as a safety buffer. His simple yellow shirt is plain considering the occasion. He made up for it by covering his hair with glitter that has fallen onto his face and shoulders.

He watches as an already tipsy Wilhelm finishes his drink. He's surrounded by people (probably his friends). He suddenly cracks up at some joke they say. Glitter explodes into the air with the quick movement of his head. A shiny halo illuminates his face. God, he's beautiful when he laughs.

"Simon! Simon Simon Simon" Felice nearly falls on top of him. "I'm so glad you're here- and you look amazing"

"Thanks, so do you- and happy birthday" Simon has never been good at taking compliments.

"You're too kind. I'll admit, I can't get enough of my cape. Hey, you should try it on! Purple is definitely your colour"

"Oh no I couldn't-"

"Oh yes you could. Let's swap jackets. I promise I'll give it back"

Next thing Simon knows, Felice is slipping off her cloak-y thing to reveal a white blouse and black skirt. She takes Simon's jacket, even giving him a spin. "We look stunning" she says as Simon wraps her robe around him. It looks a bit weird on him, but it's soft and smells nice. Felice sips her drink, and frowns. "My cup is empty. Can I get you a drink?"

"Uh- sure"

Felice disappears into the crowd. Simon goes back to looking for Wilhelm, but he's nowhere to be seen. He scans the crowd carefully. Wow, there's a lot of people here. A lot of bodies. The air is thick. The music is too loud. The room is too small. Simon needs to get out.

He excuses his way towards the door, not stopping until he's breathing in the night air. He leans next to the door, careful to keep Felice's robe clean. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Simon can only handle parties for a short while before he needs a break.

He stares up at the sky. Deep breath in, deep breath out. The stars are like glitter. The moon shines brightly at him. Deep breath in. He can't find Wilhelm, but at least he can spot the Man In The Moon. Deep breath out.

He's grounded again. He knows he should go home soon, but he figures a bit longer inside wont hurt. He gets up to go inside and find Felice when the door swings open. A yellow shirt stumbles into the night, glitter sparkling in the moonlight.

Simon finally found Wilhelm- or, rather, Wilhelm found him.

Wilhelm finds his footing, looking around. He finally spots Simon by the door.

"There you are!" He exclaims. There I am?

If Simon moves fast enough, he can slip back inside before Wilhelm even notices him. He can grab Sara and pretend he never came to the party. Before he can put his plan into effect, Wilhelm is cupping his face again.

Wilhelm kisses him. Simon is quicker to react this time. He kisses back, his plan to escape already forgotten. Wilhelm pulls back for a moment to tilt his head to the side. Simon holds the back of his neck, running his fingers through his hair. Glitter falls around them.

Wilhelm's hands slip behind Simon's robe, pulling him closer. Simon shivers as his hands run up and down his back. He drowns in bliss, finally getting to kiss Wilhelm the way he always wanted to.

When Wilhelm finally pulls back, his eyes stay closed. "Oh" he sighs softly. "Oh . . . I'm about to throw up. Excuse me"

Without even looking at Simon, Wilhelm turns and staggers around the corner. Simon hears retching. His escape plan kicks in. He practically runs back into the party, nearly knocking people over as he finds Felice.

He finds her giggling with Sara, who's cheeks are blushes deep red. They swap their clothes back, re-completing Felice's outfit. She truly looks stunning, tonight more than ever. Up close, her hair is woven more intricately than he realised. It's as short as his but looks ten times better.

Oh God- with the short hair and purple cloak, he probably looks just like Felice. Especially to someone who's drunk. Wilhelm didn't mean to kiss him. He meant to kiss Felice. Now Simon feels like he's going to throw up.

• ❤︎ •

The third time is after Parents Day. Simon spent the days leading up to it avoiding Wilhelm. He probably doesn't remember the kiss at all but Simon wont chance it. He won't give Wilhelm the opportunity to reject him. This doesn’t stop him from looking at him for a little too long from across the room. This doesn’t stop Wilhelm looking back.

His ingenious “if I ignore him he can’t reject me” plan fails, however, when Wilhelm sits with his family as they eat. Simon can't take his eyes off him as he chats with Simon and Felice's family. Wilhelm combs his fingers through his hair, licks his lips, laughs along to jokes. Simon soaks up every minute of it.

Dinner plates empty. Belts are loosened. Waiters come around to collect dishes and Simon starts to panic. Wilhelm has been glancing at him again and again throughout the dinner. He's definitely going to corner Simon and let him down. Tell him to forget all about the kiss (if he even remembers it). Simon pulls out his phone.

Simon I need you to pick me up

Ayub Thought you were at the parents dinner Cant ur mom take u home?

Simon I'll explain later If you pick me up right now I'll be forever grateful

Ayub I'll be outside in ten You owe me one

Simon I love you more than life itself

Simon rests his phone on the table, slightly less panicked. As soon as people start getting to their feet, he bolts. Out the door. Our of the school. He only slows when his feet crunches on the front road's gravel.

Ayub arrives right on time. Simon jumps on his bike before he can ask what's going on. It isn't until the next day that Simon comes to a shocking realisation: he left his phone at Hillerska.

• ❤︎ •

"Didn't think I'd be back here so soon" Ayub says as he drops Simon off.

"I'll be in and out, I promise. Everyone's gone home so I'll be able to find it and grab it"

"Here, call yourself on my phone. You can follow the ringing"

"Where would I be without you"

Ayub tosses his phone and gestures for Simon to go. He pushes open the doors. Hillerska feels haunted without students bustling through the halls. It's like a museum. Simon opens Ayub's phone and calls himself.

It's probably in the dining room where they ate. He walks towards it, listening intently for his ringtone. What he doesn't expect is for someone to pick up.

“Hello?”

Simon stares at the phone for a moment before pressing it to his ear. ". . . Hello?"

“Simon? That you?”

“Wille!" Perfect. The one person he was trying to not talk to. "Sorry, I didn’t recognise your voice”

"Don't worry about it, I don't think you were expecting me to answer"

"Yeah, uh, you have my phone. That's why I was calling it. I must've left it here yesterday"

"Where are you? I can drop it off"

"I'm already at Hillerska so I can just grab it. Want me to come to you?"

"Just start walking, we'll find each other"

Simon decides to go in the general direction of Wilhelm's dorms. It really does feel like a museum. Each alcove is like a display he can't touch. His footsteps echo.

“So . . . what’re you doing with my phone?” Simon asks.

“I actually didn’t know it was yours. It was left on one of the tables, so I took it in case the owner came looking for it”

“And here I am”

“And here you are”

Simon can't help but smile. He's sure he can hear Wilhelm smiling too.

Wilhelm takes a deep breath. “I’ve actually been meaning to talk to you”

“Talk to me?”

“Yeah. Um . . . it's about Felice's party"

Simon stops. Here it is. Everything has backfired and now the one thing he didn't want to talk about has come up.

"Simon? You there?"

"Yes! Uh yes I am." He rubs a hand across his face. Play it cool. "What about her party?"

"I'm sorry that I was so drunk that night. I figured I'd need some . . . liquid courage but I guess I had too much"

"Yeah. It was a uh, a wild night" Simon feels like he's choking on his own heart. He distracts himself by looking around at the hallway. He's not even sure where in the school he is. He's more focused on not throwing up.

"Do you remember that night?"

Play it cool. "Anything specific you want me to remember?"

There's a moment of silence. Simon can hear Wilhelm's footsteps through the phone. "If you want to forget that night and move on like nothing happened, we can definitely can"

Simon doesn't want to forget. It's all he can think about.

"Do you want to forget about it?" Simon asks, swallowing.

Wilhelm's walking slows as he thinks. "I don't want you to be uncomfortable"

"I don't . . . I wasn't uncomfortable"

There's a beat. "I'm glad. That-that you weren't uncomfortable"

"I'm a little uncomfortable now" Simon laughs awkwardly. His tension eases a little when Wilhelm laughs too.

"I'm sorry. I just don't know how to talk about this" Simon kicks his feet against the floor.

"I have to say, I didn't think I'd be talking to you about this over the phone"

"I didn't think you'd want to talk about this at all. I thought you were going to avoid me forever"

"Hey, you're the one who was avoiding me"

"Yeah yeah I know" Simon smiles.

Wilhelm takes a deep breath and exhales. "I really wanted to kiss you that night. That's why I got so drunk I needed a confidence boost. It uh, it didn't help that you ignored the kiss at Rosh's game"

Simon's jaw drops in a smile. "I didn't ignore it! I just panicked. I figured it was a spur of the moment celebration"

"None of it was spur of the moment. I've wanted to kiss you for a while"

"You have?"

"You didn't notice?"

"Not at all. If I did, I probably would've kissed you"

Simon hears him stop and smile. “Simon, you are the smartest idiot I ever met”

He hangs up. He hangs up? Simon looks at the phone as if it holds the answer. His brow furrow as a hand grabs his shoulder from behind. He turns, that there he is.

"Hi" they say in unison.

Wilhelm's hands are on Simon's shoulders. He holds his gaze with a smile. Simon completely forgets how to breathe. All he can think about his Wilhelm being so close to him and his lips being right there because really they're right there-

"Can I kiss you again?" Wilhelm asks. Simon nods.

Wilhelm kisses him for the third time. It's hesitant- like he's testing the waters to see if Simon is willing to swim. Before he can pull away, Simon yanks him back in. His hands thread through Wilhelm's hair as Wilhelm wraps his arms around his waist. They pull each other impossibly close. It's their third-first-kiss and it is perfect.

[tinytonysnark]

Hi Nisha love, Stevetony for #40 (Making a goofy face until they notice and laugh) in the 50 wordless ways to say I love you prompt list if you're so inspired? <3

40. Making a goofy face until they notice and laugh. 2.1K words, stevetony, fluff, tw: Howard Stark’s A+ Parenting

six

The first thought Steve ever has about Tony is, he looks sad.

He’s making his way into the school by himself, cause he’s grown now — his Ma’s car is still at the drop-off where he can see her still blowing kisses at him through the window, but who’s gonna know — when his eyes land on them. 

There’s a man standing in front of a boy who looks smaller than Steve does, something he didn’t even know was possible — and the boy looks sad, shoulders hunched in and staring at the ground while the man seems to be scolding him, like his Ma does sometimes when he gets into a fight with the boys down the road. 

But unlike Steve, the boy doesn’t stare back and let it be known that those boys had it coming for talking like that with his chest puffed up because he’s mad — and not at all because he’s pulling in big gulps of air. 

Steve can’t see what the man’s face must be like since his back is to him but he imagines it must be angry and that just makes him angry  cause the man seems like a big old bully and Steve hates bullies.

If the man wasn’t a grown up Steve might have just gone over there to tug the boy away and yell at the man about maybe picking on somebody his own size, but he promised his Ma he wouldn’t get into trouble — well, not on the first day at least. 

So instead, he sticks his tongue out at the man, blowing a raspberry at him that he doesn’t hear.

But the boy does. 

He looks, eyes darting up and around the man to stare at Steve who must have a silly look on his face because the boy looks a little shocked and his ears go red but there’s a smile, there and gone before he quickly looks back down at his feet. 

Steve decides then and there that this boy is going to be his friend and he waits for him, the man leaving with a dismissive wave as he walks over to his very shiny car. 

The boy watches him leave before making his way over to Steve, shoulders still hunched but not staring at the pavement anymore. “Hi. You - you didn’t have to wait for me.”

“Course I did,” Steve says with a shrug. “You and me are gonna be friends. I’m Steve Rogers,” he says, sticking his hand out for a shake. 

The boy stares at his outstretched hand for a moment before taking it with sweaty hands, “I’m Tony Stark and I - I really want to be your friend.”

“Well good, cause we’re going to be best friends,” Steve says confidently, dragging Tony through the front doors. “Come on, we can’t be late on our first day.”

[continue on AO3] or

***

twelve

“I’m just sayin’ that if you don’t come over for blueberry pie after Ma specifically baked it with you in mind, she’s gonna throw a fit,” Steve tells him, feet swinging under him because these benches were so high. 

Not because he’s short. 

It’s not. 

Tony’s hands are fidgeting, his fingernails plucking at the skin of his nail beds and Steve doesn’t even think about it when he reaches over to pry them apart. 

Tony just moves on to biting at the skin on his bottom lip. “Howard will be really mad if I miss dinner. He says the people coming over could really make or break the the company and he wants to make a good impression.”

His laugh is derisive when he tells Steve, “We have to be the picture perfect family complete with the great businessman but who’s also a loving father, the doting wife and mother with me staring as the golden son. What could possibly go wrong?”

Steve’s face must have morphed into the strange expression he does whenever Tony mentions anything about his home life because when he looks up from the plate of fries he’s not eating he gives a snort of laughter which only makes him embarrassed, covering his mouth like that would force it back in. 

“Shut up, you didn’t hear that,” Tony says, cheeks going pink. 

“Hear what?” Steve grins, swiping a handful of fries.

“Hey!”

“What? You’re gonna come over to eat my food so now I’m stealing yours,” Steve tells him. “Listen, you’re coming over today. Ma can be scary when she wants to be and not even your dad can stop her.”

Tony goes back to chewing on his lip. 

“Hey, trust me,” Steve says, grabbing at Tony’s hand. “It’s going to be okay.”

Tony looks down at their hands before looking right at Steve. “Okay.”

It doesn’t occur to him until much, much later that he and Tony held hands all through lunch and neither one had said anything. 

***

fourteen

They’re sitting in Math class — and why Tony is even in this class confuses Steve considering how smart he is — when he realises Tony isn’t paying attention to a single thing Mr.Vanko is saying. 

He’s staring at his phone, hidden behind his open textbook and he’s taking a selfie that Steve is just going to assume he’s sending to Rhodes because —

Because the other option is assuming he’s gonna send it to Stone who is a senior and all around jerk and Steve kinda wants to bash his head in whenever he sees the douche hanging around Tony and — well, Tony seems to enjoy Stone’s attention but there’s something not right about that guy and Steve —

Steve is not biased. He isn’t.

He makes a face at the camera when Tony angles the phone again and Tony doesn’t even notice until he looks at the picture.

He stifles a laugh into his hand but Mr. Vanko’s hearing is scary good and he always seems to have it out for Tony anyway so he turns away from the chalkboard to glare at where Tony sits. 

“Something funny, Mr. Stark?’

“No, no, just that you wrote out the equation wrong,” Tony says, shutting his book, his phone wedged between the pages.

“I doubt it,” Mr. Vanko sneers before looking at the board then scowling when he realises Tony is right. 

Steve tries not to roll his eyes because of course Tony is right. 

When he checks his messages later he sees that Tony had sent him the picture, with Tony front and centre but the perspective makes it look like Steve is popping right up from his head with a goofy look on his face.

He makes it his screensaver because really — who’s even going to know?

***

seventeen

Steve says the only reason Tony tries out for cheerleading is to be a rebel and to effectively drive Steve insane. 

Tony tells him that he does it so he can stay in shape since now he has to keep with Steve’s insane growth spurth over the past year and so he can be flexible and Steve — well, Steve tries not to go completely red at the implication in Tony’s tone. 

For all the years they’ve been friends, for all the dancing around they did about how they felt for each other — this, this is still new and real and Steve is completely terrified of messing this up. 

Losing Tony - that’s not even something his brain can comprehend. 

But when he shows up to practice, already making his way over to where the cheerleaders are to say hello and maybe steal a kiss, he thinks that Tony is trying to put him in an early grave because he’s standing there wearing the cheer uniform just —

The crop top and the skirt are fitted so well.  

For some reason, Steve’s brain latches onto the fact that Tony’s belly button is out.

He’s an innie. 

Steve must look an absolute fool right now because the cheerleaders burst into giggles around him, Tony included, who walks up to him and sweet jesus -

He shaved his legs and Steve thinks maybe there’s glittery body oil on them because there’s no way —

“Hi, handsome,” Tony smiles up at him. “You’ve got a real dumb look on your face so I’m assuming you like the uniform.”

Steve tries to say something back but his mouth just feels bone dry at the moment and he has to clear his throat to choke out a simple, “Yeah, baby. I really, really do.”

Tony kisses him, hard and fast -they’re lucky their teeth didn’t clack together - before pushing him off to the field. “Go on number 29! I can’t cheer for you if you’re terrible.”

“Thanks for that,” he says before hauling Tony in to kiss him once more, deeper and leaving him dazed before he runs back to his team. 

He gets a pom-pom thrown at him.

***

twenty-two

There’s a Taylor Swift song blasting from the speakers to commemorate Tony’s birthday but Steve — Steve can’t find Tony anywhere in this strange house he got off-campus that Steve is nearly certain is haunted because why else would it be so cheap it practically a robbery. 

Rhodes had mentioned to check the workshop but that had been the first place he looked anyway and he’s gone through the whole house at this point.

He’s standing by the kitchen before it comes to him and he’s off like a shot up the stairs, nearly bowling people over in his haste. 

He gets to Tony’s room, places the bag on the table and climbs through the windowsill when he spots him, sitting cross-legged on the roof. “Tony?”

The surprise on Tony’s face honestly makes the 4 hour long journey entirely worth it. 

“S-Steve? Ohmygod, Steve!” He yells, jumping up to crash into him and they nearly go skidding off the roof.

“Why don’t we head back in -”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Tony interrupts, “Let’s just sit out here.”

Steve isn’t really one to deny Tony anything, let alone on his birthday and definitely not when he’s beaming like that. 

He tugs Steve down, his back to Steve’s chest. “I - I got worried when you didn’t call. Thought maybe you forgot.”

Steve frowns, “Forgot? Baby, in these last 16 years I have never not once forgotten the most important date on my calendar and I ain’t gonna start now.”

He brings Tony’s hands up to him and places a kiss on the palm, “There was a slight hold up. Just, wait here.”

“There’s only one exit.”

“You say that like you haven’t rolled off a roof to prove a point before,” Steve tells him, reaching through the window to snatch the bag before coming back to sit in front of Tony. 

“Courtesy of the best bakery in New York,” Steve tells him, holding out the cupcake. “Bucky’s kitchen.”

He lights the candle he brought with him and sticks it in the middle. “Make a wish, Tones.”

Tony stares at him with a look so full of love with the flickering of the flame reflecting in his eyes that all the air rushes out of Steve’s lungs.

He blows out the candle before then promptly taking it out and smears the cupcake into Steve’s face that frosting goes up his nose. 

Tony laughs so hard when Steve just stares at him that he nearly does roll off the roof.

Tony makes it up to him by licking up all the frosting though. 

***

twenty-seven

Steve’s hands can’t stop shaking. 

He can’t believe that after months and months of planning, they’re finally here. 

That in just a few short minutes, he’s gonna get to call Tony his husband.

The doors open and Steve thinks his heart might have just stopped as he watches Tony walk towards him, resplendent in his tux and he just knows that the camera is recording his slack jawed expression because Tony is grinning at him as he makes his way down the aisle.

When they’re declared husbands, Steve kisses that grin right off his face and the camera catches their stupefied expressions. 

***

thirty

Tony drops the blanket, yelling out, “Peek-A-Boo!” 

Peter, completely amused, claps his tiny little hands from inside the crib. 

“The betrayal I feel right now is overwhelming,” Steve calls from the door of the nursery. “This is my favourite game.”

He crouches down next to Tony, both hiding behind the blanket before dropping it again, making silly faces. 

“Peek-A-Boo!”

Peter’s shriek of laughter can be heard all through the house.

[alecmagnuslwb]

Marriage is a Contract and My Signature is Unreadable

Read on AO3

John’s never seen a bride wear fishnets with their stunning white dress, but Dinah Lance is pulling it off somehow. Admittedly though John hasn’t seen that many brides that weren’t ghosts or the earthly demonic embodiment of some sort of hell beastie so maybe his experience in weddings and bridal wear is a bit skewed.

Of course he’s also a bit skewed because in his eyes no one at this wedding, not even the bride no disrespect to the woman who’s by far one of the few supers he can truly say he likes, is as stunning as his date. Zatanna sits beside him at their table, the reception in full swing now, her legs crossed the deep navy-blue asymmetrical dress she’s wearing showing off a tantalizing bit of her leg. Her tattoo, the twin to his peeks out from the front of the dress right next to the silver lining at the edges where the dress straps around her neck. She’s a fucking vision his Zatanna.

“I can’t believe they finally did it,” Zatanna says gliding her silver French tipped nails with little crescent moons on them along her glass of champagne. “I really thought Lois and Clark would be the only ones to take the plunge.”

Supers aren’t known for tying the knot, their world is so complicated and their relationships so wild they never find the time to actually get around to it. The fact that Dinah and Oliver managed to not only successfully get engaged, but plan a real wedding and have the ceremony without any major incidents happening in the middle is a miracle if John’s ever actually seen one.

“Who do you think’ll be next?” John says surveying the room. Every hero he’s ever met and ever butted heads with is here out of costume and all dressed up to the nines. There’s a congregation of Green Lantern’s by the bar, Superman is on the dance floor poorly attempting to floss as Nightwing laughs his fine ass off at him, the Flash is somehow dancing with his girlfriend and eating every item on the buffet simultaneously.  “Seems like two in a row will make a domino effect, yeah?”

Zatanna hums in thought her piercing blue eyes with the glittery navy blue and silver eyeliner around them shimmering in the light as she tilts her head in thought. She carefully scratches at the space beside the cluster of tiny rhinestones artfully placed around her right eyebrow and settles her eyes to a table across the room with a smile.

“Wally and Linda for sure,” she says tilting her head their direction. John swivels to look at them. Unlike Barry who’s still zooming back and forth from Iris to the buffet, Wally is wholly engrossed in every movement Linda makes as she talks rapidly her hands moving all about as she speaks to Mia Dearden on the other side of the table. That is a man wholly in love, enraptured by the woman he gets to call his own. John understands the sentiment as he looks back to Zatanna her dark blue painted lips still resting in a beautiful smile.

“What if it was us?” John asks leaning in closer to her a wicked smile on his face.

Zatanna snorts, a harsh indelicate thing that on anyone else would be unattractive.

“Aww, love you too, Zee,” John says faux offended falling back against his chair. He knew it was an absurd suggestion the moment he said it.

“I’m sorry, you know I love you,” she says holding up a hand attempting to hide her laughter. “It’s just look at us, we’re coming up on our first and only three-year anniversary. We’re not exactly known for being good at this.”

It’s a valid point. Despite the fact they have technically been together for over a decade they’ve gone through their fair share of ups and downs, break ups and make ups and even a few trips to hell and literal deaths. John has screwed up more times than he can count and even Zatanna has bungled it once or twice. Complicated has at almost all times been their relationship status, but the past three years, ever since John got his head out of his ass and finally decided to sort out this one particular aspect of his life they’ve been good, solid.

“Okay, true, but you’re stuck with me and we can’t act like there aren’t benefits to the whole marriage sham,” he says stretching his arms behind his head.

“It’s extremely comforting you called it a sham,” Zatanna says giving him a fondly exasperated look. “But you know maybe you’re right the tax incentives alone are a real benefit.”

“Now, the tax incentives would be appealing if I had ever in my life filed my taxes,” John says with a laugh.

“You’ve never filed taxes?” Zatanna says with a slightly startled look.

John just shrugs tossing back the remainder of his champagne. “It’s not like I’ve ever had any real upstanding type of job that would require me to fill out a W4 or whatever.”

“It’s a W2,” Zatanna corrects. “And John you live with me, our landlord made me put your name on the lease because he saw you there so much. You could totally get caught.”

“Eh, it’ll be fine,” John says with an unconcerned wave of his hand. “The fact that I’m not technically a citizen of this country is probably a bigger issue than the tax thing anyway.”

“John!” Zatanna exclaims with a laugh.

“What? You can’t have thought I actually went to a baseball park and held my hands up and did the national anthem or whatever,” he says kicking his feet up on the empty chair next to him.

“Clearly you haven’t considering that’s not at all how citizenship works,” Zatanna chuckles. “But hey there’s a potential benefit of marriage for us, citizenship.”

“Ah the romance of marrying not for love, but so the government pricks don’t send your ass packing,” John reaches out a hand tangling his fingers with Zatanna’s on the table his thumb running small circles into her hand.

Zatanna hums. “I guess lack of romance aside it wouldn’t matter since I can always just portal you back into the country on a whim anyways.”

John nods in agreement trying to come up with another benefit they might be able to actually take advantage of. “You couldn’t testify against me in court, that could be incredibly useful down the line.”

Zatanna raises one jeweled eyebrow, “Is there a crime you’ve committed lately you’ve neglected to tell me about?”

John thinks for a moment genuinely scanning his memories in case there is something he forgot to tell her about. “No,” he settles on confidently. He’s pretty sure at least. “I’m just thinking in general considering my track record in the past.”

Zatanna pats the top of his hand with a smile. “As if any prison could hold you long enough for me to even be asked a single question.”

John just laughs again, “Alright so maybe there aren’t that many marital benefits for us to take advantage of then.”

“No parents to satisfy,” Zatanna sighs. “And of course making medical decisions for one another doesn’t really matter when you use magic and superhero doctors that definitely don’t accept any sort of co-pay,” she adds on with a contemplative bite of her lip.

“Half your friends hate me,” John says thoughtfully with a chuckle.

“And half your friends are dead,” Zatanna says ruefully tapping a nail to her chin. “The wedding party would be abysmally uneven.”

“I haven’t bought a new tie in years,” John says tugging at the red thing around his neck. He looks hilariously basic compared to Zatanna’s ensemble essentially wearing what he wears any given day of the week the only difference being Zatanna had forced him into a subtly lace patterned black jacket for a change and repainted his chipped nails for the first time in two weeks. “It’d make the pictures look horribly out of place.”

“Plus let’s be real I’m a show woman, I’d probably hate having to share the spotlight with you for one day,” Zatanna smiles teasingly. John smiles back shifting so that he’s scooting his chair closer to hers. He lifts a hand to her face twisting a long dark hair that’s slipped from her twisty updo held in place by two sharp silver hair pins with crescent moons at the end to match her nails and tucking it back behind her ear.

“So, basically there’s not a benefit in this world or a thing that would change if we got married,” John says letting the silky hair go.

“The only thing I can think of is that I like shiny jewelry and you look hot when you wear silver rings,” Zatanna says reaching back and pulling the two pins from her hair letting it all fall across her shoulders, the one stand out streak of navy blue appearing as it falls.

“And we can buy each other jewelry anytime without a reason,” he says brushing the bit of hair that’s fallen into her eyes away.

Zatanna smiles at him once before standing holding out a hand that he instantly takes. She guides him to the dance floor twining her fingers behind his head slowly.

They sway slowly to some sappy love song John vaguely recognizes their eyes locked on one another.

“You know,” she says after a while her fingers pulling through the hair that’s getting a bit too long at the base of his neck. “Just because I don’t want to get married doesn’t mean I don’t want you for as long as I can have you, right?”

He does know that. It’s inexplicable to him why someone as bright and vibrant and good as her wants him, but she does and he intends to keep it that way till the demons or the cigarettes kill him.

“I know. I’m happy how we are, knowing us, and by us I mean me, marriage would end up mucking everything up anyways,” he says pulling her in closer his hands moving from their grip on her waist to the exposed small of her back. “We can just keep going to everyone else’s weddings and raiding their open bars.”

Zatanna laughs then leans up kissing him once soft and slow not even smudging her lipstick in the slightest. She stays close when she pulls back resting her head on his chest as they continue to sway.

“We really need to get your name off of my lease though, I don’t need the government showing up and trying to audit me,” she says softly. “I’d be a nightmare for Mistress of Magic brand.”

John laughs loud and bright leaning his head down to kiss her once atop the head already planning a minor break in to the landlord’s apartment. It’ll be okay if he gets caught, married or not he knows she won’t testify against him.

[fanfoolishness]

The Scent of Whiteleaf (The Mandalorian)

Grogu and his protector visit a calm and peaceful world, searching for those who could help them find a Jedi. They find something else instead. Grogu POV. Grogu & Din, some of Din's backstory, and several gentle family bonding moments. 4800 words.

***

The air smells clean and crisp and biting, underlaid with the scents of dry soil and bitter plants. Grogu blinks against the wind, his ears fluttering, and he feels safe in strong arms.

His protector explains to him what they are doing here. Grogu leans against the man’s chest, feels the metal warmed by the late afternoon sun as the familiar voice speaks. He likes the sound, even if it comes out metallic; when the man talks to him, there is a gentleness that comes through, clear and shining, in the Force.

“This is Ysedros Major,” the man says, gesturing to the hills beyond them. “I used to live here long ago with other Mandalorians. Some may have returned. If they did, maybe they can help us.”

The man’s footsteps are wide on the narrow path. It looks rocky and overgrown. Grogu is jostled with every step, but it’s fun with all the bouncing. He looks up at the man’s head, gleaming silver in the sun.

“I know, I know,” says the man. “It would be quicker if we could take the Crest, or use the Rising Phoenix. But we don’t want to scare anyone if they’re still there. And there’s creatures here that don’t like things flying in their airspace.” He points high above, and Grogu squints, following his arm. Great winged things soar together in the distance, keeping close to one another. “We called them baj’uliik. Beasts of the air. I remember they were… feisty.”

Grogu shrinks away from the beasts, though they are far away. The man chuckles. “Don’t worry, kid. They only attack things on the wing.” He takes a few more jostling steps as they descend. “Are you thinking about the creatures on Nevarro?”

Grogu curls one hand over the man’s thumb. It’s strange how the man understands him perfectly sometimes, and other times, seems so confused by what he is trying to say.

“It’s okay. The baj’uliik will only bother us if we bother them first.” His steps are steady on the rocky path. Grogu watches the way the man’s boots avoid big rocks on the path, brushing against bushes and leaves as he walks. Grogu squirms in his arms, reaching down to try and grab a few leaves as they pass. The man walks faster, lifting him up high enough so that he can’t reach them. “Not those ones,” the man says. “That’s fire-nettle. It won’t hurt me in my armor, but it would give you a horrible rash.”

Grogu lets out an annoyed sigh. The leaves are pretty, olive green and clustered in groups of three, their edges reddish orange and serrated in an interesting pattern. Maybe he’ll find a way to touch them later.

The path twists and turns as they descend lower into the valley. Grogu watches the plants and rocks as they walk, sniffing deeply as they pass a plant of shiny, spiky dark green needles, or a plant of pale long leaves and purple-pink flowers. He settles into the man’s arms, his eyes growing heavy with the rhythm of the footsteps.

***

Grogu yawns, opening his eyes and stretching his arms upward. It’s getting dark now. His ears swivel, picking up sounds of bugs chirruping, birds calling hoodu, hoodu, a trickling sound. He smells water.

The footsteps stop and the man lowers him to the ground. “Stay close, buddy. I’m gonna check and see if this stream has fish for dinner.” Grogu scrubs his eyes with his fists, blinking, and hurries to keep up with the man. His feet sink into mud and he giggles, feeling the squishy sensation between his toes. This might be a good place for --

His ears twitch. Little sounds, familiar sounds, skitter along the water’s edge. Grogu’s stomach rumbles. He reaches out through the Force, feels a little creature hiding in the mud, feels its heartbeat -- he pounces!

The frog squirms in his hands, wet and slippery and smelling delicious. He shoves it into his mouth, and the man finally notices him. “Hey! What have I told you about --” The man sighs. “Oh, go ahead.”

Grogu swallows his prize, grinning. He will never understand why the man doesn’t seem to like frogs, the best food in the galaxy.

The man turns back to him, holding up a fish squirming on the end of the cord that comes out of his wrist sometimes. “Come on. We’ll have some real food, too.”

Grogu scowls. Frogs are real food.

The man cooks the fish over a little fire. It does smell good, though. Grogu sits close to the man’s boot, leaning against it. He likes dinnertime with him. The man always gives him tasty things to eat, and he likes to talk some while Grogu eats.

Sometimes the man is so quiet, and Grogu can only get little flashes of him through the Force, focus and duty and… and fear, sometimes. Grogu knows that one. But he never feels fear when the man sits with him in these moments, around the fire.

“Hey, look here, kid,” says the man, stepping away from the small flames. He beckons to Grogu, and he follows curiously. The man crouches beside a bush. It smells good, crisp and herbal. It’s one of the pale bushes that he saw on the path, instead of the one with the pretty red-edged leaves. “This bush is okay for you to touch. It’s called whiteleaf. We can cook the fish with it.”

Grogu reaches out, stripping a few leaves from the plant. He crushes them against his palms, smells the clean herbal scent, and grins up at the man. He plucks a few more, then carefully holds them out for the man to take.

“Thank you,” he says. He takes the leaves and adds them to the fish. The smell is rich and Grogu licks his lips. He holds up his hands, grasping for the food.

“It’s hot,” the man warns, putting a portion of fish into a small dish and handing it to Grogu. “Let it cool for a minute.”

Grogu sits down with his treasure, balancing the dish on his knees. He blows on it to cool it down, and glances up at the man, who is taking the rest of the fish.

“We’ll rest up tonight,” says the man. He lifts his helmet slightly to take a bite of food. Grogu watches intently. He had known right away the man was not a droid -- he could feel the man through the Force, hear his heartbeat pounding -- but it had taken some time to realize that his silver skin, his armor, could be adjusted or removed. He looks at the man’s chin, watching as he eats the fish. He senses contentment, ease.

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

Grogu startles at the man’s question, then takes a bite of his fish. The whiteleaf tastes rich and earthy under the delicious fishy flavor. He hums a cheerful sound, then leans against the man’s boot again, giving him a gentle nudge.

“There you go,” the man says. “It’s pretty good. We used to eat a lot of fish here. River trout’s the best, but greengill are all right, too.”

Grogu finishes up his fish, his eyes getting heavy. A content feeling of fullness spreads through him, and he sighs, leaning harder against the man’s leg.

“Getting sleepy, pal?” he asks. “It’s been a long day. C’mon.” He picks Grogu up, cradling him in his lap, and Grogu curls up against him. Up above Grogu can see the stars, swinging bright and glittery in the darkness. The insect chorus gets louder, and Grogu senses them, tiny pinpricks of light in the Force all around them. It makes him feel relaxed. He remembers the Jedi temple, feeling others around him all the time, safe and content in their home.

“I think we’ll make it to the covert tomorrow,” the man says quietly. “If they’re there, maybe they can lead us to a Jedi for you. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Grogu frowns. The Force contracts around the man, his normally bright signature darkening. Fear. Dread. Sadness. Grogu doesn’t understand. Usually the man’s words match the way he feels, strong and strong, sad and sad, angry and angry. But when the man brings up Jedi, the words and the feelings never match.

Grogu grips the man’s hand with his own, closing his eyes and holding on tightly. He tries to send an image of the two of them by the fire in the cool evening breeze, the sound of insects buzzing in the dark, good fish in their bellies, and he tries to send happy, safe, now.

But the man just pulls him a little closer, hand brushing over Grogu’s ears, and says, “We’ll find that place where you belong.”

***

Grogu shifts in his soft blue blanket, a gift from the nice lady on the planet of trees and krill and frogs. He misses the children he used to play with there, Winta and Soris and Nibs. He wonders if he will see them again, but no visions come to him, no future sight showing the children delighted to see his return. He pushes his blanket aside.

The dawnlight is bright and fierce, and he squints against it. He gets to his feet, standing up tall and looking over the man, who still seems to be asleep beneath his own blanket on the rocky ground.

Maybe he can find something for breakfast while the man sleeps. Another frog, maybe, or even a fish! Wouldn’t the man like that? He carefully walks to the stream edge, watching the water sparkle beneath the sunlight. He glances to his side and sees the pretty red-edged leaves, fluttering in the breeze. Fire-nettle. But maybe the man is wrong, maybe he’s mistaken --

Grogu grabs the pretty leaves. For a moment he feels excited, seeing the way the green and red looks against his hands. And then he realizes --

He can’t help it. He closes his eyes and lets go of the leaves and wails.

The man is there, flinging his blanket aside and rushing to the stream’s edge. “What is it, kid? What happened? Are you okay?”

Grogu holds out his hands, quivering. They burn! His skin prickles and sears, and he whimpers, stumbling towards his protector.

The man carefully takes his hands in his own, examining them. “Did you -- oh, no, the fire-nettle,” he groans. “Come here, come here, quick.” He plunges Grogu’s hands into the cool stream-water, and the burn lessens. He holds Grogu’s hands deep in the water, and Grogu trembles.

“I told you,” says the man, but his voice is gentle. “You have to be careful, okay? Don’t scare me like that. How are your hands?”

Grogu shakes his head back and forth, wincing. They still hurt. It isn’t fair! The leaves were so pretty.

The man sits him on his knee, holding him there with one hand while he rummages in his belt for something with the other. He pulls out a little packet of ointment and squeezes it into Grogu’s palms, then rubs his hands together. Cooling relief spreads over his hands, and Grogu sighs gratefully.

“Feeling better?” the man asks. He rubs Grogu’s back with one hand, cradling Grogu’s sore hands in the other one. He is quiet for a moment, but when he speaks again, Grogu feels it coming from him, that warmth, that gentleness.

“I learned this the hard way too,” he admits. “I was young when I lived here, and it was only for a few months. We had to move a lot to stay safe. I heard some of the older fighters talking about fire-nettle, about getting it on their armor and their hands. I thought --” He chuckles. “I thought they were being too cautious.”

His knee bounces slightly, Grogu bouncing with it. He smiles a little at the bouncing as the man continues. “One of them dared me to hold some. I took off my gloves and… Well, it has that name for a reason, kid. Which you now know. My hands didn’t stop burning for a week.” He shakes his head. “But this ointment should take care of you. You let me know if you need more, all right?”

Grogu nods, looking up at him. He’s so bright in the sun, bright enough it hurts his eyes, but Grogu keeps looking at him anyway. He loves the way he shines.

***

They travel through the morning. Sometimes Grogu walks at his side where the path is relatively flat, and he enjoys the feeling of silty, sandy soil under his toes. He smells the plants as they walk through scrubby hills and valleys, and though he stays far away from fire-nettle now, the man teaches him names of some of the other things they see. Whiteleaf and bitterbush, good for cooking. Shivertree: the man lifts Grogu’s hand and rests it on the smooth reddish bark. It’s cold! Much colder than the warm outside air. It makes Grogu’s mouth drop open in surprise.

They pass short trees the man calls buckleberry, golden bushy plants he names shimmershrubs. The coarse grass waving on the hillside he says is red cheatgrass, and the white flowers like soft bright stars he says are snow weeds. Grogu looks at all of them, and he marvels that the man knows so many names.

Sometimes there are animals. In the distance they sometimes see the baj’uliik, but there are nicer things, too; the man points out wild bantha, flower beetles, no-no birds and grub worms. (Grogu eats three before the man notices and scolds him.)

Lunch is a hill hare the man shoots with a blaster and roasts over open flame, flavored with bitterbush that Grogu helps him collect. The meat is rich and juicy, savory and tender. The man cooks well. Grogu belches broadly as he finishes his meal, and the man laughs, a sound that rings out metallic and true. Happy and happy. There is no talk of Jedi.

***

The evening sun slants low over the canyon. There are small buildings below them, a little group of them clustered together. Plants grow on the roofs, mostly hiding their forms, but with the sun hitting them Grogu can see streaks of gold and red in windows and on the edges of the walls. He looks up at the man curiously.

“That’s the covert,” the man says, his voice rough. “It may still be in use by others of my kind.”

Grogu thinks of the strange word the man keeps thinking, feeling, when he says things like that. Mandalorian. He talked of it a lot on the planet of ash and lava, when the Ugnaught and the droid tried to help them; others say it, too. He wishes he understood. He knows it’s important. Is it like Jedi?

The man carries him close on the path down into the canyon. Grogu catches determination and something complicated that he doesn’t have the words for. It’s like hope and fear combined. The man’s footsteps are careful and measured, and Grogu scans the environment as they walk, looking for signs of other people.

He casts his awareness out into the Force. He has grown used to the lonely feeling of never feeling anything reaching to him, but there is still a part of him that hopes something will touch back.

It doesn’t, this time. He closes his eyes, reaching, reaching, and finds only tiny creatures among the walls, beings even smaller than himself. Little grass mice, scurrying in the empty buildings. He reaches up to the man, his claws tapping against the metal armor, but the man just nods at him, absently patting the back of his head. “We’ll be there soon, kid.”

Grogu sinks back against him, letting out a long breath. The man will find out soon enough.

***

The man sits quietly on a stone bench in a solitary courtyard, secluded and hidden by the canyon walls. The last rays of the day’s sun line the edges of the walls in gold, leaving the rest in deep blue shadow. Grogu walks through the gritty soil, bending down periodically to poke at a glittery green beetle or play with a patch of blue-flowered grass. He tries to distract himself, but the man’s feelings buzz in the back of his mind, louder than they ever have before. The more the man protects him and keeps him safe, the easier it is to feel him, all the time.

The man sits very still and calm on the outside. But confusing memories flicker through him, snatches of sound and image that Grogu can only catch little pieces of. He remembers far-away lessons in the Temple, Master Yoda teaching him about people who could use the Force the way they do, and people who could not. He remembers Master Yoda saying the Force is in all living things, that even if a person cannot use the Force, the Force still surrounds them. Grogu concentrates and he sees --

The young man in the silver helmet, training hard in the courtyard, taking blows that make his head rattle and his teeth ache, but he has to -- has to prove he’s worthy --

The burn of fire-nettle on his hands, slipping gloves back over the skin despite the throb, the laughter of the other young people --

A language Grogu doesn’t recognize, but its words mean home and family --

Hurrying to gather his things, the voices of the others urgent and metallic, fleeing through the canyon paths --

The dark tunnels beneath the town, the man sinking to his knees, loss rolling off of him in waves --

The shining woman in gold and red, metal sparking under her hands, speaking words of clan and quest --

Grogu walks back to the man, his hand held tight around the stem of a bluegrass flower. His palm feels smooth and whole again, the burning of the fire-nettle a distant memory.

He tugs at the man’s leg, holding up his flower when the man’s shining head tilts to look at him. The man sighs, a long, shivering sound. “For me?” He reaches out and Grogu presses the flower into his hand. “Thanks, buddy.” He lifts Grogu onto his lap, stroking one of his ears gently between his fingertips, and in his other hand, he carefully holds the flower.

“I wish we could have found them,” the man says. “I thought I could help you here.” Disappointment, loneliness, relief. Grogu shakes his head, confused. He reaches to the man’s arm, tugs on his sleeve.

“I never thought I’d see this place again,” he says, gazing down at Grogu. “We were safe here, for a time.” He looks around at the courtyard, the light vanishing into darkness. “Come on, kid. Let’s get some rest. It’s too late to hike back tonight.”

He carries Grogu through the halls, switching a light on his helmet that shines bright in the dark. The hallways are lined with bunches of cheatgrass or climbing vines, and Grogu can hear the grass mice scampering on the floors as they pass.

“There’s the public quarters,” the man says mechanically. “If your meal and training and work were done, you could spend time here. Talk to people. I didn’t do it often.” Grogu nods. That seems right.

“Here’s the mess. We’d prepare food here, take shifts serving. We ate alone except for family groups. Easier, that way. It’s where I learned about some of the food on this world.” He waves at the empty hall, and dust shifts as they move onward.

“There’s the weapons lockers. We each had one for our own weapons. The whole room was cleaned three times a day to keep the dust out.” But the dust is thicker here than anywhere else.

“And here’s my quarters,” he says suddenly, stopping in front of a narrow doorway. He jimmies the door open, since it doesn’t light up, and they slip inside. There’s a small bed inside, barely bigger than the one back on the man’s ship, and a cramped refresher unit wedged into the back. A narrow metal cabinet leans against the wall, its drawers open and empty. The man shoves the drawers back in and settles on the sleeping surface, and Grogu coughs in the dust.

“Sorry,” the man says, fanning the air rapidly to try and move the dust away from him. “I guess it’s been a while.” He wipes away as much dust as he can from the bed and stretches out on it, holding Grogu carefully against his chest. Grogu holds himself up on his forearms, looking curiously at the man.

“What is it, kid? What do you need?”

Grogu sits back down against the man’s armor, huffing. He doesn’t need anything. He just wants. That’s different. He looks around at the little room and he wonders if it was like the temple, long ago. He tries to see inside the man’s mind, but it’s gotten muddled again, and Grogu gives up, frustrated.

“Well, you tell me if it’s something major,” says the man. “Vacc tube probably still works. And I have more of that bacta ointment, if your hands are bothering you. You let me know, okay?” He pauses, then realizes. “You need a story?”

Grogu babbles, climbing up so that he can rest against the little spot of softness between the man’s face and the metal on his shoulder. The man rubs his back, holding him close.

“Hm,” the man begins. Grogu has noticed it always takes him a little while to come up with a story. He doesn’t know any of the Jedi stories, the tales of heroes of the past, the ones they used to tell him in his old home. But sometimes the man tells stories of his own people, and sometimes he tells stories with Grogu in them, too. Grogu loves them all.

“I learned a lot here,” the man says thoughtfully. “I had just sworn the Creed, and there was much I still needed to learn. I practiced with weapons and the Rising Phoenix. I know -- I told you the baj’uliik didn’t like the Rising Phoenix -- well, we used to use them for target practice. One of us would practice our flying. The other one would practice their aim. Sometimes there were some close calls.” He chuckles. “One day the baj’uliik came flying right toward me. I tried to fly away, but I couldn’t shake it. It took a bite out of me.”

Grogu’s mouth falls open. He grabs the man’s cloak, holds onto it tightly.

“I was fine!” he says hastily, patting Grogu. “But I lost my training Phoenix. The baj’uliik swallowed it, I fell about twenty feet straight down and broke my leg, and my partner was so surprised she let it get away. For all I know, it’s still flying somewhere out there, just a little bit heavier than all its friends. That’s why I didn’t have a Phoenix until our last trip to Nevarro.”

Grogu turns around, looking at the man’s leg. Is this why the armor on his legs is not the same, why one leg is heavier, why it’s nicer to hug the leg wrapped in leather instead of the leg clad in metal?

“Yeah,” the man says, bending the right leg and tapping it below the knee with his knuckles. Metal clinks on metal. “This helps keep it steady. It never healed quite right. But it still works fine, kid, don’t worry.”

Grogu swallows his worry. He feels mild embarrassment coming from the man, but nothing like pain, nothing like fear. Grogu relaxes, letting out a sound of curiosity.

“Tomorrow we’ll keep an eye out for the baj’uliik,” the man says. He leans back against the dusty bed, considering. “It was an opponent worthy of respect. Even if it tried to eat me.” He chuckles again. “Especially since it tried to eat me.”

Grogu isn’t sure if it’s his favorite bedtime story the man has told him -- it’s a little too scary -- but it seems to make the man happy, and the happy feeling soothes him. He curls up against the man and the warmth inside him, and the weight of the man’s hand on his back helps him fall asleep.

***

The man wakes him up far too early, and Grogu is grouchy as the man works through their morning routine -- using the vacc tube, a quick bath for Grogu and a hasty breakfast of ration bars. Grogu’s not too fond of them, but he munches his bar as the man carries him out of the lonely compound and up the steep hill.

He falls asleep halfway up the canyon and doesn’t wake up for some time. When he does, he realizes the man’s footsteps are quick and long, nearly a run. Like there’s nothing left to see here. It makes Grogu feel sad, though he isn’t sure why. He holds the man’s hand as they journey, and he watches the paths for creatures.

The long day stretches on, and the sun begins to swing low once more. The man’s faster stride and their early start mean they will reach the ship before night falls. He wishes they could stay and hunt frogs instead.

They reach a narrow canyon and look down. To Grogu’s surprise there’s the ship! They had reached it even faster than he had thought. He looks up at the man, resting a hand against his chest. The man is tired, he feels. “All right, kid. We’ll have one more dinner here before we head out. I could use a break anyway.”

He sets Grogu down on a flat stretch of land, the cheatgrass tickling his toes. Grogu sniffs, rotates his ears. He senses another hare, and he looks meaningfully up at the man, then waves a hand in the hare’s direction. The man nods, and it’s just a few moments later that the man has a cleaned hare over the fire while Grogu hunts for bitterbush and whiteleaf.

He finds a small whiteleaf plant a little ways away, and he sits beside it, carefully pulling a few leaves from the bush. It smells so clean! He hums to himself, pleased, then shivers at a ululating cry, carried on the breeze.

He stares up at the sky and he sees it -- a baj’uliik flying overhead, its leathery wings shimmering in rippling gold and green and scarlet, its long feathered tail streaming behind it, glittering in the fading sun. He watches it fly away, each wingbeat slow and methodical and so, so beautiful. He is sad that one hurt the man, but happy that it got away.

He lifts one hand and waves as it goes.

“They’re something else, aren’t they?” the man asks him. He kneels beside Grogu, carefully taking the whiteleaf leaves from him. He watches the creature fly, head tilting to one side, then shakes himself into action. “Come on, kid. Dinnertime.”

They eat the hare together, Grogu making a mess of his meal and thoroughly enjoying every bite. The man just laughs and helps to clean him up.

They sit quietly together as the sun vanishes and the moons begin to rise. Grogu leans against the man’s thigh, full and glad. He knows the man did not find what he came here for, but there is the cool evening air, the cry of the baj’uliik far away, the scent of whiteleaf.

The man clambers to his feet, lifting Grogu into his arms. “Come here a minute, kid,” he says. He carries him back to the whiteleaf plant, its leaves glimmering beneath the moonlight. He crouches down and sets Grogu down beside him, then begins digging with his hands. Grogu watches curiously.

“There’s a little UV light on the Crest,” the man says to Grogu. “Helps me keep a schedule for day and night, when I want. But… we could use it to help grow a plant, too.”

Grogu claps his hands together. He senses from the man hope, longing, things hard for Grogu to understand. But they are good things, he thinks, and he likes it when the man feels good. The man lifts the plant from the ground, its roots tangled up in a ball of soil, and he gently sets it in Grogu’s arms.

“Keep hold of that til we get back to the ship,” the man says. He picks Grogu up again. “I know you’ll keep it safe.” He cradles Grogu carefully so that Grogu can keep good hold of the plant. “Ready to go, buddy?”

Grogu nods. The fresh scent of whiteleaf flares with every step the man takes toward the ship. They reach the Crest and it lights up with their approach, the door opening as the man adjusts something on his arm. Grogu curls a sweet-smelling leaf between his fingertips, feeling warm and safe; and in the Force, he feels the man is happy, proud, home.

[lordeemailarchive]

meet you by the piano?

(25/04/2022) (Solar Institute Bulletin No. 13) (From Minneapolis)

Hello hello hello. Writing this backstage after soundcheck in Minneapolis. Am firmly entrenched in the rhythms of tour life— wake up at 11am, do some work or drink a tea in bed or go to the gym, then drift in to soundcheck in another beautiful venue with columns and gilt and a cloud-painted ceiling. Sit alone for a while after that, steam voice, do some skincare, embroider or read, soon start to feel show night momentum build all around. Walkie-talkies buzzing to each other, house music going on, Remi’s set wafting up the stairs. Sitting in glam, being transformed somehow from someone with eye bags and active acne to… something shiny. In to the band to sing, then to the stage, in the wings, that feeling of waiting in the wings so imprinted from childhood, always the same open feeling, giving oneself over to what’s about to happen. Which always feels like it’s over in a second, blink and I’m running back down the hall to my room, where I’ll leave the gears on the floor in a pile, and head to the bathroom to wash the glittery paint from my face.

Since I last wrote, we’ve played two shows in Boston, two in New York, one in Philadelphia, and two in Chicago. I’m sorry about Uncasville and D.C. Felt the throat thing start to scratch and then open out to a full searing burn, heard notes that were easy to sing the night before disappear. Was reminded of the Sylvia Plath poem — “And now you try / Your handful of notes; / The clear vowels rise like balloons.” If only. But we’ll come to you in August, and you know now we’re gonna make those shows psychotically special to say thankyou for your patience. Now I’m feeling tip top good, there are eight shows left on this crazy run, I’m gonna be a sad girl when it ends. Some recent Lauren pictures I love: (NB: PUT SOME RADIO CITY PICS ON INSTAGRAM TOO)

Especially loving her pictures of you guys.

Other things… Eating a lot of Fishwife sardines (much to the chagrin of my entire tour bus), ordering expensive underwear in the middle of the night, sending txts with invisible ink, trying to resist microtrends but looking up miniskirts, feeling my body getting tour strong, feeling comfortable under the lights. Listening to new Empress Of and Chelsea Jade and this amazing Pa Salieu song that I missed somehow in 2020. Read Sea of Tranquility and Time Is A Mother and now rereading a favourite Lucia Berlin collection that made me realise I really gotta go to New Mexico. Dying to see this. Staying up til 3am writing a maybe amazing early Drake style monologue in the hotel room in Toronto, adding new songs to the setlist on the fly, putting stuff in the calendar for six months from now. Plotting, scheming. Loving you.

Music, by Antonina Leonardovna Rzhevskaya

1:01am in the bus leaving Chicago

Beautiful letter by C. Getting annihilated by your letters to me. I’m thinking I should put a box at the merch desk or something to collect your notes??? I fully treasure each one and hate to think of missing any…

Daily routine of a setlist deviator

Your little rat in custom Prada, can you believe it, it’s all too much.

E xxxxxxo

(source: received this email)

[georgesbestieboo]

Confessions Pt 1.

Hello my loves! few things before we get started! 

The pairing you will read here is an original character of mine with Bucky. She is the biological sister of our beloved Natasha Romanoff, was also put in the red room but later than Nat since she is a couple years younger. Also, the timeline is the comic timeline just to make it a bit more interesting, meaning, Natasha was born in 1928 and Calina, (My OC) was born in 1934 but since the Widows carry their age VERY well Nat will remain the age she appears in the movies and Calina will appear to be 26. 

Summary- Bucky and Calina have reunited years after they were the red room lovers, can they become lovers once more or will fear get in the way? 

Warnings- A bit about self doubt/disliking body, mentions of torture nothing explicit though, slight swearing, possible spelling and grammar errors (I did check but there are always those things that slip past you) 

Calina was not one to party, she would rather spend her Friday nights curled up in her bay window, a fuzzy blanket draped across her lap, a good book clutched tightly in her hands and a warm cup of chamomile tea steaming on her night table. But no. Being an Avenger meant getting dragged to all the famed, insane, and overwhelming parties of Tony Stark and to be honest she hated them. The earsplitting music, the drunk, sweaty bodies pressed together, the...the people, it scared her shitless. Alas, here she was getting dragged to the mall with her best friend and sister Natasha Romanoff in search of a party dress.   

“Come on! It’ll be fun!” The redhead promised, pouting her lip as she held open the department store door. 

“I don’t know Nat…” Calina trailed off eyeing the endless racks of sparkly dresses that certainly were not her. “You know this isn’t, me” The assassin’s eyes just about bugged out her head as she pulled a dress with such a plunged neck seeming like it was barely attached. Natasha instantly swatted the thin material away, taking her hand as she led her towards the back. 

“It used to be though,” She winked “Remember those days, Lina? Partying till dawn, drinking so much we’d see the stars, and-oh!” A short but joyous laugh escaped both lips as they thought about the nights they had spent after they had eventually both escaped the Red Room. 

Calina’s laughter soon died out and her face became serious, “Yes, but, that was then. This, this is now” 

“Oh don’t be such a sourpuss” 

“I am not a sourpuss, ew you sound like Alexi” 

Natasha shuddered. 

***

“Absolutely not” Calina declared the second she slipped the dress over her body. 

“Oh come on!” Nat sighed from the corner of the fitting room. They had been at this for almost 2 hours, every dress tried on ending up on the same, ever-growing pile of fabric on the floor. “This one looks good!” 

Calina shook her head hearing none of it. “Nope, nope, nope. It’s too…” Her fingers slid across the scratch rime stones. “Glittery” 

“Glitter is nice though!” 

“And it’s so…” Her eyes trailed over her exposed figure in the mirror, her hands coming up to cover the neckline dip that reached her stomach. “Low” 

“And that’s hot, so I don’t see the problem” 

Turning to face her sister Calina crossed her arms, “Why can’t I just wear one of your dresses?” She whined “You have like, a million” 

Natasha stood, scoffing. “One, you never wear a dress twice, and two, we need a dress that hugs your beautiful curves perfectly,” She pretended to make an hourglass outline of Calina’s body with her hands, the spy rolled her eyes. “I wanna make Barnes drool when he sees you” 

Ah, the truth comes out. 

“I knew that’s what you were trying to do!” Calina yelled, pumping her fist back. “I knew there was an ulterior motive!” The older woman smiled shyly, 

“You got me, but hey! In my defense you and Barnes flirting with each other all the time and neither of you doing anything is annoying, I just wanna give you two a small push” 

“We do not flirt all the time” 

“Yeah, yeah you do” 

“Молчи” Slipping out of the uncomfortable dress and breathing a sigh of relief she couldn’t help but groan, her eyes taking in all of the discarded clothes. “This isn’t going to work, Natalia, I look horrid in all of these” She squeezed her stomach as she stood before the mirror in her bra and underwear, her fingers pinching away at her skin, wishing it hugged her body tighter. Natasha’s heart clenched as she watched her sister doubt herself, something she had hated The Red Room for taking the idea of beauty from her mind. They had taught her that she would never be pretty, that she would never be enough, that she could never be loved. What hurt, even more, was knowing that her beloved sister still was haunted by those teachings. Those words constantly hiding in the shadows, waiting for a crack in her walls just to seep in and poison her mind. She slowly approached her sister, carefully pulling her hands away from her stomach and holding them tight.

“You are beautiful,” She whispered “Inside and out. Don’t let them control your head” Handing her the last dress they had left to try on she gave a small smile “Just try this last one on and if it doesn’t work, then I won’t make you go” 

“Fine” Slowly taking the dress from her sister’s hands she began to step into it, the silky material sliding snuggly up her body as she wriggled her hands through the thin straps. She heard Natasha gasp but she couldn’t bring herself to look in the mirror. 

“Look up младшая сестра, you look beautiful. This is the one” 

“Are you sure?” 

The woman chuckled, “Yes now hurry up and look” 

So she did. 

And my god did her heart flutter. 

She actually looked pretty. 

The dress was a deep sapphire blue, with cross material over her chest showing a bit of her stomach. The neckline dipped just enough to show the curve of her breasts but not too much as to make her uncomfortable. The dress was satin and tight, the shiny material clinging to each and every curve making her actually like her body for the time being. It stopped about mid-thigh a bit shorter than she preferred but everything else was perfect so she could let it slide for one night.

 “I like it” Her eyes were bright with excitement, something her sister had not seen in her the other in a while. “I think James will like it too” She added sheepishly attempting to hide the heat that went to her cheeks.

 “Ha! I knew it! You still like him!” Nat danced around the small dressing room triumphantly.

 “Okay, okay, don’t make such a big deal about it” Calina huffed. “Of course I still like him” Her mind wandered to the first time she had met Bucky, long ago in the Red Room, the soldier teaching her many ways to kill. Romantic, I know. But it was more than that, at the time he was The Winter Soldier, yes but he had a soft spot for the ballerina. Disobeying his strict orders to sneak in and see her during the night, spending it under the moon talking about everything and anything, sharing light kisses. It didn’t last long though, soon the authorities found out, ripping her soldier from her grasp. As the years went on she never forgot about the handsome, yet the broken man she met once upon a time. They didn’t meet again until the day on the bridge where he attacked everyone but her to find out later that he had recognized her instantly giving Hydra a run for its money as he tried to get back to her. 

Once they were reunited she knew she had her James back. While the road to trust and recovery was rough, she was by his side the entire time, holding his hand as they walked back from hell, getting through their ongoing trauma together. Calina’s feeling resurfaced, and the team knew his did too, but for two of the world, greatest trained assassins they were completely oblivious. 

“No shit” Natasha smirked, pulling Calina from her thoughts. “Now, let’s go max Tony’s credit card with this dress and then get finish getting ready at the tower. Sound good?” 

Finishing getting back into her street clothes that consisted of her over-sized jeans a sweatshirt of Bucky’s she had stolen months ago. Taking her sister’s outstretched hand a smile tugged at her lips. “Sounds good” 

***

Bucky groaned as a knock echoed throughout this floor. Shuffling to open it he was met by Sam who had a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. “I know something you don’t” He sung, pushing past the super soldier and plopping himself down in his living room. 

“I don’t remember inviting you in” Bucky deadpanned, holding his face in his hands. 

“-I just ran into Nat and Calina downstairs” 

“Cool do you want a metal?”  “Will you let me finish?! Goddamn” Sam snapped “Anyways, they’re getting ready for the party tonight. Keyword their, more than one, meaning Calina is actually attending tonight” 

Okay, that caught Buckys attention. “Lina’s coming? She never comes to the party’s?” He would know. Every time Tony threw a party, Bucky would always bring her up a plate of food, staying with her for dinner but eventually getting dragged back down to mingle by Steve even though he wanted nothing more than to stay with the girl. 

“I know, crazy right? You should totally make your move tonight, man!” The Sergeant glared at Sam. 

“Why would I do that?”

“You flirt with her all the time. You’re always touching her. You follow the woman around like a lost puppy-”

“Do not”

“-You guys have such strong chemistry anyone in the world could see it and-and! Not to mention, you guys dated before, right, in the Red Room?” 

He grit his teeth at the mention of that cruel place, thinking back to the torture they had to endure. “I’m not sure if you could call it dating, we didn’t do dating in the Red Room.”

 “But you loved her then?” 

“Of course I did” He sighed, running a tired hand through his unruly hair. Calina Romanova was his light, his steady, constant shining star. The person he fought for, the reason he even lasted as long as he did, the reason he never gave up because after all the memory wiping sessions, her smile was always in the back of his mind.

While he had forgotten everything, even himself, he never forgot the time they spent together, hoping, praying, he could hear her laugh one more time. And after 36 years, he finally could.The weight of all he had done lessened as she ran to him just before Steve had reached his apartment, he remembered it like it was yesterday.

 **Flashback**

She stood in his kitchen, the Widow suit he knew oh so well clinging to her skin as her fingers skimmed over his dusty table. “Hello James” She had whispered, her familiar accented voice standing up the hairs on his back. She stood to face him, her bright blue eyes boring into his as she smiled softly. “I’m not here to hurt you. You and I were...friends long ago I-I’m not sure if you remember me but-” 

He couldn’t believe it 

“Солнышко” The nickname he had not used in so long rolled off his tongue like he used it every day since they last parted. He couldn’t help but grin as the girl who danced around his dreams stood before him. Slowly, he approached her, his right arm reaching out to cup her face as if to check if she really was here and not just one of Hydra’s evil tricks. “Is it really you?” A tear slipped down her cheeks as a laugh bubbled throughout her chest. “You remember me” Bucky pulled her to his chest, the woman instantly responding by wrapping her arms around his torso tightly, afraid to ever let go. They held onto each other as if the world around them was crumbling down, after all these years they were finally able to hold one another again, tears stung in both of their eyes as they crushed each other into the embrace. “Of course I remember you, Calina” He murmured into her hair, breathing in the scent of Cherry Blossoms and crisp fall nights he had oh longed for. “I’ve missed you” He admitted.

“And I, you”

Then of course Steve Rogers had to burst in with the whole German Special Services on his ass, but ever since then, she hasn’t left his side. His soulmate was placed back into his life.

 **Flashback ended** 

 “Yo, Buck, you still with me” The man shook his head, attempting to shake away the memory seeping to the front of his mind. 

“Yeah, sorry” 

“It’s good, but you really should talk to Cal, its getting annoying watching you two make goo-goo eyes at each other and not do anything about it. So either you say something or I will” He warned, waving a finger as he dramatically excited the floor. “Oh, and you might wanna start getting ready!” He called from outside the door. Bucky rolled him but made his way to the dark blue suit he had laid out days before. 

“Here goes nothing”

~~Translations~~

Молчи- Shut up

младшая сестра- Younger sister

Солнышко- My sun

A/N Okay! I think that went well, let me know what you think and leave a heart if you enjoyed it! Thank you so much for reading, part two should be up soon but I’m on Vacation, although I will try my best to update quickly. feel free to leave recomondations! Lots of love and know I’m so proud of you! 

~Celeste 

[sxfterhearts]

42. [7:35 pm]

➳ pairing: youngjae x reader ft. amateur chef!jaebeom

➳ genre/warnings: fluff, just fluff, mildly suggestive towards the end (I haven’t written in ages so I guess that’s also a warning??)

➳ word count: 1,190 words

➳ summary: “Is this okay?”

➳ author's note: see below!!

//

“Speak up, hyung!” Youngjae breathed heavily into the microphone of his earphones. “I can’t hear anything you’re saying!”

“Young– Give me a sec,” He heard Jaebeom draw a deep breath before bellowing out an ear-piercing “Keep it down, Bam, or I’ll whoop your ass!”

Youngjae flinched, his sweaty palm nearly losing its grip on the rubber spatula.

It was an early Friday night in. He had purposely rushed back to your shared apartment the moment the clock hands struck five. Not that this wasn’t a regular occurrence, but he wanted to be extra early tonight in order to execute his plan. Youngjae thought of the perfect way to spend your first Friday after starting a new job at a well-known company in the city. Your boyfriend, being the attentive and caring person he was, intended to treat you to a bubble bath while he prepared a wholesome three course meal for you. Or at least, he was trying to.

“Sorry, Bambam’s just… being Bambam. You know how it is. Now, where was I?” Jaebeom paused, musing over his thoughts like an old man suffering from short-term memory loss.

Youngjae grit his teeth in frustration and stress as he watched the concoction of dark chocolate chips and butter melt before his very eyes. Who would’ve thought baking brownies could’ve been this stressful? “The chocolate. I melted the chocolate chips with the butter over the stove. What’s next?”

“I’m pretty sure you have to crack the eggs into the bowl. Oh wait, no, no. You have to add the vanilla extract first. Just a tiny bit, though. We don’t want it to overpower the chocolatey taste.”

“How much? Two tablespoons?”

“Are you crazy? This is a chocolate brownie, not a vanilla cupcake. A teaspoon should be fine, I think. Or was it a quarter? Shit…”

The man closed his eyes to contain his anger and heaved a large sigh. “If you just wrote down the recipe we wouldn’t be in this position, hyung…”

The elder completely dismissed his comment. “Try a teaspoon. I’m like, ninety-nine percent sure I’m right.”

Youngjae had no other choice but to oblige. After all, everyone knew, including you and the boys, that he could not bake to save his life.

And yet, here he was, trying his hands at baking your favourite dessert – brownies. He even bought the premium vanilla ice cream that you liked to quenelle on top of it later (thankfully it was on sale). Youngjae really wanted to pamper you tonight.

“It’s not that difficult, right, Youngjae? This recipe is foolproof. My cousin tried it last month and he’s only twelve.”

Youngjae wasn’t too sure about that. Sceptical, he cracked three room-temperature eggs into the gooey, fragrant chocolate mixture. “Won’t the eggs cook in the chocolate ‘cos it’s boiling hot?”

Silence.

“Hyung?”

“Listen, Youngjae, I’m not a baking god. I don’t know the answer to every single question you have. Just do as I say and pray really hard that your brownies will turn out well.” Jaebeom snapped. “Have you mixed the eggs? You have to make sure the mixture is incorporated well and as shiny as Jackson’s forehead on a hot day.”

A commotion broke out on the other end of the line. Youngjae assumed it was due to Jaebeom’s offhanded comment about the state of Jackson’s skin.

“The last thing you have to do is just mix in the flour and cocoa powder, then you can pour it into the baking pan. It has to be a square one, nine by nine inches and lined with baking paper. Oh, and you need to grease the bottom of the pan first.”

Youngjae’s mouth hung open in disbelief. “You could’ve told me this earlier! I don’t– What is nine by nine inches? Why are you even using inches, we’re in Korea!” He huffed exasperatedly.

“Twenty-three centimetres, you doofus. Find one, hurry! Otherwise the mixture will harden.”

After rummaging through your stash of baking supplies for a good five minutes, he finally found the all-important baking pan. With Jaebeom’s uniquely reassuring words, Youngjae eventually managed to pour the batter in and placed the pan into the oven with trembling hands. The boy was nervous – he just wanted everything to be perfect tonight.

Somewhere between the fifteen-minute mark and an endless string of ridiculously cute puppy videos, the door’s keypad beeped. Standing up straight, Youngjae pulled off his chocolate-stained apron and jogged towards the door in anticipation.

“Youngjae, guess what! Oh,” You paused mid-sentence, your head poking curiously into the apartment as the brownie’s fragrant aroma tickled your senses. “What smells so good? Did you bake?”

“Hey baby!” Youngjae greeted like his usual bright self, your previous bursts of stress long forgotten. He reached for your handbag and laptop bag, gently ushering you into the comforts of your home. “I did. You’re in for a relaxing night, my darling. I’ve already ran you a bath, and you can use one of your sparkly pink bath bombs.” You couldn’t take off your shoes fast enough the moment you heard the word ‘relax’.

Your mouth fell slightly agape as you held Youngjae’s buttery hands in yours, eyes filled to the brim with fascination and gratitude. “You did?”

“Yes, baby. Go! Take off your clothes and get soaking. Dinner will be ready in another half an hour.” Youngjae guided you towards the ensuite, where he ran the waters and tested the temperature just moments earlier.

You gladly welcomed his suggestion. After all, the best way to unwind after a long day of work was to soak in glittery rose-scented water and allow the knots upon knots of worries to melt away.

Your mind solely focussed on the motions of shucking off your pencil skirt and unbuttoning your blouse once you released the bath bomb. The sweet aroma overtook your senses and overpowered your stress.

A sigh involuntarily left your lips as you sank into the warm, perfumed water. Picking up the book Youngjae thoughtfully left on the edge of the bathtub, you repositioned yourself into a comfortable position. The distant humming coming from Youngjae in the kitchen, the gentle sloshing of water as you flipped the pages and the wonderful feeling of soaking your sore muscles… Nothing could get better than this.

Youngjae appeared twenty pages later to feed you a slice of his freshly baked brownies. Crouching down by your side, he inspected your facial features for any reaction with complete earnest.

“I hope that it’s okay. Is this okay?” He breathed.

“It’s more than okay, it’s everything that I need…” You paused, tongue running repeatedly over the edges of your lips in search of brownie remnants. “What did you put in these brownies, babe?”

“I… Is it… Bad? Does it taste funny? I–”

“No, not at all!” You giggled. “It’s so, so, so good! I could eat this for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Speaking of dinner…”

“The entrée is still cooking on the stove.” Youngjae admitted sheepishly.

“Hmm… That’s a shame. I’m hungry for a different type of dinner.”

“Wh… What do you mean?”

“I meant, I’d love to have you for dinner. Come, join me.”

//

➳ author's note: woah ok!! I started this towards the end of my last internship and finally mustered up the courage, strength, mental capacity etc etc to finish it off. I’m sorry if its lacklustre (which im sure it is) but just really really wanted to post this!!! (im busting with excitement omgomg) I’ve been busy with internships and having existential crises and also (ngl) procrastinated with my writing and this blog which is why I’ve been sosososoo absent. I don’t want to make empty promises but yeah, I hope to get back into tumblr again! Honestly was in such a good headspace when I was active on here, I miss it sm, I miss interacting with you guys omg okay I will stop rambling. Good night I love you ALL!!!

[ineverlookavvay]

bisexual-aliens-in-arms

Isobel drags Michael to Planet 7 for pride night. It goes far better than expected.

Bi Visibility Day - Day 7 of Michael Guerin Week 2020

cw: alcohol, referenced child abuse, internalized homophobia

Read it on Ao3

“No, “ Michael said, aiming for firm.  “I don’t have time, Iz.”

Isobel scoffed.  “What, are you going to be working on cars all night long?”

There was actually a fairly big backlog of cars to work on, and Michael found he needed the distraction more often than not recently.  Life was complicated, increasingly so, and cars were simple, designed to be a certain way and logically never stray from that.  People sucked a lot more than cars, objectively.  

“Maybe I am.”

“Michael.”  Isobel leaned down onto the hood of the car he was trying to work on, annoyingly in his way.  She was giving him her ‘cut the bullshit’ look, which he was historically not very good at escaping.  “It’s one night, and it’s important to me.  Please come out?”

“I don’t do theme nights.”

Isobel scoffed again, rolling her eyes and trodding directly onto his ego.  “Come on, Michael.  This is my first pride month and you’re supposed to be my bisexual-alien-in-arms.”  She changed tactic abruptly, making the most irritating pouty face he’d ever seen.  “You’re not really going to make me go alone, are you?”

Michael sighed, wiping grease off his hands onto his jeans.  Fucking hell.  “Fine, but you gotta leave me alone for at least a few hours, okay?”  Isobel clapped gleefully.  “You know, some of us work.”

“Let me know if any of those people want a job,” Sanders cut in, ducking in on his way out, looking at Michael’s progress skeptically and ignoring Michael’s scowl.  “Do some damn work.”

“Hell does it look like I’m doing?” Michael called out as Sanders left, still scowling.  Michael fixed a tight smile on Isobel.  “Later, okay?”

She shrugged.  “Fine, but be ready to go at eight.  And try not to look so…” she waved her hand at his general appearance, “mechanic-y.”

Michael wanted to protest that he always looked ‘mechanic-y’ on account of he was a damn mechanic, and besides, the grungy blue-collar cowboy look was still popular as far as he could tell; but seeing as he’d already caved, he would certainly end up losing this argument, too.  So instead, he turned his attention back to the cars.  Michael liked working with his hands, he liked fixing things.  Sure, he might fuck up every relationship he’d ever had, he might break the things in his life constantly, but he could take a broken car and make it a working car, and that was something.  

He was not so secretly dreading the evening, though.  He let himself drift far enough into his work that he wasn’t actively panicking about going to a damn pride night at the local gay bar, which he’d never actually been to, no matter how many times Isobel tried to convince him how great it was.  It’s not that Michael was ashamed, he really wasn’t—but he’d experienced enough bigots and assholes in his life to know that he didn’t need to paint an extra target on his back, either.  

Who he fucked was his own business, and that was how he preferred to keep it.  Isobel was reveling in her newfound sexuality, and he wasn’t about to ruin that for her, but he also knew that a rich white woman was a lot less of a target than a trailer trash cowboy.  He also had an existential dread of any place that resulted in Isobel leaving at the end of the night dripping in glitter.    

Michael didn’t do glitter, and he didn’t do pride month—or at least he hadn’t—and he’d much rather just spend a night with Isobel at the Wild Pony celebrating themselves quietly with a drink that didn’t have anything in it besides the liquor.  Hell, they could go there and celebrate themselves raucously, as long as no one had to know the reason for the celebrating.  

His attempt to distract himself resulted in successfully losing track of time, which meant Isobel was already standing in the junkyard tapping her foot when he went inside to shower and change.  

“You don’t have anything cuter than that?” she asked skeptically when he emerged, clean and dressed in a black button-down.  Isobel was wearing a purplish iridescent crop top that probably came out of her closet circa 2010 and incredibly tight dark blue jeans, with multiple strings of shiny necklaces around her neck.  

“Sorry, I don’t own anything that shiny.”  

That got him a smile at least.  “Listen, Michael, the whole point of pride is to look hot,” he was pretty sure that wasn’t true, “get laid,” he was sure that one was wrong, “and be out and proud while doing it.”  She looked so proud of herself right then that Michael didn’t have the heart to argue.  “Plus, the bi flag has really nice colors.”

Michael smiled in spite of himself.  “Iz, you got me to go with you, you really want to jeopardize that by shit talking my clothing?”

Frowning slightly, she shrugged.  “Fine, but this is why no one thinks you’re the fun alien.” 

“Hey!  I am definitely the fun one,” he argued, striding towards her car and settling in for an inane but companionable argument.

Michael liked bars, in general.  He liked the dark corners and the dirty floors and the smell of alcohol and the down home music and the bluster of it all.  He liked sitting at a bar nursing a drink and feeling like a part of something just by virtue of drinking beside other people.  But Michael hated Planet 7. 

First of all, the whole damn place was trying too hard.  It had far too many lights, all of them overly complicated and flashing stupid colors.  It had a DJ instead of a jukebox, which Isobel implied was something special, that he should be pleased to be experiencing, much to his chagrin.  It had more glitter and confetti littering the floor and on the bar and on the tables than Michael had ever hoped to see in one place.  All the drinks were obscured by ridiculous garnishes.  There was someone sitting at the end of the bar stenciling with face paint on people’s faces, another thing Isobel assured him was a fun and exciting theme night thing.  But most of all, it didn’t make Michael feel safe, or comfortable, or known; this wasn’t his place.

Isobel looked like she’d just walked into her surprise birthday party, though, grinning and strutting in like she owned the place.  “Come on, I’ve been dreaming about their drinks,” she said, beaming, and Michael reluctantly followed her over to the bar.  Michael realized quickly that she hadn’t been dreaming about the drink so much as the bartender.  Which, fair enough. 

Michael let her talk and flirt and took the time to look around again, hoping to find something to be complimentary about so Isobel wouldn’t feel she had to prove how great it all was to him.  It was his own fault then, when he accidentally saw Alex across the room, leaning against a wall, deep in conversation with someone that looked suspiciously like Kyle.  Michael’s stomach did a flip and he turned quickly away, back to Isobel and the bar, half hoping Alex hadn’t seen him.  Michael knew that Alex was single again, or at least that was the last he’d heard, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be caught staring outright. 

“Here,” Isobel thrust a drink into his hand that had a little light-up rainbow color-changing cube masquerading as an ice cube at the bottom of it.  Michael rolled his eyes.  “So what are you feeling?  Wanna dance?  Or I think they’re painting pride flags on people’s faces?”  She sounded giddy, her cheeks flushed and her hair already covered in a ridiculous amount of glitter.  

Michael didn’t have the heart to let her down by telling her he’d rather eat sand than dance or get his face painted without at least a few drinks in his system.  “Whatever you want.” 

Isobel beamed at him.  “See, I knew this would be fun.” 

“Yep,” Michael said, plastering a smile on his fast as she led him over to the person doing the face paint, “cause I’m the fun one.”

By the time he was sitting on a bar stool with someone striping color across his face, Michael was on his second drink, and Isobel's face was already a melty palette of pink, blue, and purple. 

“Isn’t this great?” Isobel said, standing over him and dancing to some unbearable pop song, shaking glitter out of her own hair all over Michael’s head and shoulders.  He could feel it falling onto him like tiny raindrops, securing itself to his shirt and hair and skin with some invisible, terrible glitter power.  He wondered idly how many showers it was going to take until he could walk around without constantly catching the glint of it out of the corner of his eye.  

“Yeah,” Michael agreed, standing up as the face painter proclaimed he was done.  His cheek felt strange, stiff and cold, and he couldn’t get the last of the alcohol out of his glass around the giant fake ice cube.    

“Hey, we have to take a picture,” Isobel said, grinning wider and pulling out her phone while she dragged their faces close enough together to fit into the selfie frame.  She pulled back to look at the picture, nodding with happy satisfaction.  “We are hot,” she proclaimed, “and proud.  Two badass bisexuals.” 

Michael nodded distractedly.  He needed another drink, or maybe just some fresh air, or for the DJ to turn down the goddamned bass, or something.  He hated the feeling of the face paint, and he hated the selfie, he hated how unlike himself he looked, glittery and colorful and trying to smile in a crowd.  Michael stumbled backwards, turning around to face the bar in what he hoped was a mostly intentional-looking maneuver.  He needed another drink.  

The bartender nodded at him and Isobel, bringing over two more glasses of whatever they were drinking.  “Lookin’ good,” she said, and Michael’s chest felt tight. 

It was too loud, and too warm, and Isobel was talking but he couldn’t make out what she was saying.  He drank almost frantically, trying to get enough alcohol into his system that he stopped caring about any of this shit.  Michael glanced around the bar, at all of the people laughing and smiling and looking like they fit in perfectly, and Michael had never felt more like an alien.   He needed to get out, just for a moment, just to catch his breath.  

“I’m, uh, I’m gonna find the bathroom,” he said, coherently enough, and pushed past Isobel towards the back hallway.   

The bathroom was thankfully empty, and quiet as the door swung shut behind him, the music that was so pervasive in the bar just a tinny echo.  Michael braced himself on one of the sinks, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against the scratched mirror.  It was just all so much, and it should have been easy, and the fact that it wasn’t was creating a cacophony of different feelings in his mind, all of it blending together into something like panic.  Michael opened his eyes, willing himself to stay in control.  

He looked at himself in the mirror, and he hated the frantic look in his eyes, hated the smear of color across his cheek like a brand, hated that he could be so comfortable with himself and yet so shaken.  He could feel the urge to push it all away, violently, to shove and shake and break—the only way he had now to make the noise in his head stop.  Michael gripped the sink and thought about tearing the room apart.  He could see it, sinks and toilets tearing out of the wall, tiles slamming against one another into dust, the mirrors cracking and shattering.  The vision of destruction filled his mind, and he was in the middle of it, silent in the eye of the storm, caught in the tornado of his own making—

The door to the bathroom swung open, and Alex stepped through it, looking concerned.  “Are you okay?” 

The vision dropped away from Michael’s eyes, leaving him with only himself, standing in a public bathroom feeling terrified and self-destructive.  He watched in the mirror as Alex twisted the lock on the door and took another cautious step forward. 

“Are you okay?” Alex repeated. “Because you looked not okay.”

“I’m fine,” Michael said, even though his voice sounded thin and shaken.  Alex stepped towards him again and Michael pressed himself forward, closer to the sink, like he could climb into the mirror and avoid this interaction.  It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to Alex, because he did, badly, but he didn’t want Alex to see him in a moment where he felt weak.  “You didn’t have to follow me.”

Alex shrugged, the cracks in the mirror keeping Michael from seeing the nuances of his expression.  “I wanted to see if you were okay.” 

It was meant kindly, but somehow it made Michael feel worse.  Michael stopped watching Alex and focused on his own face, frowning when he saw the painted colors again, loosening his grip on the sink to press uneasily on the skin of his cheek.  He swallowed and dropped his hand quickly, lowering his eyes to the stained white porcelain of the sink.  “I think this paint might be toxic,” he said wryly.  He could tell from Alex’s silence that he saw through the remark. 

“It looks good,” Alex said quietly.  “You look good.”

Michael looked up sharply at Alex’s reflection again.  Alex had his own face painted, a rainbow of stripes adorning his cheek.  “You do, too,” Michael said, meaning it.  Alex did look good—happy and proud and like he wasn’t constantly looking over his shoulder.  It made Michael feel boundlessly happy and endlessly sad, knowing that they’d spent their time together hiding, that they could both be here on this stupid pride night—with Alex looking secure and hot and comfortable—and yet not be together.  Usually Michael would fight or fuck those maudlin feelings away, but that wasn’t really an option tonight.  He sighed.  “But I just don’t…maybe this isn’t my scene.”

Alex was close enough to put a hand on Michael’s shoulder, and he did so cautiously, like he wasn’t sure if Michael would let him.  Michael hoped that someday Alex would be able to touch him without worrying.  He let Alex turn him away from the mirror.  

“Maybe,” Alex said, carefully.  “Or maybe you grew up with assholes telling you this part of you was wrong, that it should be shuttered if you can’t destroy it.” 

Michael’s instinct was to argue that he was fine, and none of his shitty foster parents had gotten to him like that, but he wasn’t sure it was entirely true, and he wasn’t sure that Alex wasn’t saying it for his own benefit as much as for Michael’s.  Alex’s hand was still resting on Michael’s shoulder, and it felt grounding; Michael felt stable under Alex’s hand, under Alex’s unwavering gaze.  He took a deep breath, and as he let it out, Alex seemed to visibly relax, too.  

“You can wash it off, if you want,” Alex said, “and it wouldn’t mean anything.”

Michael shook his head slowly.  “Isobel—” he started.

“We didn’t get the same ‘strong woman, love yourself’ stuff that Isobel did,” Alex interrupted, reaching around Michael to snag a paper towel from the wall dispenser.  “It’s okay.” 

“Isobel would be disappointed,” Michael said numbly, his chest tight with unspoken gratitude, but he didn’t take the paper towel.  Then more quietly:  “Everyone’s always disappointed.”

Alex looked at Michael for a moment, and then shrugged and smiled, like he didn’t know what Michael was talking about, like he wasn’t one of the people Michael kept disappointing.  “This whole thing is supposed to be about celebrating yourself the way you want to, so fuck ‘em.”

Michael smiled back weakly, his hand tracing lightly over the stiff lines of the face paint on his cheek.  He so badly wanted to want to leave it there. 

“It looks better on you,” Michael said, impulsively, reaching out as if to touch Alex’s cheek, and then drawing his hand back at the last moment.  He held his breath as Alex met his eyes and stepped carefully forward, bringing his cheek to Michael’s hand, leaning into his touch far too easily.  “You’ve always looked good with stuff like this.”  He was thinking of Alex as a teenager, with liner painted across his eyelids, and it made Michael ache with nostalgia.  He wanted this—he wanted to be able to tell Alex how the only good memories from that summer were of Alex, to be able to say all the stupid, romantic things he had never gotten the chance to say, to be able to dance with Alex at pride night and have neither of them care who saw.  

“I wish I’d been able to be this with you,” Alex said, his voice raw and quiet.

Michael let out a breath that was almost a laugh, running his fingertips lightly across Alex’s rainbow cheek.  “You’re here now,” he said without thinking about it.  Now was enough.  Michael thought that if he leaned forward and kissed Alex, Alex might let him, that it would be okay if it only existed here, in this moment.  But they owed each other more than that—more than a secret kiss in a bathroom, more than rushing in without talking, without taking enough care that neither of them got hurt, this time.  God, but Michael wanted there to be a ‘this time.’

“So are you,” Alex said pointedly, licking his lips absently in a way that sent Michael’s entire internal equilibrium shifting, like his body was trying to tip him towards Alex.  

The door clattered as someone tried to get into the bathroom, and both of them laughed awkwardly, aware again of their surroundings.  It steadied Michael, kept him from crashing towards Alex the way he desperately wanted to.  Waiting would be smarter; dropping his hand, pulling away and swallowing everything he was feeling, putting on a smile and walking out of the bathroom would be smarter, but he hesitated.

Alex met Michael’s eyes and slowly lifted his own hand and pressed his fingers lightly to the paint on Michael’s cheek, almost exploratory, a gentle caress.  Michael felt his breath coming far too quickly, his earlier discomfort nearly forgotten under the soft way Alex was touching him.  

“You really do look good, Guerin.” Alex said quietly.  “And this place?  This bar?  It’s not my favorite either.  And it—it isn’t home, but it’s safe.  You know?” 

“Where’s home?” Michael asked, somewhat facetiously, his fingertips still barely brushing Alex’s cheek, leaning his cheek into Alex’s touch, unable to stop himself.  Michael knew both of them had been facing the same thing recently—the growing sense that all of the places that had felt comfortable or familiar didn’t feel that way any more, the fear of what it would take to find the places that would feel that way in the future.  

Alex met Michael’s eyes, meaningfully, like he was trying to get Michael to understand something without saying it.  “I think I’ve almost got that figured out,” Alex said finally, and Michael was hit by the realization that Alex wasn’t talking about the bars or the city or the buildings they lived in, but something entirely different.  He thought back to every time he’d ever heard Alex say the word home, with something like longing and questions laid into it, and wondered if maybe he’d been talking about them the whole time.    

Michael was trying to form a response that wouldn’t feel like a deflection, that would convince Alex to actually say what he was saying, when someone banged loudly on the door and Alex pulled away abruptly, leaving Michael’s fingers caressing only air.  Alex smiled apologetically and dropped his hand away from Michael’s cheek.  “You shouldn’t spend the whole night in the bathroom,” Alex said, starting to move towards the door.  “I’ll save you a dance.”

“Didn’t see you dancing before,” Michael said, to take focus from the fact that the image of Alex dancing, and happy, was enough to make every bit of him openly ache with wanting.    

“I wasn’t.”  Alex said, raising an eyebrow.  “But I will with you.”  

Michael exhaled heavily, his voice stolen by the casual way Alex said it, like they’d already decided.  Then again, what was there even to decide?  

Alex licked his lips, hesitating between Michael and the door, then abruptly turned back and crossed to where Michael was standing.  Alex pressed himself into Michael’s space, his hands cradling Michael’s cheeks as he brought their lips together in a quick but searing kiss.  Michael let out a sound halfway between surprise and a moan and kissed Alex back fiercely.  He’d barely gotten his bearings before Alex was pulling away.

Smiling with satisfaction, Alex unlocked the door and slipped through into the noise of the bar.  Michael side-stepped out of the way as someone rushed past him to one of the stalls, watching the door like Alex might come back. 

When he didn’t, Michael turned back to the mirror, staring at himself skeptically for a few minutes, trying to see himself the same way he saw Alex, like someone who was strong enough not to feel foolish, but proud.  He shook his head at his reflection—it was too much, too much to ask of himself at that moment, but he realized that he still didn’t want to leave the bar.  Not when Isobel wanted him there, not when Alex wanted him there.  

It was Alex’s voice, Alex’s smile, in Michael’s head as he decided not to wash the face paint off.   As he decided not to listen to the words in the back of his mind that he tried to pretend he’d forgotten, to brush off with bravado, the ones that came from the screaming foster parents who carried bibles and belts, the ones who told him he was nothing before he was old enough to know anything about himself.  Alex didn’t see Michael that way, any more than Michael saw Alex as any of the things his asshole father had thought of him.  Alex wanted to dance with Michael, wanted to kiss him, and that was reason enough to stop thinking about the colors on his face and leave the bathroom. 

This bar was never going to be Michael’s place, it was never going to be less annoyingly loud and glittery, and it was never going to serve drinks that didn’t make him roll his eyes.  But it could be the first place he’d let Isobel drag him to a pride event, it could be the first place he’d kissed Alex, that Alex had kissed him, since they’d tried to ignore how they would always feel.  It could be that, and that could be enough, even if he hated the damn face paint.

Taking a breath, Michael left the bathroom with his breathing almost back to normal.  He found Isobel quickly, dancing on the edge of a throng of people, and she brightened as soon as he appeared, beckoning him over.

“Thought you might have left,” she said close to his ear when he reached her, almost yelling to be heard above the music.    

“Almost did,” Michael replied distractedly.  He scanned the room, which had gotten significantly more crowded in the short time he’d been gone, until he found Alex, leaning against a wall, clearly watching Michael, too.  He tilted his head, gesturing Alex over, and saw him nod and push slowly away from the wall, 

“What did you say?”  Isobel yelled, and Michael flipped his attention back to her, grinning.  She looked happy, and tipsy, and like she actually wanted him there, and all at once Michael felt lighter. 

“I said fuck you,” he said stridently, louder and closer to her ear.  “Bisexuals-in-arms, right?”

Isobel’s answering smile was brilliant, and Michael realized he hadn’t made a mistake by coming here just for her, because she’d asked him, intentionally, to be there.  And there wasn’t anything wrong with staying for Alex, because neither of them would usually be caught dead in a place like this, and there was something about just showing up that mattered.  

Alex came up beside them, putting a hand gently on Michael’s elbow, just enough to let Michael know he was there.  It felt like a lot more than that, though.  

“Alex!”  Isobel was clearly at the drunk stage where she was friends with everyone.  “Look, we match!”  She gestured happily between her face and Michael’s, and Michael hated that it made him feel even a tiny bit better about the stupid face paint. 

Alex grinned.  “It’s great,” he said and Isobel beamed.  The song changed fluidly to something new, and Alex slid his hand down Michael’s arm until their fingers were clasped together.  Michael couldn’t think of a time he and Alex had held hands in public, not ever.  It felt nice.    

Isobel danced next to them with abandon and Michael let himself sway awkwardly with Alex, trying to actually loosen his grip on his control instead of just slipping into the comfortable persona of someone who didn’t care.  He did care.  He cared that Isobel wanted them to have this connection—something that she and Max didn’t have—even if her way of celebrating it wasn’t entirely in line with his ideal evening.  He cared that Alex wanted to dance with him, that he was holding Michael’s hand in public, even if it was under the guise of dancing, that he cared enough to follow him into the bathroom and knew him well enough to lock the door.    

Isobel paused her dancing to give Michael a very obvious and unsubtle thumbs-up, and Michael didn’t even resent it when Alex laughed.  Michael grinned up at her sparkling, painted face, his hand tightly knit with Alex’s, and let himself enjoy being part of something loudly, even if it was just for the night.  Maybe, Michael reflected, this was what Alex meant by home.  

[kinetic-elaboration]

September 17: 3x07 Day of the Dove

I am incredibly discombobulated today—usual weekend nocturnal shenanigans I guess! Anyway it’s somehow midnight. Gonna try to write up these note on the Classic episode The Day of the Dove in as efficient a manner as possible.

Hmm, a planet with wavy pink Fraggle plants. I like it already.

But where is Spock? Very suspicious.

I really appreciate Kirk giving a little speech to set up the overall question/issue for us. (I know he does this all the time with the Captain’s logs but this is out loud and so… more obviously expository.)

Oh no, it’s our old friends…the Klingons.

I will admit that this ONE TIME, the Klingon is being reasonable. Like, it is reasonable to think that Kirk and the Enterprise attacked his ship, given that his hip WAS attacked, and who else would it be?

Three years of peace between the Klingons and the Federation? That is inclusive of the show so all this tension must technically be “peace” and also implies there was something more like a direct war going on, like, right before Kirk got the captaincy.

Zoolander voice: What is this, a colony of the INVISIBLE?

“We have no devil. But we understand the habits of yours.”

No takers? No takers on the torture? No volunteers to be mercilessly tortured by the Klingons?

Star Trek Beyond could have had Kirk and Chekov bond over being brothers! I mean, to other people.

They’ll kill 100 hostages at the first sign of treachery. He does know there are only 400-some people on the ship right? Maybe you should pace yourself, Kang.

Kirk’s so badass he needs MULTIPLE guns trained on him just to use the phone.

Oh-ho secret message to Spock. Which version of the iPhone will be capable of doing THAT?

The Klingons are “suspended in transit” is an awfully nice way of saying they’re just dematerialized atoms in space. Philosophy major and/or Bones nightmare fuel.

How did Kang not see this coming, by the way? Like, he just says “I’m taking your ship now, me and my 6 men versus your 400-some men, and I’ll do this by simply declaring it to be so. Now let’s beam up to your ship, where I’ll be greatly outnumbered, and there are armed security guards all around me.” Guess he’s been reading The Secret!

WIFE AND SCIENCE OFFICER

Aka the most important part of this whole episode.

Kirk’s face is very ?????? You can have both????

It’s legitimately not even important for her to be the science officer tbqh. Like that is so gratuitous. That’s just in there to drive me insane.

"We're prisoners, somehow, after I demanded to come on the ship, assuming they'd just give it to me without any kind of fight. How DID this happen?”

Federation death camps lol—someone’s been watching Fox News.

I do kind of wonder… is this an actual rumor that goes around the Klingon homeworld or is it something that the alien entity put in her head specifically to make her angrier right now? I mean it really could be either.

I also appreciate this episode for being pretty much the only one to actually attempt to give the Klingons a reason for being as they are. The Romulans… maybe aren’t well-described, but they do have a sort of regalness to them, appropriate for being related to Vulcans, and you can kind of imagine that they are the way they are because they’re Vulcans without the intense self-control. Plus they’re literally only in 2 TOS eps and in the second, the Federation are the aggressors. But the Klingons show up a half-dozen times only to be depicted each time as just like Cartoonishly Bad, aggressive, violent, and selfish for basically no reason. And I mean, some people really are!! But TOS has so much nuance in other places, that it always seemed a little disappointing to me that the Klingons are really just like ‘well we’re just bad and we hate everyone and we really like killing I guess.” At least in this ep there’s a little more added to that: that there is poverty on their world, that they feel aggrieved, that they feel unprotected, that taking and conquering is how they look after themselves…

I think that’s later in the episode though.

He’s detaining them in the LOUNGE lol. With their favorite dishes available to them to eat. Absolutely barbarous conditions.

I can’t believe Chekov is hanging in the elevator with the cool kids. Like, one of these things really isn’t like the others.

Kang is officially sure of himself for someone currently imprisoned in the lounge, that most fearsome of Federation death camps.

Hmm, could the glittery light alien have taken over??

You know what, that's a lot of tasks for Johnson to do all by himself: search the whole ship, fix the engines, and free 400 people.

Sulu would love this: everyone gets a sword!!

“Bridge. I gotta show this to Sulu immediately.”

Klingons have maintained a dueling tradition. That’s interesting. Finally some characterization going on.

Spock is really living up to his logical nature today. Everyone else has gone off the emotional deep end and he’s like “have you considered this completely rational explanation that accounts for the actual, observed facts??”

Whoops Chekov is actually an only child. Scratch that previous Beyond headcanon. (Interesting that his dead brother does really resemble Sam though—killed on a research colony??)

Love that Sulu knows that about him though.

Oh, that’s a pretty schematic picture of the Enterprise. I want that on a t-shirt.

Lol the pan out to the armory, now filled with… swords!!

Do ALL of these men have a fetish for swords? Sulu and fencing, Spock displaying swords in his quarters, and Kirk in his San Francisco apartment, and Scotty salivating over this Scottish blade.

“Klingon units.”

Finally Sulu gets his sword! It’s what he deserves.

Love that the shiny light alien also has a fetish for swords.

Oh no, it’s our old adversary, an alien life force.

What is the alien’s purpose? Um, I’m pretty sure its purpose is to start shit.

“An appropriate choice of terms, Captain.” I don’t even remember what this is referring to but I think it’s pretty clear that Spock is enjoying himself during a crisis again.

Bones, being so dramatic. Were there atrocities? He’s talking about the Klingons as if they were literally hacking off limbs—it’s a few stab wounds here and there, chill.

Oooh, time to behave like military men—strong words. (But I thought it wasn’t the military?? @ S**** P****) (This might not even be my best argument, given the context of this episode, but I’m sticking with it.)

This is like a giant game of capture the flag.

AU that’s just about the Enterprise crew playing capture the flag with the Klingons.

Sulu in the background standing guard with his sword

Damn, turning on Spock with the slurs now!!

Spock was absolutely ready to kill him. Like he would 100% have taken him out with a blow to the head. And he’d been doing such a good job of not feeling the alien’s effects so far! Admittedly, that was a strong provocation though.

Honestly, I really like this scene. It’s uncomfortable and tense and you can really see how the alien is bringing out the worst possible influences of their respective races. And I liked how Spock was definitely full on pre-Reform Vulcan for a minute there. It was a more effective portrayal of what that might have looked like than All Our Yesterdays tbqh.

A result of… stress?

Kirk got himself out of it first. He’s so strong. He knows himself so well, he cannot be outsmarted by any alien.

“We’ve been taught to think in terms other than war.”

“The alien brings out the worst of us—patriotic drumbeating…even race hatred.”

He’s so sad; he can’t imagine thinking like that about Spock :(

Sulu in a Jeffries tube! A man of many talents. It’s okay bb, take credit for turning on the lights.

The alien must have been getting bored. The Klingons must have been doing too well, and the playing field needs to be leveled for maximum shit-stirring.

“Let’s find that alien.” That’s how I ALWAYS feel.

Oh, Kang, you’re so close—“What power supports our battle but thwarts our victory.” So, so close to getting it.

ALIEN DETECTED.

Spock takes his sword, of course.

“Jim.” Obligatory Jim moments hit differently when they’re not so obligatory.

“Jim—stop hitting my protégé. And put that sword down.”

Kirk looks so sad, picking Chekov up to carry him bridal style.

Also in addition to ‘race hatred’ I think we need to add ‘rape-y tendances’ to the bad stuff that the alien is inspiring here.

“A brief surge of racial bigotry. Most distasteful.” Spock winning for understatement of the year.

They're assuming the alien is trying to test out their relative powers but I think it just wants entertainment. I mean, doesn’t it look like a naughty little thing?

Mara’s outfit is… little shorts? Interesting. Usually not my style but she makes it work.

Spock doesn’t even look at Johnson as he falls lol. Another one bites the dust.

“It exists on the hate of others.”

What does this remind me of? Oh, the Vast of Night and the whole “aliens made us do every bad thing ever” conspiracy theory. At least this one makes more sense, in part because it is not quite so overwhelmingly broad!

All hostile attitudes must be eliminated, he says, and there's Mara right behind Kirk giving him a death stare lol.

Kang is so obviously posing. Google Earth, always taking pictures.

Only a few minutes before drifting forever in space becomes inevitable? Good thing Kirk works well under pressure.

“Well… do whatever you can, Scotty. You know the drill.” Doesn’t even bother giving real directions anymore. We’ve been in this scenario before.

“So we drift in space, with only hatred and bloodshed aboard.”

And the 392 people below just get to…live in Enterprise prison, I guess.

Star date: Armageddon. So dramatic!

I’m not even making that up; that’s an actual quote. Can you imagine being an Admiral listening to this?

“Stop the war now.” An actual line, really aired on television.

Spock wants to threaten the wife lol. That's the old pre-Reform Vulcan seeping through. Surak who?

Damn, Kang is cold. “Eh, she gets the concept of being killed in battle.” They’re gonna need marriage counseling after this.

“There is another way. Mutual trust and help.” Yes that’s my hero!!

“No one can guarantee the actions of another.” Can’t remember the context of this entirely anymore, but great line.

The entity is loving this—multi-person choreographed sword fight!!

"Those who hate and fight must stop themselves. otherwise it is not stopped.” Another baller line. Spock has a lot of deep thoughts today. And so does Kirk. And Kang.

Kirk tries to reason with the alien. Nice try.

“Shoo. Shoo, alien. Off the ship, go away.”

Omg that last moment—Kang slapping Kirk’s back way too hard, Spock’s completely ridiculous wide-eyed expression when he does, like some sort of combo of amusement and confusion, and then Sulu just passing on by in the background….

Then the alien just yeets itself into space. And that’s the end!

Always feels weird when there’s no wrap up on the bridge.

Also, what are they going to do with the Klingons? They have no ship. They really did come out of this a lot worse than Kirk and co. No ship, huge casualties—and no one to blame even, but the alien.

I feel like the alien messed up a little in killing so many Klingons. Like, it could have accomplished its purpose, angering the Klingons and turning them on Kirk, by attacking the ship a little less violently—you know they’d react to 5 deaths pretty much the same as 400, and then there would be many more people to fight forever and produce that sweet sweet anger!

Maybe the alien’s powers aren’t strong enough to influence 800 people though. Also it wants equal forces and 800 people wouldn’t fit on the Enterprise, one assumes. So it still makes sense.

That was, of course, an excellent episode. 100% agree with is classic status, even though the main things I remembered going in were the wife + science officer bit, and everyone laughing at the end in a really forced, fake way, in order to make the alien go away.

I thought the Klingons were a lot better/more interesting today than usual. First, I think Kang is a better character, or a better actor maybe, than the others; he has a certain way about him that is… more watchable, more sympathetic. And he’s always saying these really dramatic things that make it seem likely he writes patriotic Klingon war poetry in his off time. Also, including his wife made them seem more… not human obviously, but normal. Not just cardboard cut-out villains. And of course the actual lightly specific motivations I earlier mentioned helped too.

Also, the plotting was very good: it built up slowly but surely over time, so at first the alien’s influence wasn’t that obvious, and then it became more so, and then it became horrifically obvious and extreme. And then you had to re-evaluate earlier moments: was that the alien changing facts in their heads, or a real part of the animosity between humans and Klingons? And it wasn’t always clear, which I appreciated. The tension when the people were at their worst wasn’t overdone, like in that moment with Scotty, Spock, and Kirk—or even in Chekov’s assault on Mara, tbh. The various strategies of the different sides were very entertaining too; there was never a dull moment, and they fit in a lot of straight-up actions and twists into 50 minutes.

The possible threat was truly terrifying, also: stuck in a space ship, forever, unable to die, feeling the worst possible emotions all the time, besieged, angered, despairing, fighting a war that can’t be won, being injured and suffering only to recover and fight again, and it never stops… A perfect nightmare mixture of insanity and violence and pain. And the alien, in encouraging hatred and anger, doesn’t discriminate between sides: they turn on each other just as much as on the Klingons, breeding paranoia and infighting. For eternity.

The episode also felt much more strongly anti-war than I remember tbh. Like it was not subtle. Kirk literally says “stop the war” in so many words. He has a part in his speech where he talks about the possibility of other aliens out there, encouraging other wars. And while I do think “maybe the aliens are making us do it” is a cop out explanation, or would be if it were real, the scenario gave the show a lot of room to say, like, pretty ballsy things: to include “patriotic drum beating” along with “race hatred” in a list of corrupting feelings they were experiencing; to show how the same instincts that lead to warring also lead to sexual assault and the aforementioned ‘race hatred;” to reveal the true horror of an endless war by making the participants unkillable and sticking them in a singular space ship in the middle of nowhere; to imply that the combatants of war gain nothing from it, but outside or third-party entities will pull strings of their own design to profit from the conflict as long as possible; even to make an impassioned plea to camera to stop the endlessness of the conflict. Like I can’t even totally unpack this but it is a lot!

Finally, it was also a great Kirk episode, which of course is my most important factor. He’s smart; he’s strong; he’s so sure of himself and his values that he cannot be manipulated to mindless hatred, he represents the values of the Federation, and the show itself; he treats even his enemies with basic respect and humanity; and ultimately, he saves the day.

Okay I was not efficient in writing this up at all! It is very late!!

[agentfreckles]

Tumblr eated my ask :// I wanted to know what would you think the UBs would do for the Valentine's day! They would make up something for the day? For them and the detective?

Sorry about that! Tumblr is a butt sometimes. And sorry for the late response! I got this ask in the middle of the F hate chaos and it kind of got lost in the shuffle. But wow there are so many Patreon references I want to gush about regarding this oof. But for now we’ll just stick with this ask as a sort of guide as well as a couple others that I vaguely remember but not enough to find them. Also I’m thinking established relationships for this. 

I swear there was an anniversary ask way back that said A would ask N for advice on what to do and I love the idea of that applying to Valentine’s Day as well. Ultimately, I think they would keep it simple but meaningful. A single red rose, maybe a bottle of red wine for the two of you to split while you sit on the couch in the warehouse living room illuminated by the glow of the fireplace and just enjoy each other’s company. You talk a little, laugh some, and every time there’s a lull in the conversation A just hits you with that intense gaze that’s soft and full of longing as it flits around your face memorizing every tiny detail. They cup your cheek and maybe they can somehow string together enough words to properly express what you mean to them or maybe they’re too overwhelmed by their feelings in that moment and words are lost on them, but they don't need to say anything anyway because it’s already written all over their face.  And of course there’d be tender kisses and soft caresses somewhere in there too. Understated yet classic. 

N would be 100% focused on the romance. They might go a little overboard with the public displays like balloons or flowers or candy (as Patreon suggests) because they're excited, but I think privately is where they would really shift into Agent Suavewell mode. We’re talking homemade candlelit dinner. We’re talking slow dancing to soft music in the background, the kind of dancing where you’re gently swaying real close and N’s just looking at you the whole time with the most love-sick gaze you've ever seen. Do they softly sing or hum along to the music? Maybe! Do they lean in close and whisper sweet nothings in your ear that make you shiver? Oh yeah! And then when you two finally make it to the bedroom (or don't 👀) they’ll pour every ounce of energy into making sure you know just how deep that love runs. 

How much of an understanding of Valentine’s Day does F have? Do we know? Because I love the idea of them looking it up and seeing tons of commercial stuff like candies and teddy bears and big, bright lovey-dovey stuff and going, “Okay. I can work with that!” And they just go ham and buy every shiny thing that tickles their fancy. So by the time Valentine’s Day actually rolls around, F just strides in with their arms full of stuff and maybe a couple unlucky members of UB trailing behind them with even more stuff and they’re just like “Here you go, Valentine!” with the dopiest grin on their face. I also can’t stop thinking about F running out to the craft store and getting materials to make their own Valentine card??? Like it’s glittery af and probably looks a little juvenile, but they put so much effort into it and wrote the sweetest, mushiest note inside about how much you mean to them and how happy they are to have you and their eyes sparkle with excitement as they watch you read it and idk man I get choked up just thinking about it 😭 There’d also be smooches. Lots and lots of smooches. 

M...lol. Like the ask I linked said, I think M would skip Valentine’s Day entirely without a second thought unless someone pointed out to them that they should do something. And even then, I don’t think they would do much. Gifts and grand romantic gestures just aren't M’s thing. At a push, they might get you that candy you like or maybe something you’ve expressed interest in in the past that they were only half listening to but still mentally filed away for future reference. Whatever it is, you can guarantee they’ll find some kind of way to use it to coax you into celebrating the day with a lot less mushy stuff and a whole lot more heavy petting. Although I do kind of love the idea of you both just treating Valentine’s Day like any other day and not doing anything, but M’s that much more open to cuddle time than usual or maybe the back their hand ghosts along your cheek or you find their gaze lingers on you just that bit longer. And not like that bedroom eyes gaze, more like this weirdly soft look that you wouldn't normally associate with them but it’s there and deep and kind of sweet, you know? 

[apterydek]

After a year of jockhood

A year of jockhood came and went, daily workouts, buzzed head, sweaty gym shorts. Though you were stronger and more comfortable than ever, you missed being preppy. Looking back at the old photos from when you wore chinos and polos instead, you remembered how you felt then: disappointed you weren’t living the jock life.

“I’m not sure what to do,” you confess to Sir. He’s the one putting you through your paces, holding you to your meal plan. He was the one who gave you your first buzz, clippers set to 1. “Though I’m living my fantasy, and I feel confident, I keep feeling like I’m missing out on all the other versions of me. This was supposed to be my final transformation, and despite all the mental training, I just can’t stick with it. I’m sorry Sir, I fear I’ve disappointed you. I know you’ve put so much effort into training me.”

Sir isn’t angry, nor let down. He’s pensive, eyes out of focus, forehead furrowed. Then, with a sudden smile, he starts: “Boy, it’s no problem. I’ve seen this before. Sensed that it might happen. It’s just that I wanted you to have the full jock experience you were so dedicated to when we first started. I know just what to do. Another year of training—”

“Another year?” you blurt in disbelief.

“Shush, boy,” he continues, stern now. “This year will be unlike the last year. Rather than get you deep into one identity, we’ll change things up every month. We’ll explore all the different versions of you. Then decide what to do next. Who knows, maybe you’ll be begging to go back to jock mode.”

Your mouth is open. “W..well…” you say, processing what Sir’s suggesting. It tingles, excitement gripping you, and you decide to comply. “Yes Sir!” you shout. He’s already thinking of what you’ll become, and within the week, you’re given your first identity.

January you kept your hoodies and trainers, but grew out your hair slightly on top even as the sides were shaved. You wore a steel necklace and a tracksuit. Manspreading, walking with a swagger. Drinking and cursing. Watching porn. Sir would catch you by surprise and pin you against the wall, getting his pleasure from you. You loved the sudden lack of discipline, the spontaneity, the cockiness.

February your hair was long enough to part and slick. Your wardrobe was entirely replaced with white briefs and singlets, gray and blue dress shirts, smart slacks, knee socks, shined shoes and even a pair of short elasticated wool shorts for home. You tucked in your shirt every day, followed a structured schedule, and learned the basics of piano and French every evening. Sir would spank you for the smallest transgressions. You came to enjoy his discipline, the way your energy was controlled and focused on learning.

March your hair kept growing. You returned to sporty shorts with matching silky shirts. Leg day every day. Running, endurance. Sir had chosen only two outfits for you to wear. It made decisions easy. He chose your food carefully for energy. By the end of all the workouts you’d be ready to head to bed, but you were quizzed on football stats every day from the games you spent hours watching. You lived through your team’s performance, trained hard to emulate your favorite players. Sport, sport, sport. The month passed quickly.

April you didn’t get a haircut, just put a little hair gel in it. Polos and khakis or bright, short shorts. Boat shoes. You started to drink again. Spent lots of time on social media, taking lots of selfies with vapid pearly smiles. A lot of them involved golf, which you were now taking up. Sir got you invited to a party on a yacht. Little discipline again, just spending money, and enjoying the money others spent, and the respect everyone gave you.

May you used a straight iron and bobby pins. Pink crop tops and pink high tops. Became a go-go dancer, shaking your butt every time someone slipped a sweaty dollar bill down the waistband of your glittery hot pants. Pumped your nips every night and morning. Sir worked your hole every morning until you could take a plug, then a thick dildo, then a fist. Sometimes, after your shows, you’d get the chance to fit other guys’ hands up your hole too. It felt good to be desired, great to be a slut, and utterly fabulous to be so flamboyant.

June you got a cut in front and a trim in the back. Button-ups with the snaps, tucked into tight Wranglers and secured with a massive belt buckle. You listened to country music the entire time you were awake. Spent time hunting and fishing, dressed in camo and/or waders. Beaten-up T-shirts and trucker caps half the time. Cowboy hats the other half. It was relaxing getting back into nature, relaxing listening to repetitive songs, relaxing to slip completely into this identity and hear the voices of anxiety silenced. Some time every day, Sir gave you hearty pats on the back, and butt, and you embraced him, totally at ease.

July you awoke in briefs and a singlet again. An extra-large polo shirt, sweater vest, and loose polyester dress pants were stuffed over you, and you were taken to a barbershop and given a tight waxed horseshoe flattop with a white, shiny, wide landing strip. Glasses for good measure too. The only fun you had was DnD, but mostly you were too busy reading academic papers, solving logic puzzles, and arguing with strangers on Quora to spend much time on the DnD sessions. Sir would turn the Internet off at 9 every night, though, and you’d have to wake up early the next day to catch up on your online pursuits. It felt good to know more than anyone else...except Sir, of course.

August you got tired of feeling like other guys were about to bully you and became the bully instead. Buzzed again, gym shorts, tank tops, lifting, protein shakes and meal plans: all the things you’d gotten tired of six months ago, but which seemed so comfortable and natural now. You almost didn’t want to continue the cycle of transformations. Begged Sir, naked and on your knees, your prominent pecs quivering slightly. Sir denied you. You needed still more discipline.

September you were to follow a detailed schedule to the minute. Your buzz was shaved daily on the back and sides, clippered to a 0.5 on top. You were issued one set of clothes for PT, and one set of clothes for day-to-day wear: a polo and cargo pants with stiff black boots that gave you blisters. There was a final set of clothing for dinners and special outings: a dress shirt secured with shirt stays, immaculately creased trousers, mirror-shined black shoes. Punishments were severe and severely boring: standing at attention for hours, endless sets of push-ups, and marches in circles with the sun beating on your shorn head. Despite the unpleasantness, you felt proud to be held to such a strict standard, and to comply with it at least most of the time. Sir would occasionally reward your compliance with a treat like a single ice cream bar or 20 minutes of free time.

October you asked again to become a jock, or a frat boy, again, but Sir, tight-lipped, shook his head. You hadn’t learned your lesson. Stripped of all clothing, you winced as you were shaved head to toe, and a chastity cage was forced on and locked. You were rubbed with lube before being covered in a thick black rubber suit that covered your entire body, zips held closed with a dozen miniature padlocks. You were let out of rubber only for your brief, intense workouts—for public matters, a thinner rubber suit that left your arms and legs exposed was fastened on you, after which you donned a plain black T-shirt, black jeans, black Converses and a black snapback. Half the time, a large plug was shoved up your ass. You didn’t have a strict schedule any more, but the punishments more than made up for it. Perhaps your entire existence was one punishment. You were beaten, forced into painful positions, your balls stretched, made to drink piss and eat from the floor. You slept in a large dog cage. Slowly, you got used to it, hastened by Sir’s hypnosis and brainwashing sessions. You realized how much effort Sir was putting into the training and resolved not to disappoint him again. The border between pain and pleasure disappeared, and you grew content in the moment, constant intense sensations forcing your attention on the present. For Halloween you were paraded out in your full rubber suit, a collar and leash around your neck.

November you knelt, bound, ready for the next layer of intensity, for a fresh round of humiliation and torture. You accepted whatever Sir might inflict upon you. But he untied you, let you out, gently cleaned you in the bathtub, and had you lie on a towel. It was only when you felt a soft, pillowy sensation enveloping your chastity cage that you realized what he’d planned. You had a large wardrobe of brightly colored T-shirts and pants and a full rack of chunky sneakers. There were rules, of course, particularly around bedtime, screen time, and getting your diaper changed, but you were otherwise free to play as you wished. The lack of punishment initially seemed wrong, like cheating, but you settled into your new pampered lifestyle as Sir gently encouraged you and occasionally told you life stories to learn from. By the end of the month, you were making cucumber sandwiches like a pro, wearing a cartoon sandwich T-shirt and overalls.

December Sir trimmed the sides and back of your head, undressed you, unlocked you from chastity, and showed you to yet another set of clothing. You couldn’t make heads or tails of it, but he didn’t tell you what you were supposed to become, just smiled and walked out of the room. No kinky gear or implements anywhere, just a fleshlight in the back of the drawer, behind the boxer shorts and miscellaneous patterned shirts and jeans. Sir just kind of...left you alone, not telling you when to wake up or what any consequences of anything would be. With the horniness from the previous months of chastity and discipline built up, you started to jerk off at least three times a day. Sitting at the dinner table with Sir eating pizza, you asked him what this was all about. It felt so wrong.

“Boy, this month I’m showing you what you haven’t had for several years: a ‘normal’ lifestyle. No control, no schedule, no denial, no punishments, just...freedom. You shouldn’t forget, I can give you any transformation I desire, and this month I want you to be a regular guy. What’s light without shadow, a vessel without the internal emptiness, a crisp autumn day without the muggy summer before it?”

Almost crying at this point, you nodded. You’d taken all this kinky artifice for granted, assumed that last month was Sir’s way of letting you off easy even though you were in diapers. You had gotten so accustomed to Sir’s control that you’d let yourself get tired of living your deepest fantasies as a prep and a jock.

You stood up. “Sir,” you started, about to apologize, about to thank him, about to tell him how much you loved him, but you pushed your face into his and gave him a deep kiss, inserting your tongue, feeling his warm mouth relax in pleasure. You hugged him tight, and he hugged you tighter, and you were together, equals now. Wait, equals? That didn’t feel right.

You pulled his arms behind his back and scowled. “I love you. That’s why I’m going to do to you what you did to me. We’ll start with you as a jock.” Sir’s eyes widened. You kept your face stern, but worried he’d find some way to punish you. Suddenly, Sir sat up and straightened his shoulders. “Sir, yes Sir!” he yelled. And so, another year began, with a Sir and boy playing through various transformations, except the Sir and boy were reversed this time, and a few times, for a month at a stretch, they’d stop and live as equals, just to appreciate what they had. Appreciate each other they most certainly did.