#with the 'first series' caveat in mind

[kirric-the-fan]

I feel like sometimes people are forgetting that Power of Hope Precure is the first outing into the realms of adult cure series. They're not going to have the hang of everything first time round, or plan it out exactly how you headcanoned the characters to end up however many years ago.

This is essentially a trial run. If Toei sees it's worth putting more time and effort in, doing more series, they're going to get better at it, and more confident at trying new things each time.

[crunchycrystals]

finished ruthless vows i dont understand sex still

[bigtreefest]

Chapter 1: The President’s Son

From: Guardian Angel Series

Pairing: (future) Mafia! Stucky x Bodyguard! Reader

Summary: A longtime client snubs you, causing you to leave the life you know

Word Count: 3,629

Content/Warnings: swears, patriarchy, weaponized incompetence, borderline mansplaining, yelling, fighting, mentions of nose picking, misogyny, secrets, explosions, mentions of weapons, strong female characters, no Steve or Bucky yet

A/N: Okay, here’s the start of something long-anticipated by me. I hope you enjoy! Your feedback is greatly appreciated, can’t wait to hear what you guys think!

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Next >

You stood in the back of the banquet hall, eyes surveying the room like they did any other, as you tried to appear as nonchalant waitstaff for the function. That was your specialty: blending in to the background, and you were damn good at it. Tonight’s job was to do so as your were protecting the most important individuals entrusted to you: the First Lady and her son.

You moved with ease throughout the evening, keeping mobile with your head on a swivel, eyes never leaving your two clients for more than a couple seconds. After a cocktail hour, everyone had sat down for dinner and a round of awards and speeches, leaving you here for a relatively easy period.

You didn’t work alone, no. You were here as part of a group. Part of a company, actually, and it belonged to your father. He ran a security conglomerate which focused heavily on government contracting, ranging from secret service duties, to vehicle brigades, to protection and procurement of goods, virtual and physical, and you knew every single part of it. You loved your job, and you loved working with your dad. For as long as you could remember, you would spend all of your free time in his office with him as he went through schedules, and escape plans, and all sorts of strategies to keep his patrons and their assets safe. You were always flitting around, learning new things, earning you the nickname ‘tweety bird’ from him, which correlated to your codename Redwing.

You’d picked it all up so easily, you were a natural, which earned you your first presidential-adjacent gig much younger than anyone else around. Sure, it started as you going to school and posing as another student to protect the president’s son, even thought you were a few years out already, which wasn’t necessarily glamorous, since you were meant to fly under the radar, but it was an independent job. One that was coming to a close, though, as this was your eighth year of doing the same. Soon, the president would be out of office, and the security detail on his family would be greatly reduced, likely no longer requiring your services.

Even as you let your mind wander, blocking out the droning speeches and rich people backstories, you remained on high alert. If anything bad was going to happen, you had a feeling it would be at an event like this one. An event where everyone had their guard down because it was for a universally agreeable good cause. But for some reason, heading into it tonight, something was churning in your gut.

After not being able to ignore the way your stomach twisted and turned, you had gone to speak to your father about tonight, requesting backup in addition to your other two friends, Natasha and Daisy, who often accompanied you to guard shifts associated with larger crowds.

Usually he was on the same page as you, but lately, your requests had been met with more protest, likely due to your little brother’s input buzzing in your father’s ear.

Your brother, Dylan, had just freshly turned eighteen, and with it came more responsibility in the agency. For being so much younger than you, your father was giving him mountains of control, including this event of your two most important clients. With your request of a team came the the caveat that your brother would be leading it.

Dylan was, to put it nicely, an oaf? Incapable of performing a task without crashing and burning, which made your blood boil. Probably from the fires he created and you subsequently had to put out. You had no room to complain, though, as your father dismissed you from his office.

So Dylan ‘led’ your team this evening, packed with his twerp friends who were more capable, but just as reckless as him. They’d listen to some of your orders, but not without the confirmation of your brother, who knew better enough sometimes to listen to your input.

You let him think he was in the lead tonight, executing a plan you had essentially spoon fed to him in your meetings leading up to the event. There were several backup plans and exit strategies that had their own code names, made by you, of course. All Dylan, or ‘The Chief,’ as he liked to go as over coms, had to do was keep an eye out on the cameras for any suspicious activity around the venue, and be prepared to drive away if he called for extraction due to suspicious activity. That was it. You and your two trusty companions would take control of everything inside the banquet, while two of Dylan’s friends surveilled the outside. Should be easy, right?

Dylan had been instructed to give an update through your earpiece every three minutes, on any action seen in the camera footage. Every time he did, though, it was accompanied by music blasting in the car, and the increments kept getting further and further apart. Almost like he was forgetting about his responsibilities and the importance of this event on your shoulders, should something go wrong. You rolled your eyes and kept a watch of the room. If you had such little backup, it was on you now to do this job, without the team you had specifically requested.

Dylan’s friends seemed to go quiet, too, which you were hoping wasn’t due to capture or something worse, but when you heard conversation about a fantasy football draft in your ear, you knew they were at least alive, although not helpful at all.

You were sick of running blind, though, so you casually made it look like your were scratching your ear and turned away from the crowd.

“Chief, status report.” Nothing. You waited thirty seconds. Silence.

You turned back to the room, the gnawing feeling in your stomach growing as you looked out at the crowd. Natasha, code name Widow, was making her way around with a tray of champagne flutes. Daisy, codename Blossom, sat in a vent somewhere, watching from above and monitoring everyone’s trackers. The three of you sighed and continued on, hoping this night wouldn’t be every eventful, but that’s never how life goes, is it?

“Blossom, report on coms. Is everything working?”

You waited a second for the response.

“All is good, Redwing. It’s a human, not technology error.”

You rolled your eyes for the thousandth time that night, but were pulled out of your annoyance by a searing sound. In the next moment, just as you were about to ask for any other possible news from Daisy, a crackling took over your ear.

You fought the urge to wince and draw attention to yourself. It was probably Dylan finally getting back to you, but the voice that came through was one you’d never heard before. It was low and urgent.

“Get them out of there.”

You couldn’t help the way your eyes went wide and you whisper yelled, turning into the fake plant you found yourself nearby.

“Who is this? This is a secure line! What’s going on?”

You were surprised by the warning firmness of the speaker, it was menacing, who did this person think they were? Was that a threat?

“This is Bootleg. Your clients are in danger. What’s about to happen isn’t meant for them. Find a way to get them to leave.”

You sighed and nodded, although the disembodied voice named ‘Bootleg’ wasn’t reassuring. You knew to never turn down a tip, though. You weren’t going to risk it with clients like this. So you let out a sigh and made eye contact with Nat across the room.

“Execute plan beta sixteen alpha.”

She gave you a curt nod and increased her pace in a way only someone with your type of training could pick up. She was circling to make her movements seem undetectable, but she was ultimately going towards the First Lady and her son. Nat tripped, spilling the tray of champagne on their laps, causing them to gasp and look down. You could tell they were ready to yell, but they looked to your face and you nodded, signaling them to get up, brushing away anyone with apologies or offers for help, saying they were just going to clean up. The rest of the rich party goers didn’t pay it a second thought besides whispers of clumsy waitstaff. It’s not like they would bother to remember the face of one of them, though, and were too busy watching a fumbling Nat to see your approach to take your clients out of the venue. You did your best to move slowly to the same exit as them, and as soon as your bodies were behind the closed ballroom door, you were rushing them towards the back service door to get in Dylan’s getaway vehicle.

You ducked their heads under your arms as you rushed them out, and shoved them into the back of the town car, only giving a quick, breathless word to your clients and your brother.

“Take them home, Dyl. Fast. Don’t let yourself get tracked. I’ll take the decoy car. Go, now!”

He nodded like a bobble head, shifting the car in gear and peeling out of the lot as you jogged over to the other vehicle where Daisy and Nat were already waiting in the front seat for you. They moved fast.

You hopped in, Daisy expertly backing out until she hit the street. Just as she put it in drive, you flinched at a sudden noise and looked out the back window to where an explosion happened in front of the venue and soldiers dressed in all black rushed in through the cloud of smoke. This would definitely hit the news tomorrow, but you were sure your father would commend you for the safe delivery of two of his most important packages.

Daisy and Nat had been by your side for as long a you could remember. When you were in elementary school, you remembered a brooding girl sitting at the end of the lunch table, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed, with the angriest pout you’d ever seen. You walked over and plopped down with your tray.

“Hi.”

She looked up from her meal and to your smile and simply gave a blink of acknowledgment, face unchanging.

“Are you okay? Something wrong with your lunch?”

She shook her head and took a deep breath, sitting up to eat a tater tot.

“No. Something’s wrong with my shirt.”

You tilted your head to the side. “What about it? I think it’s beautiful. I love Daisies.”

She shrugged and continued to pick through her food. “Yeah, I guess they’re alright. But my mom forced me to wear this. I had a plain black shirt picked out and she gave me this. I don’t wanna wear daisies.”

You giggled and looked down at the plain black shirt on your body. “Trade?”

For the first time, you watched the corner of her lip reach a smile, your new friend who would soon earn the shirt flower as a nickname. That little grin was huge compared to the tight line her lip previously held. That was the start of a bunch of mini smirks and teamwork.

Nat had been around since you were in diapers. Her parents had worked for your father’s organization their entire lives, so when they passed as she was in her teens, your family took her in.

She was always incredibly smart, her wit challenging you and Daisy, but the two of you would hit her right back. The timeline of her moving in with you, too, was a few years before the presidential gig started, but she rose through the ranks with you, through every single job, the two of you bringing Daisy on board who caught on quickly. Your grouping was nearly unrivaled. Nearly.

Daisy and Nat physically stood by your sides as the three of you looked on to your father talking on a podium. Your best suits were pressed and tailored perfectly for the special occasion. It was his retirement party in your family’s backyard garden where he was noting the successes of the company under him, including the recent incident from which the two important clients had been saved.

The three of you lightly nudged each other’s arms in commendation for the quick act despite your lack of backup, a small smile on your face, a smirk on Nat’s, with Daisy looking as composed and stoic as ever. You father continued in his speech, noting the valiant effort that needs to be maintained in a generational business like this, one that should be rewarded and carried on for the generations to come. You stood straight, chin up with pride at your hard work and dedication finally paying off.

“I was a young pup, only in my early twenties when I took this business over from my father. He deemed me most fit for the job, so it is my pleasure to do the same, keeping this line of work led by my family. I’d like to name my replacement, someone who valiantly saved the president’s son and wife. Someone who the son has raved about for returning them home to the White House safely. My wonderful child…”

You were ready for the culmination of years being under his wing. He gestured his arm out to the side and you braced yourself for the good news, except the arm wasn’t outstretched towards you. It was directed towards the other side of the stage and everyone’s eyes followed. “Dylan.”

Dylan was jerkily shoved forward by one of his friends, having been zoned out for the entirety of your father’s speech, but at the sound of cheering and clapping, a smile grew on his face. He waved at the crowd, walking over to the podium to shake your father’s hand and give a word of his own.

Meanwhile, your face fell. It was dragged downward in defeat. You quickly pulled yourself together, though, at a squeeze to your arm. You couldn’t even tell which side it came from. Your body was going numb. Shifting to plant your feet and fighting the burn in your eyes, you looked straight forward, no longer at the podium, although you had no way to shut off your ears.

“Wow, wow. Thank you. This is such an honor. At eighteen years old, I will be the youngest to ever run this organization.”

It seemed like he’s was at least doing well and presenting a strong face. That was rare.

“Haha, I beat ya, gramps! Okay, let’s party!”

You outwardly cringed, but your legs were paralyzed as his friends let out a whooping cheer and the party erupted in confetti. It was getting caught in your hair as Nat and Daisy dragged you away and inside, up the stairs to your childhood bedroom, jostling you like a rag doll. You felt almost catatonic.

As soon as you flopped down on your bed, though, you turned over and screamed into your pillow before sitting up, realizing this act of melodrama was going to wrinkle your suit.

You sat up and sniffled, rubbing your eyes and taking a deep breath to give yourself just a moment to think. You looked between your best friends and started pointing.

“Daise, can you pack up anything you think I might need from here? Whatever I can’t live without.”

You then looked to the redhead who was peeking out the window, watching your father enter the outdoor entrance of his home office.

“Nat, can you gather some home essentials? Food, first aid, some of the hidden and spare weapons. Only the ones they won’t sense are missing, okay?”

She nodded. “Yeah. We better do it quick. Your pops just came in.”

You bit your lip and your nostrils flared in anger and thought, rubbing your hands over your face. “Okay. That’s fine, I need to talk to him anyway. That should give you enough time to grab everything. Then we’re heading back to the apartment to get some essentials.”

The three of you were roommates in the city, renting out a place Daisy’s distant uncle owned, which allowed you some freedoms, as well as independence from the possible tracing of your location on government records. Even under a security conglomerate, you could sense things were going downhill, so it was a good choice to move out and detach yourself. At this point, you were barely traceable. Only one thing tethered you here on a paper trail: the company.

You stormed out of your room and down the stairs to the hall that held your father’s office. You were furious. You had no patience left for formality or kindness, this was all rage. You kicked in the strong oak door, splintering the wooden frame, and were met with the view of your father and brother clinking whiskey glasses, an old celebratory reserve poured in them.

You stomped over to the filing cabinets where your file, thick as a novel, was stored. Next to it, you pulled out two more, no less impressive. Your dad, even though he possessed several methods for tech security, still kept employee information on paper in case he accidentally hired a mole. Everything was under lock and key and 24 hour surveillance.

You dug around in the left side drawer of his desk until you found the cigar lighter, hitting the edge of the folders until they caught and throwing them into his metal trash can. It was only then that he and your brother let words come out of their dropped jaws and awestruck faces.

“Tweety Bird, what’s the issue, kiddo? Didn’t wanna celebrate with your old man and little brother?”

You scoffed as you put your hands on your hips.

“Celebrate!? Celebrate what!? Being snubbed? Overlooked for something I’ve dedicated my life towards!?”

Your father’s bushy brows furrowed in confusion, your brother’s face mirroring it in a mini version. “What do you mean? You haven’t been snubbed. Dylan and I agree you’re meant to run teams and operations. You wouldn’t want to be in charge. Plus, it’s tradition that the first son takes over.”

You threw your hands up in exasperation. Smoke was filling the room, but partially getting swept out the cracked windows that pointed toward the back yard. “You didn’t think to ask me, the one keeping your business afloat, to run it!? No one knows it better than me, but it’s so ridiculous. Just because I’m an older sister like Aunt Kay, doesn’t mean I don’t wanna be in charge! She wanted to leave this life, but I don’t!”

You heard a chuckle rise behind you. “What, Dylan?”

He shrugged with a smug smile on his face. “Aunt Kay didn’t want to leave this life. She wanted the company, too. But Gramps gave it to dad. That’s why she fucked off to who knows where and started that bank vault company.”

You gasped in shock and looked to your father but he seemed unaffected. You turned to him now, disgusted with the sight of your little brother. “What!? Do you hear yourself right now!? Just because we aren’t men!? That’s insane!! I’m the one who saved the president’s family. Not Dylan, me! He was too busy sitting on his ass and picking his nose to be of any help. Maybe we would’ve seen the team coming to attack the venue sooner if he would’ve done his job!”

Your chest was heaving and your face was warm from the yelling. Your father still calmly continued. “Dylan returned the family safe and sound. You were nowhere to be seen. He deserves this step of responsibility, but I have no doubt you can guide him like an invisible hand.”

You shook your head, moving back towards the door between the leather couches of the sitting area, pacing on the Persian rug. “No, no. Absolutely not. I refuse to keep performing thankless service. You’ve made a mistake. I no longer want to work for you and I no longer want to be a part of this family. This whole thing is fucked. I’m out.”

Your father sighed, about to speak up. “Bird, we-“

He was cut off by the arm of your brother, though. “No, dad. If she wants to leave, I think she should. I don’t want anyone here questioning my leadership. The president’s son will back me on that. He’s upset the extraction ruined a designer suit and thinks that I’m the best fit, too. I can run this without her.”

Your dad gave a hmph of affirmation, which sent you over the edge. After all those years of service, both your father and the president’s son still didn’t credit your work. You couldn’t stand this anymore, especially not when Dylan was fabricating lies in his own head about the greatness you performed.

“You know what, Dyl? Yeah, let’s have it your way. You guys will never need to see me again. Good luck not running this thing into the ground.”

You turned on your heel and marched out the door. When you turned the corner, you saw both Nat and Daisy waiting for you, double fisting duffel bags. You motioned for both of them to head to Nat’s car, walking quickly, but they were more than capable of keeping up. You heard Daisy speak from over your left shoulder.

“Bird, where are we going?”

As you barged through the glass front door and put on your sunglasses, you took a breath in of the air that marked your new life, outside the stuffy patriarchy of what you thought would be your legacy.

“Somewhere far. And don’t ever call me that again.”

Next >

Bonus A/N: Bruh, could you imagine being betrayed by your own father like that? Also, we’ll be seeing more of Daisy as the reader for Jake’s storyline in the future.

Taglist: @hawkeyes-queen @ronearoundblindly

[impale-me-radio-daddy]

Could you do a Lookalike reader getting his hooves or ears brushed / cleaned by Alastor in a similar vein to the antler one? Maybe a standalone mini series of 'Parts I wanted to include in the main series but couldn't find space for it.'

I would be so up for that.

Hey man, thanks for the ask! I think I went a bit off-topic here, but I still think it's hot so I'm gonna post it. I've put a line for the more squeamish readers to stop at. Caveat emptor and all that.

Pairing: Alastor X reader

Wordcount: 2.2k

Warnings: they/them pronouns, reader is a hermaphrodite, Foot stuff, Hoof stuff, scent glands, DEER THINGS, slight sexual content, Alastor being fucking weird

You didn’t know what was wrong with you at first. You’d held a variety of jobs during your mortal life, but vet wasn’t one of them. What you knew about medicine you knew from backwoods surgery, and what you knew about deer physiology was limited to the things that made their meat unsafe for consumption, the telltale lesions and growths on a carcass that meant it got burned or buried rather than butchered. This wasn’t one of those things.

There was a hard lump on the front of your leg, above where the keratin of your two standing nails ended and below the level of your dewclaws, close to the webbing of skin where your two toes joined. On a human this would have been the shin, but for you it felt more like your tarsal.

It had been small at first, and you had ignored it. Then it had grown larger, painful as it had rubbed against the tongue of your boot. Today you had limped your way through your shift at the hotel, your smile more of a grimace than anything that could genuinely be describes as cheerful, and retreated to the room you shared with Alastor as soon as your contract no longer compelled you to work.

Now you lay in the four-footed bathtub in Alastor’s ensuite bathroom, examining your hoof more thoroughly. Was this an abscess? Did you need to lance it? Your skin graded to a dark grey towards your red nails, so it was difficult to gauge the lump’s condition from color as it would be on a paler part of you. You were pushing at the lump with your fingers, feeling the heat of inflamed flesh when Alastor materialized from the shadows at the bathroom door, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“What are you doing here?”

You hadn’t expected him to return to the room for hours, and even then, he generally gave you privacy when you were cleaning yourself. Fear shot through you like a cold wave in your stomach, the feeling of being caught, and you fought the reflex to hide your leg from Alastor. Your career as a serial killer would have been short-lived if you weren’t able to hide guilt, after all. “Do you mind?” you said, broadcasting annoyance.

Alastor looked unimpressed, taking a step closer. “I asked you a question,” he said.

“I would think it’s fairly apparent, but right now I was thinking of cutting my nails,” you lied, smoothly. “What are you doing here?”

“Why, looking for you,” said Alastor, his gaze settling on the red tips of your hooves. “I was about to cook dinner for everyone, and I could do with a sous chef who doesn’t try to boil themselves every time I set a pot of water on the heat or drink all the wine before it goes in the sauce.” He moved closer, arms behind his back. “Though I suppose those are getting rather long,” he said, eyes still on your standing nails, the two red points on the end of each of your hooves. “Let me help you with that.”

“No, I couldn’t put you out,” you raised a hand in protest, but Alastor was already in the space with you, bending to fetch a pedicure kit full of small knives, curved clippers and different grades of files from the cupboard that stood next to the basin.

“Nonsense, my dear, pure nonsense.” Alastor took a seat on the painted metal stool that lived next to the tub and looked down at you, teeth gleaming. “I hope you don’t mean to say I’m not up to the task.”

“Of course not,” you frowned, and Alastor clicked his tongue in disapproval as he took your good leg in his hand.

Disapproval at your facial expression did nothing to stop Alastor’s roving hands, however, the hand that was holding your leg stroking down the arch of your foot to the pads beneath as he fetched a pair of clippers from the box at his feet. The touch was pleasant, and deliberate, and the clippers resembled a pair of secateurs more than anything else, the sort that could easily remove a thumb if applied correctly.

“If you cut to here-” Alastor took your hand, pulling it to the pad of your hoof, where the flesh was attached to the backside of the nail, and traced a line, dragging your finger alongside his. “-the hoof will be too short, and you’ll injure yourself walking-” You listened carefully as Alastor talked, moving your fingers over your hoof so that you would know his instructions by touch. It would have been a relaxing, bonding activity, if it weren’t for the aching lump on your leg, and your growing anxiety at it being discovered. Alastor’s hands were gentle on the pads beneath your hooves, holding your leg perfectly steady as he made each cut.

He moved to your other leg, and you were sure he would notice the lump, but he said nothing, either ignorant or letting you stew in your own embarrassment as you lay in the warm bathwater, his skilled fingers squeezing the arch of your hoof, thumb brushing against your dewclaws as he repeated the process, leaving you enough length in your nail that you would be able to walk comfortably. Sweeping the red slivers of your hooves aside, Alastor took a pair of files from the box, one coarse, one fine, and you felt the vibrations through the nail and through the bones of your leg as he filed down the rough edges. He did it slowly, watching your face as he drew the file back and forth with a gradual movement, the sensation something like a shiver as the metal abraded the surface. When he was done, he ran a thumb over each edge, feeling for imperfections.

Alastor brushed away the fine pink dust with his hand and smiled at his handiwork. “There. That’s better, don’t you agree?”

You nodded, something like relief flooding through you when Alastor hadn’t addressed the problem. You were free to deal with it. Privately.

[nb: if you just wanted hoof clipping, stop reading here]

“And it’s high time we did something about that,” said Alastor, gaze sliding over your bad leg, and your sense of relief shattered. “After all, you didn’t really think there was any part of yourself that you could keep a secret from me, did you?” Alastor’s smile turned cruel, his finger tracing a gentle line up between the two toes of your cloven hoof to the lump, even the light pressure he applied excruciating, and you held your breath to not cry out. “You were limping, darling,” he continued, voice chiding. “I was worried.”

You blinked away tears of pain, studying Alastor’s expression. Really, you’d been embarrassed more than anything- the horror that the strange lump might be due to a failure of basic hygiene on your part, but the way that Alastor examined it without surprise told you that it was an issue he was at least familiar with. Maybe something he’d dealt with on his own body, in his early days in Hell.

“You know what it is?” you asked.

Alastor hummed, his fingers trailing down the freshly pedicured red keratin of your nails and round to the soft pads of flesh that sat behind them, pressing and probing. Oh, that felt nice. “You’ve field dressed a deer before,” he said, chiding. “You really should know this yourself.”

You sank a little deeper into the bath, pouting. “I was a hunter, not a veterinarian. I cut the hooves off before skinning. Dried them sometimes.”

“And I thought you were a curious person.” Alastor smiled to himself, seeming to enjoy having such an advantage over you. “But I suppose I should educate you.” His fingers ceased their massage of your spongy underfoot, and he parted your toes, his touch on the web of skin where the two of them joined. “You have a scent gland here,” he said, pressing his finger against a narrow vertical slit on your dark skin, less than an inch in length. Like the lump above it, it was tender. “It’s blocked. You should have come to me sooner.”

“I’m sorry.” You felt your ears drop, your leg relaxing a little in Alastor’s grip,

“That is quite the hangdog look you have.” Alastor’s smile grew thin, and he reached over to cup your cheek. “Fear not, I know a remedy.” His fingers lingered, tracing the grim line of your mouth. “It will be painful though, you think you can grin and bear it?”

Alastor always wanted a smile from you, but especially in difficult situations. You weren’t sure if it was sadism, a test, or some twisted beneficence on his part. “Of course,” you said.

“I will hold you to that, dearest,” said Alastor, raising your hoof to his lips. It was all you could do not to gasp when he ran his tongue between your two standing toes, laving the pad of each, a pleasurable but alien sensation. It made it easy to smile for him, and his eyes met yours, the corners creasing with approval. His hand cupped the back of your leg, the part that your brain still fuzzily equated to the arch of your foot, long fingers stroking the lines of the tendons. You had been intimate with him enough times that there was no terror for you in his teeth, only the disconcerting sensation of sharpness as he pressed his mouth to your spread toes, his lips a seal around your scent gland, and sucked.

To describe the sensation as pain was technically correct, but it would be like describing standing within a meter of a working jet engine as loud, or the sea as wet. It was a nerve pain, a primal sensation of wrongness. Pain conducted through the bones of your leg to your stomach and your spine, making you queasy and tearful all at once. But you had promised you would smile through this, so you fought for conscious control of your face, forcing your breathing into a slow, steady rhythm, pushing the tension that had collected in your shoulders down as you lay back in the bath, the corners of your mouth up. You spread the fingers of your hands over the lip of the bathtub, palms outward, arms trembling, and Alastor clasped one of your hands in his, squeezing.

Tears rolled hot down your face as Alastor continued, the sensation unrelenting, the only sound in the room your breathing and the low frequency hum from the lights above you. You were still smiling when Alastor’s thumb hooked around your leg, pressing into the cyst above your scent gland. More pain. A whimper in your throat that you could no longer suppress, the curve of your mouth a forced one. Alastor squeezed your hand tighter as he pushed, or perhaps you were squeezing his, and you felt movement in the gland, the inflamed tissue shifting as the blockage was pushed out. You sobbed once and it was gone, replaced by the sensation of pressure being released, Alastor’s tongue moving between your toes.

Alastor raised his mouth from your hoof, his eyes half-lidded and sultry. “You’re doing so well, darling,” he said, sweetly, and all of a sudden it was easy to smile again, his hand no longer in yours as he used both hands to handle and inspect your hoof. “Nearly done now.”

You peered at your hoof, the toes still splayed as Alastor massaged the cyst with his thumb. Your scent gland wept, oily yellow fluid spilling from it. It stank, an earthy, musky smell filling the room. Alastor could smell it- anything with a nose would be able to, and you felt heat rise to your cheeks as Alastor kept your leg firmly in hand. He had probably tasted it, too.

“Guess I should rinse that off,” you said, your smile turning wry as you wrinkled your nose, trying to hide the mix of horror and shame that you felt.

“Absolutely not,” said Alastor firmly, lowering his head to your hoof and lapping at the mess with his tongue, his breath hot between your toes. Fuck. Your stomach tightened at the sight of it, the noise of his tongue almost obscene in the quiet of the bathroom. It was disgusting and erotic all at once, Alastor’s eyes fixing yours with a fervid intensity as he breathed in your scent, and you found yourself hard, the throbbing pain that you’d felt moments before receding to arousal like a curtain revealing a stage.

If Alastor noticed your state, he chose not to acknowledge it, instead teasing the last of your scent from your gland with his mouth and his thumb and planting a soft kiss over the abused tissue; one that was painful by most people’s definitions of pain, but from him it was almost romantic, his lips the barest pressure. You knew better than to raise the matter- that would make him tease you, at best, leave you aching and unfulfilled. What Alastor gave was on his own terms.

“Incomparable, as ever,” Alastor murmured, as if what he had eaten had been drizzled across a plate in a Michelin starred restaurant and not licked fresh from between your toes. “You will come to me for these things in future, hm?”

“Is that a request?” you asked, a rough edge to your voice.

“Given your reaction, I don’t think it’s too tall an order, do you?” Alastor flashed his teeth, flirtatious and sinister all at once.

[frownyalfred]

Would you mind explaining what (in the coral series) a shock heat and a drop actually are? And where the difference is? The effects are very clear, I just don’t fully get the whole picture

sending love and thanks for your writing

Absolutely! As always, I'll add the caveat that I use some omegaverse terms in different ways than others, but I definitely didn't come up with these ideas myself. Most of them, at least.

In a room full of coral, a drop is something generally experienced by omegas (but sometimes alphas) where they're overwhelmed by instinct and their brains kind of blip out for a moment. It can happen generally because of shock or trauma, or a sudden wave of instinct they're unable to handle. It's a very vulnerable situation to be in, and generally requires careful handling to resolve. I've seen it in other fics but only for omegas -- I'd like to change that. I think alphas and even betas can absolutely drop, just in different ways.

A shock heat, on the other hand, is essentially what can happen if a drop is unaddressed. A shock heat doesn't require a drop to happen first, but it's very common for the two to go hand in hand. The omega's instincts feel so threatened or rattled, either because of a sudden large trauma or threat, or a long-term threat, that it forces the body to go into heat to attract a mate, i.e., an alpha who can help protect and care for them. It's posited as an old instinct, designed to protect omegas and make them appealing to nearby alphas (therefore diminishing the threat of those alphas, who are attracted to the heat and more likely to be docile).

In a room full of coral, Bruce drops twice -- once at Jason's funeral, and once after he's attacked in the nest by Jason in ASOH. Both resulted in a shock heat, the former because Bruce's body was trying to process the grief/loss of his pup and probably trying to get pregnant again. The latter, because Bruce was already pregnant and his body was trying to attract his mate (Clark) to help protect him and stay closer, which he would obviously be if they were knotting a lot during a heat.

There's a point in ASOH I think where they're worried Jason might drop, after encountering Superman!Clark for the first time and reverting a little too far into his instincts. But luckily, Bruce and Lex are able to pull Jason back before it can become serious. There's also some nesting on Bruce's end that gets very close to drop territory, when they bring Jason home. You could also make the argument that Jason's initial presentation heat is a shock heat in a way, but I think that's hard to say definitively considering he was detoxing from a lot of suppressants/etc at that same time.

[ardatli]

I need book recs again, this time for kid 2! 13, "neurospicy," high reading level for vocabulary but has difficulty with parsing subtly-drawn emotional motivations for characters. Fairly black and white worldview / very strong sense of justice and injustice, but he's slowly starting to integrate more nuance. He's bored with the books we have in the house and overwhelmed by the options at the library. Help me narrow it down?

He likes:

Giant robots and mechs - current very well-read favorites are the Pacific Rim novelizations.

Science fiction, as long as the science is internally consistent.

Legend of Zelda - we just got him the graphic novel box set for his birthday.

Star wars / Predator / Megaman / kajiu franchises (Japanese - he's deeply scornful of the US Monsterverse, but loved Gamera: Rebirth. Any book recs that hit similar vibes to G: R?)

(Caveat: any media based on another media property needs to be consistent, or it'll drive him batshit. He still brings up his irritation at inconsistent Jaeger weights and armaments and build dates cross-referenced from design docs on the original PacRim vs The Black vs the info cards on the action figures, etc.)

Enjoyed LotR and has read - and enjoyed! - the Silmarillion. Not currently interested in checking out other high fantasy.

He does play TTRPGs as well as computer and console games, and I can see LitRPG working as a genre, but he hates romance / is uncomfortable with sexualization and sexual references in media, and is very sensitive to racism and discrimination, and there's a lot of not-great stuff lurking in that sphere.

I picked up Iron Widow for him and he says he enjoyed it, but not enough to read a sequel. Too explicit in some sections, I think.

He did enjoy the old Tales Of books from the Star Wars EU, as well as a book of short stories in the Predator universe, so short story collections or anthologies are good too.

We've just started getting into the Assassin's Creed franchise (Ezio series) - any good official novelizations, or recs for non-AC alternate history books set in medieval Italy?

He does not want to read books about romance, or other books that are mostly about Big Feelings or interpersonal relationships. He doesn't mind it as a minor subplot, as long as he can skim those parts.

He's already read as much Warrior Cats as he cares to. Ditto Wings of Fire. He's "over dragons" for now.

He loves the bad guys, and would probably enjoy books from a villain's POV.

Older kid has the first murderbot book and I'm going to ask her to lend it to him to see if that hits the right spot. I'm thinking maybe The Martian would be good?

Edited to add: He's read and liked Percy Jackson, and his sister owns (and he's read some of) all the Rick Riordan Presents books to date. Also already considering Artemis Fowl.

Edit 2: Big sister has added Dark Lord of Derkholm to the pile, along with Artemis Fowl and Murderbot.

Any suggestions welcome!

[sakuraharuno156]

Canonical difference between Sasuke and Naruto in terms of their canon parings - a rant

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

DISCLAIMER:

1. There are two caveats that I'll provide at the end with explanations behind them.

2. It will be in parts because i want to provide manga as proof, and Tumblr has a limit of pictures I can add.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now to the point

Who is the most important person in life for Naruto and Sasuke?

Let's start with Naruto, because for anyone who has read the series, it's obvious.

For Naruto it's SASUKE.

No doubt. Comparing importance of Sasuke and importance of Hinata in Naruto's mind is laughable. Saying that Hinata is more important - is straight up delusional.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Naruto, after a thought that someone can try to k*ll Sasuke, even tho he knows Sasuke is stronger than most of the universe:

Devastated. Hyperventilating. Unable to breathe.

Naruto, after thinking he destroyed the WHOLE VILLAGE, every villager, including Hinata:

Sad, sure, not sad enough to check on her, even tho he was in sage mode so he could feel she was literally dying.

Naruto, after seeing Hinata nearly die to the point she had to be hospitalized and felt the effects of it months after:

I'll fight you Neji.

(I'll also like to remind everyone that Naruto did jump at Neji, but not because of Hinata but because he called her a "loser" and said that every looser would stay a loser, which Naruto took personally. Even that whole fight means to Naruto not revenge for Hinata, but a revenge for saying that loser will lose. Read the manga.)

Naruto, after Kabuto just mentioned Sasuke's name:

Sasuke went there on his own will, but just the thought of losing him was too much for Naruto.

Naruto, thinking Hinata died protecting him. The only person that has ever said she loves him, to the person who wants love the most - dead:

Naruto - surprised, terrified even, but not bat shit crazy. He needed Pain to talk shit and say about love causing hatred. Pain had to continue the whole "everyone is gonna die" narrative for Naruto to explode. He can become Kurama in seconds, but he needed Pain to continue - to explode.

And then he didn't even check on her.

Naruto, thinking Sasuke died for him. Without the whole "I love you" stuff. Just a friend protecting him:

Well...

(A reminder, it was when the seal was very strong. Naruto wasn't using so much of Kuramas chakra, so it was WAAAY harder for him to go into Kuramas mode.)

Then Naruto checking on Sasuke (when he was certain that Sasuke died) and crying out of happiness when Sasuke turns out alive

And last but not least, Naruto ready to die with Sasuke. Saying it eith smile on his face. No mention of Hinata even tho it was right after her love confession:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You can ship NaruHina, but saying that Naruto would chose Hinata over Sasuke is a different level of delusional. The whole plot of the series is that Naruto would do anything for Sasuke. He would k*ll for Sasuke and die for Sasuke.

Sasuke is the most important person in Narutos life. Anyone who says differently has NEVER read the manga or just uses wishful thinking instead 🤷‍♀️

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I would even go further and say that the moment when Naruto was telling Minato about finding love that is not exactly like Kushina - he was talking about Sasuke. But it's not per se canon so I'm gonna keep it out 🤷‍♀️

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two caveats:

1. They would obviously put their children first - above anyone. So children are beside the point.

2. We are going to base it on canon material only. Anything that wasn't written by Kishimoto is irrelevant. So no, we are not taking novels or movies. It would be too long and it's not canon 🤷‍♀️

[s-che]

reporting from the Dream Library: Apocalypse World

After however many years of games pointing its direction, I finally played Apocalypse Worlds as the first leg of a long series of one- and two-shots I’m running over in the Dream Library, my weekly drop-in-game-and-design-chat discord. We’re starting a unit talking through some of the highs, lows, landmarks, and cul-de-sacs in the now fourteen-year long history of PBTA design — it’s looking something like an actual play book club. 

It’s an interesting journey to be embarking on — and I’ll talk a little bit more about where we’re going next at the end of this post — but, hey, first:

I fucking loved Apocalypse World.

Part 1: Big Thoughts & Caveats

Apocalypse World rules. That isn’t a particularly hot take, and it isn’t a set up for me to tear into the game later. I’m not being polite here. The game fucking rules. Every time I opened the book (I’ve got both a physical copy and a pdf of the second edition), I was confronted by some absolute sick nasty shit that slapped and fucked and went supremely hard. The game is good good good in a way that, tbh, makes me a little disappointed in a whole bunch of PBTA games that come after it and totally miss, imo, where all the cool shit in Apocalypse World came from. 

There’s a way in which, speaking as a mostly casual observer who was mostly not around during the big years of the PBTA boom (for those keeping score at home, I listened to Friends at the Table on and off from about 2016 on and played a handful of Dungeon World and Sprawl sessions as a result, but didn’t start actively participating in the blood machine we call design discourse until after I graduated college in 2021), what seems to get fossilized as the core of PBTA design, especially in the public pitch for various systems, is mostly the simplicity of the dice and resolution systems — make a move, roll 2d6+stat, partial successes, isn’t this so much easier than d20 rollover?

And, sure, those form a part of the marketability of PBTA, especially to a mainline RPG audience. But there’s more than just that in this book — a lot more — in a way which makes me upset that this wasn’t the shit I was hearing about at 17. Meguey & Vincent Baker have skill for designing with what you might call elegant maximalism in mind, a philosophy where you are constantly confronted — especially when handling the physical object — by a book which is impressive both in its length and in its density. 

Apocalypse World (like Under Hollow Hills, which we’ll be playing at the very end of our PBTA unit in the Dream Library) is remarkable both for the number of moving pieces and for the fluidity with which those pieces fit together. I understand why that kind of game, coupled with how easy it is to hack moves into something entirely new, leads to a design moment which emphasizes rules-light play, but — agh! There’s just so much more game in Apocalypse World than in so many of the games which build on it. The text calls for the MC to “barf forth apocalyptica” — and it feels like Vincent and Meguey have done something similar, here, cramming everything which makes the game interesting right into the text.

All that being said, I butchered this game in order to run it as a one-shot. Apocalypse World should not be run as a one-shot. There are lots of very funny forum conversations to be found, if you start looking online for advice on running Apocalypse World as a one-shot, where people tell each other not to run Apocalypse World as a one-shot. In several of them, especially on the old lumpley forums, Vincent chimes in and suggest not running it as a one-shot.

Unfortunately, the limits of trying to run a series of games in conversation with each other, in a reasonable period of time, with a rotating set of players means that I can’t play Apocalypse World the way you’re supposed to. I’m going to host it again later this month, and I may try to run that session as a a little more of an as-written Session 0 (or follow Vince’s advice on playing it con-style to the letter), but that’s getting a little close to what-comes-next talk, which I said I’d save for the end. 

All-in-all, I’m not terribly unhappy with the way my cobbled together one-shot went, but — as I talk through some of the points of friction in a moment — I’m going to try to keep in mind (and I’d like y’all to keep in mind too) that much of this is my fault, for breaking the game before we every played.

That being said...

Part 2: The Session

I had four players, who made characters ahead of time — except for Hx, which we did at the top of the session. None of them, as far as I know, had played Apocalypse World before. We got an angel, a battlebabe, a brainer, a hardholder out of it. 

There were strengths and weaknesses to prepping characters ahead — while it did save time and let us play harder and faster than we would have otherwise, I struggled at times with what felt like an almost immediate divide between player characters: the hardholder and the brainer on one side, the angel and battlebabe on the other. There wasn’t player tension or conflict — just folks interests going in different directions, which is 1. totally fine, and in fact can be fun to play with over a longer time and 2. probably my fault for giving players the full list of playbooks. Hardholder is good shit, but it’s also big and requires more prep than basically any of the others, and then grounds you in a world I wish we’d had time to explore longer. 

I prepped a holding, with the help of our hardholder Mother Superior: the Red Priory, an underground market in the tunnels beneath the ruins of a city-which-was, located on the remains of an interstate highway in the slow process of sinking into the burned and blackened mudflats left behind when the wetlands dried up. I prepped some threats: a gas supplier to the west and a gang called the Crow-Eaters who were picking off caravans to the east. And then we jumped into play, opening in media res. Mother Superior was stranded, hunted by the Crow-Eaters as he tried to make it back to the safety of the Priory, while our other players (Charmer the Brainer, Kerrbox the Angel, and Rapture the Battlebabe) set out looking for their boss. Again, a breach of how the game is supposed to run, but opening with something high-octane felt important when we only had a couple of hours to dick around in the world.

We had a brief encounter at a blockaded highway, some good chats about the safety and feasibility of offroading on a dried up swamp (don’t), and an absolutely miserable (in a good way) knock-down, drag-out shootout between Mother Superior and his pursuers, which ended when an escaping Crow-Eater rode headfirst into our other players’ search party and wound up getting dragged behind a bike some five hundred feet down the road, psychically interrogated, and imprisoned in the Red Priory. Having made it safe — but badly injured — back to the holding, we capped off the session — and our story — with an attack by the full Crow-Eater gang riding a souped up bulldozer and a fleet of bikes which Kerrbox and Rapture road out to deal with while Mother Superior drifted semi-conscious in a hospital bed, dreaming with Charmer about the Crow-Eater’s boss, Lady Magpie — who, at that moment, was dueling Rapture guitar-ax-on-chains on top of the bulldozer. Every step in the process was sick as shit. The combat felt great, the social dynamics felt great, the shifting scales of threat and tension as things amped up felt great — and even with a couple of players with pretty limited RPG experience, the game felt like it had an interesting answer (or a way to find an interesting answer) to every question we hit. As always when playing online, I did wish we were in person (flipping through a book around a table just feels better than flipping through a book on a discord call) and we ran into the usual hiccups with to do the move, do it type games: cases where players had an interesting image of what they wanted to try which the moves didn’t quite cover and cases where players knew what move they were angling for but I had to push them to frame it narratively — but both of those things are solved by familiarity, and would have been smoothed out if we’d gotten to play for longer. 

There’s a slightly paradoxical way in which a one-shot of a GM’d game tends to rely more heavily on the GM than long term play does, especially when the non-GM players haven’t spent a lot of time with the game beforehand. Even if you aren’t expected to have prepped as thoroughly as you might for a campaign, the labor of hosting and facilitating has a tendency to balloon in a first session, and there were a number of times when my players looked to me for answers when, in a longer game, I’d like to think they would have felt comfortable answering the questions themselves. Some of this is just players getting warmed up to the space and to playing with each other, but there’s another edge as well: I think some players have a tricky time feeling like they can claim authorial power in a one-shot. A one-shot is perceived as a kind of bespoke experience, something hosted by me for you — a perception which, I admit, I play into when I end a Dream Library session by thanking my players for joining me. I don’t know why I do that — I certainly don’t feel that need when I GM an ongoing campaign — but I do.

Apocalypse World is a great game for breaking this habit. Even as I over-prepped for the first session, limiting myself to developing threats (and the basic setting details worked out with the hardholder) meant there were moments when not only did my players ask me questions I didn’t have an answer to, but questions which I did not feel I was the right person to answer at all, and I passed authorship off — either back to them or to another player. Breaking up the authorial duties by making it extremely clear what the MC is and is not is a huge part of what makes the Bakers work tick — and something I’ve seen them do in other, even more asymmetrical games (like the excellent Wizards Grimoire zines which are on sale right now). 

On top of that, though, Apocalypse World gives you Agendas, and most importantly the command to “Barf forth apocalyptica” which I mentioned once already. In a one-shot, having a textual instruction to answer questions with the most grotesque, evocative, and apocalyptic answer we could find was an incredible mandate which changed the world in the process of play. The mudflats got muddier as we went, the Red Priory seedier. By the time we met her, Lady Magpie had discarded her original fit for a massive cloak strung with bits of broken metal and glass which clattered and flickered with her every movement. 

Apocalypse World enshrines the call to lean into the obvious answer into its text, reminding us that it is, in fact, fun to play in genre. It is fun to play in the trope. It is fun to make things strange and beautiful and frightening purely for the purpose of being strange and beautiful and frightening. It fucking rules.

I wish, again, that I’d gotten to play it longer, and watched the world get even weirder and more apocalyptic.

Part 3: What Comes Next

I’ve got another session of Apocalypse World that I’ll be recruiting for in the Dream Library basically as soon as this post goes up — then next month we’re moving on to Night Witches and Sagas of the Icelanders to talk a little about historical fiction and genre. The schedule beyond that has been laid out, but only tentatively (at one stage, I had games planned to run until next April, which is absurd, but I’m trying to keep things flexible and let the unit lead us where it does). If you’d like to get in on the action, shoot me a message! I’m not posting the link to the Dream Library anywhere publicly at the moment, but genuinely — if you want in, you should come on in. If you don’t want to play, you don’t have to play — we’ve got a little text-based book club talking through the games simultaneously to our unit, for folks who can’t make it but still want to talk games.

On the other hand, if you want to run a game you should for sure let me know. I’ve already got a few guest hosts lined up, and I can’t wait to see what they do. Is there a game you think is secretly the key to understanding PBTA? Something you’ve been itching to try, but never found a group for? A game you hate, but feel obligated to talk about anyway?

Come and join. We’d love to have you.

We’ve got fourteen years of design to talk shit about, after all.

[sapphire-weapon]

Please tell me more about how Chris is on the list of people who loved Leon without caveats and not like, a lot of other recurring cast members. I mean I agree I just want to hear the good word of our himbo and hero Chris Redfield and this hot traumatized mess named Leon S. Kennedy.

So, the thing about Leon is, he has a lot of people who like him. He's a well-liked guy with very few actual personal enemies. But very few people tend to think about him beyond that point.

Claire likes Leon just fine, for example. So does Jill and Rebecca and Helena and Hunnigan and every other person who's ever worked with him. People value his insight and experience, they enjoy his company, and they overall have very high opinions of him -- but that's about it. None of them ever seem to go out of their way for him (except for Hunnigan, who only does it because it's her ass on the line if she doesn't) or have their lives affected by him in any personally meaningful way.

There are other people, like Ada, who have a certain degree of affection for him. Leon has a soft, special place in Ada's heart, sure -- but she also has a very out of sight, out of mind attitude towards him. The biggest debate in this fandom, sometimes, is what her actual feelings are.

And then there's someone like Ashley, who is the tragedy of the love that never was.

But then there's Chris.

Chris is the only person in this series who actually thinks about Leon just because he cares about him. There's actually a moment in RE6 where Chris radios him just to check on him and his location and make sure that he's not somewhere that's about to blow up or get destroyed.

The only time that was ever done in this series was in RE0 and RE1, because that was an entire team of people who all worked together trying to make it out together. After that point, everyone works pretty independently of each other, and any "check-ins" that happen end up happening purely by happenstance (think Leon and/or Claire actually glimpsing each other on a CCTV and trying to call out to the other at the end of RE2). But in RE6, Chris buzzes Leon out of nowhere just to check on him.

There's also a thing about Chris Redfield where -- one of his major character flaws is that he gets extreme tunnel vision. He's also stubborn as all hell and can't really be talked out of something once he sets his mind to it. Name a character that has teamed up with him at some point, and there's an example of him not listening to their plea/advice to do or not do something.

Chris listens to Leon every single time. Without question.

In RE6, Chris won't even listen to Piers when it comes to his blind fury and relentless pursuit of Ada -- Piers, who Chris handpicked himself to be his own successor.

Chris listens to Leon the first time, without question or much pushback, and he never goes back on it. All it takes is Leon saying one time "let the Ada thing go, I can speak on her behalf" -- and Chris, somehow, magically and miraculously... does. There's a real argument to be made here, due to this moment, that Chris trusts Leon as much as or more than he trusts Jill, even.

Throughout Vendetta, Chris defers to Leon's judgment and goes out of his way to get Leon at his side, when a simple phone call could have sufficed. And when he finds Leon in the state he's in, suddenly his focus isn't on getting his professional opinion anymore -- suddenly, it's all about Leon's physical and mental state. Chris is pissed not because Leon's refusing to help them, but because of Leon letting his depression win out and his drinking problem take over. Chris tries to take the booze from him not once but twice.

If Rebecca hadn't been there to keep them both on track, this would've stayed and continued a personal dispute. It wasn't about the mission anymore, for Chris. It was about Leon. And Rebecca had to remind him why they were even trying to talk to Leon in the first place.

And I know that there were Chreon moments in DI, but I've only watched it once so far, so I'd have to watch it again to talk further about it.

But suffice to say, Chris loves this man. Chris loves Leon more than Leon loves himself. That's for damn sure.

Hunnigan even describes them as a sort of love at first sight thing. It's impossible to know just how close they actually were in the time between their first conversation during the events of Code Veronica and their first face-to-face meeting in roughly 2008ish, but once they were together, they have had a partnership to rival any other in this series.

I actually hate to think how much worse Leon's depression might have gotten if not for Chris looking out for him -- because I think it's a really safe bet to say that they keep in touch between missions.

In fact, if the entire dev staff of Division 1 showed up at my house tomorrow and tried to say that Chris and Leon have no relationship outside of work, I'd call every single one of those devs liars LMAO

[sergeifyodorov]

Predicting the Playoffs Results

Right before the playoffs started, I asked many of you to make a bunch of predictions as to the result, and assigned points based on the questions. Here is the final writeup on that, but first, congratulations to the winners:

@jonassiegenthaler with 21 points

@elizaiwillbe with 19 points, 9 correct answers, and 7:12 off from the longest game

@seedlessmuffins with 19 points, 9 correct answers, and 18:54 off from the longest game

More info on how the whole thing went down under the cut:

Here are the individual question results:

Hopefully the way I phrased each question in the chart makes sense. Let’s discuss some interesting trivia from the chart.

After seeing the results of last years’ game, one thing I wanted to do was to make it easier: have more opportunities to gain points, so we would have a wider distribution of results and higher scores. I would say I was fairly successful in the attempt, with the exception of one question, near the end of the quiz. It was phrased “by the end of the playoffs, which goalie will have the best win%? They do not need to have played in the Cup Final.” Adhering to the rules of the question, the correct answer is Joseph Woll, who played 2 games in the first round and won them both. However, no one guessed this; I assume it is not because people are unaware of Joseph Woll, who is widely beloved as A Sweetie, but rather because a large win percentage generally assumes a team that goes far in the playoffs and, well, Woll is a Leaf. I think when writing this question I also had this in mind, probably being distantly aware of the off-chance something like this might occur but not believing it likely enough to include. That being said, while it’s technically the correct answer to the question, it feels wrong, so in future quizzes that question’s going to be changed.

The answer the most people picked correctly was the winner of the CAR-NYI series, which 114 people -- 87% -- picked correctly. The second-most correctly-answered q was the newbie who would make it the furthest, with a clean 100 (76%) picking Vancouver. 

I think the most impressive answer was the Conn Smythe pick: 35 people picked McDavid, which is not in and of itself a large percent (only 27%) but has a much larger pool of candidates: the first two above-mentioned questions were multiple choice, with 2 or 3 answers, while people picked 3 out of literally hundreds of possible choices, and still fully a quarter of people managed to choose correctly. Additionally, eight people picked both McDavid as a Conn Smythe candidate and Florida to win the Cup.

Here’s the top ten (well, eleven) Conn Smythe picks. While in theory, there were 393 total votes available (131 responses and each responder was encouraged to pick 3 players) not everyone did -- a few people only put in one name, and one person just wrote in “No idea,” who as far as I’m aware was not eligible as a Conn Smythe candidate.

Quinn Hughes mania really swept the nation. Last year, the most-voted-for Conn Smythe winner was Connor McDavid, who got 43 votes. This year, Quinn Hughes got 52! (Caveat: there were about 25 more voters this year than last year, which means that the proportion is actually pretty similar -- about 40% both years.)

Thank you so much for participating! Hope to see you all again next year.

[weemssapphic]

I desire. And I crave.

part one

Jane Murdstone x fem!reader

series page

summary: Jane Murdstone suffers from Hanahaki Disease. The object of her affections? Her lady’s maid. Too bad she would rather feel the cold embrace of death than confess her feelings. ~ For those unfamiliar with the Hanahaki Disease trope: HD is a (fictional, lol) disease where someone begins coughing up flower petals because they have unrequited feelings for someone. If not treated, the disease is fatal. Treatment is either a. the feelings become requited, or b. surgery (the caveat here is that the feelings for that person disappear entirely).

words: ~5k, ao3 link

chapter-specific warnings: slight angst/angst with a happy ending, Hanahaki Disease, blood, mentions of death/near-death experience, fear of death, unrequited love (or is it), hints of soft!Jane but also angry!Jane

That man to me seems equal to the gods,             the man who sits opposite you             and close by listens             to your sweet voice

            and your enticing laughter—             that indeed has stirred up the heart in my breast.             For whenever I look at you even briefly             I can no longer say a single thing,

            but my tongue is frozen in silence;             instantly a delicate flame runs beneath my skin;             with my eyes I see nothing;             my ears make a whirring noise.

            A cold sweat covers me,             trembling seizes my body,             and I am greener than grass.             Lacking but little of death do I seem.

Sappho 31

Jane Murdstone doesn’t have a soft spot for anyone. She prides herself on her calculating, cunning manner, takes joy in inciting just a little bit of fear in those she comes in contact with. A little healthy intimidation keeps people on their toes - and, in Jane’s mind, there is nothing worse than a person who is lazy or slow-witted.

No, Jane doesn’t have a soft spot for anyone. Except perhaps her lady’s maid. And only a little bit, really. It’s just that Jane has rarely met anyone who is able to keep with her like you are. 

What had first endeared her to you had been how quickly you’d caught on to your duties when you’d been hired, and how extremely meticulous you are - outshining any other maid or servant she’d ever employed with your eye for detail. 

What has her swooning (if, of course, she were even the type to swoon, which she isn’t, thank you very much), is realizing how your intelligence and quick-wit rival her own. 

She has often even caught you smiling slightly when she’s made a cutting, sarcastic remark towards another servant. Others cower in fear (which has an appeal all of its own), but you are unphased, seeming to appreciate her wit like no one else - it makes Jane’s heart flutter in a most unfamiliar way.

Today, Jane sits at her vanity, allowing you to pin up her hair for the day. She watches you in the mirror - you avoid her gaze, focusing intently on ensuring not a single hair is out of place, which gives her the freedom to stare. Her eyes track your movements, the painstaking way in which you push each pin into place, the concentrated way in which your pink tongue darts out ever so slightly and your brow furrows as you work.

Her gaze lingers on that tongue of yours, between full, soft lips, and Jane feels a warmth spread through her core. Her entire body tingles as your fingers brush against the nape of her neck, the gentle touch sending a shiver down her spine. She curses internally at herself - she should not be having such sinful feelings or thoughts about a maid. But you aren’t just a maid, are you?

She knows that her feelings aren’t professional. But you don’t seem interested in her anyway, only engaging in conversation when spoken to (although, really, that is what Jane had initially requested) - and you’re young, anyway, much younger than she is. She realizes she hasn’t had many personal conversations with you - she certainly doesn’t know where your interests lie. Men, women? Perhaps both? She allows herself to get lost in her musings, to indulge in the thoughts of lustful fantasies that will never come to fruition.

You push the final pin into place and look up, catching Jane’s eye in the mirror. Your eyes widen and your cheeks flush, and Jane quickly averts her gaze.

“Is it to your liking, milady?” comes your voice, slightly timid and perhaps a bit breathless.

“It’ll do,” Jane replies airily, regarding herself in the mirror. Of course it is to her liking - she has never felt more beautiful since you’ve come into her service - her previous lady’s maid had never been able to do her hair just right (her work, in general, had been so sloppy compared to yours).

As Jane rises to her feet, her thoughts, regrettably, lingering on you, she feels a tickle in the back of her throat. She begins to cough. It takes several seconds for the cough to ease up, and when it does there is a strange burning in her lungs that has her pressing her hand to her chest.

She turns to find your hesitant gaze upon her.

“Are you feeling ill, milady? Shall I make you a mustard plaster?”

Jane scoffs. She doesn’t feel ill. “Don’t be absurd, girl. It will pass. Fetch me some pepper tea and begin the rest of your duties, before you fall behind.”

“Yes, of course, milady. Right away.” You nod curtly, your gaze still curious and uncertain, before turning on your heel and hurrying down to the kitchens. Jane scolds herself for the longing she feels for your presence as soon as you vacate the room, shaking her head lightly and perching at her vanity to await your return, her throat beginning to tickle with another cough.

~~~

You’ve been working as a lady’s maid for Jane Murdstone for close to two years now - and they have been, for the most part, the most comfortable years of your life. After a bit of a rocky start (it had taken you quite a bit of time to be able to properly decipher Jane’s moods and get used to her cold demeanor and cutting, sometimes even cruel remarks) you’d settled into your routine and even gotten to like the abrasive woman.

She isn’t exactly kind to you - you aren’t sure if she’s ever been kind to anyone in her life - but she doesn’t seem to show quite as much disdain towards you as she does towards the other servants. She seems to recognize your diligence and intelligence, traits that she appears to value, and though she’s never openly thanked you for anything, she sometimes gives you a look of approval when you manage to anticipate her needs without her having to speak them aloud. That look alone always makes your heart beat just a little faster.

In turn, you admire her quick wit and sharp tongue, her ability to use words as a weapon and find a smart response to anything within a matter of seconds - you wish you possessed these traits, although you sometimes wish she would go a bit easier on others, particularly the other servants. 

You adore her intelligence and share her love for poetry (sometimes, she asks you to read to her and, recently, she has occasionally started to ask your opinion on certain lines - it makes you nervous, but you would do anything to please her). 

And she is beautiful. Her silky raven hair accentuates the icy blue of her eyes and her fair skin, while her unusual height and soft curves never fail to bring a flush to your cheeks. You often wonder how she hasn’t found a husband yet - if you were a man, you’d have already asked her hand in marriage long ago. There must have been suitors in her youth - you imagine a young Jane Murdstone, fresh-faced and innocent, and you shiver. She likely thinks herself too good for the likes of some foolish man, you think. Which she is, of course…

Pinning up her long, dark tresses always brings you more joy than you care to admit. Sometimes, if your mistress appears to be in a particularly pleasant mood, you allow your fingers to linger in the lush locks, taking your time with each and every wave. It is almost a sensual experience for you, though you would never admit it out loud. Definitely not to Jane herself.

When you finish with her hair and look up to find her regarding you in the mirror, you worry she has sensed your dawdling and is gearing up to reprimand you. Her response, however, indicates she is pleased with your work (you’ve learned that “it’ll do” is often the highest praise you’ll receive from your mistress, and, for that, it makes your heart swell).

A brief coughing fit causes you concern, and, of course, Jane refuses to allow you to properly care for her. It is not your place to argue, though, so you do as you’re told and scamper down to the kitchens. You leave the cup of tea on Jane’s vanity, then dismiss yourself to begin patching up a dress that Jane had requested you fix.

~~~

Jane’s cough appears to worsen over time, though she doesn’t necessarily appear ill. It puzzles you as much as it troubles you - she refuses every attempt from your side at finding a cure, be it a home remedy or allowing the doctor to stop by.

You decide to do something kind for her to ease her worries - you can sense the cough is beginning to perplex her as well, though she doesn’t say anything. Rising early, well before you are to assist Jane with dressing, you sneak into the gardens, intending to pick some flowers for your mistress.

Your eyes immediately land on the white phlox decorating the garden path. You are painfully aware that Jane is well-versed in the language of flowers, as ladies of her status often are, and would likely assign a meaning to whatever bloom you gift her, so you must be cautious. White phlox seem safe enough - pure intentions, honest commitment, faithfulness - all sentiments that can easily be written off as your devotion as a servant, with little room for misinterpretation.

Methodically snipping off a fistful of flowers near the edge of the flowerbed, where they won’t be missed, you find a small, ornate vase for the blooms and carry the bouquet carefully up to Jane’s bedroom.

You knock, as you do every morning, waiting for Jane’s smooth voice to call out “you may enter” before slipping in through the door.

“Good morning, milady.” You curtsey as best you can with the vase held firmly in your hands. “I brought you a small gift.”

Icy blue eyes fall to the bouquet, widening ever so slightly. You think you see a blush creep up her cheeks, though you quickly write it off as a trick of the light - you’ve never seen your mistress blush before.

“What’s the occasion?” Her eyes don’t leave the bouquet as she speaks, and she takes a step towards you as if transfixed.

“None, milady. I wanted to give you a token of my appreciation, is all. You have been very good to me in my time here - I hope the flowers can brighten your day.” You try not to blush or stutter as you speak, though Jane’s impenetrable gaze (that has begun to track every inch of your face) makes this difficult for you.

She is silent for a moment, as if allowing your words to sink in, her face an impassive mask. Finally, she speaks.

“They are very pretty.” She clears her throat. “Please place them on my nightstand.”

Her lips curve upward, stretching timidly towards her ears as she watches you follow her orders, and your heart races. When you turn back to face her again you can sense a hint of admiration shining through in those piercing eyes of hers, and it makes you giddy.

~~~

Jane’s cough is persistent. It doesn’t ease up as the days and weeks go on, and Jane wonders if maybe she should see a doctor, or allow you to try some other form of home remedy - even though she appears not to have any other symptoms of illness. These worries are always brief in nature, however, and she manages to push the thoughts of illness far from her mind. Until one morning just after you’ve left her bedroom, having brought her a small bouquet of white phlox from the garden.

As she admires the flowers, her thoughts drifting to the faint blush that had colored your cheeks as you’d gifted them to her, Jane feels a weight on her chest, accompanied by a light tickle at the back of her throat. The tickle quickly turns into a scratch and before she knows it, she begins to cough again. She covers her mouth and when she pulls her hand away, there is a single tiny, white petal nestled in her palm. She recognizes the petal immediately - it looks just like the petals of the phlox that decorate her nightstand. 

She furrows her brow. It can’t be… She shakes the thought from her head as quickly as it comes, tucking the petal into the drawer of her nightstand - she knows no one would dare open it - and clears her throat, the scratchy feeling already fading.

~~~

You are lacing up Jane’s corset as usual, trying to tamp down the blush that dusts your cheeks when your fingertips occasionally brush against Jane’s back. Unable to help yourself, you allow your fingers to linger just a moment longer - too long. Jane stiffens under your touch and you wonder if you’ve pushed too far, but then she begins to cough and sputter and you drop the laces of the corset as if burned. 

“Milady… are you alright?” you ask apprehensively, concerned by the exaggerated heaving of Jane’s chest. 

“Leave,” she rasps out, raising her hand to cover her mouth. You stand rooted to the spot, too worried to heed Jane’s warning - and you are sure it was a warning. 

“You insolent girl, I said leave!” she croaks, not sparing you a glance. The venom in her voice between coughs surprises you and spurs you into action - you rush out of the room, not daring to linger long enough to curtsey, shutting the door behind you. Jane’s coughs can be heard just a moment longer, before they begin to subside.

You return to your own chambers, pacing nervously as you wait for further instruction - the rest of your morning duties would involve tidying your lady’s chambers, but you are almost certain you aren’t currently welcome there. 

A knock shortly thereafter causes you to bolt to the door, smoothing your skirt before opening it just a crack. You feel a weight on your chest when you see the younger chambermaid, Emily, standing before you. 

“Hello, Miss. I am to inform you that Miss Murdstone is not feeling well today. She does not require your presence and requests you do not attend to her chambers,” Emily says timidly. 

You stare at her in shock. “O-okay.”

Emily digs around in her apron and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “I am to give you this as well, so you’ll have alternative duties to perform.”

Numbly, you take the paper, thanking Emily who nods in sympathy and turns to leave. You unfold the paper and scan the list - they are tedious duties, busy-work, and you are sure you will be finished quickly; things like replacing the water in the flower vases, dusting the books in the library, fixing up a loose thread in the sleeve of your mistresses overcoat.

You carry out these duties with a heavy heart, trying to keep your mind from wandering to Jane, from wondering what is wrong with her and why she won’t allow you to attend to her. The last time she was ill, you’d been asked to wait on her hand and foot, bringing her medicine and water and reading to her at her bedside. You wonder if you’ve done something to offend her - the thought alone makes you sick with worry.

~~~

Days turn into weeks and Jane withdraws more and more. You have come to expect a list of daily duties waiting for you by Jane’s door - you are no longer given permission to enter her bedroom, a room which Jane now seldom exits. 

Rumors about Jane’s illness spread amongst the servants - you, being her lady’s maid, are eyed curiously by the others at mealtimes, though no one dares to question you about the mysterious cough that has Jane retreating from society, not showing up to supper and refusing any form of sustenance that is brought up to her bedroom.

One morning, you see Emily exit Jane’s chambers. At first, your blood boils - why is Emily given permission to enter Jane’s chambers, and you aren’t? What’s so special about Emily? What have you done to displease Jane?

Then your eyes drop to the bedsheets that Emily carries. Brilliant white, dotted with specks of deep red. You feel as though your heart drops all the way down to your feet - you are certain it would drop even further if that were at all possible. Your mind races - that can’t be blood? If it is… then Jane is more ill than you’d thought. 

Your stomach churns and you make eye contact with Emily, who doesn’t bother to hide the worry on her face as she rushes past you, attempting to shield the sheets from view. You consider pestering Emily about Jane’s condition, however your pride is too great - you would have to admit that Jane no longer trusts you enough to speak with you, let alone see you. You are sure everyone knows by now anyway, but you refuse to admit it aloud.

You perform your duties half-heartedly and with a hollow pit in your stomach, often lingering outside Jane’s bedroom door when no one else is around. Occasionally you hear fits of coughing, and they often sound strangled, as if she is choking on something.

The first few times, you call out to her, asking if she is alright. At first, she asks you to leave, in a harsh yet utterly spent tone. After a while, she stops responding at all - and then, even later, you stop asking, choosing to simply lurk for a moment before carrying on with your day. 

It is a random Tuesday when you decide to try again - you bring a cup of her favorite tea, clinging to a tiny tendril of hope that she will be pleased at your thoughtfulness. You knock on Jane’s bedroom door, receiving no answer. 

“Milady, I have brought you some tea. May I come in?”

Still, no answer.

“I’ll just come in for a moment to leave the tea with you, milady.”

You push open the door as you’re speaking and walk up to Jane’s bedside, determined. If Emily can, then so can you, you think. 

Jane is livid.

You barely have a moment to appraise her, to assess the state of her illness, before rage settles over her features. She pushes herself up from the bed with great effort, closing the short distance between the two of you and ripping the porcelain cup out of your hands. The dark liquid sloshes over the rim of the cup and stains the rug underneath your feet - Jane either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

“Get. Out.” Jane grits out, her voice scratchy like sandpaper, and you shrink back, taking slow, tentative steps backwards towards the door. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat - you have rarely seen Jane in such a blind rage, and it has never been directed at you before. 

“Please, milady, I only wish to help! If you could just-”

“NOW!” Jane bellows, lifting the hand that holds the teacup. You know she is about to throw it - you rush out the door, closing it behind you as the cup smashes against the wood, shattering instantly. 

That night, you have trouble sleeping. The shattering of the porcelain still rings in your ears, the fury on Jane’s face at the mere sight of you is imprinted on the back of your eyelids when you close your eyes. Your heart aches, grieving for Jane’s health - and for the loss of Jane’s presence in your life.

A few weeks after the incident, you overhear a conversation in hushed tones behind the closed door of Mr. Murdstone’s office that brings tears to your eyes:

“-sister. Is she still ill?” It is the voice of Mr. Browning, a business associate of Mr. Murdstone.

“Gravely, I’m afraid.” The usually impassive Mr. Murdstone, who has never sounded anything less than harsh and confident, clears his throat - his voice has wavered and this alone alarms you greatly.

“Is there a prognosis?”

“She refuses to allow anyone to see her, even her lady’s maid. I am unsure of the nature of the illness but it seems-” he clears his throat again. “-it seems she won’t make it past the turn of the season.”

You turn away from the door - you’ve heard enough. Bile rises in your throat, and your knees buckle as your legs threaten to give away underneath you - you take unsteady steps to your room, allowing yourself a moment to break down in the solace of your bed as the tears you’ve managed to keep at bay begin to fall, staining the pillow beneath your head like a patchwork of droplets.

~~~

Jane knows what’s wrong. No one else may know it, but Jane knows it, and it fills her with a sense of dread she’s never felt before.

At first she’d thought nothing of her cough. But once the petals began expelling themselves from her throat, she knew. Hanahaki Disease was rare, but she’d seen it in action before. She always thought herself above it all - she wasn’t one to give her heart out so easily, she wasn’t foolish enough to feel something for someone who didn’t want her. And, since no one wanted her, it was quite easy not to want in return.

But she’d overestimated herself. And she’d allowed herself to show softness, to show weakness. She’d allowed herself to fall in love. 

It had slipped through her grasp, that pesky feeling, trickling smoothly through the hairline cracks in her metaphorical armor like a tiny stream, going entirely unnoticed until it was too late.

And now, she is paying the price. Of course, Jane thinks bitterly as she sits at the edge of her bed, recovering from a particularly harsh coughing fit, glowering down at the petals in her hand as if they’d personally aggrieved her. Of course she would fall for the one person she can’t have. Someone who holds no love for her in their heart. 

A fitting end for cruel, cold Jane Murdstone. Dying unwanted and unloved, just as she’d always been. In her weakest moments she allows herself to succumb to her longing for you, imaginary scenarios running through her head of the two of you, happy - of a world where you love her and where she isn’t faced with her impending demise.

As she thinks of you, she begins to cough again. It hurts, as if thick, thorny vines are encircling her lungs, tightening in a vice-like grip with each passing day. The petals come out in a steady stream - they feel like shards of glass, cutting at her throat from the inside. A metallic taste fills her mouth and, as she looks down at the heap of tiny, snowy petals, she sees droplets of blood staining them red.

Jane hides the petals in the drawer of her nightstand, each new petal accompanying the last. She feels silly doing so - shameful even - and it places a heavy burden on her heart that weighs her down like lead. But if no one finds the petals - at least not while she is still alive - then she doesn’t have to bare her shame, her cowardice, for the world to see - for you to see.

And she vows never to let you see her like this - you must never find out. She cannot bear to witness the concern in your eyes when she feels unwell - it causes her great guilt, to think she may be a source of worry or pain in your life. She also cannot bear the thought of your disgust at her unrequited and entirely unwanted feelings towards you. Even if it means she must be cruel to you. Even if it means she must ignore your attempts to reach out, or channel her fear into rage. Even if it means she may never see you again.

There is a surgical procedure, she recalls, to rid oneself of Hanahaki Disease - with the price of ridding oneself entirely of the feelings causing the disease. Jane considers it, but she knows that in order to get treatment, she would have to admit to her unrequited feelings, in front of her brother, no less. The thought is humiliating. And there is a weight on her chest when she thinks of forgetting her love for you - something that, despite being the reason for her dismal state, has brought her a joyful reprieve from the dull ache of her general contempt for everyday life.

So she shuts you out. She shuts everyone out. She will die alone, and spare herself the inevitable heartbreak and humiliation. It is the only way. 

~~~

You are woken early in the morning - earlier than usual - by a persistent knocking at the door to your chambers. For a moment you think you’ve overslept, but you quickly realize that isn’t the case. You blink the sleep out of your eyes and comb through your hair with your fingers to make yourself more presentable, then pad over to the door and open it. There’s Emily again, a grave expression on her face that makes your stomach twist and causes you to lose any sense of formality.

“What is it, what’s wrong?”

“It’s Miss Murdstone, she’s not well. Mr. Murdstone has requested your company at her bedside immediately.”

Your heart sinks and it feels as though ice is sluicing through your veins.

“T-thank you. I will be right there.”

Emily nods and bids you farewell, and you rush about your chambers to get dressed for the day - you doubt Jane would appreciate you giving up all sense of propriety and turning up in your night clothes. You pull your hair back, pinning it haphazardly in place before starting off towards Jane’s chambers, your walk turning into a jog turning into a run. You catch your breath at her door before knocking. 

Once.

Twice.

There’s no answer.

“Milady? I’m coming in,” you call, trying (and failing) to control the tremble in your voice.

Entering her chambers, your eyes fall to the bed and you realize why you hadn’t received an answer. Jane lies on her back, eyes closed, cheeks sunken in. She looks like she has lost quite a bit of weight, surely a product of her missing meals for the past weeks. She is deathly pale and as you approach her with caution, you see the sheen of sweat on her brow. Her dark, matted locks spill over the pillow and stick to the perspiration on her neck.

“Milady? How are you feeling?” You drag the stool from her vanity to the bedside and settle down timidly, eyes raking over her weak form.

Her pale eyelashes flutter against her cheeks - you can tell she’s trying to open her eyes. Even in this state, gaunt and sickly, she looks hauntingly beautiful to you, so much so that it claws at your heart.

A cough racks her body, her shoulders shaking violently, her chest heaving. Her head lolls to the side and her mouth falls open as she coughs up a steady stream of small, white phlox petals.

You freeze when you see the petals. At first, horror washes over you at the sight of her gagging, at the deep red blood accompanying the petals. A slow understanding spreads throughout your entire body. Hanahaki Disease. 

You’d had a cousin die from the disease when you were a child - you curse yourself for not recognizing the signs. There’s a pit forming in your stomach.

So Jane Murdstone has fallen in love. 

Tears well up in your eyes and your heart clenches painfully. Jane has fallen in love - and she will die because of it.

She will die, leaving you alone and in search of new employment. She will die, not knowing the affection you hold for her in your heart. She will die, and you will have to go on without the sparkle of her eyes holding you captive whenever you catch her gaze, without the soft, melodic lilt of her voice brightening your dullest days.

You’ll miss her terribly (you already do). You like her, you really do… no, that isn’t quite right - you love her. The realization hits you like a train. You love Jane Murdstone, and it doesn’t matter.

You reach out tentatively and place your hand on top of Jane’s, squeezing gently. It’s the least you can do, to reassure her that you’ll be there for her when no one else seems to be. You shiver at the contact with her skin - it is quite cold in contrast to the warmth of your own, and this is more than you’ve ever dared touch her.

With your other hand you brush away some stray petals that stick to the blood on Jane’s cheek. There’s blood trickling out of her mouth and you swipe your thumb firmly down to her jaw, wiping it away as best you can. She should go out with dignity, you think. 

“Milady, can you hear me?” you ask quietly. You don’t receive a response. 

“Who is it?” You ask the question more for yourself than for her, you know she’s too weak to speak and you aren’t even sure she can hear you anyway. A single tear rolls down your cheek - you wipe it away with your sleeve. Your throat constricts, but there is something you want to say - you clear it roughly. When you speak, your voice has a pleading edge to it, desperation oozing out of your every pore.

“I love you, Jane. Please don’t leave me.” Any other day, you’d be afraid of being fired on the spot - for speaking out of turn, for voicing forbidden affections towards your employer, for addressing her by her first name. Today, you suppose, it doesn’t matter anymore. You feel lighter having said it - and heavier knowing it may be the last thing you ever say to her. Now that it doesn’t matter any longer, you lean over Jane’s face and press your lips firmly to her forehead. Perhaps this way she can feel she is loved, even if it’s not in the way - not by whom - she needs.

x

shout-out to @dianneking for being the catalyst to me writing this hehe <3 plus, gonna just tag everyone who has had the (dis)pleasure of me pestering them about this for the past month haha (love u): @yourlocaldisneyvillain @anti-bright-places @eveymay @scream-queenlover @orchidsshine @sapphicsbeloved @mrs-hilmarson 

[tallysgreatestfan-art]

Disabled4Disabled ships spotlight for Disability Pride Month: Tally Youngblood and Shay from Scott Westerfelds Uglies Series.

As much as I love them and as much as their stories helped me accept my own neurodivergence, I was hesitant to include them here and can only recommend Uglies with a huge caveat.

First reason: Unlike the other ships I include in this, Tally/Shay is not canon, it is just the relationship the series focuses on the most and has a fairly strong subtext.

Second reason: While the way the series portrays both Tally and Shays increasingly intense, for the lack of better words, general neurodiversity, and especially Tallys choice at the end, was groundbreaking for this time period and is even now much braver than what most novels would do – the way the series portrays their self-harming and Tallys and her boyfriend Zanes eating disorders is not good to say it friendly.

I don’t think the whole series is irredeemable, because everything else about it is just so good, but it is something you have to be aware of going in.

The issue lies not so much in the characters glorifying both as ways to escape their dystopian brainwashing, dystopias are famous for unreliable narrators, but that the disconnect between them doing this and the narrative and the author knowing that this is not a healthy way to deal with this is not better established.

It is also described not just fairly explicit, but also in a way that made readers who actually dealt with these issues feel alienated, since the self-harm is first described in a fairly antagonistic cult-like clique, and Tally and Zanes clique amicably mock them for loosing weight and becoming bony and haggard.

Why was this still so healing for me as a queer autistic woman with bipolar disorder?

Close to every book says that being different is okay and you should not conform to societal ideals. Uglies actually shows how insidious societal expectations are, how you still believe them even when they harm you, and how much it hurts to be lonely and different. With Uglies, you can believe it when it says being different (neurodivergent, queer) is okay, because it feels like it understands how hard it is.

In the first book, their neurodivergence is only hinted at, if anything. Tally doesn’t has many friends and all of them already were made into the older societal caste aka Pretties. She is lonely, and she desperately wants to be like them too, normal, how she should be. She meets Shay, who doesn’t fit in either, but takes the opposite route, rebelling against the system and being just so angry. It feels like the two extremes neurodivergent people can deal with their differences.

Their friendship made me feel so seen. It was deep and close, but also so jealous and it becomes increasingly more toxic and complex, as their dystopian system pushes them against each other again and again. It felt like all these messed up, failed female friendships I had. Even with how homoerotic it is, but both of them are too trapped in their other relationships and their past to ever act on it.

In the second book, without spoilering too much, their neurodivergent behaviors become so much more clear and also self-destructive due to the golden-cage like environment they find themselves in.

And in the third book, it is explicitly mentioned that the way their brains work is very different from the norm in a mental illness way. Even if, spoilers for the rest of this paragraph, their neurodivergence is artificially altered to make them more effective (read: self-destructive) super soldiers. As their allies come up with a way to undo this, Shay choses to do it. But Tally refuses. This blew my mind as a teen. That you could actually see your neurodivergence as a part of yourself. Even if it’s seen as bad, or destructive, or inconvenient for yourself and others.

There also is a third disabled character, Tallys boyfriend Zane, who already from the first time we meet him has an eating disorder, and also later acquires brain damage that causes him problems with motor skills. Tally at this point is horrible ableist to him about the physical disability, being programmed to by her dystopian society, but both her and the narrative also very firmly know that this is bigoted and something she needs to overcome. It is uncomfortable and harrowing and tragic to watch, but IMO it is respectful even if the characters are not.

Ultimately, it depends on what you search for if this would be a good read for you. Are you searching for accurate, healing self-harm and eating disorder representation? Then this is absolutely the wrong book. Are you searching for a touching, thought-provoking story about beauty culture, societal pressure and human nature, told through the toxic friendship between two teenage girls in a dystopian society? Then I can only recommend it.

A movie of the first book will come out 13.September this year on Netflix, hope it’s as good as the book. Sadly, in the book racially ambiguous Tally is white in it though, but Shay stays a WOC.

[cloysterbell]

This is probably a stupid question but do you have any Haven and Merlin fanfics that you particularly enjoy and might be able to recommend me...? 👀

BOY DO I

So I will caveat that these Haven recs are a lot fresher since I only got into the show last year. Most of my Merlin recs are a thousand years old since I haven't read anything new since probably 2016 but the old stuff is classic and still fucks despite its age. Also funnily enough, despite everything I still have the most Merlin bookmarks on AO3 over any other show

HAVEN:

The Void series by serendipityxii - to me this is how the show canonically ended

don't stop to think this through by gendernoncompliant - maybe my favorite Haven fic?? You will immediately see why if you read it

the only right i have wronged by gendernoncompliant - VERY interesting read! Love when actions have consequences! Also I do highly recommend most of gendernoncompliant's Haven fics, they're very good

The Accidental Threesome (Or, Five Times Duke Might’ve Date-Crashed, and One Time the Date Crashed Him) by jadzibelle - as a Duke stan I just think that

Emotional Motion Sickness by bellatemple - I really wish we'd gotten to explore the consequences of the finale a little bit more, especially if Duke had survived

Come See About Me by templemarker - absolutely insane about this one and again, you'll see why if you read it

Powerful (with a Little Bit of Tender) by polytropic - I don't remember the details about this one too well but I remember the concept was super interesting and well done

The Trouble with Fairytails by Kedreeva - not to be a furry but

and of COURSE I have to recommend Three Favorite Things and No one told me that there'd be a test (I never studied but I did my best) by multifandom-damnation because they were written for me and they rule!

MERLIN:

to the world that never let you be by imperialmint - oh my god. oh my god. maybe still one of my favorite fics of all time?

Down by the River by bleedforyou1 - wait no never mind THIS is my favorite fic of all time

Stars Above, Stones Below by Destina - I did reread this recently and it and its sequel still hold up

We Are All Diamonds by Footloose - listen. It's a strange concept but just go with it, it's one of the most beautifully written pieces of fiction because Footloose (also the famed author of the Shadowlord and Pirate King, which I never read) is a fandom classic

The Crown of the Summer Court by astolat - let Merlin be on equal footing with Arthur! It's what he deserves!

Hidden Light by Destina - I have this bookmarked as 'the fic with the lake' which is all you need to know

I'm Colourblind, Kid by brbsoulnomming - a fun little au where again, not to be a furry but

August by rageprufrock - it's what we should've gotten if canon wasn't determined to be mean to Arthur all the time

Leashed by riventhorn - 👀

Sense Memory by glim - soft!Arthur my absolute most beloved

and of course, I have to recommend The Student Prince by FayJay. I truly have no idea if you were to read this for the first time in 2024 if it's any good, but it's still very much considered to be one of the fandom classics so it's worth a try at the very least

Unfortunately with Merlin I don't really read that many modern!AUs but stick to mostly canon or canon!AU so I'm not much help if you do want more recent stuff. But I would also very much recommend checking out @dirtybookshelves (better on desktop than mobile)! It's a PHENOMENAL resource for Merlin fics and whoever ran this (I think it was emjayelle?) is a goddamn hero

[madaqueue]

Dripping in Gold | Chapter 7

synopsis: finding a job was never easy, and why even bother trying after you meet satoru gojo, a man with mysterious and exorbitant wealth, who wants nothing more than to spoil you with it? the only caveat to your little arrangement is that it can never, ever, become personal.

pairing: satoru gojo x f!reader

themes/content: non-curse modern au, sugar daddy gojo. language, fluff. kissing. 18+, MDNI

word count: 2.1k

a/n: writing this chapter had me giggling n kicking my feet fr

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You blink, trying to uncloud the sleep from your eyes as you stare at the man in the kitchen. There is no way, absolutely no way, Satoru Gojo is standing in front of you in nothing more than grey sweatpants cooking pancakes over the stovetop.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you ask incredulously.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he smirks, flipping a pancake nonchalantly before setting the pan back down. “You are the one in my apartment, after all.”

All you can do is stare at him. It’s been months, and he looks just as perfect as the day you left him. Hell, he might even look better, his white hair tousled from sleep and eyes lazily tracing up and down your body. As if moving on their own, your legs carry you across the room and into the kitchen until you're standing right in front of him.

As you approach him, he hopes you can’t feel his heart beating, pounding so fast he worries it might rip out of his chest. Just a few moments ago, he heard a sound he never thought he would be blessed with ever again: your voice, calling his name.

What had he done to warrant such favors from the universe? What good deeds had he committed unknowingly to have you be brought back into his life? How sweet you looked, standing there in that oversized t-shirt that reached partway down your thighs, your hair slightly ruffled from sleep. You were perfect.

And now, you’re here in front of him. His arms reach down behind your back while his fingers trace your spine over the t-shirt. It feels natural, it feels like home, to hold you in his arms again.

Looking up at him, you see those bright blue eyes you couldn’t get out of your mind since you first met him. They crease at the corners slightly as he smiles.

“Not that I mind at all, but why exactly are you here, princess?” he asks. You realize you’re so close to him you can feel his breath against your skin, yet you can’t bring yourself to pull away.

“I…um…” you stammer, unsure how to explain the situation. Did Geto break into this apartment? Does he even live here? Where is the black-haired man, anyways?

Gojo chuckles softly. “Did Suguru bring you home?”

You nod, gaze flitting down to the counter, unable to look him in the eyes as you answer.

“Ah,” he nods, understanding. “Then he’s probably in the shower right now. I tend to not ask about who he brings home, but being roommates with him for this long has given me a bit of insight into his habits. He probably didn’t think you’d be awake yet.”

Roommates?

That explains why they’d both be here, and as you think back on it, you had never actually seen where Gojo lived: he’d only ever dropped you off at your apartment but never even been inside, stating he wanted to avoid making anything “too personal” by going into each other’s homes.

Yet, here you stand, in his apartment, with his arms wrapped around you.

He pulls you out of your mind as he leans his face closer to you. “Well in that case, I have to ask: how was it? Did he treat you alright?”

The question makes your cheeks burn hot. Was he seriously asking about how you fucked his roommate?

“We…um, we didn’t actually do anything,” you mumble.

Hearing your words, a grin spreads across the man’s face. His hands seem to pull you in slightly tighter and your arms find their way up around the back of his neck.

Satoru would never admit it, but the only reason he asked was out of jealousy; he wanted to know if you had been as torn up as he had been the past few months. Since you left, he struggled to do anything, barely able to get out of bed in the morning or leave the apartment. Suguru bugged him about it incessantly, and actually suggested Gojo go out with him to the bar last night. Yet, like always, he refused, knowing he’d be unable to stop thinking about you for long enough to pretend to have a normal conversation with anyone else.

You were all he could think about, and he couldn’t possibly stop himself from smiling when he heard that you didn’t hook up with his roommate. The idea flashed across his mind when he first heard your voice leaving Geto’s room, the image making him almost nauseous as he pictured you with someone else. So, in learning that you had done no such thing, relief flooded his body.

He turns his attention back to you as he holds you against him, raising one hand up to trace along your jawline.

Before he knows he’s saying it, the words escape his lips. “I missed you,” he whispers.

“I missed you too,” you respond without a second thought. You know, despite how hard you tried to fight it, that it’s true. You missed him every day you were apart; losing him felt like you had lost a piece of your soul, a part of the brightness within you had gone dim when he wasn’t there. But now, the light has returned as you look into his eyes.

A smile forms on his face before he leans down, gently placing his lips on yours. The hands on the back of his neck pull him into you as you lean up, mouth parting as his tongue slowly enters yours.

“Wow, good morning you guys.” The voice behind you makes you jump as you pull away from Satoru, spinning around to face the dark-haired man who suddenly entered the kitchen, his hair still damp from the shower.

“Hey Suguru,” Gojo’s voice lilts through a lopsided grin, one hand raising to wave at him as the other holds its place against your lower back.

The man across from you scoffs. “First you steal my pancake mix, and now you make out with the girl I brought home? Ouch,” he pretends to lift a hand over his heart in pain.

Satoru says nothing, just staring at Geto from where he stands. You almost feel like they’re communicating through their eyes until recognition flashes across Suguru’s face.

“Holy shit, this is her?” he asks, shocked. Gojo nods next to you, hoping you can’t see the red blushing across his cheeks.

Her? Did Satoru tell people about you?

Suguru draws his eyes back to you. “Oh my god, and this is him? The guy you had feelings for?”

Your mouth opens instinctively in surprise. Oh my god, he did not just say that, the realization turning your face hot.

Gojo’s breath catches in his throat, which he tries to cover with a chuckle. “What’s all this about feelings, now?” he turns to you coyly, grateful to have the attention off him.

“Suguru, shut up,” you hiss, embarrassment flooding over you.

Instead of responding, he simply laughs at the two of you, matching shades of pink across your cheeks as you both shift uncomfortably. “I’ll let you two talk this out, I’ll be in my room if you need me. And you better save me some pancakes, Satoru,” he calls out before stepping into his bedroom and closing the door.

Silence falls between the two of you for a moment as you let your nerves die down. You slowly turn to face the man next to you, mutually giggling at the situation that just unfolded. In spite of the information Geto revealed, in spite of not having seen him for months, things still feel easy between the two of you. Any lingering anxiety dies down as you press your body against his, warm in the embrace.

He tilts his head down, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. “What do you say I take you out to breakfast, hm?” he hums.

“What about your pancakes?” you joke, leaning against the bare skin of his chest as your palms rub softly against his back.

“I’m sure we can find some nosey, hungry bastard to eat them,” he chuckles before calling Suguru’s name.

–

You and Satoru walk hand in hand into the restaurant, a brightly lit space with plants covering the walls and large lights hanging from the ceiling. You’re in a different dress than your one from last night thanks to Gojo, who had to admit that he had bought you more the moment he saw how happy it made you when you were in the dressing room together before your second date. He had been saving them all this time since he never had a chance to give them to you before you parted ways.

Now, you’re dressed in a light pink one with puffy sleeves, and he wore a matching short-sleeve pink button up. This was one of the more casual outfits you had seen him in, and the softness of it warmed your heart.

Sitting across from each other, things felt like they were almost back to normal. The two of you chattered back and forth as you ate and drank, simply enjoying each other’s company. You caught him up on your life, your continuing failing job search, of course leaving out the part that you could barely drag yourself to click through applications with how depressed you had been without him. Similarly, he skimmed over how lost he had been without you, spending his days aimlessly wandering around his apartment.

At some point you both knew you had to talk about the problem that had been silently acknowledged but never addressed: your feelings for him. But for now, as you sat with him and laughed, you figured it could wait.

After you both had finished eating, Satoru’s fingers found their way to you, resting against the top of your knee.

“Satoru,” you hum.

“Yes?” he chirps innocently.

“What exactly are you doing?” You tilt your head at him.

“I’m not doing anything, sweetheart,” he grins. “You, on the other hand, are the one doing something to me.”

“Oh yeah, and what’s that?”

“Sitting there looking so perfect in that sweet little dress, like you’re just begging me to rip it off you,” his grin transforming into a smirk.

Your cheeks flush at his words but you refuse to break eye contact with him, leaning forward instead to spur your confidence. “Well, if that’s the case, then why sit here and deny me any longer?”

The sound of Gojo’s chair scraping along the floor hits your ears before you can even process what’s going on, bills flying down on the table as he grabs your hand and practically drags you outside.

You know you should talk to him, you know you should ask him what his feelings towards you are, but when he pushes you against the outside of his car, his tongue down your throat as his hands grab at your body, the only thing you can do is kiss him back.

Normally you’d be ashamed of how public your little scene is, even though you are in a relatively secluded area of the parking lot, but right now the only word echoing in your mind is more, more, more. After months of being starved of his touch, his body, his warmth, you just need more of him.

But maybe this was your chance?

“‘Toru,” you whisper against his lips.

The nickname makes his heart race even faster, his need for you growing. “Mhm?” he hums, refusing to separate your bodies for even a moment.

“Not here,” you murmur.

In response, he adjusts his weight against you to tug open the back door of his car.

“Not the car. My apartment,” you state, words punctuated through kisses.

He finally pulls away for a moment to look at you, eyes low as they meet yours. He shouldn’t; he knows he shouldn’t. It goes against everything he promised himself, everything he swore he would uphold. But now, with you in his arms, a feeling he never thought he’d have again, he’s willing to throw all of those stupid ideals away. Before he can talk himself out of it, he nods. “Okay.”

You try to hide the surprise on your face as he opens the passenger door for you, leaning over to buckle you in before he runs to the other side of the car.

The familiar ride to your apartment is silent, Satoru’s hand on your thigh, kneading your skin gently in his palm. A combination of need and nervousness builds in your stomach as he pulls up to the building. Gentlemanly as ever, he opens the door for you and takes your hand, leading you to the front door before he stops.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, eyes nervously roaming your face.

“I’m sure,” you respond calmly, tightening your fingers around his as you open the door.

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[robininthelabyrinth]

i racked my brains while prompts were open but only thought of something at midnight so, as a long time reader, thank you so so much for your fuck i missed it caveat!! so: i really enjoyed your nhs with a twin sister oneshot, and i love the idea of additional sibling aus since this series's sibling relationships are so compelling and good. therefore my prompt is, what if jin zixuan had a twin? im thinking sister but i defer to your inspiration :)

ao3

They weren’t really encouraged to spend time together anymore.

It’d been different when they were children: back then, it had been a matter of pride to show them off. Dragon and phoenix twins were said to be good luck, so their father liked to point to them together, testament to the virility of the father to have son and daughter both at once; meanwhile, their mother liked dressing them up in matching outfits, each one more glamorous than the next.

Their participation in these events was both mandatory, in that they couldn’t leave, and unnecessary, in that they themselves as people weren’t required in any way. They just had to stand there.

They just had to exist.

Back then, they’d thought that it was all right – they might be uncomfortable in their scratchy too-glitzy clothing, but they weren’t alone. They had each other.

And then they got older.

First it was their classes that divided them. Both of them learned to cultivate, but Jin Zixuan was taught the sword and strategy while Jin Xingyin learned how to arrange flowers and manage dinner parties. It was obnoxious, but tolerable…right up until it wasn’t.

“Men and women shouldn’t be too close,” they were told, and never mind their protests that they weren’t men and women but siblings.

“A little girl like that will just spoil all your fun,” Jin Zixuan’s father told him.

“An unsupervised young man can’t be allowed near your girl friends,” Jin Xingyin’s mother sniffed.

“You’d better not have any wayward thoughts about your sister,” Jin Zixuan’s mother scolded him.

“You’re getting more beautiful by the year,” Jin Xingyin’s father told her, playing with a strand of her hair. “You shouldn’t be letting yourself be seen by other men. You never know, after all…anyway, I have plans for you. I won’t have them ruined.”

“Plans?” Jin Zixuan asked when he and his sister huddled together late at night, having slipped out of their rooms, barefoot and without their swords, having edged dangerously along their balconies to meet in the middle. “What plans?”

“He’s going to marry me off to someone, obviously,” Jin Xingyin said. “Don’t you listen to what Mother says?”

“She doesn’t talk to me about any of that,” he objected, feeling obscurely betrayed: was this what his father was talking about when he said that women held their own mysterious counsels to which no man was welcome? “It’s not like there’s any mystery about who I’m going to marry – it’ll be what’s-her-name, the Jiang girl. That’s been agreed on for years.”

“I can’t believe you don’t even know her name. What type of suitor are you?”

“The unwilling type. I don’t know anything about her!”

“She doesn’t know anything about you, either,” she pointed out. “And she’s the one who’s going to have to move all the way here, spend the rest of her life somewhere strange.”

Jin Zixuan blinked. “What’s so impressive about that? That’s what women do when they marry.”

His sister slapped him.

“Hey! Why’d you do that?!”

“Because Mother can’t do it to Father, not really, and if you keep going the way you are, you’ll end up just like him. So why shouldn’t I do it now while I can?”

“I’m not!” Jin Zixuan yelped, then blushed when she shushed him. “I’m not. I wouldn’t be. Mother would kill me…I’m not, am I?”

“Young Mistress Jiang is going to marry you, leave her home and her family for you. It wasn’t your choice, but it’s not hers, either. What sort of home is she going to find with you? One where you’re resentful that she even exists, or one where you welcome her?” Jin Xingyin bit her lip. “What type of home will I find, with whoever Father decides to marry me off to?”

Jin Zixuan’s hands curled into fists. He wanted to hurt whoever had made his sister look like that.

Except it had been him, he supposed. Him, for not realizing how afraid she was, to be forced to marry someone as callous as he’d been acting…he could improve his own behavior, but it wouldn’t help her, not really. He could be the finest husband Young Mistress Jiang could hope for, and it wouldn’t be worth a damn, because his father wouldn’t bother making two alliances with the same sect – Jin Xingyin would be going away to the Cloud Recesses, where the Lan didn’t even let women live in the same area as the men, or maybe to the Unclean Realm, where women had no choice but to train right alongside all the men…or even, maybe, to the Wen sect, where – where –

Everyone knew what they said about the Wen sect, and in the Jin sect they knew a little more, with their father being as friendly with Wen Ruohan as he was. There were as many scurrilous rumors about the Wen sect leader as there were about the Jin sect leader, excepting only that the rumors were about torture instead of sex, and the ones about their father, they knew, were all true. Even the ones that people didn’t dare to say out loud in public, just in whispers at home – those were also true.

The ones no one dared say at all were true, too.

If that was the case, then how bad must the Wen sect really be?

Jin Zixuan felt the blood drain out of his face. “He wouldn’t,” he said, except he knew that his father would. And his sister knew it, too – he could tell from her expression. “Fine. I wouldn’t.”

“So what?” she asked, arching her eyebrows just like their mother. “You can’t arrange my marriage. You’re not my father. You’re not even sect leader, just the heir. As long as he’s alive, you have no way to stop him.”

He stared at her.

A few moments later, her face paled, too, as she realized what she had just said.

“...you can’t,” she said.

“You can’t marry out to the Wen sect, either,” he pointed out. “‘A girl married out is like water spilling out’ – it can’t be brought back in, not unless they choose divorce, and that’s their decision, not yours. If you’re gone, you’re gone. You can’t come back.”

The dead couldn’t come back, either.

“If you were sect leader, you could choose how strictly to enforce the rule about men and women,” Jin Xingyin said thoughtfully, and her hand was cold in his. “But you wouldn’t be sect leader if anyone ever found out about…well. We’d need to be terribly clever about it.”

Jin Zixuan was not naturally clever, he knew, but he wasn’t actually stupid. If he set his mind to something, he could tap into the streak of cunning he’d inherited from both parents, the one he usually spent his time deliberately ignoring because he didn’t want to be anything like either of them.

Perhaps he’d never had a choice in it after all.

“I’ll find a way,” he said, and squeezed her hand. “Give me time.”

She did, and he did.

A few years later:

“Welcome to Jinlin Tower,” Jin Zixuan said, and smiled at the dusty over-awed boy only a few years older than him, whose wide eyes couldn’t hide the calculations churning in the brain behind them. “What did you say your name was again?”

The boy saluted.

“My name is Meng Yao,” he said carefully. “I was told that – the sect leader here –”

“Things have changed,” Jin Zixuan said, and at a gesture, his sister stepped forward with a smile. “But that doesn’t mean we don’t honor any commitments he may have made. Why don’t you follow my sister? She’ll find somewhere for you.”

He didn’t know if Jiang Yanli would find him a good husband when she arrived, not the way he now was, with his hands stained with blood and his mind forced through desperation into the cleverness and cunning that he’d never wanted. They had to have the alliance with the Jiang sect, especially now that his father had so prematurely died, but no matter what, he would never force Jiang Yanli to accept him, not with the example of his sister before him.

It was a good thing, Jin Zixuan supposed, that he would be able to offer her a pick of substitutes.

[cevansbrat0007]

*clears throat* Ahem, if I may ask Mr. Andy Barber what are his favorite parts of his Baby Girl's body and personality? How does Mr. Sexy Daddy like to best worship his woman? If that's not too forward to ask of course, Sir.

Summary: Andrew Barber answers your burning questions about his feelings for his wife. Written from Andy's POV.

Warning: the following response contains mature themes, including references to sex, D/s lifestyles, pregnancy, ex-spouses, pregnancy, cursing, and more. Minors DNI.

A/N: For more insight into Andrew Barber and his Baby Girl, please check out my ongoing Growing Pains Series. All mistakes are my own. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. ___

I ran this by Baby Girl last night and received approval to answer these questions however I see fit. The only caveats to this being that I have to answer honestly, and then allow her to read them once I’ve finished. Both of which are fine with me. 

My sweet brat knows how much I love and adore her. And if she claims she doesn’t, she’s either lying or I simply haven’t been doing my job. Either way, please rest assured that I will seek to rectify that particular issue as soon as possible. And I will leave it to her to share the details of our reckoning with the rest of you. 

Now, back to your first question regarding my favorite physical features of hers. Of course, the short answer is everything. I love all of her. But I also know that that’s not the answer you’re looking for, is it? 

I suspected as much. As my woman can attest, I can be pretty quick on the draw when I put my mind to it. And that’s not some kind of backhanded euphemism about my sexual prowess. I’m a man who is incredibly confident in his abilities. I know how to satisfy my woman. Because I’m a good listener – and I know how to take direction. 

But I digress. If I had to pick a favorite body part or feature, I think it would have to be her nose. My Baby Girl has the most adorable nose. I love the way it crinkles up when I say something ridiculous or when our girls make her laugh. And her laugh is…it’s just the best. She has so many. You don’t always know which one you’re going to get. 

Is it going to be a sweet, demure giggle or a loud, slightly irreverent cackle? Both are fantastic, highly satisfying sounds in my opinion. Because regardless of whatever one I receive, I know without a doubt that she’s being her most authentic self with me. And, quite honestly, what more could I ask for? 

I would also be remiss if I didn’t mention my wife’s stomach. I absolutely adore her belly, especially now that it’s swelling again with my babies. She’s worried about stretch marks, which isn’t a particularly unique concern or anything, but all I see is the beauty. Don’t get me wrong – my woman is a knockout. And I have no doubt that my two little girls, Bianca and Katrina, will follow in her footsteps. 

Granted, I’d much rather have them look like her than me. But as a father, it also doesn’t mean I have to be particularly happy about it. 

But during her pregnancies, Baby Girl is just damn near impossible for me to resist. Watching her body change and swell so that it can protect and accommodate the tiny lives we’ve created together…it just does things to me. She likes to claim that I tend to act a little feral when she’s expecting. She’s certainly not wrong.       

And last, but certainly not least, I’d have to say that I’m a big fan of her derriere. It’s just so goddamned spankable. And biteable. And squeezable. That ass is doing the Lord’s work and for that, I couldn’t be more grateful. 

As for my ladies personality, there are so many qualities she possesses that I find attractive. I honestly can’t get enough of her. But the most important quality, the one aspect that I hold the highest above everything else, is that she is an amazing mother.

She is the living embodiment of patience. And not just with our little ones, but with me as well. Baby Girl may doubt herself sometimes, but she is so sweet and caring. And best of all, it’s genuine. You can see it all, right there in her eyes.

My wife’s eyes are the window to her soul. That’s not just some throw away line, either. It’s part of the reason she can’t ever really keep shit from me regarding how she’s feeling. Those big, beautiful eyes somehow manage to betray her every time.

Quite honestly, I could go on and on about that woman. Spend hours praising her charm and her wit, her talent and creativity. Because she is my everything. The source of my strength. The mother of my children. My partner in crime. 

But at the end of it all, my absolute most favorite thing about this woman is that she’s mine. And what’s more, I plan on fucking keeping her. 

On to your next question. My favorite way to worship my woman, long before she ever became my wife, is to anticipate her needs. I wasn’t very good at this with my ex, but now I’m much better at it. Over the years, she’s shown me how to listen – not just to her words, but to her body as well. 

Our relationship, at least in part, revolves around a particular dynamic. We don’t often talk about it with other people because, frankly, it’s nobody’s goddamn business but our own. But it works for us. And if it ain’t broke…

Well, I’m sure you take my meaning. 

With my wife, my favorite way to worship her is by doing the little things – which also promotes intimacy. This involves making time for each other, which can sometimes be challenging with two kids in the mix. But as her Daddy, I make it a priority.

Whether it’s rubbing her feet while she catches me up on her day, or helping her apply her lotion after our shower (I’m big on conserving water), I try to make myself available. Grand gestures are wonderful, and they certainly have their place, but watching my woman melt over small acts that demonstrate the ways I’m constantly thinking of her…

Those moments right there are priceless. 

But my favorite thing to do with her, which is actually something I’ve slowly begun to pride myself in, is helping with her hair. My wife has been blessed with a head full of thick, glossy curls. And little by little, she’s taught me how to care for it. I’m not a professional by any means, but there’s also nothing like hearing her sigh in bliss as I take my time oiling and massaging her scalp. Plus the products she uses smell amazing. 

I’m even getting pretty good at doing my two daughters’ hair as well. In fact, it just so happens that pigtails are my speciality. 

Well, that’s all I have for now. Hopefully what I’ve shared above will appease your curiosity. At least temporarily. Thank you for being so polite and respectful with your question. And if you find yourself with more, please feel free to pass them along. 

Sincerely, Andrew S. Barber  P.S. You didn’t ask this, but since the thought occurred to me, I figured I’d share. My favorite thing to see my wife wearing is absolutely nothing – save for her wedding ring. Although, there’s also this thing we do that involves a pair of heels that is probably a close second.

Not that I ever need an excuse to get on my knees for her. Guess you could say I was born with a bit of a sweet tooth.