#and that's the only apology from him in the season (i think at least)

[prettyboykatsuki]

i've been very far home, my heart | nightowl (blooming panic)

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ tags; established relationship, hurt/comfort, feelings of inadequacy / low self worth, gn!reader (they wear heels and have manicured nails, but otherwise nondescript. no gendered language), role reversal, arguing / messy human behavior, suggestive towards the end, they are implied to be the same height 🫡

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ wc ; 3.7k (added 500 to wc in editing. ok)

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ a/n ; bro idk what happened here FDHJDKDKJ. my sleep meds were making me feel super hungover, i got a little cooked on the devils lettuce and then wrote this?? and it wasn't bad lmaoaoa??

i really like this blonde twink ive known for three days. he is like. so extremely, hilariously my type and exactly like several ppl i've dated so this end up being a reflective piece on being a giver n navigating adult relationships.

title is from where we go by jelani aryeh

The bathroom light is on.

It’s spilling underneath the door frame when you come in from work later than usual. It’s busy season, with new clientele - all of which require socializing around drinks and expensive dinners to secure them. It’s nearly 1am, and you’ve taken two Ubers to get back home from the restaurant all the way across town that you’ve been mingling at since nine.

You closed the deal though, and your boss (perhaps seeing the visible exhaustion in your eyes) has given you the go-ahead on taking a few days off. The consulting part of your financial advising job could wait until Monday, which was a relief to hear. You came home expecting Nightowl to be up. He’s always up this late, and when he is - he rarely limits himself to one room in the apartment. You have a routine to it. You sleep in the dark bedroom and Owl tries not to make so much noise as to wake you.

You texted him you’d be late, and he’d read it but didn’t reply. Too worn down to think anything of It at the time, you slept on two car rides rather irresponsibly and were unsure of what to feel when your apartment didn’t have any lights from the outside upon arrival. Youwalked in after that, wondering if your eyes had been playing tricks. But the house was still dark, both upstairs and down stairs - in the bedroom and in the office. The only place you could find any trace of life was in the bathroom.

You’ve only left your bag on the couch downstairs. Worry makes your brows furrow as you turn the door knob to your shared bathroom and walk in. The clinical scent of bleach is the first thing to grasp your senses, jolting you awake from the haze of steam and leftover buzz of alcohol.

You cough a little, and find Nightowl on the bathroom floor. There’s a bottle of peach soju on the counter, and a few open packets of developer and mixing bowls. Owl is drunk already you think, or at the very least tipsy, moreso than you. The hot blush on his skin makes you think he’s been at it for a while. You try not to monitor his liquor intake too much, but the concern you feel is immediate and not helped by where you find him.

His body is slumped against the gray wall closes to the tub, sitting on the tile with a different bottle in his hand. His phone is face down beside him and he’s not noticed you come in. Your frown deepens as your heels click slightly on the tile. Crouching down at the knee, you reach your hand out for his forehead. His skin is so hot it’s scorching. You sober up almost instantly.

Even in his inebriated state, he seems to recognize you. His smile is wide, but you don’t feel like it reaches his eyes.

“Oh, so you decided to come home after all!”

You smile sadly followed with a curt nod. “Sorry.”

“Don’t really see what the point is in you apologizing when you’ve already been so late,” He says jovial. You try not to let it sting. You remind yourself that he’s drunk and stifle a sigh again. “But welcome home!”

“Were you gonna bleach your hair?”

“Isn’t that obvious?”

“Yeah,” You reply, choosing to sigh that time. His lip wobbles a little and you try not to say anything more. “Do you want help?”

“Sure. Whatever.”

You mumble something about being right back and Nightowl hums in affirmation. A feeling washes over you. Bone-deep exhaustion crushing your lungs and making you wheeze when you step out of the bleach-scented bathroom. When you’re distance enough away that he won’t hear you - closer to your bedroom door, you breathe in and out, calming yourself down. After you feel more centered, you open your shared room door and take a stool from along the wall, bringing it with you into the bathroom. Nightowl doesn’t turn his head to look at you until you place it. Sharing a glance with each other, he gets up on his own and sits himself on the placed stool dramatically and you give him a weak smile through the mirror he doesn’t bother returning.

You’re quiet as you leave the door open a touch to make sure the steam doesn’t overheat you both. Shrugging off your suit jacket, you fold it and hang it on the towel racks behind you. You unbutton your sleeves and roll them into neat folds on both arms, and before digging into one of your bathroom drawers for plastic gloves. Sliding them onto your manicured fingers, you pick up the bowl of developer from the side of the counter and mix it using the provided brush until it’s all smooth.

Nightowl is unusually silent through the entire thing. If he weren’t fidgeting, you could barely tell he was there. It’s so difficult to see him that way. You try not to blame yourself too much.

“Gonna start,”

“Uh-huh,”

A longing passes over you in the warm, sterile air. The coolness from the A.C. in the rest of your apartment dries down the sheen of sweat your accumulated while out socializing. Your feet are killing you and your shoulders are aching and your lungs feel like you can’t get enough air out of them. That’s busy season for you. The price of your job with all of it’s stability and benefits is the annual stretch of months where you are so busy you feel like you are drowning.

It’s one thing to be so mind-numbingly busy when you’re single and only worried about not dying. Another though to have a partner waiting for you, who you love and would like to be with - who you’ve admittedly not done well in paying attention to. You’ve tried you think. Made some attempts, but it doesn’t feel good enough and it certainly isn’t enough for Nightowl. You know that, too. You look down at where your hands are applying the bleach, dazed - using only muscle memory to apply it to the roots and strands of his hair. You want to touch him. To press kisses into his spine, drunk and elated, and press your cheek to his shoulder and confess your undying love until he’s giggly all over again.

The thought of adoration soothes you. Makes you smile to yourself even amongst the unforgiving atmosphere. Nightowl doesn’t care for that, his face growing even more frustrated.

“Thought of something fun? Glad at least one of us is having a good time.”

Your eyes meet his in the mirror. He looks away when he sees how pained you look, and you shut your eyes trying not to react. “Sorry.”

“Stop saying that,” He frowns, though he seems more sad than you.

“S—“ You clear your throat and laugh humorlessly at yourself. “Okay,”

You go about your business. Many things cross your mind but you can’t wrangle your thoughts into anything cohesive enough to say. Your jaw tightens a little, like your mouth wants to practice syllables it can’t remember. The distraction of rubbing bleach into Nightowls roots is welcome. His hair is a lot healthier than it used to be, after a year of forcing him to use hair masks. You admire as you brush through the strands, and Nightowl seems to lost in his own thoughts to say anything in protest. He probably hates this silence more than you. He’s uncharacteristically stiff, and there’s no smalltalk to distract from the surroundings.

You’re not feeling well enough to try and remedy it. Allowing yourself to stonewall and sit in the discomfort is about as much as you can do to reach a hand to your relationship. You probably can’t make it better, but you can do your best not to make it any worse.

“All done,” You mumble, just loud enough for him to hear. You slide the gloves off and toss them into the trash “We should sober up before bed. Hangover before bed sounds awful. Did you,” You hiccup. “Want some?”

He doesn’t reply to you. You press your lips into a flat line, feeling somewhat sorrowful but ultimately resigned. “I’ll make some anyway. And set a timer too while I’m down there. Just, uh - join me. When you’re done here.”

Before you turn to leave, he grabs your wrist. You’re taken aback by the sudden gesture (though there’s not force in it), turning around to look at him. His face is red. Wet tears pool on the corners of his straight, black lashes. Blinking a few times in surprise, you reach your hand to wipe them from the corners. Muscle memory. You find your love for him defined that way. He doesn’t flinch away from the touch, at least.

“Don’t you have something to say to me,” He insists. You frown in genuine confusion, a sad smile pulling at your mouth.

“Thought you told me to stop saying sorry,” You repeat with no malice, smiling a little. “That’s all I’ve got though.”

His lower lip trembles again and you try not to laugh. “God. How could you be so. God.” He sniffles a little. “You could cuss me out. Or like, I dunno, just get mad in general. You’re supposed to be mad, I was,” He cuts himself off.

You laugh a little tiredly, bending down to press your forehead to his. The flush of his skin against your own makes your heart murmur his name. “I don’t have anything to say, my heart.” You assure, smiling. “We’re both pretty tired. But I have tomorrow off. Let’s cool off and talk tomorrow. “Okay?”

“Okay,” He says back, still simmering. “As long as you’re here tomorrow.”

Your heart stings. “For the next two days, promise. I’ll toss my work phone if you want.”

He cracks a smile like that. “Might have to take you up on that, cutie.”

The familiar nickname eases you a bit, making you laugh. “Whatever you want.”

__

Morning comes unyielding and indifferent, like always.

Sunlight filters through the curtains as your eyes peel open and try to get adjusted to the light. There’s a weight on top of you, and the sound of steady breath. Another heartbeat thumps alongside yours and before you can make much sense of it - you catch the freshly yellow blond roots of your lover as he lays on your chest.

You went to bed last night not even facing each other. The image of him reaching around for you in his sleep and ending up in your arms feels like divine intervention. You admire how perfectly he fits there. Your eyes trace of his features. Thick, straight brows, skin like light gold, a straight nose and full lips. The shock of blonde suits him strangely, makes the dark lines of his other features pop. It’s rare you get to look at him so closely, even more so lately.

The intimacy of his flaws makes your stomach flutter, texture in his skin and eyebags and all. You crane your neck to kiss his hairline and think about returning to sleep in the cocoon of warmth. The cradle of soothes you, makes your eyelids heavy with sleep again. You think it’d be nice to sleep in more, but you don’t want to squander anymore time with Nightowl. Shifting, you pry yourself away from his grasp and tuck him into blankets. You’ll wake him later.

You’re quiet as you tiptoe around the house and get your affairs in order. The bathroom first to shower and brush your teeth, then downstairs to start on breakfast. You take the ritual of it to calm down and ease the leftover nerves of your stomach. It was better to save any conversation for sobriety - so you don’t regret it. Still, you feel a fear lingering. A nagging voice in the back of your head as you flip pancakes and cut fruit and pour juice.

The eerie silence of Saturday morning pushes you to reflect. It’s rare you fight like this. Even more rare that Nightowl reverts to that kind of angriness, which is why you find you can’t get upset. Not even the sound of sizzling and frying can keep your mind from wandering.

Inadequacy is familiar. An old winter jacket, too sizes too small and ill-fitting but full of your own personhood. One of the things you and Nightowl bonded over a long time ago.

You did well in school, in college, made a career for yourself. It’s making up for the rest of you, you think.

At least you’re good at your job, even if the rest of you is not worth mentioning. The ghost of feeling like you are, in some basic and intrinsic way, not good enough likes to shake you every now and again. Not friend, nor partner. It’s not something you easily get rid of, despite how far you’ve grown past it. Or around it. Or ahead of it. Wherever you’ve ended up, occasions come that knock the feeling loose from your deepest memories. You work hard to cover for it.

You like to logic your way out of the guilt when you’ve poured so much into it and people drift. A self-fulfilling prophecy. Usually that works. Tuck your emotions into neat compartments, throw yourself further into your work, don’t drink too heavily or be alone with anyone for too long. Ignore everything, do it by yourself so you’re still worth something, wait until it’s over. Eventually it all comes to pass, and you come out of the other end alive - but alone.

You can’t do that anymore though. It’s hard to remember that. Isolation is no longer the answer, because there is someone (multiple people, really) who will feel lonely without you. Even if it’s unfathomable to you, even if it’s hard to remember. The consequences creep up like this, and your left with the emotional void of making a bad situation worse. Sorry is the only word you know. There are so many things to be sorry for.

You’re so lost in thought you burn a pancake and have to toss it. You also seem to miss the presence of another person in your shared space until Nightowl comes and wraps his arms around your shoulders. Turning the heat down, you shift to face him. He looks exhausted but he must’ve come down after washing up.

“You’re awake.”

“Mhm.” He says, still sleepy. A smile pulls at the corners of your mouth. “So are you. And you’re making me breakfast.”

You laugh. “I am. So, go sit down.” And then, a little more serious. “We have a lot to talk about but I’d rather do it on a full stomach.”

“We’re in an argument and you’re still taking care of me.” Sadness bleeds into his words.

You reply without skipping a beat, going back to the stove to pour some more batter. “Well, its not like I don’t love you anymore.”

There’s a long, long pause of silence that alarms you once you recognize it. Once you hear sniffling, you whip around again to see Nightowl weeping a little as he leans against the counter. Alarms go off in your head, once again turning the stove down. You wrap your arms around his waist loosely, bending down to get a closer look at him. He’s cover his face with his hands.

“Ugh,” His voice is thick and heavy. “Can you not be so nice and perfect and angelic? I’m trying really hard to be mad at you and I’m failing like a loser.”

You can tell there’s some sincerity in his words, though you ignore the first half of his statement. “I don’t want to make you feel bad.”

He pulls away then, looks at you incredulous. “You’re so,” His hands curl at your chest as you hug him slightly. You’re confused but don’t say anything. “God, you’re so frustrating.”

“Sorry,” You say apologetically. “Don’t mean to make you cry either. Feel like I’m going that a lot. We should really eat.”

“Don’t want to,” He whines a little as he says. “Just. I want to kiss and makeup already.”

You smile a little before humming.

“We should talk about it, then.”

Nightowl just nods, and you take that as permission to just go. You do your best to get the words out.

“I really love you,” You say first, and then sigh. Nightowl clings onto you tighter and listens instead of interjecting, which must mean he’s feeling serious. “And uhm, was already feeling bad about myself. And then I got busy which made it worse cause I couldn’t really you know… be there for you, so I ended up pulling away to figure it out alone and then got even busier. Which was isolating for you, and I’m sorry for that. It’s hard to like.. I dunno. Lean on you. On anyone.” You laugh a little. “Is that too vague?”

“It makes sense to me but…what were you feeling bad about, even?”

“Well I was busy before that, so I just felt shitty about being a bad partner to you. In general, don’t feel like I deserve you but then you know,” You sigh “It was shitty of me.”

“Are you kidding me?” He says. His face is twisted in a pout. “You’re seriously being all mopey ‘cause you think you’re a bad partner when you’re like… literally the best ever? Like, that I’ve ever had?”

You’re too surprised to say anything. “Is that not why were arguing?”

“I mean,” His frown deepens, and he presses his face against your chest. “Ugh. So embarrassing. I am upset because you’re so busy and we haven’t spent time together but that’s like… totally not your fault, yknow? I’m being super clingy and I was just… really lonely yesterday.”

“Sorry for making you feel lonely.”

“Stop apologizing or I’m gonna bite you, ‘kay cutie?” He says seriously. You relent with a worrisome smile and encourage him to keep going. “I was getting like… all pathetic. Cause I thought you didn’t want me anymore, didn’t even occur to me something was wrong. I’m so sorry about that, about all of it - god. I shouldn’t have lashed out on you. I hate that it still gets so bad when we've been together so long. I just missed you so fucking much. And I think so highly of you, I couldn’t help but be all torn up about the idea that you were pulling away cause you didn’t want me.”

“I do want you. I’m just surprised you want me sometimes.”

“You’re dumb,” He whispers with no bite at all. “That’s my line. You’re like literally perfect to me.”

“So we got in a fight ‘cause we needed to be with each other,” You say with a long pause, then laugh. “How silly.”

“Guess so,” He says back with a little frown. “Are we okay?”

“We’re okay,”

You share a brief moment of comfortable, understanding silence. It feels easier to breathe. Even though it’s messy and foolish, you love being with him. It makes you feel real and whole - wanted to be missed that much.

“I missed you too by the way,” You reply with utmost sincerity. “Only thing I thought of all night was how much I wanted to hold you.”

“You’re making me blush.” He says with a loopy little smile. “Y’mean that?”

“More than anything.” You reply. “I like being with you. I like taking care of you. I like that you’re needy and jealous and temperamental.”

“Stopppp,” He groans and you laugh aloud, leaning forward to place a kiss on his jaw. “Not that I hate being told what you like about me but it’s making my tummy flutter.”

“I like loving you,” You say with some finality. “I feel really shitty when I feel like I’m failing at it because I take pride in being good at that.”

“Jeez,” His face is bright pink when you pull away. “You shouldn’t think of yourself so little, yanno? Not that this is a surprise but yesterday I was like, totally acting awful to you. I really am sorry I let it get that bad, I was just really worked up. Even right now you make me so happy, it feels a little unfair to me. I want to be with you all the time. So sometimes when I can’t I just get like… awful. And stupid. And want to throw a bunch of dumb tantrums about it.”

You nod in understanding. “It did hurt my feelings but I really didn’t feel like it was undeserved.”

“It was totally undeserved!”

You crack a little smile. “Agree to disagree?”

He grabs your face with both hands, knocking your foreheads together. “It was undeserved, no take backs. I’m sorry I hurt you and always will be. Stop being so nitpicky about yourself, kay? I’m literally crazy about you.”

“Me too,” You crane your neck to kiss his palm where it cradles your face. “I adore you, baby.”

“I like being adored by you,” He says with a sweetness that makes your heart melt. “I like loving you too of course, but attention is… nice. You know.”

He makes a face at you as you say this that you can only describe as a grin, before pushing himself forward to press a long kiss to your lips. You laugh a little into, smile splitting your face at the intensity he kisses you at first thing in the morning. Over and over, pulling and pushing - giggling as you chase his mouth as he pulls away.

“We kissed but I dunno if we’ve made up,” He says. Concern briefly passes over your expression. “Got some really good ideas about how we could do that.”

You give him a flat look but can’t contain your laughter.

“We should really eat breakfast,”

He puts a hand at the top of your waistband with lidded eyes and smiles. “There’s something else I wanna eat first though?”

You pretend to be exasperated.

“Jesus. We just made-up and you wanna fuck already?”

“Duh. That’s like, the best part,”

You snort. “We’ll go once and then I’m making you eat breakfast even if I have to force it down your throat.”

“Ooh, feeling rough I see,”

You snort. “Yeah, guess so.” You shoot him a little look, leaning into whisper and nip at his ears. “On your knees for me, baby.”

He giggles a little, giddy with mischief in his face. “Mmkay,”

He presses a cheek to your clothed thigh, lovesick. “I love you,”

You can’t help but laugh at his choice of when to say it and simply reply back in full adoration. “I love you too, my heart.”

a/n ; ANOTHER AUTHORS NOTE? sorry for being the ceo of yapping im insane

i just want to like. give some insight on this fight bc im worried it seems onesided. reader has low self esteem and really beats themself over their own expectations in everything. they isolate when they're overwhelmed and work was already doing that to them. and then things got busier, which meant there wasn't really time to repair the relationship between them which is why nightowl gets as mad as he does.

nightowl is deathly afraid of being unloved and abandoned, and he get a little caught up in his self hate that they fail to realize something is going on with their partner. so he lashes it out and it feels warranted but he gets like guilty bc reader doesn't react to the goading any differently

i think nightowl is a very complicated but incredibly familiar character. he's a little selfish but i find him incredibly endearing and i have a strong desire to dote on him and monopolize him. which was the intent for this fic. but i ended up just exploring real life relationship dynamics between a character like this. very selfless x selfish. they love each other and find fulfillment in this. i love them.

#nightowl x reader #blooming panic x reader #bloomic x reader #nightowl bp x reader #writing tag #this is literally so random #idk what tag ettiquette is for this? bc the game is self insert so i feel like tagging with main tags is probs fine but its riskyyy lmao #nightowl blooming panic

[coraniaid]

Top five btvs headcannons?

Hmm. Lots of options to choose from, but let's go with:

Of all the deaths we see on the show that the characters are weirdly blase about and never talk about again (which is most of them) the one I feel should matter most is Kendra's. The writers very obviously don't care about Kendra at all (in a way that makes me pretty angry if I think about it for long) but, at the same, the only way I can reconcile my idea of Who Buffy Is As A Person with the events of the post-Becoming seasons is to try to persuade myself that Buffy is thinking about Kendra a lot of the time, and that this meaningfully affects her relationship with Faith in Season 3 (and, for that matter, with Dawn in Season 5 and the Potentials in Season 7 too). Because, yes, Faith represents a lot of Buffy's own supressed thoughts and desires, and yes, there are lots of parallels in Season 3 between Faith and Angel. But the very fact Faith exists as a Slayer at all should be enough to remind Buffy of the Slayer who was called after her and died before her. How could that not bleed into her relationship with Faith as a person? How can Buffy not look at Faith and be constantly thinking of the Slayer she failed to save? (According to the show's writers, the answer is: very, very easily.[1])

Sort of a meta-headcanon (a headcanon schema?), but: as far as possible, I like to believe that the Buffy characters who are meant to be friends might actually talk to each other sometimes. And when we don't see various personal conflicts get resolved on screen, yet everything seems back to normal later (especially between seasons), I tend to assume they just talked things through a bit off-camera. Probably Buffy and Xander had a conversation after Dead Man's Party which involved him offering a grovelling apology, which is why they're still on speaking terms later that season. Probably Joyce and Buffy actually talked a bit about her being the Slayer before Faith, Hope & Trick, so that Joyce's claim to have "tried to march in the Slayer Pride Parade isn't as absurd as it seems to be on the face of it". Probably Giles and Buffy talked about the Cruciamentum a bit after Helpless, which is why she's forgiven him by the time the next episode starts and she never brings his role up in it again. In particular, this is why I kind of hate the reveal in Season 7's Selfless that Xander never admitted to his Lie in Becoming, and that Buffy just spent the last five years thinking Willow decided to try to cast the spell to restore Angel's soul again without asking Buffy's permission or giving her any warning she was about to try it beyond "kick his ass".

There really isn't any evidence for it in canon and I suspect it's ultimately purely the invention of one of the early 2000s Fuffy writers, but I really like the popular fanfiction conceit that there is some sort of mystical connection between Slayers which (in a way that varies a little depending on the writer) gives them some additional awareness of the other Slayer's presence or emotional state. Not just because I'm enough of a sap to think that that's kind of romantic (although I am and I do), but because it's a nice way to explain away some slightly contrived bits of plotting in the show (all three Slayers have a way of finding each other very quickly when the plot requires it). In the same spirit, though with perhaps a little more evidence in canon, I like the idea that Buffy and Faith's shared dreams don't just happen when we see them, but have basically been going on ever since Faith arrived in Sunnydale (or at least since Faith's coma). Also, relatedly, I still like this headcanon I posted last month.

Sort of an anti-headcanon in some ways, but I refuse to accept that Buffy's memory of trying to tell her parents about vampires back in LA -- and being briefly institutionalized as a result -- (which was revealed/retconned in Season 6's Normal Again) is real. I think that (whatever the show claims) it had to have been a false memory implanted by the same demon that was giving her visions of still being there. Say what you like about whether or not the Joyce we see on the show was a good parent, but this is just blatant character assassination of the worst sort. It completely changes how we have to see Buffy's relationship with her mother and makes several scenes and outright plot points absurd (even if Joyce is the sort of monster who could forget about having her doctor locked up, even after learning that actually Buffy was always telling the truth, why would a Buffy who had been through that still keep a diary in the house she shares with her mother where she talked about the supernatural or prominently put up crucifixes in her house or make jokes about 'saving the world from vampires' when her mother asked her what she was thinking? why would she care about her mother's opinion of her at all? why would she wait until Season 2 to run away from home, and why would she ever come back?). Taken seriously, this just totally undermines a major part of Buffy's character and one of the most important relationships in her life. And for what? A stupid "maybe this is all a dream?" ending to the episode that means nothing and never goes anywhere. No, fuck that. Didn't happen and I simply refuse to believe it did. (I also strongly dislike the idea that it's a false memory caused by Dawn's presence; Dawn doesn't deserve to be blamed for that and her existence isn't meant to have had that big of an impact on the world.)

[1] Actually if I'm being totally honest I suspect that if you polled most of the show's writers with this question the answer you'd get back would be "who's Kendra?"

#btvs #thanks! #asks

[altair214]

Just finished The Sandman. FUCK THAT ENDING WAS SO GOOD

#the sandman spoilers #i can't get over how dream shows how he changes #just the subtle smiles while saying something that everyone present knows he'd never say before #how he apologises to rose #and that's the only apology from him in the season (i think at least) #it hits hard #the way the plot twist worked #it was desire all along #i still can't get over the scene in episode 4 where he's fighting lucifer #like the moment she said 'i am anti life' #my first thought was that the only thing that could beat that is hope #and the way they pulled the 'i am hope' off #his tone of voice #it was just so perfect #the way other beings will refer to him almost mockingly like when desire greets him with 'oh sweet dream' #idk something about that just gets me #the way you know that dream cares so much about humanity #even though he doesn't show it very much #at the beginning when he was imprisoned the way he was totally helpless and at the lowest point possible but still defiant and hopeful #the scathing way he talks to desire #the way that he's very sensitive #idk i have so many feeling about this #the ending was so good #i want to give dream of the endless a hug #i feel like he needs it

[tobiasdrake]

*deep breath* Okay. Here we go.

I don't think the Netflix Avatar show likes women very much. It's a great show for fans of Aang, Sokka, Zuko, and Iroh specifically. All four of those characters get a ton of great material. In fact, it's super great for Sokka stans, because the show takes him ultra-seriously and can't go five minutes without one character or another (usually a woman) praising him.

But the way it handles its female cast is troublesome.

Katara

So, all three of the main trio got some changes made to their stories. They changed Aang's story so that he wasn't running away from his responsibilities; He was just clearing his head and somehow accidentallied himself into a tsunami. Whoopsy-dooodle. Aang did nothing wrong.

They changed Sokka's story so that him being a leader of his people and a great guardian warrior is treated with complete seriousness. Multiple times, characters stop to talk about how brave and noble Sokka is for taking on such an intense responsibility, and tell him to his face what a great warrior and a wonderful leader he is. Also his misogyny is erased.

And they changed Katara's story so that she directly got her mom killed because she sucks at waterbending.

Katara tries to waterbend to attack the Fire Nation soldier but couldn't manage it, provoking the soldier to start actively searching for her and forcing her mom to fake a waterbending attack and draw his fire. They changed Katara's story so that her bad decision making fucking got her mom killed.

This is treated with the same level of severity as "Sokka was bullied by mean kids and also his dad doesn't think he's good enough to be a leader."

"I hoped Sokka would do better but not everyone is meant to have people's lives in their hands," Sokka's dad says of him.

Yeah, you're right, that's totally comparable to watching your mom get barbecued because you tried to waterbend in a situation you shouldn't have and then failed.

In fact, they give Sokka's greatest trauma more weight because it gets examined again with Yue next episode, while Katara actively getting her mom killed isn't brought up again at all. We get traumatized glimpses of it throughout the season leading up to the reveal, but after this scene in episode 5, it never comes up again.

But to be fair, Katara was a child. An event this significant would surely have motivated her, driving her to become the great waterbender she is now, right?

No! Katara sucks at waterbending and needs men who aren't even waterbenders to teach her how to waterbend. She requires instruction from Aang in episode 1 to learn how to waterbend, then from Jet in episode 3 to learn how to waterbend better.

And unlike the show, her relationship with Aang isn't a give-and-take; Katara doesn't teach Aang a single goddamn thing. He never learns to waterbend. She is a strictly a pupil throughout the whole season. Though she at least gets officially labeled a master in episode 8, so there's that.

In any case, the whole traumatic memory thing isn't even the only time she's directly compared with Sokka. Episodes 3 and 4 see Katara and Sokka bicker over whose morally dubious side character is better. Sokka likes the Mechanist and Katara likes Jet.

Ultimately, Katara is forced to eat crow when Jet turns out to be the worst, while Sokka is vindicated when the Mechanist sees the error of his ways and reforms. But not before two separate arguments where Sokka calls Katara childish and accuses her of acting like a little girl.

Arguments ultimately resolved when Katara apologizes to Sokka for not adequately respecting his very serious and ultra important role as village protector and leader. Gives him a whole speech about how great and glorious he is. And Sokka... appreciates Katara learning to respect him properly, I guess, because he never offers any similar sentiments back to her.

The show just... They need you to know how important Sokka is, okay? It's very important that you respect Sokka.

Suki

Suki suffers tremendously from that whole "Sokka's misogyny was removed" thing. Y'know, because they need something else to do with that episode. The show is deeply aware that Suki is Sokka's love interest, so they just do that right off the bat. Suki falls madly in love with him from the moment they meet, and spends the entire episode making goo-goo eyes and trying to get him to Notice Me Senpai.

They still do the "Suki Trains Sokka" stuff. But Sokka is a serious, dignified manly man worthy of the deepest respect now, so of course they don't make him wear the Kyoshi uniform. Instead, the main purpose of his training is to allow them to flirt some more. It's less martial arts training and more an excuse to grope each other and near-kiss.

Suki's just a waifu now. She still fights real good, but all of the stuff that made her relationship with Sokka interesting has been erased.

Yue

Yue, similarly, leaps straight to shipping from the word go. They write out her fiance, Hahn, by having Yue briefly meet Sokka earlier in the season. She spends one minute talking to him in the Spirit World about Spirit World lore; In that time, she falls so desperately, madly, unfathomably in love with him that she breaks off her marriage to Hahn and devotes herself to waiting for him to one day come to her.

"Never have I known such joys as that time you let me explain the spirit bear Hei Bei to you. Truly, we are destined to be together for life."

Like with Suki, they go out of their way to have Yue and Sokka already be a ship from the word 'go' so they don't have to spend time developing any kind of meaningful attraction.

They just. They really want you to know that Sokka is the manliest and most desirable man ever to walk this earth. It is very important that you understand how great he is. Women hurl themselves into his arms with zero effort whatsoever, because he's just so goddamn irresistible.

Fortunately, Hahn is super okay with this turn of events. He's the most chill guy ever, he gets along perfectly well with Sokka, and he completely supports Yue's right to dump him! In the famously misogynistic Northern Water Tribe, no less! What a swell guy. Aren't men swell?

June

June gets hit with that "rewritten as hollow waifu" stick too, but her eyes are set on Iroh. They rewrote June to be super attracted and flirty towards the man who was her unwanted sexual harasser in the source material. So that's fun.

Also, she barely does anything. Zuko hires her to find Aang, she succeeds, and then she fucks right off out of the show - But she manages to find time to express how unbelievably sexy Iroh is twice during that time.

She seriously just dropped into the show to flirt with Iroh and leave. She is unbelievably inconsequential.

Kyoshi

And then there's Kyoshi. They really want you to hate Kyoshi. She's constantly shot from below, as if looking down on Aang and the audience. Her voice takes on a demonic echoing reverb at one point as she's screaming at Aang that "THE AVATAR MUST BE A MERCILESS WARRIOR!!!"

She despises Aang, calling him a coward for running away from his responsibilities - Which, I remind you, is no longer a plot point because they unwrote that flaw from his character. So she's just a complete and utter asshole, shot from the asshole angle, yelling violently at him with asshole sound effects. They want you to despise this woman.

Azula

Awkwardly, they do not seem to want you to despise Azula.

There's a lot to be said for how Ozai treats Azula in the original show. The way the favoritism he shows her is every bit as cruel and manipulative as the unfavoritism that he shows Zuko. Ozai does not love Azula. He loves the reflection of himself he sees in her eyes, and his encouragement urges her to polish herself to ensure his reflection always shines through.

This is not that. The show instead erases the favoritism entirely. Ozai doesn't really care one way or another about either of his kids. He plays them against each other, bragging openly to Azula about how great Zuko is and unpleasably writing Azula off as weak and useless.

They've rewritten the dynamic between abusive father and his two abused kids in order to take Azula's pride away. Reimagining her from a gifted prodigy who excels at imitating the toxic behaviors of a father who doesn't truly care for her, to a put-upon overachiever tearing herself in knots to live up to the standards of her unpleasable father.

This results in a truly wild portrayal of Azula as insecure and jealous of Ozai's seemingly love for Zuko. Here, she is simply a browbeaten child constantly complaining to her friends about how mean her father is and conspiring to get one up over Daddy's Golden Child Zuko.

Which she fails at, because she backs Zhao. Zuko deftly defeats her without even realizing they're in competition.

Conclusion

The season ends well for some of these women. It ends promising that maybe we'll see Katara teaching Aang some day. It ends with Zhao bragging that Ozai just used Zuko to train Azula so maybe we'll see the more confident and misguidedly proud Azula some day. Yue becomes the moon like she's supposed to. June's still out there so maybe she'll get to do something again some day.

Katara gets to fight Pakku and lose, but she looks pretty cool. She gets to fight Zuko and lose, but she looks pretty cool. Azula learns to lightningbend because she's just so mad about Ozai's contempt for her and favoritism for Zuko, which isn't how you lightningbend.

But promises of future content fall flat when the content that exists is so underwhelming. This season made its feelings on these characters pretty evident, and it's unwise to expect better material from creators who've disappointed you with the material they already made.

The women of Netflix Avatar simply do not get to shine, outside of superficial moments like the "Women of Northern Water Tribe demand the right to fight and then fuck off and don't do anything for the entire rest of the episode" bit.

"In the midst of battle, we demand that you stop being sexist and give us permission to fight! This is a way better idea than convincing you to teach us to fight before the battle begins."

The characters of this show feel as if they've been reimagined to glorify the boys at the expense of the girls. The boys are treated with a great amount of care. They're dignified and made important movers of the plot, with their rough edges sanded off. While the girls are molded around them.

#avatar the last airbender #drake watches netflix last airbender #kyoshi #katara #azula #suki #yue #june

[dcxdpdabbles]

Would you ever consider writing out the Alley Boyfriends?

Tim's favorite brand of coffee since childhood- for one could not follow Batman and Robin around without losing some sleep- had always been the Heart Attack Coffee. It was known for its high levels of sugar and caffeine, with the added bonus of being cheap.

Heart Attack Coffee grew from a small family-run booth in Gotham's street market to five stores in Gotham, three in Bludhaven, and even one in Metropolis.

Their menu comprises about sixty percent of various coffees, but there are teas, fruit waters, and even pastries.

They rolled out signature drinks per season, and Tim was always the first one in line when the new menu was revealed. He preferred the winter ones- mainly because they were hot and always had a special kick to his coffee compared to the spring and summer that tended to lean more towards ice dreams like teas or fruit waters.

Tim adored Heart Attack with all his might. He collected their special cups, a book on all the different flavors he tried, and even cried for three hours straight after learning the Heart Attack team had made drinks inspired by the Bats.

He doesn't think he drank anything but the Red Robbin Rush for the three months the promotion ran. Yes, his heart was beating like a hummingbird in his chest the whole time, and he was a bit jitty, but it was worth it.

Then came the terrible day Bruce found out just how much caffeine was inside Heart Attack's coffee. Not enough to shut them down with health violations but enough to worry him.

He forbids the family from Heart Attack, suggesting another cafe that were safer. The thing is, Tim does not drink any other coffee. He tried of course, but unless he was the one that made it, the other coffee never came close!

That was Tim's coffee. His special coffee. He had one every day (that he was in town and not away on a mission) so much so the employees knew him by name and what time he usually showed up.

Sean, the morning cashier at the closest branch to WE, would have an experimental drink prepared for him. Sean would let him test out possible new flavors!

That's how valued he was as a customer.

Don't get him wrong, Tim tried to follow Bruce's mandatory boycott. But by the third day, his headache was killing him, and his hands were starting to get itchy.

Not only that. His whole day just felt off when he skipped out on his morning coffee or his after-work coffee. Tam had caught him re-organizing his office at least five times because his office just didn't feel right anymore. It wasn't balanced.

On the fourth day, he walked into a Heart Attack, and Sean smiled at him. He had a blond expresso Rush halfway made when Tim reached the counter. "Welcome back, Tim."

He placed a fifty in the tip jar grinning at the employee. He took his first sip of the golden nectar and felt his very soul breathe as it settled in his stomach. "Good to be back"

Tim figured that Bruce wouldn't notice because, frankly his adoptive dad wasn't the most observant when it came to Tim's habits. He got away with it for about a month.

Then came the faithful day Bruce reminded him why he was Bartman.

"I'm sorry, Tim, you've been placed on the Do not Serve Coffee list." Sean winces, showing the binder to the stunned CEO.

"I've been banned!?" He chokes, running his eyes over his own face in picture form. "What did I do!?"

"Not banned. You can still order caffeine-free teas or fruit waters." Sean reassures, but it means nothing. His apologies and his explanations mean nothing.

Sean-who he was half sure had been flirting with Tim for months- suddenly meant nothing.

Bruce has bought out Heart Attack was nearest WE in an effort to get Tim to cut back on his coffee intake. The man knew he did not like drinking any other brand, didn't function right without it, and still chose to pull this stunt.

Well, if he thought Tim wouldn't drive ten minutes to the next nearest Heart Attack, he was sorely mistaken. He got up twenty minutes early- and Tim loves to sleep okay. Just because he can't have too much of it with his busy life didn't mean he didn't adore sleep- and drove himself there to make sure he was on time for WE.

The employee gave him the same spiel, holding that dreaded binder. Bruce had also gotten to this branch. But Tim knew that while the branches could be bought out, the name was trademarked, so Bruce couldn't own them all!

He tried the Heart Attack that was thirty minutes away, showing up late to work due to him not planning the traffic for the morning rush, and still did not succeed in getting coffee.

. Then he tried the one that forty minutes, on the complete opposite side of his work, and that one failed too. By this point, a whole week had gone by since he last had a Heart Attack.

Not even on missions did he go this long. He usually bought those take-home packages when he knew the missions were going to be longer than three days at the most. They wouldn't even sell him that anymore!

The packages were just packs of Heart Attack instant coffee. It wasn't even the real deal!

He was feeling withdrawal; his headaches were getting worse, while his body felt slow with fatigue, and he was snapping at everything and everyone.

Just the other day, he yelled at Tam for sneezing. Sneezing.

Thankfully, she can give out as good as she gets. She reminded Tim why she was the one who tended to call all the shots around the office despite what others believed.

His skin was starting to burn, which didn't make sense since caffeine withdrawal did not include itchiness, but he couldn't stop scratching. Tim also hasn't slept in a while because his daily evening routines were all off now that he couldn't have Coco Connect!

He thinks he made all of his executives uneasy with his fidgeting and nasty scowl at the last meeting because he couldn't sit still when all he could think of was Heart Attack.

The last Heart Attack, the one right at the edge of the city, the one that was only a street away from Crime Alley and happened to be a forty-five-minute commute for both Wayne Manor and WE, was his last hope.

Out of all of the branches, this one was the least impressive. It was cramped with only three tables, the walls were painted a dark brown, and the light setting was all low.

It was nothing like the bright and spacious atmosphere of the other branches. It was even squished between two large buildings, the narrow doorway making it hard to even see. Tim was sure Bruce had not found this one yet.

When he pushed the door open, he jumped slightly at the chime from the bells on the door. His anxiety had been climbing to ridiculous levels, he needed his coffee.

At the counter, a boy who looked his age glanced up from his red bulky phone. He quickly slipped it into his pocket, giving Tim a friendly, if slightly bored smile. "Can I help you?"

Tim raced towards him, nearly tripping over his own feet. There was a slight note of deranged desperation in his voice as he responded. "Please, I just want a cup of coffee."

The boy nods, pressing a few buttons on his little cheap register. "What kind would you like?"

Tim's heart swelled with hope. "I want a large Blond Expresso Rush and a-"

The boy stops. He looks up slowly at the time, squinting his eyes as if trying to see into Tim's mind. Then, with a slow movement, he reached under the counter to withdraw a very familiar binder.

Tim's eyes burn with unshed tears as the stranger flips through the binder before stopping on a particular page. "I'm sorry, sir, but you are on the Don't Serve Coffee list. I can offer you some tea instead-"

"NO!" Tim yells, causing the employee to jerk back. He knows he must look like a mess, with tears rolling down his face, but he doesn't care. This was his last chance. He can't make it to the branches in Bludhaven or Metropolis, not daily and certainly not without Bruce noticing. " THIS IS THE FIFTH PLACE. BRUCE CAN'T OWN YOU ALL!"

He places his face into his hands and wails. His body is shaking with his sobs, leaning against the counter because he lost all strength to himself up.

The employee stares at him with a strangely understanding expression. "Does this coffee mean that much to you? Is it.... an Obsession for you?"

Tim can only nod because words are hard to push through his cries. The teenager sighs, running a hand through his hair before leaning forward and whispering. "Look, man, I can't give you coffee under the cameras. Meet me in the back alley in twenty minutes, and I'll get you a coffee. Bring Cash."

Tim snaps his head up at once.

"How much? Five hundred, six hundred, or hell, even a thousand? I'll bring whatever you want." He sobbed, knowing he looked sort of pathetic but beyond the point of caring about his dignity.

" Chill, dude, it's a cup of coffee. Three dollars is fine." The other says with a sort of uneasy smile.

"It's not just any coffee! It's my favorite brand, and Bruce bought them out to ensure they wouldn't sell to me anymore!"

The guy holds up his hands. "Okay, okay, this coffee means a lot to you. I get it. Twenty minutes alright?"

Tim stumbles his way outside, reaching for his wallet. He has no cash, but he says an ATM is not too far down the street. He all but runs there and sprints back with a crispy twenties.

He stopped at a local flower store to ask if they would break it for him and was told he needed to buy something first. Not wanting to meet the coffee angel, he picks out a lovely bouquet of lavender roses.

He gets four dollars as his change and races back to the Alley behind Heart Attack. Just in time, too, because the back door opens and out strolls the cashier with a large travel container.

Tim throws the cash and flowers into his hands to rip off the lid and check the inside. It's a Blond Expersso Rush. Even just a sniff has something in him settling. He takes a sip, and all is right with the world for the first time in a while.

"That good?" The boy asks with a slight grin. Tim hums, smiling back as he takes another sip. "I'm glad. Want your flowers back?"

Huh? Oh yeah, he bought those. He shakes his head. "Keep them. Think of it as a thanks for doing this."

"Cool. Never had flowers as a tip before." He jokes, taking a sniff of the roses with a broader grin. "Name's Danny, by the way."

"Tim. Nice to meet you."

"You too."

Tim tips his head back, letting the coffee burn down his throat. It's hot, but that hardly matters. Danny's mouth drops. "Dude, maybe wait for it to not be so hot?"

"I can't." He whines, downing the cup's contents, and only after it's all gone does he realize he forgot to savor it. He throws it over his shoulder in the direction of the trash can. "I don't know when I'll get a chance like this again."

"Don't worry about that. I'll make you more whenever you want. Here, have my number and text me when you're on your way so I can-"

Tim throws himself onto Danny. The other fumbles with the flowers, trying to hold them and Tim simultaneously, but Tim doesn't care. "You are the best person I have ever met! I think I love you!"

The other laughs, patting his hair. "I'm glad. You've been the first to give me flowers, so you're cool, too."

"When do you get off shift? I'll treat you to dinner."

"It's not a big deal, dude."

"I insist!"

"Well if you insist. I just finished, actually. Where do you have in mind?"

Tim leans back to smile at Danny, unaware of the two shadows that leap away from the still-embraced couple. They arrived sometime after Tim finished his cup, unaware he had drunk it since it was lying on the group near the other discarded cups in the trash.

They only saw Tim in the arms of a boy, holding flowers, which represented "Love at First Sight," and the way they heard Tim offer to buy him dinner.

"See B? Tim wasn't buying coffee. He was just meeting his crush!"

"Hmm. Based on what we saw, it's safe to say boyfriend. No one is comfortable with someone unless they have known them for a while."

"I think your right. I wonder when Tim will bring him over to meet the family?"

"Try not to push too much Nightwing. You know T values his privacy."

They both smile at each other knowingly, and even though Bruce suppresses it right away for his Batman persona they don't forget what they saw.

They pretend not to notice every time Tim disappears or that his GPS puts him back in that alley. They'll wait till he's ready to tell them. Besides, the barista seems good to him; Tim is far more energetic and bright these days.

A month goes by like this, where Tim is back to his normal self, no longer needing coffee to be happy. Bruce pats himself ion the back for his plan to help cut him off working so well.

Even though he seems to be texting constantly on his phone.

Neither Dick nor Bruce noticed the narrow eye stare of worry that Jason aimed at Tim whenever he slipped away to meet Danny. He has theories on what is inside those strange containers, but he hasn't gotten close enough to confirm his suspicions yet.

Jason prays he's wrong.

He waits until he knows Tim is gone (he is not. He likes to hide in the cave's shadows to overhear the latest family gossip) before turning to Bruce and Dick.

"Tim's on drugs! I've caught him trading cash for small containers in a shady alley six times. We need an intervention."

Predictably both men freak out.

"What?! I thought that was his boyfriend!" Dick wails, looking over all the pictures of Tim and Danny standing in an alley trading cash, flowers, and containers that Jason took.

"I also thought that was Tim's boyfriend, but if it's a drug dealer, we have to help him," Bruce grunts, eyes hard as he now sees Danny Fenton in a new, less favorable light.

And Tim, who is still hiding in the cave's shadows overhead, can only whisper a heartfelt "shit."

He rips out his phone to text Danny as the rest of the Bats below begin plotting. Thank goodness they don't know what Danny has been giving him exactly. Maybe they can steal Bruce's and Dick's ideas.

Meanwhile, Danny's tiny apartment across the city is starting to appear like a greenhouse with all the flowers Tim has been giving him. His small slip of loving flowers was all Tim needed to hear.

He's taken it as a personal challenge to always have some flowers for Danny as a thank-you for the coffee he made for him.

It was nice. It helped get rid of the boredom his life had developed. He looked forward to Tim's presence. He hadn't had this much fun or clicked as easily with someone since Sam or Tucker.

"Speak of the devil, and he shall appear," Danny grins as his phone dings and Tim's picture flashes on his screen.

If anyone asks you're my secret boyfriend who been making me teas in allies

Danny stares at the screen momentarily, before shrugging and texting back a confirmation. "Who the hell would believe that? But I've had a boring week, so yeah, I'm down to be a pretend boyfriend."

He's never met any of Tim's family, but he doesn't think they will be too hard to fool.

#dcxdpdabbles #dc x dp crossover #Alley Boyfrinds #Part 1? #Does the chat considered the first part? #misunderstandings #fake relationship #Danny was bored and this guy who looked to be on crack for coffee is funny #Tim was not aware of the flowers meaning. Neither is Danny #Everyone playing chess while Tim is trying to figure out thumb wrestling #Danny is not aware that Tim is a Wayne

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

doctor who but i've never watched it

and so it begins again. the people asked for it. the people got it. i will ensure the people regret it.

i have never watched this show, or seen an edit, but i am a thorough researcher and i feel that i've got the essence of it.

this is what i have gathered. academicians worldwide take note.

Firstly, so I don't anger anyone, I accept and acknowledge that the tardis is blue and not yellow. My misinformation was from a Drarry fanfiction, and I had hitherto regarded Drarry fanfiction as the absolute truth.

There are doctors, and there are at least fifteen of them. At least two of them are David Tennant, which I can respect.

I'm not sure why the doctors are doctors, because I can find no trace of any medical procedure except for one doctor who licks things, which he learned from the previous doctor. If this is sufficient reason, I apologise for doubting their credentials.

On the other hand, if they are doctors thanks to a postdoctoral degree, this is also fine, though I have never seen anyone study anything. There is however a doctor, and there were people upset about her, but the fandom pointed out she set the tardis on fire, which is apparently a very doctor thing to do. Setting things on fire is absolutely something any research scholar would love, so again, apologies for doubting their credentials.

At least one doctor is gay. It is probably one of the David doctors, which checks out. He says someone, I think a dentist, is hot. I envy the maybe-dentist.

A t least one doctor is trans. I was unable to find them. But they exist. Oh yes, the fandom assures me they exist.

David Tennant as well as Ncuti Gatwa were fanboys, first of the show, and second of David Tennant, and thus they got into acting. Just a fun tidbit from me, since I am now the authority on this fandom.

There are time machines with which the doctors have sex by piloting them, which is questionable because the time machines are only partially sentient. I am not sure if the time machines are the tardis. But the tardis is blue, and not yellow, of that I am certain.

There was a stage play. Or maybe that was a metaphor for the production budget of the early seasons. I am not sure, but toddler David Tennant watched it. I assume no one took a 3 year old to a stage play, so through scientific deduction, it must have been a metaphor.

At some point, Death is an agony aunt and they have to spill secrets to it, or drown in a lake of human skulls. Who is this they? It's so obvious that the fandom sees no need to explain it, and neither do I. I do know it though. Of that you may remain certain.

A David doctor has a niece and she likes being his niece.

A David doctor has a best friend named Donna. He kisses her head. She supports his fruitiness. It is wholesome. It killed him when he lost her.

Slight tangent, but younger David doctor looks like Andrew Garfield. Current David in photos does give Ben Barnes energy. Any Wolfstar shippers, I believe you've found the Wolfstar kid. It is David Tennant.

A lot of people are David Tennant. A reliable Pinterest post on Doctor Who, clearly well researched, gave me the statistic that 15% of Doctor Who is David Tennant. From the amount of David Tennant that I ran across in my research, I don't understand it but I don't doubt it, either.

Speaking of Andrew Garfield, he in involved in this somehow. I am not sure how, but you cannot escape Andrew Garfield. He is even a part of fandoms he never acted in.

There is an individual named Catherine, I think she is the actress, but she could be a character. She seems to have much less knowledge about Doctor Who lore than I do. David Tennant finds it funny. Maybe he would find me funny, too.

The doctors installed some things in the tardis, from a wheelchair ramp to a jukebox. I don't know why a jukebox was needed. If I'm honest I don't know what a jukebox is. I don't know what the tardis is. But it is blue, and not yellow.

There is a French catchphrase.

Something happens in Wales. I don't know what it is, but something always seems to be happening in Wales in these fandoms, so I don't doubt it.

There is an old Doctor Who in a wheelchair, and he is happy to see a David doctor.

They go around in space, and do things. Who is this they? You and I both know the answer, so we needn't talk about it.

The show intro is "doo wee doo".

There is an alien who is not a mouse, the alien is The Meep, and uses the definite article as pronouns. David doctor is supportive of this, which is very good.

I found baby Yoda in the show, but apparently they call it a 'goblin' there, and someone doesn't like it.

There is a lot to do with time. There is a time hole, and things happen, and people die and are resurrected. There is danger, but it is fun.

They have CGI, and it is not good, which is the best thing about it. Who is they? Please stop asking me. It is rather obvious and something I definitely know.

Someone's boyfriend dies and the boyfriend is then resurrected but then gets lost with his boyfriend but then is reincarnated as a girl who would still call herself the someone's boyfriend but then she is replaced by the boyfriend but he's different now. I apologise for any errors that have crept it, but the tardis is blue and not yellow.

Someone named Martha is a doctor, and someone is very proud of her for it.

The eleventh and twelfth doctors like bow ties.

David Tennant wants to be ginger. David Tennant always gets what he wants. Who can refuse David Tennant? David Tennant is then ginger.

A David doctor gets a happy ending.

Someone yelled at Neil Gaiman about this. It was a mistake. He said that since it had already been done, he wouldn't want to give David's character a happy ending in S3, that would be a trifle unoriginal.

A lesson to be learned, Good Omens fandom, just a bit of advice from your son, do not yell at Neil Gaiman, it does not go well. Rumour has it he murdered the people who complained about him always wearing black. Of course, there is the fact that he doesn't exist, but that doesn't seem to have stopped him.

The doctors manifest in the previous doctor's clothes, which is apparently so last season. The tardis also manifests. I don't know where, or how. But it is blue, and not yellow.

I know, there was a lot of lore, so many of you thought I wouldn't be able to gather it all. But look how much research I did! I've got it better than maybe-actress-maybe-character Catherine, I'm sure :"]

Anyway, all the major plot points are covered above, so anyone who hasn't watched Doctor Who, feel free to refer to this and impress your Whovian friends with your knowledge! [not to be judgemental, but what a dreadfully Dr Seuss name, I rather like it]

#doctor who #doctor who lore #doctor who lore summary #dw fandom #doctor who explained #i thought it would be badly #but i think not #doctor who accurately explained #i did so much more research for this than for good omens #i even used pinterest! #good omens mascot #now explaining doctor who at your nearby tumblr #hiding behind a dumpster in case the fandom comes for me #good omens fandom #protect me please #wolfstar #david tennant #10th doctor #9th doctor #11th doctor #12th doctor #13th doctor #14th doctor #15th doctor #look internet parents i can count! #ncuti gatwa #whovian #neil gaiman #and his alleged murders #wolfstar child

[atlabeth]

(not so) simple finale - anthony bridgerton

masterlist

summary: coercing lord bridgerton into pretending to court you to avoid the affections of a baron is very simple — that is, until it isn’t.

a/n: so um ignore how long every part of this took to come out. i have no excuse. anyways we are finally here at the end!! almost 10k words of proper regency soap opera type shit and it all ends happily i promise. i hope u enjoy because damn this was supposed to be a short one shot and ended up being over 40k lmao

wc: 9k

warning(s): angst, reader is a lil insecure, slightly steamy make out scene, happy ending<333

You’d never been this restless before. 

Your dreams had a part to play in it. They insisted on tormenting you, though not in the usual way. 

No, these dreams would have been pleasant had they come any sooner. For Anthony Bridgerton appeared in near every single one, with his charming smile and soft eyes and hair you always desired to run your fingers through. 

He would smile at you, offer his arm and walk with you all around the park and the city as you talked for hours. He would compliment you, and you would compliment him, and he would court you as a perfect gentleman would. 

He would kiss you, ravenously so. His hands would touch you where no one had touched before, leaving trails of fire in their wake, would unearth feelings you never could have imagined. He would revere you, near worship you, because in this world you never made such ill-advised choices. In this world, you never dragged him into a worthless scheme that ended with a ruined reputation and a broken heart.  

In this world, he loved you just as much as you loved him, and you never did a single thing to make him doubt that. 

But you were not there. 

You were here, in the real world. Where you were in the midst of reaping what you spent a whole season sowing. 

You were roused from that less than peaceful attempt at sleep—though thoughts of Anthony took longer to disappear—by the opening of your door, and despite your visitor attempting to be quiet, you found your eyes fluttering open against your will.

“Oh, dearest,” your mother lamented, “I did not mean to wake you. I apologize; I merely wanted to check on you. I will return later—please, rest.”

“No,” you murmured, and you rubbed your eyes as you pushed yourself into a sitting position. Small movements were much easier, which at least meant a step in the right direction. “No, stay. Please.”

“Are you sure?” she asked. When you nodded, she closed the door lightly behind her and sat on your bedside, laying her hand over yours. 

She whispered your name, her voice already thick with tears that she was trying to hide. “I am so glad you are alright.” 

“You say that every time you come in here,” you said.

“And I will continue to say it.” She shook her head. “You nearly perished. You should consider yourself lucky I am not in here at all hours of the day.” 

You managed a smile, and she sighed. “How do you feel?”

“Better,” you said. “I am still sore, but much better.”

“Good,” she said. “All I can ask is that you continue to get better.” 

“The rest has certainly been nice,” you said. “Am I still a true lady despite my late wakings?” 

“You have always been a true lady,” your mother assured with a slight smile. 

“I believe you may be the only one that still thinks so.” 

“If you are feeling ready, there is a ball in a fortnight,” she said. “It could be a good way to garner good will again.” You gave her a look, and she held up her hands. “I understand how you feel, but your presence is important. There are… rumors floating about, and we must lay them to rest.” 

“Rumors,” you muttered wryly. “That your daughter is an ungrateful wench and will die a spinster?” 

She said your name sternly, and you shook your head. “I read what Whistledown wrote about me—she’s likely written a hundred more. I do not care what any of them think of me, Mother. I am only sorry for the pain it has caused you and Father, and the Bridgertons.” 

“The Bridgerton name is strong enough to weather scandal,” she said. “We have to work a bit harder. And making an appearance in society again, especially with Lord Cardew by your side, will help.” 

You suppressed a scoff at the mere thought of him. You’d been granted such a reprieve from Lord Cardew because of Anthony’s influence, and while you were recovering, no one but family was to see you. But soon—very soon—he would be your entire life. 

“That brings up another question,” your mother said wryly, and when you met her eyes she was giving you a very pointed look. “Are you still sure about this?” 

No, you wanted to say. You couldn’t be less sure about Jonathan Cardew. But you’d dragged your family into this mess of yours, so it was your duty to fix it. 

Plenty of women married much more dreadful men every year. You should have considered yourself lucky that a man of his breeding, of his standing was interested in you at all—especially after the season you’d spent distancing yourself from him and the scandal you’d caused. 

“...Yes,” you finally said. “I am sure.”

Your mother sighed and said your name. “You are sure? You have not reached out to Anth—” 

“There is nothing left between us,” you interrupted. “I know it is not the best situation, and I know it is my fault, but I am making the best of it. All I ask is that you support me. It is hard enough attempting to make my way through this world—I need my mother to be there for me rather than constantly pushing against it all.”

“...Of course,” she said quietly. “And I am so sorry that I have ever done differently. My dear, all I ask in return is that you understand me, as well as the decisions I make. All I want is the best for you, and I know that marriage is not what you desire, but there are things we must do.” 

“Of course,” you said, and your echoing words spurned a small smile from her. “I am sorry that I have always fought you so much. All I could see was my hatred for any kind of union, but all I managed was hurting you and Father, as well as myself, and— and I cannot think of any apology that will be enough.” You shook your head with a mirthless laugh. “I’ve no idea how you put up with me for so long, truly.” 

“I’ve never had to put up with you,” she said. “I realize I may not have done the best job at showing it, but— but I love you more than anything in this world. Everything I have ever done has been for you, my darling. You are the future of our name, and I know you will do an excellent job at carrying on our legacy.” 

“Truly?” you asked softly. 

Your mother nodded as she took your hands and smiled at you. “Truly. Nothing in this world can change my love for you. You are our greatest accomplishment.” 

You swallowed the sudden lump in your throat as you smiled as well, and you pulled your mother into a hug. She reciprocated, and tears filled your eyes. You’d missed the comfort of her presence so dearly. 

“I love you too,” you whispered. 

-

“Are you alright, my lady?” 

Your lady’s maid's words snapped you out of the stupor you’d found yourself in, and it was all you could do to attempt a smile. 

“Yes, Julia,” you said. “Quite alright.” 

Her brows furrowed as she draped a pendant around your neck, the cold metal turning your exhale slightly shaky. “Pardon my plainness, my lady, but you are not believable in the slightest.” 

“You have been around me for far too long,” you said dryly. “I request another maid, one that cannot read me so easily.” 

Julia offered a wry smile. “You are stuck with me for now, my lady. What is weighing so heavily on your mind?” 

You stared yourself in the mirror as you turned the question over. It was not as easy to answer as it should have been, not when everything was so out of order. Not when you hardly recognized the reflection staring back at you, wrapped in orange silk and adorned in jewels courtesy of Lord Cardew. 

You were not yourself—you were to be Baron Jonathan Cardew’s wife, a baroness and status symbol to hang off his arm and smile prettily, and Baroness Cardew was who stared back at you. 

Only a few more balls remained until the season came to an end, and though Lord Cardew was doing your family an immense service by giving you a second chance, he did not want to wait much longer to make it official. 

It was all planned out. Your relationship would truly enter the public eye tonight with your dances, you would promenade in open parks to have as many eyes on you as possible. He would call on you and your meager staff would be encouraged to spread rumors. Another ball would pass together, enough to hopefully weather some of the scandal you’d created, and then…

Then, he would propose. 

You would accept. 

And the fate you’d been so intent on avoiding would be sealed. 

You swallowed the lump in your throat, blinking back the impending tears. 

“I am nervous,” you admitted. “My decision didn’t exactly feel… real. Not until I was standing at the modiste getting fitted for this gown with one of Cardew’s maids. And all this jewelry…” Your fingers trailed across the raised designs on the pendant. “It makes it even more so.” 

“I can only imagine,” Julia said. “He has certainly put in effort.” 

“And yet it all feels hollow.” You moved away from the mirror and stopped in front of your vanity. The light blue reticule sitting near your jewelry box felt as if it was mocking you. 

Julia said your name with a sigh. “You made your choice. You pushed him away.” 

“I know,” you murmured, tracing the embroidery with your finger. “But feelings do not disappear so quickly.” 

“He wrote letters,” she said. “After you moved from Bridgerton House to recover here, after I refused his calling on you for the hundredth time, he wrote letters and delivered them by hand.” 

You picked at a loose strand of white thread on the purse, jaw clenched so tight you thought your teeth might crack. 

“He told me he did not care if you didn’t want them,” Julia continued softly. “He just needed you to know how he felt.” 

“This is how it has to be,” you finally said, voice shaking. 

“And what makes you think that?” Julia challenged. “You believe you have to live a life of misery simply because half the ton does so in the name of reputation and riches?” 

“Two things I no longer have any of,” you murmured. “Cardew’s pedigree is enough to get both back for my family. It is my duty, Jules, and I can no longer hide from it.” 

Your lady’s maid looked at you with desperation in her eyes when there was a knock on the door followed by your mother calling your name. You nodded your permission and she opened it.

“Lady Worthing,” she said, curtsying just so to your mother. “I’ve finished getting her ready—I’ll give the two of you some time alone.” 

“Thank you, Julia,” your mother said with a smile. She turned back to you, her eyes softer than ever as she moved forward and set her hands on your shoulders. 

“My darling,” she said, “you look so beautiful. I did not lie when I called you the crown jewel of our family.” 

You couldn’t help but smile at her compliment, trying to ignore the tightness in your chest. “Thank you, Mother. I’m glad I can make you proud.” 

She murmured your name, turning you so you faced the mirror. You saw yourself more this time, feeling more assured with your mother standing behind you holding all the stars in her eyes. 

“I have always been proud of you, darling,” she murmured. “Even if I did not show it in the best way. I love you more than words can express. I meant it when I said you are our greatest achievement.” 

You let out a shaky breath, leaning back against her. She allowed you to sink into her and you felt the tears brimming in your eyes. 

“...I’m afraid, Mother,” you whispered. “To marry. To be a wife.” 

She was silent for a moment, busying herself with adjusting your jewelry before she spoke.

“I was afraid too,” she admitted. “I hardly knew your father outside of a few promenades, and one lovely bouquet of flowers. It was almost fully arranged by our parents. But when he proposed, he vowed to always be my friend, and to always take care of me.” 

“Has he?” you asked. 

“Yes,” she said. “We did not love each other on our wedding day. But he has always been kind to me, and he has always advocated for me, and we have always been there for each other. We love each other now, in our own way. And,” she smiled, smoothing down the lace on your sleeves, “together, we brought you into the world. I would do it all over again if it meant I would get you in the end.” 

You could not imagine considering Lord Cardew a friend, nor the opposite. He saw you as just another pretty jewel to adorn himself with. 

Anthony saw you as a friend— as more. He always listened to what you had to say, always entertained your jokes with some of us own, never talked down on you. He saw you as an equal. 

 “I do not know if any woman is prepared to marry,” she finally said. “Even those that marry for love still have initial doubts. There are so many expectations of our behavior when we are told so little of what we must actually do.” 

“How do you do it?” you asked. “You married a man you didn’t know. You raised a child. You held face against a society that shamed you for only having a daughter.” 

“All you can do is trust in yourself, and in those around you,” she said. “If you are with the right person, everything will feel as natural as breathing. You will not care what anything thinks of you, because there is only one opinion that matters.” 

There was one man you felt natural around, one who you felt you could speak your mind around and not be judged. One man that you’d fallen in love with, that surely hated you in return for what you’d done to him. 

Your voice came out as little more than a whisper. “What should I do, Mother?” 

“You know what you must do,” she said softly. “All I can do is support you.” 

-

You’d rubbed your palms on your dress at least fifteen times since you’d arrived. A fruitless effort, considering you were wearing gloves, but you could not stand still. 

Your conversation with Lord Cardew had taken everything out of you, your dance with him even more so—an especially damning fate seemed ahead of you. But you could tune him out well enough, at least. 

It was an entirely different deal when the Bridgertons showed up. 

Violet walked in arm and arm with Anthony and Benedict, and Colin had a loose hold on Eloise. And to make matters worse, Daphne Bridgerton, alongside her husband the Duke of Hastings, were making an appearance. What an honor, to have the chance to embarrass yourself in front of such highly ranking nobles. 

Eloise branched off immediately after they passed the threshold, much to the protests of her mother, but your mother immediately pulled you in their direction. You could only imagine her thoughts—if she could get the Duke of Hastings touting for the Worthings, that would make things much easier.  

Anything for the optics, you supposed. But when you met Anthony’s eyes for the first time, you had to avert your gaze. He just looked so damn sad. 

“It is good to see you again, Violet,” your mother said. “And it is an honor, Duke and Duchess Hastings.” The both of you curtsied, and you could see the Duke’s slight smile. 

“I consider it my honor to meet the woman who has been the center of such conversation this season,” he said. You felt the heat rise to your cheeks, and thankfully Violet stepped in. 

“It is good to see you as well, Cecilia.” Violet smiled as she looked at you. “Especially you, my dear.” 

You bowed your head. “Thank you, Lady Bridgerton, Duke Hastings. I am grateful to be here.” 

Benedict smiled, the notion warmer than anything you deserved. “You look lovely, Miss Worthing. Especially for someone who escaped death with such recency.”

Anthony’s eyes remained on you the entire time, and more than anything you wished you could read this mind. The man probably hated you, and he had every right to do so. You just wished your feelings for him weren’t so insurmountable. 

You swallowed the lump in your throat and smiled as believably as you could. “Thank you, Mister Bridgerton. You also look well.”

Your mother nudged your shoulder and your gaze met Anthony’s once more. He still hadn’t looked away from you. 

You bowed your head once more. “Lord Bridgerton. It… is good to see you.”

No wonder you actually ended up falling in love with Anthony. It was the only way anyone could believe this ruse—you were quite an awful actress. 

Anthony lowered his head as well, his poise stiff. “A pleasure, Miss Worthing.”

“We’re glad to see you’re doing well,” Violet said, her smile a bit thin. You could only imagine the conversation that would occur between her and your mother later. “You caused us all quite a scare.”

“Oh, Anthony was so worried,” Daphne said, pressing a hand to her chest. “I’m thankful we have the chance to attend this ball so I could see you in person.” 

“I’ve recovered well,” you nodded, and you looked at Violet. “My family and I thank you immensely for your kindness and your doctor’s care. We’ll be in your debt endlessly.”

“There is no need for that,” Violet said. “It is enough that you are still here.”

Your cheeks burned but you tried to smile anyways. You wanted to burrow into a hole and never come out. It seemed the Bridgertons were capable of endless grace in public when they surely had to despise you. 

“Eloise has run off somewhere over near the strings,” Benedict provided in the silence. “I’m sure she would appreciate your companionship tonight.”

You glanced at your mother and she nodded, and your smile at Benedict was much more genuine. “Of course. I’ve been meaning to talk with her.” 

You mouthed thank you to him when your mother could not see, and he nodded. He’d always been so decent to you. 

You could not help but glance at Anthony as you went, and his gaze followed you. He would resent you if he had any sense, but it seemed the opposite—the sadness in his eyes was fatal.

You took a glass of lemonade from the refreshments table when you passed it, needing something to do with your hands. You found your way to Eloise’s side soon enough, and her eyes lit up when she caught sight of you.

“It is so good to see you,” she breathed. “I’ve only just arrived, and I’ve already had to fend off suitors. They just cannot seem to understand I hold such little care for them.” 

“I am just as glad to see you,” you admitted. “I do not think I can get through this night alone.” 

“I cannot imagine why,” Eloise said sarcastically. “I’ve heard the news. And I must say, it is your poorest decision this season.”

Your laugh was mostly out of surprise, and you nearly dropped the flute of lemonade you were holding. You were on edge far more than you expected—you almost wished your glass was full of champagne. 

“At least somebody is speaking plainly,” you murmured, your gaze distant and unfocused. “I think the rest of your family must hate me, but they’re all too kind to say it.” 

Eloise frowned. “Why would any of them hate you?” 

Your grip tightened on your glass. “Because I caused an immense scandal and then ended things with Anthony?”

She huffed a laugh, her eyebrows now rising. “Our family has weathered many a scandal, and we are still here. Or have you forgotten how Daphne’s dearest husband chose to court her?”  

“That is different,” you insisted. 

“I think it is worse, actually,” Eloise said plainly. “Simon is a duke, and Anthony nearly killed him before Daphne knocked some sense into him.” She chuckled and shook her head. “Truly, it was a disaster. We Bridgertons have a knack for them.” 

“As do I,” you said with a loose laugh. “I was stabbed, Eloise. I nearly died in your brother’s arms.” 

“And we nearly died in our drawing room,” she said. “Anthony, most of all. He cares for you immensely.” 

“Surely he cannot,” you insisted. “Not after what I’ve done.” 

“I am not blind,” Eloise said, “and neither are you. So do not demerit our intelligence and pretend as if you do not see it.” 

“I— I know.” You wrapped your arms around your midsection, and you grimaced as the jewelry on your wrists brushed against your skin. You were covered head to toe in finery that didn’t belong to you, and you itched from the inside out. “But I don’t know where to go from here.” 

“It’s quite obvious, isn’t it?” Eloise looked across the room, where Lord Cardew stood talking to your mother, and then over at her brother, who couldn’t have been less interested in the lady trying to strike up conversation with him. Then her gaze fell to you. “You’ve got a choice to make.” 

“I’ve already ruined things,” you murmured. “I— I can’t just back out of this.”

“I can tell you that you certainly haven’t ruined things with my brother. And Lady Whistledown’s speculation is the only thing binding you to that lecher.” Eloise shrugged. “You’ve already broken off one courtship. What’s another?”

Your eyes met Anthony’s from across the room. Once again, he’d already been looking at you. You averted your gaze quickly, feeling the heat rush to your face, and you tried to steady your breathing. He had no right to still have such an effect on you. 

“I need some air,” you murmured. “Will you—”

“Of course,” Eloise said. “You are simply touching things up in the powder room.”

You nodded your thanks and slipped out of the ballroom, finally able to drop the facade you’d been trying to uphold. You truly felt as if you were overheating, and the cool air was hardly of aid once you reached the outdoors.

Everything was all wrong—your dress, this damned tiara, the bracelets and the necklaces and every jewel that Cardew thought he could buy you with. 

It all belonged to him. You would not be another prize on his shelf. 

You couldn’t help yourself. You began to shed the jewelry as your pace sped up, ripping bangles from your wrists and pendants from your neck—by the time you reached a deserted area of the gardens, you were considerably lighter and considerably close to tears. 

You let out a frustrated sob as you slammed your fists against some artistic stone structure. It earned you nothing but pain, but it grounded you in some strange way. You tore off your gloves and threw them to the ground, a shaky breath escaping you as you screwed your eyes shut and  pressed your palms to your forehead. 

You could not marry traditionally, you could not follow through with your feelings for Anthony, and now you could not follow through with this ill-advised plan. 

Were you truly this useless? To bring ruin to two families with your knack for destroying things for it all to amount to nothing? You waxed poetic about the life you thought you deserved to live, about going to university and gaining your independence and never marrying, and yet here you were, near tears in the gardens of the ball you were meant to reenter society at. 

“Miss Worthing.”

The whispered words blared through the silence, and you knew who it was without having to turn around. It still sent a shock through you, your breathing faltering for a moment. Your eyes stayed shut. 

“Why are you here?” you asked, your voice watery. 

“You do not know me if you think there is anywhere else I would be,” he said. 

“How did you find me?”

“I followed the trail of jewels. You’ve left an awfully expensive path in your wake.”

“All of it is worthless,” you mumbled, finally letting your hands drop. “It all belongs to Lord Cardew.”

“You’ll have made a magpie very happy.” 

“Enough with the jokes,” you said. “Why are you here?” 

“Why do you think?” Anthony asked with a slight laugh. 

“I do not know,” you responded. “That is why I asked.” 

“I am here because I want to talk to you,” he said. “You cannot just avoid me for the rest of the season.”

You turned away. “I can try.”

“I will not let you,” Anthony enunciated. “I will not let you make the biggest mistake of your life because you believe it is your duty.”

“If you are here to change my mind, you are wasting your time,” you said stiffly. 

“I don’t believe I have to do anything,” Anthony said. “It looks as if you’ve come to the conclusion yourself.” 

“And what makes you think that?”

“You have not even glanced in Cardew’s direction this entire night,” he said. “You’ve been looking at me instead.” 

“Because I have felt your eyes on me with every moment.” 

Anthony huffed. “Can you blame me? This is the first time I have seen you since that night.” 

“Then you should remember my words from that night,” you bit out. 

“Why are you so intent on pushing me away?” Anthony begged. 

You scoffed. “Why are you so intent on bothering me?”

“Because I cannot stand here and watch you marry another!” he exclaimed.

Your brows furrowed and you turned around. Anthony stood in front of you, his outfit impeccable but not at all looking put together. Desperation colored his eyes, and you saw how truly undone he’d become. 

“I— I thought I could, but I cannot.” He shook his head, a muscle working in his jaw as he glanced away. “Every moment you are in the vicinity of that man is a test of my strength. And I do not know how strong I am.” 

“I don’t understand,” you said hollowly. “You should hate me.” 

“I could never hate you,” Anthony murmured. “I thought I could, when you first told me of your plans, but— but I could hardly even dislike you.” A wistful smile tugged at his lips as he shook his head. “My mother had been bothering me for nearly a decade to find a wife and settle down, but I thought love was a fool’s game. I would have my fun as a bachelor, and then settle down with the most advantageous match. There was no need for further emotional baggage—when you love, you can lose. And I refused to lose again.” 

For a moment, your heart stopped in your chest. He lost his father, he nearly lost you, and then you pushed him away like he meant nothing. 

“Anthony—” you whispered, but he shook his head. 

“Please,” he said. “I have a lot to say.” 

You nodded, and he did as well. 

“Our deal was perfect for that. You were nothing but my sister’s nuisance of a friend—a bad influence that I could never see as more.” You could not help your soft laugh, and Anthony’s smile turned a bit more genuine. 

“But then we spent more time together. I… truly began to know you.” He shook his head with a chuckle. “You shattered every preconception I had of you. I began to look forward to our meetings, to our promenades—I would get home from calling on you and could think only of the next time I would see you.” 

“Throughout it all, you made me realize I was worthy of love,” he said. “You— you made me realize that I wanted it. That I wanted you.” His throat bobbed, and you could see his eyes glistening. “That I loved you.” 

You could hardly find the strength to speak. You felt as if you could melt into a puddle at his feet just from his words. You were so intent on avoiding Anthony because you couldn’t stand the thought of hurting him anymore— you believed he would be better off without you, without the scandal you’d dragged him into. 

But he… he loved you. 

He loved you just as you loved him. 

“I do not expect you to share any of my notions, and I know you value your freedom more than anything,” Anthony murmured. “So if it is not me you wish to be with, I understand, and I will accept it without complaint. I just beg of you—do not become that wretched man’s wife.” 

All you could do was stare at him for a moment more, words beyond your reach before you finally managed to speak through your emotions. 

“I tried to tell myself the exact same thing,” you said softly. “That you could not be happy with me. That I could never be happy chained to another—truly, that I could never love. Not when freedom is what I have always desired most. But Anthony…” you moved forward until you were mere centimeters apart, unable to suppress the shiver that ran through you at the proximity, “I have never felt more free than when I am with you.” 

“Miss—” Anthony started, but he paused and shook his head before saying your first name instead. His eyes were softer than anything. “Are you truly…?” 

“I could never fathom you sharing my feelings,” you said thickly. “That is why I pushed you away. But I love you, Anthony Bridgerton. And I think I have loved you for quite some time.” 

You swallowed the sudden lump in your throat, turning away so as to not betray the fullness of your emotions, and though you opened your mouth to provide some excuse, you were not granted the chance. 

Anthony’s hand encircled your wrist, pulling you back around, and just as soon did you feel his lips against yours. The tightness in your chest dissolved almost immediately as you all but fell into him, Anthony wrapping his arms around you to support you as your hands found purchase on anything they could. 

Your focus became devoted solely to the feeling of him, his soft lips against yours even as they plied for access. Anthony held you as if his only desire were to protect you from the world, and it made you feel a way you’d never even imagined. Only when air became a necessity did he pull away, his labored breaths in contrast to the pure adoration in his eyes. 

“Never in a thousand years did I think you would feel the same,” he murmured, his hands cupping your face on either side as he gazed into your eyes. “I thought myself a fool, falling for the one woman I could not have. You’ve no idea the relief it brings to hear you share my feelings.”

“I suppose I am just as foolish as you,” you breathed. Your heart felt as if it could burst. 

The corners of his lips quirked up in a smile. “I cannot imagine what my mother would think—that after so long spent searching for a wife, I fell for the one woman who never wanted the title.” 

You let out an airy laugh, relishing the feeling of his skin against yours. “Nor did I see myself falling for the one man who resented the chains of marriage as much as I.” 

Anthony pressed his lips against yours once more, and your hands traveled up until they tangled in his hair. You kissed until you were nearly breathless, but Anthony still managed to pull a very unladylike sound out of you as he bowed his head, kissing down the line of your jaw, your neck, until his teeth nipped your skin just above your decolletage.

“Anthony,” you gasped, clenching your fingers as they buried themselves further into his dark locks. You had never been this close with a man before, never this intimate — you never thought you would even desire it. 

But Anthony lit a fire inside of you that only he could quench, and yet the only thing he seemed to do was stoke it further. It was equally maddening and dizzying, the control he so effortlessly had over you. 

“I never knew how much I would delight in hearing you say my name,” he murmured, his lips trailing against your skin. “No more Lord Bridgerton, I beg of you.”

“I should think I’d like to hear you beg—” you breathed, but Anthony cut you off yet again as he pulled you into another searing kiss. You could hardly stand it anymore as your hands fell down to his shoulders, and you pulled away for just a moment as you began desperately undoing his waistcoat, Anthony taking the hint and removing his jacket. 

“These buttons were not designed with the needs of a lady in mind,” you huffed in frustration, fumbling fingers failing to make progress, and Anthony chuckled breathlessly.

“Have we finally found something I best you in?” he asked, and you rolled your eyes with a smile.

“Just take it off.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

You groaned as you looked at him. “If you insist on teasing me this way, Lord Bridgerton, I shall go back inside and act as if nothing has happened.”

“There is no need for idle threats,” he defended, and you bit back your smile. Anthony made deft work of his waistcoat, and the second he tossed it aside he was back on you. 

“Besides,” his voice was a whisper a millimeter from your ear, and warmth blazed in your core, “I believe I told you to call me Anthony.”

“And I believe you should have to try harder than that.” You smiled into his kiss as you trailed your nails down his back, the thin fabric of his dress shirt doing little as you felt his involuntary shiver. 

“You’ve no idea the effect you have on me,” he groaned, once again dipping his head as he peppered even more kisses down your neck, sliding down the sleeve of your dress to allow himself better access. 

The night air on your newly freed skin did little for you, any coolness of the breeze instantly negated by the heat of Anthony against you. Your nails dug into his back as he moved down, each spot where his lips touched your skin erupting with fire. 

You gasped out his name, barely able to handle it—the feeling was so foreign yet familiar, as if you had been waiting all your life for Anthony in this way. 

You could hardly believe you nearly lost it of your own accord. 

“It appears I do not have to try hard at all,” he said, “the way you cry out for me.” 

You laughed breathlessly, though his words were indeed true. You knew, in this moment, that you would do anything for Anthony Bridgerton—and he would do anything for you. “How I fell for a man as irritating as you, I haven’t the slightest.” 

You caught the slightest glimpse of his grin before he ducked his head yet again, and he had only just begun pushing both sleeves of your dress down when a woman’s voice could be heard behind you. 

“Anthony— oh!” 

The unfamiliar voice struck fear into your heart you had never felt the likes of before. Anthony moved away from you quicker than you’d ever seen, you just as hasty as you tugged the sleeves of your dress back to where they belonged and attempted to smooth out everything that Anthony had so easily sullied. 

You’d never imagined this was how your reputation would be ruined, with Anthony Bridgerton in the gardens of some ball, but when you finally had the sense to look and see who had caught you in a most uncompromising position, you could hardly stifle your incredulous laugh. 

“Sister?” Anthony questioned in disbelief, so many emotions warring on his face you had to turn away to cover up your growing grin. 

“Anthony,” Daphne greeted in kind, fighting to conceal her smile as her eyes drifted to you. “Miss Worthing.” 

“Your Grace!” Your shaky fingers were hardly of use to you as you pulled your gloves back up to where they belonged and once again ran your hands down the skirt of your dress to smooth out the wrinkles. Your cheeks burned under her gaze and you were innately aware of the fire underneath your skin brought about by Anthony’s touch in contrast to the cool night air. “What brings you here?” 

“Mother was quite… nervous about tonight,” she explained. “She indulged in one too many glasses of champagne, so she is taking her leave with Benedict for aid. She requested I find you to alert you of her departure, but it seems she was not the one whose disappearance should have been questioned.” 

“I’m sure you know this is quite compromising.” Thinly veiled amusement crossed Daphne’s face as she eyed you pointedly. “I am afraid you must marry him at once Miss Worthing, else I shall have to duel you to protect my brother’s honor.” 

You laughed breathlessly as Anthony looked up at the sky, his face turning a deeper shade of red than you had ever seen. “Your Grace, are you suggesting that I have ruined him?” 

“Indeed I am,” she confirmed, and you could see how it took every muscle of her being to retain a serious image. “This is not a light matter, miss. I do not understand why you are laughing.” 

“Daphne,” Anthony groaned, avoiding her eyes as he occupied himself with his jacket. “Why do you insist on being a nuisance?” 

“Anthony,” she inflected his name the same way he did hers, “I cannot have this woman sullying your name! I know it was of no will of your own, but this can not stand as is. But do not worry; I am prepared to defend your honor to my last breath.” 

“My sincerest apologies for what I have done, Duchess Hastings,” you responded gravely. “I am prepared for pistols at dawn.” 

Anthony huffed as he buttoned his waistcoat back up then went to retrieve his jacket from the bushes. “You exaggerate, the both of you. This cannot be what I was like last season.” 

“You were worse, brother. But do not worry,” Daphne said with a grin, “I should think a taste of your own practices is only fair after all you put Simon and me through.”

Anthony sighed with a slight roll of his eyes. “I… suppose… that it is what I deserve.” 

“Thank you, brother,” she said. “I only wish we had a witness just so your confession is forever remembered.”

“I wish Mother had not sent you to seek me out,” he responded dryly. 

You and Daphne exchanged smiles with each other before your expression sobered slightly. “ I ask quite a bit of you with this, Your Grace, but… may I count on your discretion? I know we jest, but my reputation truly could not handle something like this. I do not know if…” you glanced at Anthony before looking back to her, “if we are yet ready to seal our union.” 

“Of course,” Daphne nodded, and a relieved smile tugged at your lips. “I shall not tell a soul.” 

“Thank you eternally, Your Grace,” you expressed, but at your short curtsy she shook her head.

“Please, call me Daphne.” She offered a smile of her own, slightly coy. “After what I have just witnessed, I’ve no doubt you will be joining our family soon enough.” 

“Sister!” Anthony scolded, and when you glanced at him his entire face was dusted pink, even the tips of his ears. It was enough to make you swoon. “You cannot just say things whenever you see fit.” 

Daphne merely shrugged, joyfully indifferent to her brother’s protests. “I outrank you now, dearest brother — I believe I can say whatever I see fit, particularly when it is the truth.”

“You are truly impossible,” Anthony muttered as he shook his head. 

Daphne just smiled before she looked back at you. “I believe it best if the two of you leave at separate times, so as to not allow room for any rumors. Miss Worthing, you should go first and return to your mother; you can claim you simply needed fresh air. Anthony and I will stroll around the grounds for a bit before allowing ourselves to be seen — we are simply catching up after such a stretch spent at Clyvedon.”

You nodded, taking a deep breath as you smoothed your mussed hair and wrinkled dress for the last time. Anthony certainly did a number on you, in more ways than one. “Thank you again, Your—” you caught yourself, correcting your error with a small smile, “Daphne. 

“You may count on me in the future whenever I am in London,” she reassured. “It is my hope anyway that I shall be able to welcome you to the family officially.”

“Daphne!” Anthony exclaimed yet again, glaring at her. “Might you take your leave so we may have a moment alone?” 

“I believe you just had quite a few moments alone,” Daphne said, but a pointed look from her brother had her conceding with a smile. “Alright. I will be by the trees when you need me.” 

Anthony turned to you with an odd look in his eyes when Daphne was out of hearing distance, and when he did eventually speak, his voice was far softer than usual. 

“Do you truly believe I would not marry you?” he asked, and the underlying hurt in his voice did not go unnoticed. “Even if there were not the risk of a scandal, I would not hesitate. My entire heart lies with you.”

“It is not you, Anthony,” you sighed with a slight shake of your head. “I do not… I do not know if I am even capable of marriage.” 

He frowned. “What do you mean?” 

“I have spent my entire life running from it,” you said, chuckling softly, “and yet, here I am, the one thing I never thought I would be.”

“In love,” Anthony realized, and you nodded. 

“It has always been easy enough to denounce marriage when I’d never experienced anything of the like. The union of my parents was for convenience rather than love, and for as long as I’ve been alive my mother has tried to drill it into my head that my feelings did not matter — so long as the man had the means to provide for me and was not completely awful, he was satisfactory.”

“A future like that— it was so completely absurd to me that denouncing it all was the easiest thing in the world. And then I nearly died and my entire world changed, and I decided that Cardew was the best option to allow myself to completely separate emotion from marriage, but now…” you looked at Anthony, feeling more vulnerable now than ever. “I have found a love in you I’ve never thought possible, and I cannot stop imagining a life with you. And that terrifies me more than anything.” 

“But…” you trailed off again and you turned away from him as you wrapped your arms around yourself. “But I do not know how to approach my future, especially one where we are so closely intertwined.” 

Silence hung in the air for a noticeable period before Anthony cleared his throat, and it was obvious the care he put into his words. 

“You know I never imagined I would marry for love. Truly, I never intended it—I expected to be miserable in marriage. I saw it as nothing more than another duty to take care of. I believed that love was trivial, a ridiculous distraction. You are the one who made me see differently.” 

You turned around with slightly wide eyes, your arms wrapped around your midsection doing little to ward off the cool night air that seemed far colder than it was before. Anthony’s gaze never left yours, the softness in his own at odds with the pure, unbridled passion. 

“I love you. Though I have only just allowed myself to accept the fact, you are someone that I cannot imagine living the rest of my days without. There was…” his throat bobbed as his voice crackled slightly, “there was a moment when I feared the worst, that you would permanently disappear from my life. And ever since you were all but brought back from the dead, I have known that you are the only woman I wish to be with. It is why as soon as I left you, I asked my mother for this.” 

Anthony took a box out of his pocket, and you gasped as he got down on one knee, your hands flying up to cover your mouth. 

“This is the ring my father proposed to my mother with, and their love was beyond anything I have seen before. But it is the love that I feel for you, something so strong, so overwhelming— something I never thought I would experience. And yet here I am, madly in love with the one woman who scorned me with every word, and only pursued me because of my brand as a lesser evil.” 

A laugh bubbled out of you, the sound slightly muffled through your gloves, and you could not help it as your eyes began to fill with tears. 

“I admire you; all of you. The part that loves her family with every part of her being, that looks out for those with less than her when those more fortunate turn a blind eye. The part that fights for the rights of her sex when it is so much easier to just bow one’s head, that puts her happiness on a rightful pedestal— the part that is so terrified to share herself with others and yet deserves a love of the purest form.”

“And I am aware of how the unknown is a fear of yours, as it is one of mine. But I assure you—” Anthony’s voice was filled with such passion, his eyes with such love, that you could hardly stand it, “—I will be there for you every step of the way. We will face our fears as one, and we will shape the future ourselves, not to be bound by anyone or anything.” 

“I do not know where my future will lead me, but I know I do not want to face a single second of it without you. If you do not feel the same, I understand, but I will not be able to live with myself if I do not at least try. It is why I ask you,” Anthony said your name with more love than ever before, “will you marry me?”

“Yes,” you sobbed, a smile breaking across your face even as tears of joy streamed down your cheeks. “Yes, yes, I will marry you!”

Anthony let out a sigh of relief as he grinned, and after he slid the ring on your finger he stood up and pulled you into a breathless kiss. Nothing picture perfect like you’d heard about as a young girl, the kind of effortless gentleman’s act— Anthony kissed you with pure passion, love, desire, and it nearly brought you to your knees. You thought it would have, were it not for Anthony’s strong arms wrapped around your waist, pressing you against him and supporting you. 

You could hardly believe the same man who treated you as if you were glass after your injury was the one standing before you now, the one who handled you in such a way that could get the both of you exiled were anyone to see—the one that you thought hated you.  

And you were more than willing to allow it to continue, to surrender yourself fully to your baser instincts, when you remembered something that made your eyes widen.

“Your sister,” you murmured between kisses until you finally managed to pull away, albeit reluctantly. “Daphne is still waiting.”

Anthony laughed breathlessly as he pulled you back in, and your earlier protest was shown to be completely nonsensical. “Let her wait.” 

You grinned as he peppered kisses down your neck, enjoying the sensation until you pushed him away. “Anthony.” 

He groaned. “Why must you be a better person than I?”

“Believe when I say it pains me,” you said. “But the last thing we need is yet another scandal by my hand.” 

“Let them know,” he said, taking your hands in his. “Let all of London know that I love you, that we will be wed. I do not care what we have to face so long as we face it together.” 

“The thought has never been so tempting,” you murmured. “But you should at least alert your sister. It would be improper to make her wait out here all night for nothing.” 

His grip tightened on your hands. “So you do wish to leave together?” 

“Anthony, I just accepted your proposal,” you said with a laugh. “I wish to spend the rest of our lives together.” 

“I believe tonight is a good place to start, then,” he grinned. 

Anthony would not let you leave his side, so you went to Daphne together. First she saw your smile, then her gaze drifted down to your hand—she looked knowingly at her brother, though she could not hide her smile either. 

“It would appear as if I was right,” she mused. “I am always right when it comes to you though, Anthony, so it is not much of a surprise.” 

“Do not mock me,” Anthony said. “I could have left you waiting by the bushes all night.” 

“If you had not proposed to her after the conversation we had the other day, I would have questioned your sense,” Daphne said. “Trust me, I would not have been here long.” 

Your eyebrows rose. “What conversation?” 

“We do not need to start on this,” he said with a pointed look at his sister. “I have already bared my entire soul tonight. I do not need my sister embarrassing me further.” 

“Oh, I would never,” Daphne drawled. “After all, there will be plenty of time for us to gossip together when I come to visit you all.” 

“Won’t you be busy with your child?” Anthony asked. 

She shrugged. “You may be busy with one as well by the time I see you again.” 

You looked at Anthony only to find his gaze was already on you. There must have been some shred of doubt in your eyes, because he only took your hand in his. 

“I meant what I said,” he murmured. “We will take things as slowly as you desire.” 

You swallowed the sudden lump in your throat and nodded as you squeezed his hands—you knew what was expected of you as a wife, and you wanted it with Anthony, but you could not lie and say that his reassurances did not bring you relief. 

“My best wishes to the new Viscountess Bridgerton,” Daphne said, her voice full of affection as she clasped her hands together. “It is an honor to have you join our family.” 

“It is an honor to be accepted,” you said, bowing your head. 

Daphne smiled. “I assume you want to reveal this on your own terms.” 

You nodded. “I’ve dealt with enough attention from the ton lately.” 

“I am afraid to say that will not go away,” she said wryly. “But I will cover for the two of you.” 

You pressed a hand to your chest. “Thank you.” 

“It is only proper to welcome my sister in such a way,” she said with a wink, and you could not help but smile. “Now run along, you two. Before rumors start.” 

Anthony chuckled, and the two of them embraced before you started on your way.

“Viscountess Bridgerton,” Anthony murmured in your ear. “I love the sound of that.” 

You hummed in agreement. “As do I.” 

You laid your head on Anthony’s shoulder as you walked back with your hands intertwined—not to the ball, but to a carriage for the promise of time alone. You glanced over at Anthony and he smiled, and you pulled him to a stop as you pressed a kiss to his lips. He responded with hunger, the same vigor he displayed when you first stepped into the gardens together, and you could hardly believe he still had it left in him. 

Far too many minutes passed as you kissed and kissed and kissed, not a single care in the world of someone catching you. What could they do? You’d already endured enough scandal to weather anything, and there was no way to punish you and Anthony — you were already engaged. 

Your lips were sure to be bruised once you finally pulled away, Anthony gazing at you with complete adoration as he brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. 

“I cannot believe you are to be my wife,” he murmured. 

“I cannot believe you are to be my husband,” you breathed. “When will we reveal it?” 

“Tomorrow,” he said, intertwining your hands with his own. “Tomorrow, we will tell everyone, and we will deal with everything that comes along with it. But tonight…” 

“It is our secret.”

Anthony nodded. “Tonight, we start the rest of our lives together.” 

“The rest of our lives together,” you murmured. 

Truly, it sounded like a dream. Months ago you could not even consider the thought of marriage without an air of disgust—now, here with Anthony, you could not stop thinking about the fact that you were to be his wife. 

The rest of your life with Anthony would be anything but simple.

And yet, somehow, you could not think of anything more perfect.

-

taglist, only bc this series has been going on since i still had a taglist lmao. @ifilwtmfc @readers-post @fangirling-galore @funkydinosaurs @baby-i-am-fireproof @mess-is-my-aesthetic @likeballet @mdkfh @brezzybfan @magical-spit @lafy-taffy @miss-celestial-being @mercurysrhapsody @evilsailorsenshi @mainstreambitchlife @aangsupremacy @chloepluto1306 @lostaudfound @panhoeofmanyfandoms @blhemmings @my-acrylic-heart @seninjakitey @vlodi @arianagrandes-things @preciousbabypeter @youraliendaddo @stupidlittlebei @illuminwtesz @eringaitskill @otheliesstuff @users09 @chloepluto1306 @lady-loki-barnes-djarin @m-rae23 @the-horror-and-the-wild-simp @diemdurantia @theyoungestchild0w0 @mschievousx @alwaysreading1019 @ibelieveindragons141 @pretzywetzy

#anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x you #anthony bridgerton fic #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton fic #anthony bridgerton fanfic #x reader #bridgerton imagine #sadie writes

[dragonmuse]

Keep It In The Box : An Essay on OFMD Season 2 and the Failure to Heal

(here in is my season two reaction. It contains many many spoilers. It's also about 3k words long so you know what you're getting into.)

“See, I have a system for dealing with all the terrible things I've seen. There's a box in my mind, and I put the things in the box..” -Frenchie, Season 2 of Our Flag Means Death

…..and then he never opens it. Chekov’s locked box has no key in season two.

On first watch, it seemed clear to me that Frenchie’s declaration was a narrative plant. Clearly the whole season would be about that box of pain and trauma being opened, sorted through and at least the beginning of healing. The show had developed a reputation after season one of being kind and focused on queer narratives of healing from childhood. Ed and Stede’s parallels in their childhood traumas were frequently on display through season one and were repeated in flashback throughout season two. Jim’s season one arc about becoming someone who doesn’t think just of revenge and can now forge meaningful connections was profound, beautiful and often funny. Izzy is an antagonist because he doesn’t want Ed to move on or stop acting like the trauma-response version of himself. The antagonist wants to stop healing. The point is to grow, to change, to learn how to love. It’s one of the things that made season one work for me at the time, despite reservations about pacing and tone.

So naturally season two should follow suit. It’s a kind show! About healing and falling in love!

For the first several episodes, the remaining crew on the Revenge go through a gauntlet of trauma, forced to do and receive violence at Ed’s whims as he careens from self-destructive behavior to self-destructive behavior. This is the wounding setup. It was dark, but it seemed like it would have a payoff and at first it did.

Perhaps one of the most beautiful moments of the season comes in one of the small respites in those early episodes as Jim recounts Pinnochio to Fang to soothe him through his grief. That was the show that I expected. The kindness of that moment struck me very deeply. It gave me some understanding of Archie too, who seems to fall for Jim right at that moment.

That scene is the show season one promised. Season two led with packing Frenchie’s box full to bursting. Here is the fight to the death between lovers, there is a first mate who is mutilated and rotting in the very walls (the rot of the Revenge itself), and there is the storm of Ed’s rage and pain that threatens to consume all of them.

So surely these remaining episodes would concentrate on finding the humor in healing from those moments. That is the setup. Frenchie has a box. The box must eventually open.

Except time and again, all the characters who suffered are told that the only way to deal with what they’ve been through is to stick it in the box and never open it again.

Pete tells Lucius that he’s unable to move on and needs to let it go. Izzy has a story about a shark. Ed’s apology to the crew which doesn’t even contain the words ‘I’m sorry’ is just…accepted. I kept waiting and waiting for a meaningful apology to the people Ed had hurt the worst with his actions, but it seems all we get is Fang saying ‘eh, no problem, I got to hit you back so I feel better’.

The playful theme of ‘pirates are just violent sometimes’ from season one becomes a grinding horror machine in season two when every atrocity visited on someone is forgiven because the narrative needs it to be. Ed and Stede spend more time making amends with each other over the bloodless night on the beach than either of them spend trying to repent for their actions towards anyone else.

And let’s talk about Ed. Arguably this season pivots on his narrative, on his path to healing and growth. A path that starts at a very low point. His moment in the gravy basket, deciding he wants to live because there are still things to live for is so great! So one might assume that what would follow would be him pursuing those things, making amends, making connections. He and Stede have a wonderful moment, talking about being whim prone and how they’ll work to avoid that, build a relationship by going slower.

Yet, at no point do either of them stop following whims. They never heal or learn from what’s happened to them. They both keep running from thing to thing, particularly Ed. It’s a whim to sleep with Stede, it’s a whim to run off to fish, and the finale gives us just more of their whims. Ed drops fishing as fast as he picked it up. He finds those leathers in the ocean, murdering the symbolism of leaving them behind. Even the inn is a whim, one of those things Ed decided he’d be good at without evidence. And Stede joins him in that without a single on screen conversation about it ahead of the moment.

Ed needs to heal himself and to do that he needs to confront what he’s done and do the work to heal the wound. Instead, he doesn’t meaningfully apologize to anyone, besides Stede and Fang. Despite Izzy’s dying words (we’ll get to that), not only do we never see the crew caring about Ed, working to make him family in the same way they do with Fang and even Izzy, he also doesn’t choose to stay with them. So what is the point? Where is the healing? Or does even Ed, beloved main character, have to live with it all stuffed in a box?

He ends the season in the leathers he threw away, in a relationship that’s barely stabilized, going to live in a house which we are told by the narrative (in that they are very very clearly paralleling Anne and Mary with Ed and Stede or why do we even get that whole Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? episode) will only end in them setting fire to each other to stay warm.

But Vee, I hear you cry, it’s a ROM-COM. This is all meant to be ha-ha funny and you are taking it so seriously!

Cool beans. Then why the hell isn’t it funny? Healing is often filled with comedy because people deal with pain with humor. You can heal and laugh at the same time. The finale especially is almost entirely devoid of laughs, almost entirely devoid of joy until the last minute for that matter. The episode that should show off with a flourish how far everyone’s come, mostly serves to show that no one has grown.

Okay that’s Ed. I want to talk about Lucius next. Our former audience surrogate (that’s taken away in season two when he doesn’t get enough screen time to perform that role and no one takes his place) really goes through the wringer. He experiences many many terrible things, including sexual assault (which is made into a grimace-laugh line that doesn’t take away from it’s seriousness because oh hey, that can be done as it turns out). He’s nervous, he’s smoking, it’s clear he’s suffering.

There’s a beautiful moment where Pete tells him ‘hey, I was also in pain. I grieved’ and that’s great. It’s good that Pete sets a boundary about Lucius not obsessing over the past to the point of occluding their future.

We even get our comedic moment where Lucius pushes Ed off the boat (still not apology, but I’d lost hope for that by then) and that doesn’t help enough. So Izzy comes in with a shark and the advice that you just have to move on.

Just…you know. Play pretend. Forget.

Shove it in a box. Ed didn’t take my leg, a shark did. Ed didn’t kill you, a shark did. Live with the person that tried to murder you because it’s your fault you dangled your leg over the side of a boat. That is the show’s message. I thought on first watch, that surely this would also come back up and be explained that you can’t live that way, that that is no way to heal. That it would become clear that this was no way through. You cannot make everything into sharks.

Lucius can move forward and still carry pain. He can still want a meaningful apology and still want to talk to his lover about what he’s dealing with while moving forward toward a brighter future.

And what of the flirtatious promise of relationships and connections being the way to heal? Look to Oluwande and Jim, whose heartfelt romance from season one was relegated to the bins of history in favor of a narrative that made him a brother Jim once had sex with. They could have had Archie AND Oluwande, who in turn could also have Zheng, but that never seems to be an option. With a single short conversation, they are broken up with, despite a brief tease at the birthday that they still ‘dance’ together, it never actually manifests. Jim and Archie never talk about what they went through. It’s swept under the rug as fast as knives are lowered.

Lucius also no longer flirts with other people, the solution to his pain is to propose and get married (but not too married, lest we forget that they’re two men, they don’t even get to be husbands or even the more respectful mates, no. They’re mateys.) This season proposes that the only happy endings are monogamous ones, where no one talks about anything painful that went before.

To ensure that message, beyond assuring the success of Oluwande and Zheng’s relationship, Jim and Archie almost entirely disappear from the narrative. Sorry you guys were given layers of trauma and no growth and not even much to do this season, we need to make sure that everyone remembers Oluwande is the break in Zheng’s day so when he says that to her five minutes later we know exactly what he’s referencing. No time for Archie to learn what an apology is or for Jim to get one line in with Oluwande that isn’t affirming their newfound broship. Must do more flashbacks to things we just did two episodes ago!

The show even dangles the conversation of the Revenge being a safe space. Why would any of them ever feel safe when the man who tortured them is allowed to walk among them and they are expected to forgive and forget? What’s safe about that? The ship is never made safe for any of them, but that’s never addressed.

And Zheng! Amazing, hysterically funny Zheng! She loses her ships, her entire way of life, the kingdom she built for herself and then…she doesn’t even get to captain the Revenge. We don’t know what becomes of her fleet, of her plans, her ambitions. Don’t worry about it, she has a romantic partner and isn’t that what every lady wants in the end?

(But Vee, I hear you cry again, there will be a season three! Maybe it will be All About Zheng! To which I say: then why did they present us with the most series finale feeling episode ever? If there’s more, I have no idea where it’s going. BUT VEE: BUTTONS AS SEAGULL ON THE GR- Fine. It’s time.)

Let’s talk about Izzy Hands.

Izzy manages more healing than anyone else this season. He reaches his lowest point, suicidal in the bowels of a ship that’s become a prison (very much in contrast to Ed’s suicidal low). The person he loves most in the world has shredded him physically and emotionally (and if you’re in the camp that thinks Izzy deserves the abuse that Ed gave to him, I would really like you to sit quietly with yourself and ask why you think there is ever anything anyone can do to deserve that treatment). He’s low, he shoots Ed to protect everyone, and then seems to plan to drink himself to death, mourning his losses.

And then another beautiful moment! The crew move past their own pain to help him. They work together for the first time and it’s to give Izzy mobility back. He treasures it. He cries over it. He uses that kindness extended to him to reach a new understanding of Stede and help him succeed, doing the work to make real amends. He sings in drag, he’s vulnerable and beautiful, celebrating the side of himself that he must’ve loathed in the first season. He’s an elder queer man, coming into himself.

He never gets an apology though. (‘Sorry about your leg’ without eye contact is not an apology. There is no responsibility taking, no acknowledgement of the weeks of torture that came with it.) Izzy also never really has an honest conversation with anyone about what it means that the man he loves punished him so severely for the crime of trying to protect the crew (yes, lest we forget, Izzy lost his leg because he was trying to keep Ed from re-traumatizing the crew and himself).

Izzy does all this work, but even he’s not allowed to take it out of the box. It’s a shark, not Ed. Ed is just ‘complicated’ (the language of abuse here is so upsetting and I think not even intentional).

And then he dies. His last act? To apologize to the man who tortured him and shot at him. To have done all this work, to take on all the blame. And then die.

In a rom com.

This show ends in a profoundly unfunny moment of telling the audience: this is the one character that did the work, that made amends, that tried his hardest to accept the parts of himself that he had a hard time embracing and formerly embittered him. He’s fully accepted his queerness and turned it into beautiful music. He’s disabled, and he worked hard to accept that. The man he loves will never love him back, so he worked hard to make Stede able to meet Ed on an even playing field. The Giving Tree gave up its limbs and its trunk, and it’s not even allowed to be a stump to sit on.

Kill the queer elder, who has managed to figure out how to live and in his own way how to heal. Kill him before he manages to teach anyone else how to meaningfully move forward (he almost gets it with Lucius, almost, but it’s meant to be rule of three, you know. Cigarette..shark…and then…and then fuck it, Lucius doesn’t even get to say a word at his funeral).

The message of this season again and again is that there is no healing, just moving forward. Like a shark. Like a bird that never lands.

That is not a kind show.

Season two is not a kind season.

It splinters people up and jams them back together without purpose or reason. It tells everyone who experiences pain that they should shove it in a box and not deal with it. No one who really needs one gets an apology of any sincerity. No one puts in the work to gain forgiveness. (Ed wearing a onesie is not The Work. Ed fixing a door is not The Work. Ed broke people that the show wants us to care about. Ed never does the work of making those amends. He fires off a Notes app apology at best. After all, it’s what he told himself via Hornigold in the gravy basket: you move on or you blow your brains out! Good thing he took his own advice and therefore had to change nothing to get his just rewards.

I would’ve taken just fifteen minutes of Ed trying to actually make amends. It could’ve been hilarious! Imagine awkward Ed trying to dance around what he’s doing with Jim and the two of them having a knife throwing competition about it. Or him and Frenchie attempting to make music together, writing a song about the raids they went on! It’s not just the crew robbed of their healing because of this, it’s Ed himself. He never meaningfully changes or makes amends. How is he any different at the end of the finale then he is standing on the edge of that cliff with Hornigold? He hasn’t moved on, he hasn’t healed. He tried one thing (fishing) that doesn’t fucking work and then he runs right back.

No one leaves this season better than they went into it. They’ve lost an elder queer, they’ve lost their joyous and queer polyamory, they’ve lost a chance for meaningful reconciliation with Ed and Ed lost any chance of looking like he gave shit if they did. Stede grows enough to accept the crew’s beliefs as important and then leaves them behind without a care.

Izzy gets a beautiful speech about piracy being larger than yourself. Ed and Stede, within twenty minutes of that speech, leave piracy. They are incapable of giving themselves to something bigger, apparently. They haven’t learned to be a part of a community. They haven’t healed from their childhood trauma or their fresher wounds. They are still just following their own whims.

Zheng’s life work is in tatters, but it’s fine, she has love. Oluwande and Jim aren’t together, but it's fine because they both have dedicated monogamous partners. Lucius was deeply scarred by what happened, never recovers much of his first season personality, but hey he got-well it’s not married exactly- but you know good enough!

Frenchie, who has a box forever locked in his head, is captain. Because the key to success is to lock it all in a box and never open it. What a message. What a show. Conceal, don’t feel. Smile because it’s a happy ending. Don’t mourn the dead, don’t try to tell people what happened to you (they will literally run away or cry too hard to listen and really you’re just bumming them out), and any meaningful change you make is only rewarded with death.

Frenchie is now a pirate captain with a box in his head full of trauma that’s never been opened, leading a crew with more wounds than scars. Wonder how that could turn out? Wonder how many years before he might want to retire and then happen to run across a gentleman pirate. As if no one learned anything at all.

#our flag means death #ofmd #ofmd spoilers #the strangest message sent #and no idea if it was on purpose #I kind of think it wasn't somehow #but boy howedy did it come across

[bonesandchalamet]

predictable - c.fisher

masterlist

requested: y- “Can you do a conrad fisher x reader where the readers family has a house next to theirs so they grew up going to cousins for the summers (cons age), and they are in love w each other but don’t want to admit it and everyone notices it around them/teases them. maybe a flash ward to their wedding in a couple of years and everyone’s speeches are like “yeah i won the bet they would be married by now” or smth like that?“

pairings: conrad fisher x fem!reader

warnings: fluff + jokes

a/n: I hope I did this justice anon! xx there are NO spoilers of book 2 or season 2!

you can hear his voice. it’s muffled, he sounds like he’s in your kitchen, a blessing of having the bedroom right above it, but you can hear him talking to your mother.

you don’t have time to think, you just fling your legs over your mattress and rush down the stairs at an appropriate pace. you’d just woke up, maybe not your best state to be in, but you couldn’t wait to see conrad fisher. the boy next door.

he’d gone to Princeton, smart cookie if you say so yourself, and you hadn’t seen him since last summer. in fact, you only saw him maybe once or twice outside of the neighborhood and that was getting ice cream and groceries. other than that, you live by the fence that separates your yards waiting to hear the laughter and conversations from the Conklin and fisher kids.

“just tomatoes? are you sure? I can go pick out some basil—“

“no, no laurel will kill you if you do any more yard work! I can get it.” you hear conrad protest. the fisher family was used to your parents generosity, the beautiful vegetable garden grew right on the fisher/y/l/n house line, the family was more than welcome to eat and take whatever they wanted, but it didn’t stop them from being kind enough to ask. Susannah raised those boys right.

“are you sure?”

“what’s going on?” you ask, it’s like the words floated out of you when you saw him. his brown hair a little longer than normal, his t-shirt a bit smaller on him, and he’s wearing small navy blue swim trunks. a sight to make any girl swoon for a fisher.

“oh, y/n, do you think you can help conrad get some more tomatoes from the vines? it seems to be the fisher-Conklin clan has run out.” your mother hands you Susannah’s woven basket that conrad was once holding. your mother looks at you with pleading eyes but she knows you’ll do anything that has conrad fisher involved.

“happy to.” you take the basket in your hand and gesture for conrad to follow. he thanks your mother once again and follows along out the back door. you can hear not only just your heartbeat, but the blood rushing to your ears.

being alone with Conrad was sometimes awkward. at least to you it always felt that way, because you never knew how to be around him as yourself. you were so deeply in love with him that just being in his presence was enough to make you fumble over your words.

“here I can get the tomatoes.” conrad pushes past you, his shoulder brushing against your body, you could smell his cologne, the salty ocean in his hair, and the mixture of the laundry detergent Susannah uses. it was an intoxicating smell, one to make your world spin.

“you sure? they are kind of all over the place.” you chuckle setting the basket down into the grass. you start picking the beautiful blush red ones and gently place them in the basket along side the ones conrad was picking. every so often your hands would brush or you’d about pick the same tomato. you both would blush and apologize instantly for the connection.

“would you guys just kiss already! you’re making me nauseous.” Jeremiah calls over the fence line from the pool, he’s watched about every embarrassing second of you and his brothers interactions.

“come on, con!” Steven hollers, it’s loud enough for the neighbors on the other side of their house to snicker at the boys energy for far too early in the morning.

“I don’t know what their problem is.” Conrad says and it’s only for you two to hear. he’s picked up the basket from the grass now, you’re stuck with holding a few more tomatoes that he claims would be more than enough for everyone.

“no seriously, just keep those ones.”

“we have enough inside, just take them—“

“fine,” he huffs out an annoyed sigh and watches you dump them into the basket, “can I at least make you breakfast with them?”

“sounds like a plan to me.”

that day, he made you more than breakfast. he made you feel the most indescribable feeling of love and excitement. he left you walking home as beat red as those tomatoes you picked. you could thank Steven and Jeremiah for their pressure and tease, because conrad fisher did in fact kiss you that morning.

—

FUTURE

“I’m so happy for these guys because today I became twenty dollars richer,” Jeremiah pauses, the laughter of friends and family make you both blush, “so thank you Steven for believing they would never get married. here’s to the bride and the groom!” Jeremiah holds his champagne glass up, others in the room follow.

“you really bet we would get married?” Conrad turns to his brother who passes the microphone to belly before sitting down beside him.

Jeremiah’s hands clap his brothers shoulder, “we also made a bet that you’d kiss her that summer. belly also made a bet that you’d have tomatoes on the menu, looks like you guys are the most predictable couple ever.”

#the summer i turned pretty #tsitp #conrad fisher #jeremiah fisher #conrad x reader #team conrad #tsitp conrad #conrad fisher x y/n #conrad fisher x reader #conrad fisher x you #conrad fisher fic #conrad fisher fanfic #conrad fisher fluff #conrad fisher imagine #Conrad fisher imagines #tsitp x oc #tsitp x reader #tsitp x y/n #tsitp fic #tsitp fanfic #tsitp imagines #tsitp imagine #tsitp x you #the summer i turned pretty x reader #the summer i turned pretty fics #the summer i turned pretty fic #the summer I turned pretty fluff #tsitp s2 #tsitp season 2 #steven conklin

[murdockparker]

Of the Same Mind

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: A mutual distaste in a certain author—should he even have the grace to be called that—leads to an unexpected meeting.

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: mentions of drinking/alcohol, pregnancy, fluff, time skip

A/N: a cute lil request! made me actually read a little Byron myself to get the gist! and it wasn't that terrible I'm so sorry to disappoint

Dull. 

Everything was dull. What was supposed to be the social event of the season was shortened due to poor weather—an outdoors event of sorts, it seemed, Benedict really didn’t pay his mother much attention when she explained the whole ordeal. Thus, half of the ton was crammed into Lord Whitehill’s home instead of his luscious grounds, all due to the pouring rain. Most conversation was boring, most of the ladies were whining about the rain, the men whining about their whining wives and daughters. 

At least the drinks were good. 

“…seriously think that fodder is worth your breath?”

Benedict’s ears perked up, focusing on a conversation that was decidedly not about the current weather. A breath of fresh air. 

“I-I did not mean to insult you, miss,” a young gentleman sputtered, his face rosy red. “I only meant to indulge you in poetry of the highest regard—” 

“If that was your intention, you would have chosen from a finer list of poets. Byron?” The lady nearly laughed out loud. “Byron is the bottom of the barrel, as it were, so your intention was ill-placed.”

“Byron is a well-regarded poet—”

“By who? Chamber pots?” 

Benedict nearly spat out his drink. The action alone brought the attention of the arguing couple to him—both sets of eyes trained on the tall Bridgerton at once. “Oh,” he fake coughed, “it seems the drink went down the wrong way, please, forgive me.”

The man—who Benedict now recognized as Lord Whitehill’s son—scoffed. “Bridgerton. You are well versed in the arts, are you not?”

Benedict nodded. “I dabble.”

“Would you please explain to Miss (Y/L/N) that Byron is a novel poet,” Mr. Whitehill asked, “and that she should be flattered I recited poetry for her, regardless of the poet?”

Miss (Y/L/N). So that was the lady’s name. 

“But that would be lying, Whitehill,” Benedict gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. “And I am ever a gentleman, raised to never lie, especially to a fine lady such as Miss (Y/L/N).”

She smiled at that. 

“You do not agree?”

“Oh I certainly agree with Miss (Y/L/N),” Benedict said quickly, setting his glass down. “Byron is a mockery to the art—meaningless words and jaunty titles, why, I tried to read his latest and it put me right to sleep.”

“I fear I had the same reaction,” Miss (Y/L/N) said, turning to Benedict in earnest. “Right before I decided to throw it to the flames.”

They both laughed.

“Imbeciles, the both of you,” Mr. Whitehill said, pushing past the newly acquainted pair. “Keep insulting me like that and I’ll have my father throw the both of you out into the storm.”

“Mr. Whitehill,” Miss (Y/L/N) said softly, her eyes melting into puddles of apology. “I fear we were not insulting you, but rather your taste in poets. I also fear there is a stark difference in that, for if I were to insult you, I’d make a more fitting jab, more educated in that regard.”

The shorter gentleman stormed off, steam nearly pouring from his ears. Benedict laughed.

“I must say, Miss (Y/L/N),” Benedict leaned down. “You have quite the sharp tongue.”

“I am known to be rather well spoken,” she beamed, standing a little straighter. “Perhaps it is my taste in literature?”

“For that, I believe we are in agreement,” Benedict said, grabbing a fresh glass from the table beside him. “May I offer the lady a beverage?”

“Only if you decide to share whatever’s in that pocket of yours,” she pointed to his chest. Benedict’s ears went pink. “Do not think I did not see you pour an added flavoring into the lemonade—it seems impolite that you would neglect to share.”

“It would be impolite,” Benedict said, carefully pulling his flask out of his coat. “I am surprised you saw that, though, given the crowded room.”

“You are a tall man, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said, taking the glass from his hand. Benedict poured a healthy amount of clear liquor into her cup before adding the rest to his own. “I would have found it hard to ignore you.”

“Your first season? I presume?”

“Technically,” she said, looking up into his blue eyes. “My family, we just moved to Mayfair. My father came into some money and relocated us here this year, my brother is set to study at Eton in the fall.”

“And you?”

“I am now expected to marry a rich and eligible bachelor,” she laughed into her glass. “Which I really have no problem doing, save for the fact that gentleman is nothing like Mr. Whitehill.”

“Mr. Whitehill is rather rich,” Benedict smirked. “Would that not placate you?”

“And listen to him dribble about Byron? Perish that thought,” she said. “When I do marry, I expect my husband to be of the same mind, a similar taste in the arts.”

“You know,” Benedict nearly whispered, “that is an admirable thought. But how will you find this man?”

She looked him up and down, quickly and all at once, returning to drink from her glass.

“I suppose I will know when I find him,” she smirked.

Benedict smiled back. “Well, please let me know when you do, I feel rather invested in your prospects.”

“You will be the first to know, I assure you,” Miss (Y/L/N) said, nodding her head. “But, if I may be so bold, if you are not currently preoccupied, would you care to further our discussion on Byron? It is hard to find someone who agrees with such a… contrasting opinion of the poet.”

“Why, Miss (Y/L/N),” Benedict finished his glass, offering his arm, “I was afraid you’d never ask.”

—

The gardens on the property were lovely, so lush and full of life. She made good on her promise to keep them well maintained, only keeping the finest blooms and plants in their care. It was always the perfect place to spend time on days like today, sunny, a gentle breeze. 

They had given the governess a day off, her mother had fallen ill, it was the least the Bridgertons could do for her.

“Mother!” 

The lady looked up from her book, eyes meeting with her eldest daughter. Blue eyes, just like her father.

“Yes, darling?”

“Might I go inside to grab other books? Aunt Eloise recently sent some to Father and I want to read them.”

The lady gave her daughter a trying look. “Do you not think they may be above your comprehension level, my love? They were intended for your father, after all.”

“No need,” a looming voice bellowed. “I have them right here.” 

She didn’t need to look up to know who it belonged to. “Benedict, I thought you were spending time in the studio this afternoon.”

“And miss spending time with my darling wife and children?” Benedict grinned, the crooked way she fell in love with. “That seems foolish on my part.”

“Father!” Their eldest exclaimed, running over to the tallest Bridgerton. “You brought the books?”

“Indeed,” Benedict nodded, handing the parcel off to his daughter. “Aunt Eloise thought we may have better use of these than her and Phillip do.”

Their daughter lit up with excitement—ever the reader, she was. It took a village to keep their library stocked with appropriate books for her age, but she was quickly out-reading her entire family’s collection. “Thank you, Father!”

“Well,” Benedict said modestly, “you must write to your Aunt Eloise and thank her, I had little to do with such a gift.”

“What about me, papa?” 

Their son, only a few years younger than their daughter came bounding up past his escaping sister, clearly having been playing in the mud. “Do I have any gifts from auntie?”

(Y/N) opened her arms. “Not this time, sweetheart, but come here, let mama wipe that dirt off of your nose—” 

“No!” He exclaimed, turning from his mother. “Dirt makes me ruggable—like Uncle Colin!”

“Rugged,” Benedict corrected gently. “And, no, dirt makes you dirty. You need to stop spending so much time with Colin…”

“Once baby brother is here I will,” their son nodded, putting both hands on his hips, looking down at his sitting mother.

“Oh darling,” (Y/N) said, trying to raise to her feet. Benedict quickly offered his hands, pulling her up. “Baby will not be here for a few more months.”

“Then more time with Uncle Colin!”

Benedict and (Y/N) sighed, watching their adventurous son run back to the mud. “We must write Colin, tell him of the monster he has created.”

“Our eldest is such an easygoing flower,” Benedict said, noting how she was carefully skimming through the various books on her lap. “Our son tests our patience.”

“And how do you think this one will be?” (Y/N) asked, placing his hand on her swelling stomach. She only had two or so more months until the delivery, if she had been correct on the conception. The latest Bridgerton wedding seemed to be the culprit, stolen kisses and a romantic rendezvous to the greenhouse away from the party—it was a perfect recipe for baby number three. “Calm and collected? Devilish and adventurous?”

“I pray they are just like their mother,” Benedict rubbed her belly affectionately. “And perhaps a bit more behaved than their brother… I suppose I should also write my mother an apology.”

“Whatever for?”

“I reckon my brothers and I acted much like our son,” Benedict said sheepishly. “Acting like Bridgerton boys, I am afraid.”

“As if that is the only explanation,” she giggled, leaning into his side. “But I am sure your mother would appreciate such a gesture. Perhaps you should send her a bouquet from our garden, too?”

“An excellent idea, my love,” Benedict said, pressing a kiss to her temple. “What a brilliant mind you have.”

“Father, Mother!” Their daughter called out, waving them towards her. “Aunt Eloise sent a book by an author I have never heard of before.”

“Oh?” Benedict quirked his brow, walking with his wife over to her. “And what author may that be?”

“A Lord Byron,” she said, showing the book with a deep brown cover to her parents. Benedict scooped the tome quickly from his daughter’s grasp, holding it close to his chest.

“And you shall never read such filth,” Benedict said seriously.

“Oh Benedict,” (Y/N) laughed. “Perhaps we should allow our daughter to expand her mind—come to her own conclusions on the matter? Surely Aunt Eloise meant the gift in kind.”

“Aunt Eloise clearly meant to send it as a cruel prank,” Benedict corrected.

“What is so wrong with that author, Father?”

“A shorter conversation would be what is not wrong with this author,” Benedict said, turning to call his son. The little boy ran over to his father’s side, ever eager. “Take this and bury it, preferably far away from here.” His wife could not stop her laughter, watching their son hurriedly run over to the new rose bushes, making good work at digging a deep enough hole for the book. “You,” Benedict pointed at the girl, “are forbidden to read anything written by that lowly man.”

“Oh Benedict,” (Y/N) admonished, trying hard to stop her laughter, “forbidding her from reading seems silly—”

“Are we not of the same mind on Byron?” Benedict asked. “I rather think that is how we met, is it not, dearest wife?”

She pursed her lips, fighting a smile. “We are.”

“Besides,” Benedict stood a little straighter, “the roses could use a bit more sustenance.”

She could only roll her eyes.

#Bridgerton #Benedict Bridgerton x Reader #Benedict Bridgerton #Bridgerton x Reader #bridgerton imagines #if this title has been used before i apologize! #still not sure if I'm digging the whole... photo thing with the post #but it's cute no?

[bloody-peach]

The Sun Always Shines on TV (Hazbin Hotel: Vox x Reader)

SURPRISE! I'm not dead! So my buddy @omniuravity got me into Hazbin and especially my new husband Vox, and after a few headcanon chats, I just HAD to write something. So I did. Is it canon to Vox's behavior? I dunno, I haven't seen the full season, but I've seen clips, and I think I at least got a vague idea. So, sorry if not, but oh well. Still fun! This was kind of done in a rush of hyperfixation, so sorry if it's a bit rough. Anyways, enjoy!

Taglist: @fatgumsurpremacy-remastered @neonvehk @omniuravity and anyone else who loves Hazbin and Vox!

~~~♡♡♡~~~

It was midnight when the hourglass finally ran out. The counter read '000', showing that time was up. You knew what today was.

Extermination Day was here again.

The day where angels would come down to hell and massacre hundreds of sinners as a form of population control. You could hear the screams of terror outside as crowds of sinners would scurry and try to escape their fates. You could've easily been in that crowd, getting impaled through the gut by an angel's spear.

Vox pulls you close to him, his arm around you as he watched the carnage from the couch on the large TV. He knew that it was hard for you to watch sinners get butchered alive, so he would let you hide your face in his chest when things got gory. When he heard you whimper, he looks at you, a concerned look on his face, saying, "You ok, Y/N?" You look at him and nod, "Yeah..it's just...it could be me out there...what if I'm next?" Vox brushed a lock of your hair behind your ear and said, "You won't be. As long as I'm here, you're safe. I won't let them hurt you." You hug him, snuggling in his chest for comfort, glad that he was there.

In truth, Vox was just as scared as you were. You could easily be in the crosshair of an angel if you were out on the streets. He would low-key panic if you weren't there with him each Extermination Day. He couldn't stand the idea of losing you, not to anything or anyone.

He still remembers seeing you watch his show from an electronics storefront. He noticed how you were drawn to the show, but somehow, his hypnosis didn't have an effect on you. But he was amazed that even without it, you still tuned in and watched with excitement. That day, he felt there was something special about you, so he kept a close eye on you, watching you through various tv screens when you weren't looking. Then one day, he met you through a chance encounter.

You worked at Valentino's studio as the camera operator and Vox happened to show up one day. You caught a glimpse of Vox talking with Valentino and you couldn't stop staring at him. You felt a ball of anxiety in your gut build as you watched him, admiring his good looks, charismatic attitude, and mesmerizing voice. You couldn't help but swoon to yourself.

"Y/N! Are you listening?!" Valentino's voice broke your daze and you quickly ran to him, so not to enrage him. "I-I'm sorry sir! I-I just sent the footage to the editor and they'll get it done right away!" Vox saw as Val smiled at you and he felt a bit of rage. He didn't like how Val looked at you with his sleazy gaze, undressing you with his eyes. He's the only one who should be allowed to do that.

Once you started to walk away, Vox trips you and you start to fall, but he catches you before you could hit the ground. You look at him and could feel your face blush and your heart flutter. You stood up and bowed your head, "I'm sorry sir!" "Hey, no need to apologize. And no need to call me 'sir', either. Just call me Vox. Now, who may you be?" "I..I'm Y/N..." "Y/N...what a nice name. So you work for Val?" You nod, saying, "Yeah, I work the camera." Vox walks closer to you, saying, "Oh, sweetheart, your cute face doesn't deserve to be hidden behind a camera. It deserves to be displayed on TV." You blushed pure red and Vox knew he had you in his grasp.

Vox buys you off of Val and he lets you live with him at his mansion. While you were amazed by the opulence an overlord possessed, all that mattered to you was that you were with Vox. As things went on, Vox noticed how caring you were towards him, comforting him when he was stressed out over Alastor or helping him fix his screen or repair his wires when he gets hurt. He would always turn to you for comfort before anyone else. He always enjoyed being around you, loving the way you laughed, smiled, made jokes, everything. Eventually, he realized that he was in love with you.

When Extermination Day came, you were just leaving the porn studio from a long night of doing re-shoots. The bell rang and you felt your heart sink. You tried to look where to hide, pushing your way through the screaming crowd. You pass by the electronics shop when you hear a familiar voice. "Y/N! Over here!" You turned and saw Vox's face on a screen. "Vox! It's time! Extermination Day! Oh my god, what do I do?!" "Listen to me, you're not too far from where I am. Find a place to hide and stay there, I'll come get you. Ok?" You nod, tears in your eyes. He sees your fear and says in a comforting voice before signing off, "It'll be okay, Y/N. I won't let them hurt you."

With that, you look and find a dumpster. You immediately hop inside and hide, keeping quiet. Seconds felt like minutes, and minutes felt like hours as you laid there, your anxiety and fear through the roof. You kept hoping that Vox would get there soon. You then feel a wire coil around your waist and pull you out of the dumpster and hold you. You look and see it was Vox, carrying you and rushing back to his house, dodging any angel nearby.

Once you got inside, Vox grabbed you and held you, causing your emotions to crash over you as the adrenaline ran out. You hugged him tightly and cried into his chest. "Shh, shh, it's okay now, Y/N. I'm here. You're safe. You're..safe..."

You could hear tears choked up in his voice and he hugged you tightly as you both dropped to your knees. He tried to hold back his tears, but he couldn't.

He could've lost you. When he heard the bells ring, he was so scared. He needed to find you and take you home. He couldn't lose you. He couldn't. Not you. He scanned every television in the district to find you and was so relieved when he did. He rushed out the door and ran towards the studio. And now that you were here in his arms, where he knew you were safe, he started to break down. His screen started to glitch and his audio started to skip as he tried to control himself. He was usually an narcissistic egomaniac, caring about himself, but when it came to you..it was all different. He needed you.

"Vox.."

"Y/N..please...stay with me...don't go...I love you..please..."

Those words made you cry even more, out of joy now.

"Vox...I love you too..."

"Y/N.."

And with that, you both cry out your built up emotions and soon, you both were in bed together, forgetting the world outside and only listening to each other's moans and words of love.

Ever since, Vox claimed your soul and you were now permanently his. From now on, you were under his protection. If any demon fucked with you or disrespected you, that was a direct insult to him and they would be dealt with. You would work as his assistant and co-host on some of his shows, entertaining thousands of viewers all over Hell. And whenever Extermination Day hit, you stayed at home with him, sitting with him on the couch and listening to him cheer and laugh as each sinner was killed. Sometimes it helped you, other times it didn't. But he knew that.

Vox stands up from the couch and shuts off the TV, saying "Come on, let's get to bed. It should be over soon anyways." You nod, following him. It's not too long til you both lay in bed, holding each other close. The bedroom was higher up from the ground floor, so the screams and sounds of death were much more distant. You lay your head on his chest and you hear his circuits buzzing rapidly, a sign of his anxiety. You lift your head and look at him, concerned. "Vox? Are you okay, honey?" He looks at you and smiles, but his face gave away that today kind of disturbs him too. It would remind him of the day that he almost lost you. He cupped your cheek and said softly, "I am, knowing that you're with me." You smile and lean up, kiss him softly and tenderly, the kiss showing so much love. Vox reciprocated the kiss and held you close. Once you broke the kiss, you hear the bell ring out, signaling the end of the annual massacre. Vox chuckled, saying, "Perfect. Now I can get some sleep. Night, babe." You lay on him, your head resting on his chest as you respond, "Night, sweetie. I love you." Vox wrapped his arms around you, gently rubbing your back as he said softly, "I love you too, Y/N."

~~~♡♡♡~~~

I hope you all like it!!

#hazbin hotel #hazbin vox #hazbin hotel vox #vox #vox x reader #gender neutral reader #maybe? #hazbin #hazbin valentino #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin hotel fanfic #vox x y/n #hazbin x reader #hazbin x y/n #vivziepop

[spacebarbarianweird]

Soooo, tell me, do you think Astarion would be jealous or possessive at times? Do you think he gets nervous about losing his partner?

Oh, he would definteley be possessive! I think it would come out of fear. Like, what if Tav dumps him for someone better?

Thanks @brabblesblog and @rachelle-on-the-run for beta-reading!

Doubts

Synopsis: Astarion thinks you are going to leave him for someone better and accuses you of infidelity.

Tags: Hurt/comfort, a heated argument

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Headcanons

Astarion can't process what he feels.

Anger? Disgust? Disappointment? Betrayal?

You stand in the sunlight, bathing in the warm rays. You smile, sincere and happy, while he stands in the shadows like the monster he is.

A man, a handsome half-elf, with long and dark hair practically dances around you like a bird during mating season. He openly flirts with you and you giggle at his jokes.

You don't try to shut him down. You smile. You laugh.

Astarion can't hear the conversation, but he is sure you wouldn't talk like that if you knew he was near.

If it was night, he could easily grab your hand and threaten this man with the daggers.

But he can't.

He is useless.

The only thing he can do is to watch. He sees you taking the man's hand and then hugging him. Warm and tight.

It's too much even for him. 

He dissapears into the tunnels below the city. When he returns to the camp, it's already dark and you light a fire.

"Astarion,good news", you tell him. "We - What is wrong?"

He looks up at you. The anger is replaced with poison.

"If you wanted to fuck someone else, you should have just said so," he mutters through the teeth.

"What?" 

You dare to look surprised. Sure, why not. You aren't less manipulative than him. Learned from a professional.

"Oh, stop with this innocent smile! You know what I’m talking about! I've seen you flirting with that man. Tell me - is his body warm? Does his back look new and perfect?"

"You followed me."

"Answer the damn questions, Tav!"

You stand up.

"That was my friend. I knew him ages ago! I just didn't expect to meet him all of a sudden!"

"Come on, any common fool could see you were all over each other. You want to sleep with him? Fine. At least, you could be so kind as to tell me beforehand. I think I deserve it."

"Astarion, stop."

Your soft voice annoys him even more. 

He bursts. It's like a firestorm, unstoppable and cruel. He yells at you, spitting all the most disgusting insults as if it can numb at least some of his pain.

A whore. A slut. A bitch.

He yells at the top of his lungs. And then suddenly…

A slap.

Loud and painful. His cheek burns of how hard you've slapped him. It sobers him up and Astarion stares at you in shock. He wishes he could take all the words away. To go back in time and make himself stop before spitting all this poison.

"Tav..."

"GO AWAY!" 

He has never heard you screaming like that. You hate him. And he deserves it.

"GO FUCKING AWAY! I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOU!"

Tears stream down your face as you sit on the ground. Your body shudders.

And Astarion runs.

He disappears into the woods. In the darkness. In the cold.

The cheek still burns. You've never gotten physical with him - except for that first time when he almost drained you. Astarion sometimes remembers how you kicked him in the ribs.

But, maybe, it's all for the best? You can find a living person to spend your life with. Because what can he even offer? His nightmares? His pain? His tainted touches?

The very thought of you in someone else’s hands makes him sick. But at the same time, what did he expect after calling you all these awful names? 

He needs to disappear, forever.

But the further he goes, the worse he feels. The invisible leash tugs him back and his undead heart bleeds. 

The very idea of not seeing you, being alone, spending this condemned eternity on his own… He would prefer being flayed by a razor rather than living a day without you.

He needs to apologize. He needs to crawl back, begging for forgiveness. The same way he did when he was a slave.

Don't beat me. Don't torture me. I will do anything.

Don't leave me. Don't hurt me. I will do anything. 

As he returns to the camp, he sees you by the fire. You notice him and turn your head away.

"Please... I am sorry... I didn't mean it."

You look at him but instead of the softness he craves there is only cold. 

The only thing he desires is to hug you, to be pressed against your chest. To hear the words of love and comfort.

But there is an invisible wall between you two.

"Please… Don't leave me!" he begs. "I can't… I don't know how to live without you."

You sigh. "Astarion, I am not leaving you. But I am angry. I am angry like all the devils of Avernus."

"Then… I am sorry! I am sorry for calling you all these words, I am sorry for..."

"No, Astarion. It won't work like that. This relationship won’t work. "

Astarion is taken aback. "Then what do you want me to do?"

"I don't want you to do anything. But you need to understand that I have feelings, too."

Silence. Astarion is motionless.

"You are apologizing out of fear." you continue. "Because you’re used to expecting violence. I want you to apologize out of honesty. You hurt me. You accused me of infidelity. You called me all these slurs people used against you, perfectly knowing how much that hurts. You offended my friend, the person I grew up with, someone who I thought was dead. The person who gave me a very good contract just because I asked. For that, I need you to apologize."

You both are silent. Astarion looks somewhere in the distance. 

"Listen, Tav, you know I am like that. I can’t control it."

"You do! That's the thing. You were infantilized for two hundred years. But you are a man. You are not a boy, not a pet, not a slave. You don't need to be trained or taught. You are a man. And you must learn to be responsible for your actions. I understand why you are like that. But it doesn't mean I have to allow you to say anything you want."

The words hurt like daggers when he finally manages to say them out loud.

"I am sorry. I am sorry for thinking you could leave me. I am sorry for hurting you. My emotions took the best of me. I am afraid, I am constantly afraid. I am afraid you will leave me for what I am."

A touch. Soft and delicate. He feels like crying the moment your tender fingers caress his skin.

"And I am sorry for getting physical. I shouldn't have slapped you."

"I deserved it"

"No one deserves beatings. Especially, from their loved ones." 

You press your forehead against his. "You aren't an easy person to deal with, Astarion. But I knew it from the beginning. When you confessed to me, I had a chance to stop it. I didn't do it. Because I love you. But I am a living breathing person and if you hurt me, I bleed. "

He nods. "But if you ever want to end all this - "

"I won't"

He smiles and presses his finger against your lips. "If you ever decide it's too much, tell me. Just be honest. "

You wrap your hands around his neck and tug him close. "You know, when he hugged me, my first thought was "damn, his skin is so uncomfortably hot". And he told me we should stop it because his husband is jealous. I think they are having a very uncomfortable conversation right now."

You sit together in silence looking at the campfire. Soon, Astarion notices a stripe of light in the distance and his vampiric senses send a shiver down his spine.

You yawn.

"Let's get some rest. Astarion, I hate asking for reciprocation, but since you probably want to make amends…"

"What do you want, my sweet?"

"Can you please not leave my side while I sleep? Just be with me till I wake up."

He closes his eyes and lets out a short laugh. And this is your idea of making amends? A few hours ago he would beg you to let him touch you, let alone cuddle with you.

He cocks his head. "Only if you make amends for slapping me."

"And what do you want?"

"I want to be the little spoon."

--

Tag list

@tugoslovenka @marcynomercy @wintersire @vixstarria @not-so-lost-after-all @ashiro20 @theearthsfinalconfession @herstxrgirl @starlight-ipomoea @micropoe10 @astarion-imagine-archive @veillsar @elora-the-slutty-songstress @fayeriess @lumienyx @astarion-beloved @tallymonster @caitlincat-95 @tragedybunny @valeprati

#astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion romance #baldurs gate 3 #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion angst #astarion fanfic #astarion hurt #astarion comfort #astarion ancunin #astarion fics #astarion x f!tav #spacebarbarian fics #astarion x gn!tav #astarion x gn reader

[ineffablyruined]

Chekhov's Contract

Back again for Day 3 of the Nice and Accurate Prophecies event.

How Will Our Hero Cope?

Today, we let's talk about Crowley. Within the span of a few hours, Crowley has gone to Heaven and learned of another plotted End of the World, watched the closest thing he has to an archnemesis (Gabriel) run off with his demon love of a meager four years and suffer no consequences for it, and left his heart shattered on the floor of the bookshop as the love of his life chooses a job promotion over him. He's not doing great. So what is in store for Crowley in Season 3?

It's honestly hard to predict because there is just so much open space to play with. He could do anything and not one of us would be surprised.

Sleep for a century? There's precedent. Get extremely drunk for weeks on end? That's on brand. Go tit for tat and take a leadership position in Hell just to cancel out Aziraphale in Heaven? Seems unlikely, but I also wouldn't be surprised at that level of petty lashing out.

But I did find one thing. At least, I think I did.

There was, I have now convinced myself, a Chekhov's Gun in Season 2 that I haven't seen anyone talking about. (Apologies if you're out there screaming and I just haven't seen it. I did try searching!)

When Beelzebub kidnaps Crowley from the Bentley and takes him to Hell to discuss the Gabriel situation, they make an offer to Crowley that Crowley later accepts. And what is that?

Find Gabriel for me and you can have whatever your nasty little heart desires.

And what does Crowley do in Episode 6? Finds the writing on the box that tells everyone Gabriel is in the fly. He finds Gabriel for Beelzebub.

Just to emphasize that again - Crowley fulfills his side of a verbal contract forged with the Grand Duke of Hell.

He's now owed whatever his heart desires. And as we've seen, Heaven and Hell operate like businesses. Contracts must be fulfilled. (Excuse me while my little lawyer-nerd heart sings over here.)

And we also know that he's aware that Heaven has plans for Armageddon 2.0.

Where he would absolutely deserve to wallow after all the utter bullshit drama he's gone through, I don't believe that's Crowley (no matter how much fun it makes to write in fanfiction). Crowley isn't just going to sit back and watch the world burn.

In the past, when Crowley has wanted to run away, it's only ever been with Aziraphale. Sure, he threatens he's going to head to Alpha Centauri even when Actually rejects the offer, but he doesn't do it.

And now? Running away with Aziraphale isn't an option because he's gone.

Crowley has nothing left to lose. So he's going to throw his entire self into saving the world, with reckless disregard for his own safety.

And he's going to have a blank check from Hell to do it.

#gomensnaap #day 3 #good omens #good omens meta #good omens spoilers #crowley #good omens s3 thoughts #good omens s3 speculation #how will our hero cope? #Chekhov's Gun #gos2 #go2 #gos2 meta #crowley good omens #good omens season 2 spoilers #David Tennant

[sweetbans29]

Teach Me: The Ask - PB

Pairing: Paige Buecker x Reader

Summary: You and Paige have been best friends for the last 6 years. You trust her completely. And it is because of that trust that you ask her a rather forward question. AKA - You ask Paige to teach you.

Warnings: best friend vulnerability, smitten Paige

Word Count: 3.5

Teach Me Masterlist & Sweetbans Masterlist

AN: Let's do this.

It's a Tuesday afternoon when a girl from your chem class asks you out. The two of you had been talking for the past few weeks and you had gotten a vibe - at least were hoping you were getting a vibe. Turns out, you were correct. She asked you to go out that Friday night.

You are literally over the moon. Truth be told, you were never one to date in high school or the beginning of college for that matter. The high school thing never really bugged you, but once you got to college and saw how much fun your friends were having hooking up, and sort of felt like you were missing out. It was always something that lingered in the back of your mind.

The thing that always scared you was your lack of knowledge. You had never done anything sexual. You hadn't even had your first real kiss yet, talk about embarrassing. I mean you kissed Jacob in middle school spin the bottle but never counted it because it was when you learned you didn't like boys.

But now that all that is changing. Not like you are going to treat your chem date as one of the girls your friends bring home, but you also don't want to be completely clueless as to what to do if it does ever go there.

The now excitement turns into fear as you run through all the possibilities of how your inexperience could end something that hasn't even begun. In your irrational thinking, there is only one person who you can think of that could help you.

Paige Bueckers and you met in high school. Your dad was the high school girls' basketball coach, where Paige played during regular season all four years. You knew everything your dad knew about the game and were often his assistant coach even though you were also still in school. Nobody understood why you didn't continue playing after middle school and you honestly never really talked about it. All they knew was that your knowledge of the game was something that could take you places.

You were instantly impressed by Paige when she made the varsity team her freshman year. Your dad led a pretty excellent program for high school which caused families to move to your hometown to have their daughters play for him. He was also on the board of a club program which usually kept him pretty busy and you as you were always with him.

Paige was a player your dad had been following since she started middle school and playing at the club. You also had an eye on her and were impressed by how refined her skills were. So when she came and tried out for the high school team, she was tough to place. You thought she should have been on JV for a year before stepping up into varsity but your dad argued a good case as to why she should be on varsity.

She was one of 4 girls in your dad's career who had come in as a freshman and made varsity.

Paige and you actually butted heads during both of your freshman years. You would try and coach her and she would dismiss you immediately - only listening to your dad. I mean you couldn't really blame her, you were the same age as her trying to tell her how to be better at a sport you didn't play anymore.

It wasn't until the end of the season your guy's freshman year that she saw the value in you. It was during the State Class Tournament when the team was down by 10 in the last quarter and you were coaching the offense while your dad was coaching on defense. It was then that she truly saw your knowledge of the game and how you weren't just pulling stuff out of your ass.

The team won the championship - your first time and your dad's like 12th. It was after that game, while everyone was celebrating that Paige came up to you and apologized for being so dismissive all season. You told her not to sweat it and the rest is history.

The two of you became best friends sophomore year of high school. It was easy as you were a part of the team but not a player and Paige appreciated having a friend who didn't share the court with her - I mean you shared the court with her but in a completely different capacity. The two of you worked extremely well together when it came to the game and found out that you also enjoyed each other's company outside of the gym. It was like you two had an unspoken language and were able to communicate without anyone hearing a word.

Your friendship only continued to grow over the years. You became Paige's right hand when it came to playing ball - you knew the way she played like the back of your hand. You could tell her where she had gone wrong or where she could improve before she even made a move. When she committed to UConn, you knew that would be where you go. Your dad approved and you knew you could continue learning the game.

During your freshman year, you and Paige dormed together. You continued to watch her game and help her become a better player at a college level. You also got super close with her team. You fit in perfectly. For most of the time, that wasn't an issue - hanging out with the girls and spending time with them. The only time it became an issue is when you see them more than Paige. You love your best friend, but there are times when she gets a little territorial.

The first time you noticed this was in high school, it only happened once or twice but it was bad.

There was this one time during club season (about a year into your friendship) when you had gone to a tournament with your dad. Paige was playing and she knew you were going to be there. Granted, before the tourney you had told her you were going to be scooping out players with your dad. She knew you weren't there to watch her play.

As the day progressed, so did her game. She kept missing shots and couldn't get out of her head. And to top it all off - you were nowhere in sight. Paige knew that whenever she was off, you would be there to tell her exactly how she could fix it, even if it was just a knock upside her head to tell her to stop overthinking.

When she would have a moment, her eyes would scan the crowd for you but she could never find you. The frustration started to build up in her that by the end of the tournament, she didn't make a beeline to you (not that she knew where you were) rather just went straight home.

When you and your dad were finished, you looked at Paige's location on Find My Friends and noticed she was already home. Your heart sank a little seeing as she did come find you but shake it off.

A day passes and you hear nothing from Paige. Typically you wake up to a minimum of 3-4 notifications from her, whether it be texts, missed calls, or some video or meme she has sent. The next morning there was nothing.

You try and give her a call but no answer.

It is about 10am now and still nothing from Paige. You see she is at home and decide to make your way there. When you get there her dad is out working in the garage and greets you. He lets you know Paige has been out back working on her shot all morning. YOu thank him and make your way out to your best friend.

When you walk out she is locked in on a shooting drill. You stand there and watch her - already seeing what you had seen yesterday. You weren't able to watch full games for your best friend but every chance you got, you would sneak over to see how she was doing. You knew she was off and how she could adjust but every time you had an opportunity to go talk to her, your dad needed you with him.

"You're pulling your shot - your elbow and wrist aren't aligned. You lose it a second before your release causing you to shift right." You say to the girl who keeps missing about half of her shots.

Paige wants so badly to look at you and say she needed you yesterday but she still boils with an unknown anger. She says nothing.

"Paige, what's going on?" You ask when she doesn't respond - you even used her first name, and you never used her first name. Still no response from your stubborn friend as she goes up for another shot - missing it. You have seen enough.

You walk up to her, take the ball, and throw it into the yard. If she wants to play this game, she needs to know that 2 can play.

"What the hell?" She yells, finally looking at you.

Her look says more than you imagined it would. At first, all you see is the anger that she has been holding for the past 24 hours. But as you both stand there just staring at one another, you begin to see the hurt that lies behind it maybe even a hint of jealousy. There is something else in her eye but you can't quite pinpoint that one yet.

Your eyes soften as you look at the blonde in front of you, waiting for her to take the lead. You are wholeheartedly expecting her to yell at you for something you still have no idea about. And you're ready to give it right back to her.

The yelling never comes as Paige finally breaks eye contact with you and looks down.

"You weren't there." Is all Paige says. She continues to look down and behind picking at one of the nails.

"What are you talking about B?" You ask, needing her to be more specific.

"I needed you and you weren't there," she says again. You wrack your brain for what she could possibly be talking about when it clicks. Even though you saw what her issue was yesterday - you never corrected her during the game.

"That's what this is about?" You ask, your heart breaking slightly from the sight of your best friend's vulnerability. You see a switch in her flip and know you are about to get feisty Paige.

"You were at the tournament for the entire day and didn't come over to watch me for a second! That single-handedly was one of my worst tournaments and couldn't figure out what was going wrong. The day just kept getting worse. I would scan the crowd for you and you were nowhere in sight, off at some other court watching some other girl that wasn't me." She whispered the last part to herself more than you.

You wait a second, processing what she is saying and waiting to see if there is going to be anything else. When nothing else comes, you speak.

"During game three, is when you started pulling your shot. It started when no.15 from the other team fouled you midshot and you fell to the ground. That is why you missed your first free throw. Your next game was even worse - that is when you started getting in your head. Your shooting percentage was down 20% and you couldn't shake it because you were fully in your head at that point. Game 5 was the worst of them all because you had just given up on yourself. Your shot was all over the place as you were trying to adjust every single one you took. I was there P, you just couldn't see me." You say with a matter-of-fact tone.

"And it is my job to watch other athletes! You know this! That is why I started watching you," you finish looking at your best friend.

"You saw?" Paige asks.

"Of course, I saw B, you're my girl," You say using her nickname. Everyone always calls Paige either by her name or first initial. You, on the other hand, call her by her last initial. You are the only one she allows to call her by it. It started when you would only call her by her last name freshman year, never using her first name and it drove her crazy. When the two of you became best friends, you shortened it to B. She didn't know how she felt about it until you mentioned it you liked it because no one else called her that and you wanted a special nickname that only you use. Hence, her shooting daggers at anyone else who tries to call her by your nickname.

Paige's heart tugs when she hears you call her 'your girl'. That's all she really wants but values you too much to make any sort of move. She has come to terms that a friendship is all the two of you will ever have and is okay with that knowing you will always be there. But it is in moments like this that she wants more for the two of you.

She waddles over to you. You open your arms to embrace her. She walks into your arms and you hug her, she doesn't hug you back but stands there like a child with her head in your neck.

That night you spend the night at her house. The two of you have a movie night and Paige falls asleep to She's the Man and you stoking her hair.

You are running back to your apartment to see if Paige is around and find your apartment filled with girls from the team. They are all doing an IG live. You smile at the girls before you and know you need to wait to talk to Paige. You quietly make your way to your room but don't go completely unnoticed.

As you are making your way over, Paige's arm reaches back and squeezes your knee. You give her a smile and run your hands through her hair.

She lets out a little moan, not loud enough for anyone to hear except herself.

You are grateful you are covered by Azzi and another girl. There have been several times the two of you have had to mitigate dating rumors and didn't want to deal with that tonight. You head back to your room and lay on your bed scrolling through IG, waiting for the girls to finish up.

It also gives you time to think through how you want to approach talking to Paige. She is the only one you trust with something so intimate.

I mean not only is she your best friend, but since the two of you got to college she has been pretty active and I don't just mean playing ball. The two of you talked about her habits early on. She was allowed to bring girls home on weekends or after games and all you asked is that she didn't mention any details and that they were gone by the time you had to be up in the morning. Her sexual life never affected you. If you were honest, you were glad at least one of you was getting laid.

You hear the girls start saying their goodbyes and that is your cue that the live has ended and it is safe to make your way to tell them bye.

Making your way out, you head to the group. You say bye to all of them and they leave your apartment.

"How did it go?" You ask Paige as she grabs an apple and takes a bite.

"It was aight, they did a Q & A which was fun." She says as she wipes her bottom lip.

You start to feel nervous and begin fiddling with a paper on the counter.

"What's going on in that pretty little head of yours?" She asks noticing your nervousness. You give her a smile, always loving when she calls you pretty or any pet name really. It's endearing.

"I have to ask you something - and I don't really know how to ask it so I am just going to come out and ask," you say beginning to ramble. "You can say no, but I am only asking you because I know you and you know me and I trust you."

"Spit it out ma," she says going in for another bite of her apple.

"Willyoushowmehowtobeintimatewithagirl?" You say faster than you could breathe.

Paige chokes on her apple and begins to cough. She doesn't think she has heard you correctly.

"B, are you okay?" You ask patting her on the back. She takes a step away from you and you retreat a little yourself.

This was a bad idea, you think to yourself as you begin to feel embarrassed by the ask you have of your best friend.

"Repeat what you just said," she says, telling not asking. You open your mouth and she clarifies, "Slower this time."

You gulp, feeling even more nervous than before.

"Will you," you say with another gulp. "Will you show - teach me how to be intimate with a girl?"

Paige's mind is racing - almost as fast as her heart. She wants to say yes immediately but has done such a good job of hiding her feelings up to this point.

"You want me to show you how to fuck girls?" She asks bluntly.

You blush at her directness.

"Well that and more," you say. "You know, like what to do and what feels good. What girls like in bed and stuff but also like how to kiss and stuff." You can't look at her when you ask the last part.

Paige's head is now spinning and beginning to throb. And trust me when I say her head is not the only thing that is beginning to throb.

You begin to feel like you are asking too much of your best friend.

"B, you are the only person I trust and you know I am a literal child when it comes to being intimate with someone. I would never ask anyone else because they don't know me like you do and I know this wouldn't change anything between us." You say.

Paige is now leaning on the counter with her head in her hands. She is just trying to get the image of you, laying out before her - exposed, out of her head before she takes you right here on the kitchen counter. Her skin is buzzing.

"Paige," you begin and her head whips up. You are too caught up in your own nervousness to notice how her pupils are dilated.

"Why now?" She asks.

"A girl from one of my classes asked me out on Friday and I want to be prepared for anything," you say slightly embarrassed.

Paige's heart fills with jealousy thinking about another girl taking you out and making you laugh. Thinking about her touching you and making you moan her name.

A fire begins to burn in Paige. She is in a complete internal battle with herself. Why would she show you how to make someone else feel good? But at the same time, she absolutely hates the idea of you with someone else and if she is your first - she would at least have that.

You touch her arm as Paige's skin feels like it just went up into a burning pile of flames. When did you get so close to her?

"If this makes you uncomfortable, you don't have to do it." You say looking deep into her eyes.

She could stare into your eyes forever. You really don't know the effect you have on her. Paige would move mountains for you. She would do anything to make you happy even if it caused her pain. She would give you her last breath if it meant she got to see you smile one last time. As much as she knows this is a bad idea, she knows how much it took for you to ask her. She knows how uncomfortable you get when someone hits on you in a bar or when someone gets too close. She knows your ask is genuine because you used her first name.

Paige takes a moment to gather all of her thoughts then takes your hand.

"I'll do it," is all she says before you jump in her arms. Her arms wrap around you and she inhales the scent of your shampoo.

"Thank you so much B! I promise to be the best student ever," you say as you give her a squeeze.

She doesn't say it, but that is exactly what Paige is afraid of - you being her best. You being her best but not hers.

AN: First part down! Let me know what you think! This series will be posted every Sunday until The End is posted. I hope you enjoyed it. And as always, thank you for your love and support 💙

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers imagine #uconn huskies #uconn #uconn wbb

[steviewashere]

Balls in Laundry Baskets: An Apology

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Bitchy/Mean Steve Harrington, Mean Eddie Munson (Both Briefly and For Good Reason) Tags: Post Season 4, Post Canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arguing, Steve Harrington & Lucas Sinclair Friendship, Eddie Munson Gets Put in His Place, Lucas Sinclair is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Protective Steve Harrington, Emotionally Hurt Lucas Sinclair, Emotionally Hurt Steve Harrington, Established Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Means Well He's Just Defensive, Hurt People Hurt Others

This is chapter one, which also includes the first two pages that I already posted. Please keep your expectations low, as I'm still working on the second and final chapter.

Read on AO3

Read Chapter Two Read Chapter Three (Final)

🏀—————🏀 “So, you and Eddie, huh?”

Steve startles at the sound of a voice, deep and hushed, from where he’s been waiting in Hawkins High’s parking lot. Hellfire was supposed to be out by now—6:50pm if his watch is correct—it’s their first time back since March and it would be cordial. But it seems that only Lucas got that memo.

“Jesus Christ, Sinclair!” He yelps. Holds his right palm flat against his chest, trying his best to rescind the spike of panic that is crawling through him. “I thought I told you to quit doing that,” he harshly whispers, rubbing his palm against his shirt. The scratchy material of his polo a balm against his nerves.

“Sorry,” Lucas sheepishly murmurs. Speaking at a normal volume, he asks again, “So, you and Eddie?”

He rolls his eyes. “What about me and Eddie? Can’t I just hang out with the guy without being pestered?”

Lucas shrugs. “You can do whatever you want,” he states, but Steve can already tell there’s somehow more. “But I didn’t think you two would be…buddies. Considering how he feels about, y’know, sports and whatever.”

For a moment, Steve considers Lucas’s approach. His fidgeting hands and his slightly closed off eyes. The hunch to his shoulders and the general unease that accompanies talking about Eddie. Which, that’s particularly odd. Aren’t they buddies, Steve questions himself. Wrapped up in the Hellfire club, their mutual interest in Dungeons & Dragons, the ragtag group of nerds that they are—all of that is perfect for their oddball friendship, at least Steve thought so.

“What’s wrong with you and Eddie?” Steve asks, beating around the bush. He doesn’t do cryptic. And he especially doesn’t do it with somebody like Lucas, a kid already smarter than him by several margins.

There isn’t an answer right away. But Lucas’s shoulders drop. His eyes go from frustrated to…sad. “Remember my championship game?” He asks, though it seems a bit much of a topic change. What does this have to do with Eddie, Steve has to wonder.

“Well, yeah,” he answers instead, “I was there. Had a pathetic date with a girl I hardly enjoyed being around. Mocked Tammy Thompson with Robin. Watched you get that winning shot. It was a, genuinely, awesome championship game.” And that’s the truth. It’s the best one he’s ever witnessed. Which is saying something, considering he’d played several championship games. All of them, though, were major losses. He’ll take those to the grave with him, with how often his previous basketball teams teased him.

Lucas gives a harsh single nod, a small smile that whisks away as soon as it appears. “Right,” he mutters, “I remember.” He leans against the Beemer’s bumper, shoulder brushing with Steve’s. Looks forlorn towards the high school’s doors, where Eddie and the rest of the Hellfire bunch should be spilling out any moment now. Steve looks on with him. Listens as Lucas’s voice drops low, nearly angry, fully spiteful, “I begged Dustin and Mike to talk to Eddie about my game. To see if the Hellfire campaign—which would be happening the same night—could be moved. And I, look, I understand that D&D means a lot to all of them, it means something to me, too. But I was really hoping to see my friends there. If not my friends, then at least Erica.

“They didn’t move the campaign,” he states so bitter, Steve tastes the words on his own tongue, “apparently a game where you’re shooting ‘balls into laundry baskets’ is too…mainstream and norm-ie for Eddie. He refused to move his precious game. Then, get this, instead of getting some random kid to play, they egged Erica in.” Lucas drags his eyes away from the school, head turning slow to look at Steve. He follows suit, eyeing Lucas back. His stomach churns with the vitriol painting itself unsubtly across Lucas’s face. “Color me surprised, I guess, that he’s going out with a jock,” he states, voice carefully blank of anything.

Steve stares on at him. He didn’t know this was the case at all. Remembers getting the phone call about Dustin wanting him to play, but he figured that had something to do with him bugging Steve for the millionth time. Because that was something Dustin wanted. For Steve to play. And, granted, Steve refused because it was too nerdy—unimportant and embarrassing. Yet, now he’s looking into Lucas’s face. Where hurt etches itself like solid lines of chiseled marble. Being told, instead, that Eddie’s holding his own bias.

Maybe he hasn’t removed his biases towards high school nerds, not completely. But he’s coming undone from that mentality. Considering Nancy and Robin and Eddie—Dustin and Mike and Lucas—even Max, they’re all big nerds. They all have some sort of interest with Dungeons & Dragons or theater or video games and math. And he loves them all. Though, Steve’s never stopped to think about the opposite side of the coin. Tail-side, where balls in laundry baskets is considered taboo.

After a deep silence when Steve finally digests this information, his eyebrows furrow on their own accord. Mouth downturning into a harsh frown, one that he feels to the bottoms of his feet. He stops himself in time from balling his hands into fists, but the urge to do so snarls in him like a newly unmuzzled, wild dog. A dog, he thought, that he trained obedient away from his anger. But it seems like once the teeth are bared, they never truly hide away.

“That ass,” Steve snarks. “What—so I have to reconsider all my biases surrounding nerds, reconstruct how I view everybody around me, and realize how awesome it is. And—what—Eddie can just get away with that…bullshit? That’s…What the hell?” There’s a little bit more of a bite to his words than he had anticipated. But it really isn’t fair. The table turns and he’s better for it, sure, but Eddie just…That’s not fair. The dog growls louder, drool burbling in its chops, a bark forming in the back of its throat.

“That’s what I thought,” Lucas says, “and I know, I know, that Dustin and Mike tried everything in their power. And that Eddie was the one to, y’know, be the asshole. But I thought that maybe my friends would be on my side. That they’d skip the game, show Eddie up. Not get my little sister involved or have fun without me or…I don’t know.” And the way he says those last three words stings something acidic inside of Steve. Corrosion and battery acid hot and alive in his stomach. Anger reaching the surface of his skin, words crawling and resonating in his mouth. 

The doors to the school open distantly and Lucas suddenly perks back up, blossoming from where he was wilted against Steve’s car. “Doesn’t matter,” he chirps, though it’s all fake, “at least I can play with them now, which is awesome.”

But before he can stride away, to where his bike is parked and locked up, Steve snakes a hand onto Lucas’s wrist. They lock eyes again. “I’ll talk to him,” Steve swears, “he’ll apologize.”

“Steve, you don’t—“

“You used sports as a means to fit in, right? Granted, popularity’s not all that cool and you know that especially now. But it was a…a—“ He snaps his fingers, searching for the word. “—A cover, something to find security in. And you had that. And that’s what the D&D game is to Eddie. Sports is my D&D, too.” He loosens his grip on Lucas’s arm. Neither make any sort of move. “Just because you were trying to find your people doesn’t mean you can be…” He chooses his next words carefully. “Ostracized or outcast by those who you found safety with before. Especially when those guys orbit around each other for the same reason. I’ll talk to him,” he urges, “and he will apologize, or else.”

Lucas gives him a softened look. “Thanks, Steve,” he mutters, “I wasn’t looking to start anything, but I appreciate you having my back. It really means a lot.” And then he shuffles away, towards his bicycle, small chat starting up with Mike and Dustin.

When Steve turns back towards the school, Eddie is sauntering towards him. Eyes wide. Smile big and easy. Yet, his soft features are all too nauseating to Steve’s chest right now. His heart aches. If Eddie thinks of Lucas’s interests that way, what does he think of mine?

He tamps down his annoyance and anger. Because Eddie takes his hand and is looking at him as if the world belongs to the two of them. But that hurt on Lucas’s face is like a dagger impaled in his brain when Eddie greets nice and low, “Hi, baby. Been thinking about you the entire time I was in there.”

Steve smiles, though it may come off as more of a grimace with how Eddie falters. “Been thinking about you, too,” he echoes. Though, thinking positively isn’t what he’s been doing, as far as anybody’s concerned. Beat around the bush, he tells himself. He takes a steadying breath, posture straightening, demeanor changing. Says with a sour tone, “I, uh, I think we need to have a little talk in the car, if that’s okay? It’s not a breakup thing, but it might make you…somebody might get mad and I don’t want to cage you in at my house.”

“Oh,” Eddie breathes. His eyes go distant very briefly. When he refocuses on Steve, something has hardened in his features. Steve’s throat goes tight. “It can’t wait until after our date night?” There’s a low amount of ire in his words already and Steve is momentarily caught in it. Until he lets his eyebrows scrunch down his face again, giving in to that tightness in his throat.

He sighs, annoyed already. “No, Eddie,” he bites without meaning to. “I need to talk to you now. I’m already upset about it and it’s not going to do me any good to just brush it off.” His hand releases from Eddie’s grip, falling heavy against his side. He turns towards his driver’s side door and stares back at where Eddie is rooted. “Come on,” he states lowly, “you were the one to tell me to talk about the shit that’s bothering me. Can’t ignore it just because it has to do with you.”

Bitchy is probably not the best approach to all of this, but Steve is already cornered out of options. He pulls his door open with more force than necessary. Slides into his seat, key into the ignition, and honks once at Eddie. Jarringly gestures at the passenger seat. Thankfully, there’s nobody else to witness the potential torrential fire that’s brewing in him. It’ll be just the two of them; though that realization stirs something sickly in Steve’s stomach.

Eddie gets in silently. Places his school bag in the footwell. And keeps his face pointed out the windshield. “What’s wrong?” He asks, though his voice is devoid and edging on irritated.

Steve rolls his eyes, though Eddie can’t see him. He sets his hands firmly on his steering wheel. Squeezes the leather for comfort, an instinct. And heaves a sigh, urging himself to be calmer about this. “I had a talk with Lucas,” he starts. “About, uh, about his championship game back in March.”

Next to him, Eddie immediately tenses.

He continues without acknowledgement. Keeps himself as leveled as possible. “He told me that you refused to move your game for his. That he was looking forward to having his friends, which I’m assuming includes you, watch him play. And I—I know how important that championship game was to him. Y’know, it’s one of the bigger—“

“Are you mad because I didn’t want to sit at some jock event?” Eddie interrupts, question clipped. Though there’s also mild amusement in his tone, as if Steve being upset is poposterous. He continues without any regard for Steve. “In a room full of, mind you, people who hate me?”

Steve tenses more than Eddie had. His shoulders hiking and his stomach knotting impossibly more. Finally lets the dog bark, gives in to whatever it wants. “You know what, Eddie?” He bitches back. “I am mad at you. In fact, I…I…I’m so fucking angry that you…you make this whole deal about ‘lost sheep’ and herding them in to play your game. You concern yourself with making a community for people who are lost to the crowd of cliques in that school. And it’s just—Lucas is one of those kids! He is, even if that means he wants to play basketball!”

The passenger seat squeaks. Clothes rustling as Eddie turns toward him. But Steve doesn’t rip his eyes from the windshield. If anything, he leans more towards the left, creating a deeper, larger space between them. His hands instinctively tighten on the steering wheel again.

“Yeah, I do pride myself on that,” Eddie spits. “I do. Which is why, honestly, it irks me that Lucas would pick a crowd full of assholes. A bunch of people who would never give him the time of day.”

Steve goes rigid at that. He was an asshole, too. He knows that. Eddie especially knows that. The Munson Doctrine wouldn’t exist without the inclusion of asshole jocks, Steve being near the top of the list. He tries to tell himself that Eddie doesn’t think of him that way, but it’s hard considering himself. Who he used to be. Instead, he takes another breath, this one longer and hopefully more steadying than the other ones have been.

“He went out for basketball for a sense of security,” Steve states slowly, verging on impatient. “To find somewhere to belong to. That’s all a freshman looks for—a group to be somebody with. And, you know, considering that he’s already sort of singled out for being one of a few black kids at the school…Belonging is kind of important to him.” He settles back into his seat, arms still stretched to their full length in front of him. His stomach is turning and his heart is racing. And why won’t Eddie just get this? “Even if the basketball team has a bunch of assholes, he still wanted to do it. He was celebrated for his skills, who he is—even if it was for a moment. Playing was, and probably still is, important to him. And you—“ Steve finally turns his head towards Eddie. Knows his eyes are shooting daggers, can see where they lodge themselves between Eddie’s ribs. He raises a finger and accuses, “—you made his game feel unimportant. None of his best friends came because they were toopreoccupied with your game.” His face grows unusually hot as his voice drags passionately. The words just tumbling, splattering between them. But he carries on like a fire fed, “They even got his little sister to play yourgame. And, you know what really hurt to hear? Lucas wanted at least Erica to watch. And she wasn’t there. She wasn’t there because of your game, Eddie. How do you think that looks to him?”

Eddie has the audacity to look cowed, appalled. His mouth agape and his eyes as two large craters on his face. And for the first time, probably ever, he is stunned into silence.

Steve looks away. Bitter. All that festers in him now is hurt, ache, sadness. He chews on his lip, inhales softly through his nose, and opens his mouth with a silent word. Finally, he murmurs, “When I came to the high school as a freshman, I did the exact same thing as Lucas did. I joined the basketball team. Not because I was good. Or because my dad forced me to, like everybody seems to think. It’s because I wanted to fit in.”

His eyes are stinging. Cheeks flushing even more with overwhelming, consuming emotion. Continues, “And, though I let the feeling eat away at me, it felt good to be protected by a camaraderie like that. Outside of the nerdy friend group I had in middle school, going into high school. It felt good. And—It’s not the same as why Lucas joined, I know that, but I can understand.

“On top of that, I never had friends or family members show up for me at my games. So, for me to know the hurt Lucas feels, that would be an understatement. What’s important to note, though, is that he had people in his life to be there for him and they didn’t show. They didn’t.”

The fight is draining out of him, but he has to solidify his point. Has to finish this or else. Thinks briefly that maybe he should quit while he’s ahead, but he can’t make himself do that. The ferocity engulfing him from the inside out all too much to ignore. He’s been beaten down before for Lucas, literally—oh so literally—but he’d do it again and again and again for that kid to find his footing. Including this…spat? One sided argument? This argument with his boyfriend. 

“Even I was there,” he says, hollowly, “cheering him on. It just would’ve been nice, for him, to have more than just some washed up, ex-jock, nobody be there. Right? I’m sure you get where I’m coming from. You can understand what I’m saying.” He glances forlorn out his window. Can’t even muster the courage to look over at Eddie. He’s basically drained himself. Being vulnerable isn’t his forte, but he can be for the people around him. Even if it’s at the expense of his own well being. “Well, I thought you’d understand. Wanting to have a community, people to lean on, to make something of yourself. No matter the means. I just didn’t think you’d be part of the reason that Lucas feels so…so singular.”

He takes a deep breath, ignoring how nasally it is to his ears. And mutters, a final thing, “I didn’t think you viewed something that Lucas and I are into as so…nothing. I try my best to be better about what you like, but it seems that you don’t make that same effort. That’s not fair, Eddie. You should know that.”

Without much else to say and with Eddie’s eerie silence, he starts the car. Puts it into drive. And peels away into the silence of the long and stretching road.

Briefly, he thinks about turning on the radio or cranking down the window, but the air is too thick to move through. Even the slight turns of his steering wheel is enough to make him feel sick. He’s sick with how disgustingly to-the-point he had to be. Though, there’s no other way that Eddie would’ve listened. Not with how defensive he immediately got.

The original date night plan had been to go to his house, but he finds himself pulling into Forest Hills’ driveway. Past the dimly lit trailers and the striking quietness of Max’s home. He parks in the vacant spot next to Eddie’s van. Which, the van is broken down right now—the main reason Steve is even driving Eddie around. But, now what? Is Eddie mad at how mad Steve was? Is he going to realize that he doesn’t like Steve because of his interests, who he is? Is this it?

A gentle anxious thrum runs through Steve like the very blood he needs to exist.

He silences the car. And just sits with his hands in his lap. Looking blankly at Eddie’s front door.

“Your stop,” Steve murmurs.

Eddie takes a deep breath and sighs heavily through his nose. But he doesn’t make a move to open his door. To step out. To walk away from…all that Steve is and has been.

Steve turns to him, gestures loosely at the Munson’s. “Your stop,” he reiterates.

“I—“ Eddie musters, voice croaking and rough. “I didn’t realize that…I didn’t know Lucas was mad about that. I didn’t think it…mattered.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Steve bitterly states, “It’s not like you actually cared.”

“But I do,” Eddie insists, “I care so much about Lucas. And I care so much about you. I swear!” He finally moves, tossing himself in the seat to face Steve, flailing. His face a mournful thing, downturned and sad. Skin pale and his hands desperate and his voice urgent. “There’s no excuse, I know. But I just…The reason I look at jocks so awfully is because they’ve always turned on me, you know? They always downplay my interests and mock me and tease me for what I like. Which is why I have to show myself as the bigger guy, that I can take it. I just didn’t realize that I was doing it, too.”

Slowly, Steve crosses his arms over his chest. Fingers tightening over his biceps. “Real life and your friends are more important than biases, Eddie.”

“I see that now.”

“And I think that you…you love me? And that you like Lucas. But it’s just hard to feel that, for either of us, when you adamantly refuse to involve yourself in our interests. Even if it means attending some jock event. Even if it means sitting in a room full of people that hate you. Which, by the way, that isn’t true because Lucas and I both like you—I love you, even.” He faces Eddie again. His face a sure thing of great ache, based on Eddie’s own crestfallen eyes. “Maybe just…give us space for a couple days? Think about this. Apologize once you’ve given it some thought. I understand where the whole hating jocks thing comes from, but just think about how that hurts, too.”

Eddie takes a gasping breath. “But I’m sorry now, Stevie,” he swears, “I am. I’m so sorry.”

There’s part of those words that soothe Steve like aloe to a sunburn, but he can’t accept them. Knows that the sure sting of the burn will still be there if he lets Eddie do this now. So he collects himself, mulls the words, and defends himself—for once. “I’ll accept that when it doesn’t feel like you’re saying it just to make me feel better. I want you to mean it. And I want you to apologize to Lucas first.”

He watches Eddie nod fervently, sharply. His hands twisting together in his lap and his eyes wetting, shoved harshly to the side. “Yeah, okay,” his voice trembles, “okay, I’ll fix this.”

Carefully, Steve takes Eddie’s hands. Tugs them until Eddie looks at him. Involuntarily, he makes a soft, sympathetic noise. It’s clear in the wetness of Eddie’s eyes that he’s determined to change this, to make this better. It’s clear that he didn’t mean to hurt this severely. He presses deep into the back of Eddie’s hands, tethering himself down to the earth, away from the cloud of anger that threatens to swallow him whole. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, “listen to me, baby. I know that you’re sorry. I know, okay? But Lucas won’t know that, he’ll probably think you’re saying it to get on his good side. And…maybe you are, a bit, but it’ll be better if you really mean it. Trust me.” He swipes his thumbs over Eddie’s knuckles, massages them to ease the tension. “I still love you. I’m still learning, too, to love your interests with my full heart. And I know that it’s hard to let go of stupid biases, but you’ll be better for it. You will, Eds, and you’ll find you actually feel good.” Steve runs his hands up Eddie’s arms, to his shoulders, the sides of his neck.

Gently, he cups Eddie’s face between his hands. Presses his thumbs underneath Eddie’s eyes.

Eddie softens, loosening. Breathes slowly onto Steve’s wrists. “I’ll make this right, Steve,” he promises quietly, “I want to love both of you guys right.”

“I believe you,” he whispers in turn, “you’re a good guy, Eddie. You’ve got a good soul and a good heart. But you just need to relearn some things, baby.” He leans in, softly pecks the soft tissue of Eddie’s facial scar, and pulls away. Reaches up and runs a hand through the wiry ends of Eddie’s curls. Finds that he does mean the softness in his words, even with the bitter edge in his chest. He murmurs, “Let’s cool off tonight, because I know we’re both upset. And we’ll reconvene in a couple days, after my shift. I’ll help you come up with a good apology, promise.”

“Okay,” Eddie mutters, sniffling.

“I love you,” he feels the need to remind.

“I love you, too, Stevie. And I mean that. I really do.”

🏀—————🏀

Taglist (Open For Chapter Two): @wonderland-girl143-blog @tinyplanet95 @sharingisntkaren @ghostquer @practicallybegging @croatoan-like-its-hot @reinedslys-central

#stranger things #Steve Harrington & Lucas Sinclair #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #lucas sinclair #angst and hurt/comfort #Eddie Munson & Lucas Sinclair

[wheresarizona]

Terra Incognita

pairing: Javier Peña/f!Virgin Reader (no physical descriptions)

summary: Being the secretary for the attaché, Javier Peña, isn’t too bad. In the months you’ve worked together, he’s warmed up to you. Having flirty conversations daily and being the only recipient of his rare smiles you know all means nothing since he’s your boss; your unattainable, unbelievably attractive boss you have a raging crush on. Then he decides to do the unthinkable and asks you out for a drink, and not an innocent, HR-approved drink between colleagues, but a forbidden, going on a date drink—that goes so well you ask him to take your virginity and make you orgasm for the first time. 

He happily obliges. 

rating: E (18+!! No y/n, can be read as age gap (reader’s age is unspecified, but she’s at least 23), Soft Javier Peña, Inexperienced Reader, boss/employee relationship (very consensual, he puts you in control), explicit smut, loss of virginity, first time, first orgasm (Javier teaches you how to touch yourself), unprotected p in v (wrap it up!), creampie (it’s me), oral sex (f receiving), vaginal fingering, masturbation (f), mirror sex, dirty talk, praise kink, spit mention, (1) spank, Javier being a consent king, sneaking around, insecurity, self-esteem issues, Javier making you feel beautiful, feelings, Javier being cute and flirty, talks of the future, Javier hating you think he’s too hot for you)

word count: 12.8k+

a/n: I got an ask about doing reader’s first time with Javier months ago, and this week, I finally had a chance to write it. There’s plot, there’s a lot of porn, this took on a life of its own, and I’m sorry about how long it took me to get around to it. I hope you enjoy! Takes place during Season 3 of Narcos, a couple of months before they get Gilberto. Thank you so much to @senorabond for betaing super last minute!

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs feed me. I’d love to know what you thought!

Masterlist

“Peña,” he answers on the second ring. 

Sitting at your desk outside Javier Peña’s office, you have the corded phone receiver held to your ear and documents in front of you that you’re preparing for his signatures. 

“I have someone from the ambassador’s office on the other line,” you tell him. “I’m going to assume you’re in a meeting?”

He isn’t. 

The smile is clear in his voice when he replies, “Yeah, I’m definitely in a meeting.”

“I’ll send them to your voicemail.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s no problem, sir.”

“Just Javi.”

“It’s no problem, Just Javi.”

An amused breath leaves him. “Smartass.”

“I’m just calling you what you requested. I need to take care of this call. Bye, Just Javi.”

“Javi. Bye, Florecita (little flower).”

The nickname makes you smile, knowing he calls you it because there’s always a bouquet on your desk—today, it’s daisies. 

Pressing a couple of buttons has you back on the line with the other person, apologizing that your boss is indisposed in a meeting and transferring them to his voicemail. Immediately, you return to the task you were working on before being interrupted. 

Being the secretary for the attaché isn’t too bad. 

For months now, you’ve worked with Javier, and at first, he didn’t even know what to do with you until requests started coming in for him to attend meetings, be on conference calls, and turn in paperwork by deadlines. That's when he tagged you in to be the keeper of his schedule. He was polite and professional at the beginning of your partnership, and a little sulky, which you figured had to do with the job. Over time, he still sulked, but he’s warmed up to you, especially with how you run interference with his calls that come through and keep him from talking to people who annoy him to the best of your ability. Occasionally, he has to speak to them; rarely, however, because you have no issue lying through your teeth for him—he gets grumpy after those calls so it’s better for him to hardly take them. 

He’s friendlier now than when you first met, and the only time you’ve seen him crack a smile is when he’s talking to you. The first and every time after he has made you feel like you’re melting—yes, you have a crush on your boss. 

Have you seen him? 

Those suits? The hair? The mustache? His shoulder-to-waist ratio? His ass? He’s gorgeous, and you don’t have a chance in hell, so you bask in the smiles he gifts only to you, and the fun, flirty conversations that aren’t leading to anything since he’s your boss, and way out of your league. 

Glancing at the watch on your wrist informs you it’s time for lunch—it’s crazy how quickly time flies when you’re working sometimes. The small stack of papers on your desk gets stapled and set off to the side and out of the way. When you pull open your bottom desk drawer, your purse is in there, along with two small paper lunch sacks. Pulling the latter out, one is set in the space the papers once occupied, and the other you carry as you roll your chair back and get up. It’s only a handful of steps to the closed door, rapping your knuckles against it twice. 

“Come in,” says a voice from inside. 

Opening the door, you make your way in, closing it behind you. Your boss is sitting at his desk sans his navy blue suit jacket, a cigarette cushioned between his plush lips, wisps of smoke rising from it as he reads over documents. 

That’s another thing about Javier—you’re pretty sure he lives on coffee and cigarettes, not buying it anytime he says he’s quitting them. 

To be annoying, you put the paper bag directly over what he’s reading. His head pops up to look at you with his big, brown puppy dog eyes, his fingers pulling the lit nicotine from his mouth and depositing it into the glass ashtray he keeps within reach.  

“I’ve told you, you don’t have to bring me lunch,” his words come out in a deep rasp. 

Crossing your arms over your chest, you can’t help but snort, noticing his gaze dropping to your bosom for a split second before it’s back on yours. 

“That’s a lie,” you reply, and he frowns. “You always forget to eat because you’re too busy working. So, the solution is for me to bring you food. That way, you can eat and keep doing all your important stuff.” 

His eyes dart away as he sighs. “Can I pay you for the lunches?” he asks. “You probably didn’t have making lunch for your helpless boss in your food budget.” 

You smile. “I didn’t, but I’m happy to make them for you. There’s no need for you to pay me for the food.” 

His eyes meet yours. “There’s gotta be some way for me to thank you.” He sits back in his chair, letting you take in the ample breadth of his shoulders in his white dress shirt, his red patterned tie running down the center of his chest. “How about I take you out for a drink tonight?” 

That causes your brain to record scratch. 

“A drink… with me?” you answer slowly. 

There’s a confused expression on his face. “Yeah? I would’ve asked you sooner, but I’m always fucking working, and tonight I’m free—this entire weekend, I am, as long as I’m not called in.” 

He would’ve asked you sooner?

“I know you are…” You are the keeper of his schedule. “It’s just a thank you drink…?” 

His hand goes to his mouth, your eyes stuck on the journey his thumb makes, swiping over his bottom lip and wondering for the thousandth time what it’d be like to kiss him. 

“Can be…” he answers, his eyes darkening when you look at them. “Or, it can be more if that’s what you want.” 

He wants to go on a date with you? 

“I like the sound of more,” you quietly reply. 

“I like the sound of more, too.” And you’re gifted with one of his smiles, this one crooked and charming. 

It makes you swallow, your skin feeling heated. “I just want to make sure I’m reading this right,” you start, feeling discombobulated. “You’re asking me out on a date, right? Me?” You point at yourself, so there’s no mistaking who you mean. 

That confused look is back on his face as he leans forward. “Yes, I am asking you—” He points at you. “—to go out with me.” He points at himself. “Why are you so surprised? I like you.” 

Your eyes widen. 

“You like me?” 

“Yes? Querida (Darling), why are you having trouble believing I’m interested in you?” 

This is so embarrassing, you have to cover your face in your hands, your voice muffled when you answer, “Because you’re extremely attractive, and I’m me, and I’ve seen the women you normally go for.” Everybody knew about his one-night stand with the woman who worked here. “I’m nowhere near as beautiful as them.” 

The sound of his chair wheels rolling met your ears, and seconds later, you jolt when big, warm hands are grabbing yours and pulling them away. A concerned look you’ve never seen is on his face, his thumbs rubbing over the backs of your hands. 

“Don’t say that,” he says in a soothing tone. “Wanna know something?” 

“Sure.” 

“I find you more attractive.” You huff in disbelief. “I’m serious,” he continues. “Not only do you look beautiful—” His hand moves to cup your cheek. “—what’s inside you is beautiful, too, with how thoughtful and caring you are. You’re also funny and smart. I’ve been dying to take you out.” The sincerity in his gaze takes your breath away. 

Has hell frozen over? Are pigs flying? How in the hell is this perfect specimen of a man interested in you? He’s adamant he is, and you know he’s telling the truth, which seems insane, yet it’s exhilarating. Your love life is non-existent; you’ve never even been in a relationship, not for lack of trying; it’s just no one’s ever been interested. Now, someone is, and he’s so hot. There’s just one big glaring problem…

“You’re my boss…” you point out. “We’re not allowed to have any kind of romantic relationship due to the fact there is a major power imbalance here.” 

“The person who has all the power is you. You decide how far things go and if things should end. I’d never fire you or hurt your career in any way if you wanted nothing to do with me—I just wanna take you out for a drink, and from there, it’s all you.” 

His last sentence causes a nervous flutter in your tummy. 

“Okay, I’d like to get a drink with you. What’s your plan for us not being seen together?” 

He smiles, taking a step closer so your bodies are practically touching, smelling his spicy cologne that makes your mouth go dry. “I’ll take you to this little hole-in-a-wall place I know. Can I pick you up at seven?” 

You frown. “You know I live in a building full of people who work here—they’ll see you.” He’s occasionally driven you to and from work when the usual person you carpooled with was sick. 

“I won’t go to your door. I can park in the back of the lot and call you to come out to me.” 

“Have you put a lot of thought into this?” you ask. 

His cheeks pink up while he looks away. “Yeah…” 

The answer makes your heart pound in your chest, wondering what all he’s imagined, and something comes to mind, your curiosity getting the better of you. 

“What, um, is your plan if after the drink we want to go somewhere quieter and more… secluded?” 

His eyes are back on yours, his voice going a little deeper. “I’d take you back to my place.” 

The thought of that both excites you and makes you nervous.

“People won’t see me?” 

“No one from here—I had them put me up somewhere away from everyone else.” 

“Oh.”

“Can I kiss you?” 

“Yes,” you breathe. 

As soon as you say the word, his lips descend on yours, his hand cradling your head, his other arm wrapping around your back to pull you into him. This is a scenario you’ve daydreamed about countlessly; and the real thing? Even better than you imagined—his lips are soft and plush, the kiss tender, working his mouth against yours in a way that has something stirring low in your belly. He tastes like cigarettes and black coffee, which shouldn’t be as appealing as it is, your body feeling warm, the skin hot where he touches, your fingers digging into his shoulders. 

The moment comes when your lungs ache for breath, and he kisses you one last time, ending it with a playful nip to your bottom lip, his own lifted in another smile. You’re breathing heavily, seeing his lips had reddened, his eyes heavy–lidded. 

“Was it everything you hoped for?” he asks. 

It’s hard to think, not knowing what he’s talking about. 

“Huh?” you answer. 

He’s smiling cheekily now. 

“All the times you thought about kissing me—actually doing it, was it how you imagined?” 

The way your stomach drops, feeling your face heat. 

“Oh my god,” you gasp. “Was I that obvious?”

“Yeah. You don’t know how many fucking times I thought about giving you what you wanted.” 

“I am so embarrassed.” You squeeze your eyes shut. 

“Don’t be. I love it, and it gave me hope you’d agree to go out with me.” 

Looking away, you tell him, “It was better…” 

He grins, his head moving to kiss the side of your mouth, turning so your lips can meet. It’s quick, him whispering, “Yeah?” When he breaks away, nudging his nose against yours. 

This sweetness has you feeling all gooey. 

“Yes.” 

“Eat lunch with me.” 

“Is that an order from my boss or Javi?” 

He sighs, pressing his forehead to yours. “It should’ve been a question from me, Javi—sorry.” 

You smile, pecking him on the lips. “In that case, my answer is yes. I’ll need to go grab my food.” 

Both of his arms hug around your middle, pressing his face into your neck. “I don’t wanna let you go yet.” 

Hugging him back, you reply, “Okay,” kissing his hair. 

Him being all touchy-feely and sweet is very unexpected but a welcome surprise. 

The blinds are all closed on the glass walls that enclose a good portion of his office, and there’s no worry of anyone stumbling upon the two of you in this embrace since they’d knock first. With how his body relaxes into yours and the way he lets out a happy sigh, it seems this hug is something he’s needed, and you’re more than willing to give him the comfort. 

“If you ever need a hug, just let me know,” you whisper. 

His arms loosen, raising his head to look at you. 

“Thanks. What, uh, if I need a kiss?” 

You giggle. “Same. Just let me know.” 

“I think I need one before you go.” 

“I will be gone for less than thirty seconds.” 

“It’s thirty seconds too long.” 

“You’re ridiculous,” you reply in exasperation. “Kiss me, you goober.” 

And he does, slotting his mouth against yours, kissing you. 

It might’ve lasted seconds or a minute, you’re not sure, with how lost you get in his lips on yours and his body pressed so close. When he finally pulls away, you chase his mouth, and he chuckles, making you frown. 

“Go get your lunch, Florecita,” he rasps. “We’ll eat, finish working, and tonight, I’ll kiss you as much as you want.” 

Opening your eyes, they’re locked on his, smiling as you reply, “I like that plan.” 

He has the same expression, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “I do, too.” With that, he gives your hips one last squeeze and walks to sit behind his desk again, and you make the quick trip to get your lunch and bring it back, shutting the door behind you. 

Javier tries to get you to pull one of the chairs in front of his desk around to sit beside him; however, you give him a firm no in case someone comes by. Instead, you end up across from him, talking between bites of your sandwiches and chips. 

There are things you already know about him, such as he’s from Texas, only his father is alive, and, of course, how he helped take down Pablo Escobar. During this lunch, you learn his mother passed away five years ago; he has no siblings but a large extended family, he dearly misses his mother’s tamales, he’s still good friends with Steve Murphy, and he grew up on a cattle ranch where his father still lives. 

You finish your food, and you put all the garbage into the paper bag to throw out. 

“What are your plans for the weekend?” you ask him. “I can’t remember the last time you had one off.” 

“I haven’t.” He crumples up his trash in his own bag. “And I’m not sure yet what my plans are,” he answers with a wink, your mouth falling open. 

Clearing your throat, you quickly get up, avoiding eye contact with how hot your face feels. 

“What about you?” he asks. 

“Um, I’m not sure, either.” The original plan was to deep clean your apartment, but now, with your date tonight and Javi having the whole weekend off, things might be changing. 

“Maybe we can figure out something together tonight.” 

“Maybe,” you reply, walking backward with your garbage in your hand, still avoiding looking at him. “I have to get back to work, Mr. Peña, sir—”

“Just Javi,” he interrupts. 

“I have to get back to work, Just Javi, and pretend like I don’t know what it’s like to kiss you or think about how I’m going out with you tonight, so if you can do me a favor and not be sexy for the next—” You check your wristwatch. “—three hours and fifty-eight minutes, I’d greatly appreciate it.” 

“I’ll try…?”

Your back bumps against the door. 

“Great!” Taking a deep breath, you chance a glance at him to see he’s smiling. “Me?” you whisper in disbelief, reaching behind you to grab the door handle. “He likes me?” 

Turning, you open the door, Javier saying loud enough for you to hear, “Yes, you,” and butterflies flutter rapidly around in your belly. 

Thankfully, the rest of the day goes by quickly, the two of you staying very professional, aside from the one kiss he stole when you needed him to sign something. 

When it was time to leave, you told him goodbye from the doorway, and he made you wait so he could walk you to the car park, where you went to catch a ride with your friend, and he walked to his Jeep. 

With how nervous you were, dinner was light and quick once you got home, followed by taking your time to get all gussied up for your date—showering, getting out your cutest black dress, doing your hair and makeup, and spritzing on some perfume. 

Doubt creeps its way into your brain that maybe you imagined all that happened—Javi didn’t ask you out, Javi didn’t kiss you or hold you in his arms. It makes you think there isn’t actually going to be a date, and all the work you put into getting ready is for nothing. You try your best to push it down; becoming nervous because it all did happen, and you are going out with him, making your mind race with possibilities of what could happen that evening—what you hope will happen. 

By the time it’s five to seven, you’re so lost in thought you practically jump out of your skin when your home phone rings on the wall in the kitchen. Making your way there, you answer it on the third ring, picking up the receiver to your ear. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey, It’s me. I’m here.” 

“Okay, I’m heading down.” 

“Can’t wait to see you. Bye.” 

“Bye.” 

Hanging up the phone, you grab your purse, put on a jean jacket, and slip on some sensible, easy-to-walk-in heels as you leave, locking up your apartment tightly. 

It’s a Friday night, and you live in a large apartment complex, trying to avoid as many people as possible as you leave. 

Do you ensure no one is around as you walk into the parking lot, trying to keep to the shadows? Yes. 

The sun has already gone down, the headlights off on Javi’s Jeep, the vehicle dark at the back of the parking lot, save for the tiny orange glow of the cigarette he’s inhaling.

The overhead light doesn’t even come on when you open the passenger door and jump in, the dashboard and radio softly glowing. His window is partly down, and he tosses what he’d been smoking. 

He leans toward you, and you stop him with one palm, the other digging in your purse on your lap, relying on feeling around to get what you’re looking for, finally finding it. 

There’s a shining stick of gum between your fingers when you hold them up to him. 

“You’re the hottest man I’ve ever met,” you say, “and I’m really into you, but I’d prefer not to make out with someone who tastes like an ashtray.” 

He sighs, taking and unwrapping the gum. “I’m quitting,” he grumbles, putting it in his mouth and chewing, the wrapper getting rolled into a ball and tossed in the empty cup holder between you. 

“Uh-huh, sure, Javi. You’ve been saying that for months now,” you reply, patting his chest. 

Snatching your hand, he brings it to his lips, softly kissing each of your knuckles. 

“I’ll get some nicotine gum tomorrow, so you’ll kiss me.” 

That has you taken aback. 

“You’re going to stop smoking, so I’ll kiss you…?” 

“It’s one of the perks, and I know you fucking hate the habit.” That’s true. “Is my mouth minty enough? I wanna kiss you.” 

The fact you could smell the spearmint on his breath told you it was, your hands pulling his head toward you, smashing your lips against his. You can feel him smiling, his large palm cradling the back of your head, and allowing him to deepen the kiss when his tongue seeks entry into your mouth, unable to keep from moaning when it slides against your own. 

Kissing, you have some experience with, not a lot, but some, so you follow his lead, and he takes your breath away. 

When he pulls back, you feel dazed with your eyes closed, heart pounding, and chest heaving. 

“You okay?” he asks.

Blinking open your eyes, you answer breathily, “Yes. You’re just really good at that—wait, why is there gum in my mouth?” you ask, chewing it. 

When did he slip it in?

In the lowlights of the radio, you can see him smiling as he laughs, and you’re almost positive this is the first time you’ve heard such a wonderful sound, determined to hear it again. 

“You’re adorable,” you say, cranking down your window, spitting out the wad, and rolling it up again. “And I’m positive you’re going to be the death of me.” 

His hand guides your chin to make you look at him, a serious look on his face. “I’m not gonna be the death of you,” he replies.

“With how much I like you, how hot you are, and the way you kiss? I’m fucked.” 

“We’re both fucked.” 

When he finally starts driving, his hand holds yours on your thigh, confirming he’s a big physical touch person, always needing to be touching you. 

It’s quiet as he takes you out of the area you’re familiar with. For you, it’s because your stomach is aflutter with nerves, and you’re trying to figure out what’s going to happen, or really what you want to happen that night. How far do you want to take things? He said you’re the one who decides. How brave are you? 

The place you end up is unfamiliar to you, Javi parking along the curb and jumping out to come around and get your door. He’s smiling as he offers you a hand to help you out that you happily take, his eyes moving up and down your body when you stand in front of him. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, shutting the car door. 

It’s your turn to check him out, seeing he’s in criminally tight jeans, a maroon button-up, and a black leather jacket. 

“You’re pretty handsome yourself.” 

“Thanks. I promised you a drink.”

“Yes, you did.”

Your purse is dangling on your shoulder, Javi taking your hand as he leads you down the sidewalk, past a bakery and a little mini-mart, until you arrive at your destination. It’s a tiny neighborhood bar, the wooden sign above naming it La Sirenita.

“Is the owner a big Disney fan?” you ask before entering. 

“What?” His eyebrows scrunch together, his free hand ready to pull open the door. 

“It’s called ‘The Little Mermaid,’ like the Disney movie from a few years ago,” you explain. 

“I haven’t seen that… It’s named La Sirenita because the owner used to work on a fishing boat and swears when he fell overboard once, a mermaid saved him.” 

“That’s basically the plot of the movie…” 

His eyebrow rose. 

“Florecita, this bar has been here for twenty fucking years. He didn’t name it after some dumb kid’s cartoon.” 

“The Little Mermaid is a masterpiece of cinema, thank you very much. Now, let’s get inside.” 

As you expected, the inside has artist's renderings on the walls of mermaids, and over the bar is a fishing net. Seats line the bar top, and there are a few tables and a few booths. The place is not too terribly busy, spotting one empty two-person table in a corner. It’s not very loud, with people talking and laughing, music playing in the background at a reasonable volume. All in all, the atmosphere is lovely. 

“Do you wanna go have a seat, and I’ll grab our drinks?” he asks, nodding toward the empty table you spotted. 

“Sure,” you answer, telling him what you’d like. 

There’s no one here you recognize, which makes you breathe easily, hanging your purse on the back of your chair with your jacket, sitting down, and looking around the room. A few minutes later, Javi arrives with the drinks, not even a little surprised he got a whiskey for himself. 

He’s in the seat across from you, taking a sip while you stare into your glass. 

“I’m going to be honest with you,” you say. “This is technically my second date.” 

His hand reaches to grab yours on the table, rubbing his thumb over the back of it. 

“I don’t date either. Fuck, I’ve been in one relationship? And it was a fucking nightmare.” 

Lifting your head, you ask, “So, you’re not interested in dating or being in a relationship? It’s okay if you’re just looking for something casual without commitment.” 

You’ll take him any way you can get him. 

“Shit.” His eyes close tightly, pressing his fingers to his brow. “I already fucked up. I should’ve said, ‘I didn’t date until now,’ and I am interested in being in a relationship with someone right for me. The last person… wasn’t.” 

Hope rises in you. 

“Okay. That’s good to know.” 

His hand drops, gaze meeting yours. “Are you interested in all that? Or just wanting something casual?” 

“I’m interested in dating and a relationship. I’ve never been in one, but I think I can figure it out.” 

He smiles, his hand tightening around yours. “You can,” he replies. 

You hide your own smile by taking a drink and setting it back down after some seconds. 

“What do you want to talk about?” you ask. 

“I wanna hear your story.” 

“It’s awfully boring compared to yours.” 

“I don’t care. I wanna hear it.” 

“Fine.” 

And you give him a rundown of your family—divorced parents who remarried, and now you have a handful of younger half-siblings. Graduated from high school, went to college, and got a degree in business, and you’re in your current job because the pay and benefits are decent, and it puts you on a different continent than your family. He, of course, inquires why that’s a good thing, to which you have to explain they always need something from you—money, favors, your time, but can never help when you’re in need. Thus, you moved far away to make it so they couldn’t use you anymore. 

The glasses in front of you both become empty, so he gets each of you another drink. 

Then it’s his turn to share—he loves his family, misses his mom, and talks to his dad at least once a week; he does know how to ride a horse and does not like wearing cowboy hats but loves the boots and wears them when he’s feeling a little homesick. He doesn't bother telling you all of his history with the DEA because you pretty much know all of it. However, he does give you the details about his failed relationship with a woman named Lorraine from his hometown, who treated him like shit, and claimed to be pregnant when he tried to leave her so he’d have to marry her. Luckily, he discovered the lie the night before the wedding and left her at the altar, which he recognizes was a shitty thing to do, telling you he apologized to her the last time he was home.

Things get more lighthearted when he tells you stories about cooking with his mom growing up and her teaching him, getting flirty about his skills. 

“I make a good breakfast,” he tells you, winking as he takes a drink. 

It feels hot in the room, stifling almost, gulping while your eyes look anywhere else than at him, trying to figure out in your flustered state how to respond. 

“I bet you make a good breakfast,” is what comes out, your eyes rounding. 

“You’ll have to try it and let me know.” Your gaze latches onto his, seeing him smirking. His lips are shiny from his whiskey, and all you can think about is kissing them and tasting it on him. 

“Come here,” he says, pushing back in his chair. The second drink in your system gives you the courage to get up and walk around the table, letting him pull you down to sit across his lap with your legs dangling over the side. His arm locks around your back, his other hand stroking your cheek. 

The tip of his nose rubs against yours. 

“You wanna kiss me?” he purrs. 

“Yes,” you whisper. 

“Then do it.” 

Crushing your mouth to his, your fingers end up in his hair, surprised by the softness. The kissing heats when he presses his tongue between your lips, tasting the whiskey when it tangles with your own. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or him, or a combination of it both, but your skin feels so hot you’re wishing there were no clothes on your body. Your lungs start to ache, and his mouth moves to your jaw so you can take a deep breath. 

“What do you want?” he asks between kisses. 

“You,” you gasp. 

“You wanna get out of here?”

The throbbing you’re feeling between your legs has you answer immediately, “Yes.” 

His hand, not on your back, moves down to grab the side of your ass while he sucks on your pulse point, the sensation making you moan.

“There’s just a bit of a problem,” you force out, trying to ignore the burning arousal in your belly. 

His head rises to look you in the eyes, his mouth turned down in a frown. 

“I’ve got condoms,” he says quickly. “And I’m clean—got tested recently.” 

“That’s wonderful?” you reply, unsure how to respond. “I’m on birth control? But the problem has nothing to do with preventing babies and STDs…” 

“What’s the problem…?”

There’s no way you can look at him, so you close your eyes. 

“It’s a problem I’m really hoping you can help me with, actually, if you’re willing.” 

“What is it?” 

“I’ve, um, never had sex?” you say in a hushed voice. “And it’d be great if you could fix that…” 

There’s still chatter, laughter, and music happening around you, but in the little bubble of the two of you, it’s silent—which goes on for too long, and you open your eyes to see a gobsmacked look on Javier’s face. 

“Javi?” 

“Never?” he asks, barely above a whisper. 

“Never.” 

He must regain his bearings because he asks, “But you’ve fooled around with people, right?” 

“I’ve done some kissing and rubbing over clothes?” 

There was an almost drunken hookup in college, but you chickened out. 

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. 

“If this is too much pressure, you can tap out. I just trust you and know you’ll do it right and take care of me.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, absolutely. Zero hesitation.” 

He nods his head. “Okay, I’ll do it, but if you change your mind at all, you tell me.” 

A thrill runs through you. 

“Of course.” 

“Good.” 

“One other thing…” 

“Yes?” 

“I’ve also never orgasmed…” 

That has him harshly whispering, “What?!” A look of disbelief on his face. “Don’t you touch yourself?” 

“Not really,” you reply, shrugging. “I could never really figure it out.” 

“Get up.” He pushes you to stand from his lap. “We’re leaving right now.” He gets up, pulling his wallet from his back pocket, tossing some cash onto the table while you grab your purse and jacket. His billfold is back where it belongs, and he takes your hand, pulling you out of the bar in a hurry. 

He’s driving fast once you’re both belted into his Jeep. 

“What is going on, Javier?” you ask. “Why are you being so intense about my lack of orgasms?”

His hand is gripping your thigh. 

“Because it’s not right you haven’t had one, and I need to fix that immediately.” 

“Maybe slow down, so we make it to your apartment safely?” 

He slows a tiny bit, and you count it as a win. 

His apartment building is definitely away from where you knew the other employees were housed and much nicer. He parks beneath the building in the parking garage and leads you to an elevator that requires him to enter a code in a keypad before it will work, your eyes bulging when he hits the number for the top floor. 

“I had them put me in the nicest place they could find with the budget they had for my housing,” he explains without you asking, standing beside you with his arm around your waist. “They offered me a house, but I preferred the security of this place.” There’d been a gate you had to come through to get onto the property. 

“It’s way nicer than my dingy apartment.” 

“I used to live in your apartments back in the day.”

Your eyebrow lifts. “Back in the day? It was literally, what? Maybe two or so years ago.” 

“Yeah, back in the day when I was nothing but a dumb DEA agent.” 

“Who helped take down Pablo Escobar… The Los Pepes shit was dumb, but you still made a difference.” 

“I guess.” You can hear him frowning. 

Turning your head toward him, he meets your eyes. 

“You made a difference, and now that you’re in charge, you’re gonna take out those Cali cartel fuckers, too.” 

A little smile curls up on his mouth. “Maybe.”

“You will.” 

“You have a lot of faith in me.” 

“Because you’re an amazing man who’s good at his job and actually gives a shit—you’re gonna do it, and I’ll celebrate with you when you do.” 

The elevator dings as the doors open, both of you walking out into a hallway, following as he goes to the right. 

“You’ll have a drink with me at the office?” 

“Sure, if that’s how you wanna celebrate.” 

Arriving at his door, he digs his keys out of his pocket and unlocks both locks. 

“How did you imagine we’d celebrate?” he asks, stepping inside and welcoming you in. 

The front door is closed and locked behind you while you use the wall beside it for balance to take off your heels, Javi already kicking off his boots and hanging up his jacket on a nearby coat rack. 

“I don’t know,” you answer, getting one shoe off, then the other. “Aren’t celebratory blow jobs a thing?” you ask as you straighten and face him, passing him your purse and coat, which he hangs up with his jacket. 

His eyes narrow. 

“You said you’ve never fooled around with anyone?” 

“Yeah?” Your arms cross in front of you. “I haven’t—I shouldn’t know different sex acts because I’m inexperienced? I’m a virgin, not a prude, and a very curious virgin who’s watched porn.” 

“...And you didn’t touch yourself?” 

“Watching the porn? I tried. Like I said, I couldn’t figure it out. Maybe I was thinking too hard?” 

“Maybe. I’ll get you there. Come on, baby,” he says, retaking your hand and leading you through his massive apartment that has a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows in the living and dining rooms. The place is sparse in terms of decorations and sticks to neutral colors—white, beige, and black. There’s furniture, of course, and a television in the living room, along with a bookcase with some books on it that you walk past into a hallway you assume leads to the bedroom. 

“How many bedrooms do you have?” you ask. 

“Two, but I converted the guest room into an office.” 

“You work too much.” 

“You got a better idea of what I can do with my time?” he asks over his shoulder. 

“Assuming you fuck as good as you kiss, yeah.” 

He chuckles, shaking his head as he faces forward. “You’re gonna be the fucking death of me.” 

His bedroom is spacious, featuring another wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, and also sticks to a neutral color scheme; his neatly made bed is king-size with bedside tables on either side and lamps atop them, spotting a dresser, a closet, and a door you assume leads to an en suite—the pièce de résistance that really pulls the place together are the panels of mirrors directly over the bed. 

“I like the horny—”

“They came with the apartment,” he cuts you off.

“Well, if you hate the mirror, why don’t you move the bed?” There’s enough room for him to place it somewhere else. 

Standing at the end of his massive bed, he turns to you, his dark eyes on yours. 

“Because I’d like a chance to use it.” His tongue peeks between his lips. 

“Wait, you haven’t fucked in here?” You have a hard time believing that. 

He sighs. “When would I have time?” he asks. “I’m always fucking busy or too fucking tired—I hate saying it, but I’m getting old.” 

“Javi, you’re not even forty. You’re not old.” 

“I feel old.” He pouts. 

Taking a step forward to press your body into his, you rub your hands up his chest. 

“Well, I think you’re young and sexy, and I’d love to use the mirror with you.” 

He’s crookedly smiling, his hands on your hips. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes.” 

“Can I take off your clothes?” 

“Sure.” 

The nerves are back with a vengeance. 

Capturing your lips in a kiss, his palms move up your back, easily working down the zipper on your dress and helping to get it off your arms, where it falls, pooling around your feet. His mouth makes a wet path along your jaw while his fingers unhook your black lacy bra, where it quickly joins your dress—you’d been thankful you had one set of cute matching lingerie, Javi’s mouth moving down your neck to your chest. 

“Can I touch you?” he asks, placing a soft kiss over your thudding heart. 

“Yes,” you answer, confused about where to put your hands, so you rest them on your waist. “You can, um, touch me anywhere. I don’t mind.” 

He takes your tits into his hands, lightly massaging them while kissing the tops. When he sucks a pebbled nipple between his lips, you gasp at the shock of pleasure that shoots to your cunt—it feels so good as he sucks and nibbles at the hard bud, moving to the other to give it the same attention, your fingers ending up in his hair, unable to keep from moaning. 

You can feel your heart beating at the apex of your eyes, your panties feeling wet, and your desire thrumming in your core. 

His hot mouth continues its worship of your breasts, Javier grabbing your dominant hand and moving it down your body and under the elastic of your panties, having you slide two fingers through your wet slit. 

His lips leave you. “Feel how wet you are?” he asks, having you make another pass. 

“Yes,” you breathe, your eyes closed. 

“Does it feel good, Hermosa (beautiful)?” 

“Yes.” 

“While I suck on your gorgeous tits, I want you to rub right here.” He places two of your fingertips over your clit. “Do what feels good, but don’t be too gentle.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Here.” Slowly, he has you start circling the nub, your breath catching in your throat. “It feels good,” he says, and you agree. “But you’re being too nice. Go faster and apply more pressure—don’t be afraid to fuck it up.” With that, you do as he instructed, your fingers rubbing furiously against your bundle of nerves. 

“Oh my god,” you moan at the pleasure coiling inside you. 

“Good girl,” he purrs. “Keep doing that for me, baby.” 

His mouth goes back to your breasts, and you feel like you’re losing your mind at how amazing the combined sensations feel. An odd tightening is happening in your center, getting tighter and tighter as every second passes. 

“Something,” you gasp. “Something feels weird.” 

His lips come off you with a pop.

“That’s good, Florecita. It means you’re close. Keep going, baby. Keep rubbing that pretty little clit and make yourself come. I want you to be my good girl and come for me.” 

Whenever he calls you his ‘good girl,’ a pleasant tingle moves down your spine. 

He’s back to sucking on your nipple while he rolls the other between his fingers, and the coil in your belly is winding so tight, it feels like something is going to happen, and it does—the coil snaps, and suddenly euphoria is overtaking your body feeling it spreading out from your center to your fingers and toes, Javier having to catch you when your legs give out, hugging you against him. 

“There it is,” he murmurs in your hair. “My good fucking girl coming for me. I knew you’d do it. Fuck, you’re amazing.” 

It takes you a minute to think a coherent thought and another to remember how to speak. 

“I know this is only our first date,” your words are coming out slurred, “but I don’t wanna let you go, like ever. I really like you, and it’s not because you helped me come.” 

“I don’t wanna let you go, either.” He kisses your head, hugging you tighter. “You wanna see where this will go?” 

“You mean I can be your secret girlfriend?” 

He snorts. “I’ll take you any fucking way I can get you—if I have to, I can switch you out with someone else’s secretary, and then it won’t be an issue.” 

“You’d hate that.” 

“I’d fucking hate that.” 

“Let’s date in secret—that sounds fun. Having rendezvous’, making out in storage rooms, fucking in your office—”

“Fucking in my office?” 

“The door’s got a lock. Lunchtime quickies. Especially on days when you’re stressed.” 

“You’re perfect.” 

“I’m horny, and I’d really like to see what you can do with this.” Your palm rubs over the front of his jeans, feeling him hard and straining against the zipper. 

He groans, and the sound goes straight to your pussy. 

“Can you stand?” he asks. 

Your legs are working fine now, putting all your weight on them. 

“Yeah.” 

His arms loosen around you to meet your gaze. 

“Do you wanna undress me?” 

“Yes.” You nod. “Am I allowed to touch you?” 

“You can do any fucking thing you want to me.” 

His answer makes you smile. “How romantic.” 

It’s a little nerve-wracking having his attention on you as you work open the buttons on his shirt, his hands soothingly rubbing over your bare hips. 

“Relax,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss your cheek. His lips are at your ear as you finish unbuttoning him and untuck his button-up from his jeans. “You’re doing good.” His breath tickles your skin. “All you’re doing is getting my clothes off.”

He calms you, but now you’re trying to figure out the logistics of getting the shirt off him. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re ridiculously broad?”

He huffs in amusement, standing to his full height to look at your face while he smiles. 

“No one has told me that.”

Now, you’re able to push the button-up off his shoulders and pull it to fall from his arms onto the floor. 

There’s a lot of golden skin in front of you, your eyes taking in the freckles, and his soft belly with the tantalizing trail of hair below his navel leading down into his jeans. 

“I’ve always wondered what you were hiding under those suits,” you murmur, rubbing your hands along the warm skin of his shoulders, down his chest, to his stomach. “And I’m not disappointed.”

“I love how you look naked, too.”

The comment makes you duck your head, feeling heat creep up your neck. 

His fingers go under your chin, tilting your face up to see his warm expression. 

“I mean it,” he says. “You’re beautiful, and I need you to believe me.”

The truth is clear in his eyes, yet it’s hard to accept he thinks that.

“I know you’re not lying to me.” Your gaze shifts to stare over his shoulder at the bare cream-colored wall. “No one’s ever wanted me,” you say quietly. “No one ever looked at me as more than a friend. My first date? Was with this guy I was best friends with from elementary through high school. I was madly in love with him, and he saw me as nothing more than the sister he never had. We only went on the date because it was our senior prom, and neither of us had dates, so we went together. No one has ever wanted me.” 

“I want you,” he replies with conviction, so there’s no doubt. “I want you, all of you.” 

It makes you sigh. “And that honestly is insane to me.” 

“I’m not liking whatever this shit is where you think I’m too attractive for you, or whatever the fuck it is,” he says, his hands going to his belt, hearing him unbuckling it. Your eyes flick back to his, and you’re greeted with the grumpy expression you’re used to seeing at work. He pops open the button on his jeans, and you hear the teeth pull apart as he unzips them, making you gulp. 

“Are you mad at me?” you ask.

“What?” His face pinches in confusion, pushing his pants down, and you can’t help but look—he’s not wearing underwear. Bobbing between his legs is his sizable hard-on that has your eyes rounding at wondering how it would fit inside you. “No, I’m not mad at you, baby—fuck, the way you’re staring at my dick is driving me crazy.” He steps out of his jeans and does the awkward dance of getting his socks off. 

“I’m trying to figure out how you’re gonna get that thing inside me.” 

He chuckles, his bare feet planted on the floor, putting his hands on his hips. 

“I’ll tell you, and you can keep touching me if you want, but first—” He closes the distance to have your bodies practically touching, his dick pressing into your stomach, while his palms come up to hold your cheeks, your own going over his. “—creo que eres hermosa y te deseo (I think you’re beautiful and I want you). Eres muy hermosa (You’re very beautiful). Te he deseado por mucho tiempo, y no sabes lo feliz que estoy de finalmente tenerte (I’ve wanted you for a long time and you don’t know how happy I am to finally have you).” 

“¿En serio (Really)?” you ask. 

“Sí (Yes).” He nods. “Estaba chingado desde la primera vez que te vi (I was fucked from the first time I saw you.”

“No, estás mintiendo (No, you’re lying).” 

“Sabes que no lo estoy y tu también estabas igual de chingada cuando me conociste (You know I’m not and you were also just as fucked when you met me). Admítelo (Admit it).”

“Por supuesto que estaba y aparentemente fui muy obvio al respecto (Of course I was, and apparently I was very obvious about it).”

He grins, and an adorable dimple appears in his cheek. “Así era yo (So was I).” 

Your eyes narrow. “How were you obvious, Javier?” 

He gives you a look. “Remember when I had that meeting with HR, uh, a month or so ago?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Apparently, people are under the impression we’re fucking.” 

“What?” 

“Yeah, caught me off guard, too. I guess I treat you differently than everyone else and act differently.” He shrugs. “I told them we just have a close professional relationship, and I’d do nothing untoward to jeopardize it.” 

“You say with your hard dick jabbing me.” Reaching down, you wrap your fingers around him, Javi’s mouth falling open—he’s hot to the touch, hard like steel, and smooth as velvet, slowly stroking him. 

His throat works as he swallows. “Got them off my ass.” 

“Good, now tell me how you’re getting this—” You squeeze him, and he groans. “—into me.” 

“Fuck, if you’ll let me, I’ll eat your pussy and use my fingers to loosen you up. Once I think you’re ready, I’ll get some lube to make fucking you as painless as possible.” 

“You want to go down on me?” 

He’s smirking under his perfectly trimmed mustache. 

“I’d love to go down on you. I wanna see how you taste,” he answers with a wink. 

It makes arousal stir in your belly at the thought. 

“Okay. I’d like that.” 

His lips descend on yours, kissing you while his hands grab your waist to turn you both so your back is to the bed, guiding you until your legs bump into it. One moment, his mouth is on yours, and the next, it’s not when he lifts you by the thighs onto the mattress with a grunt, pushing you further onto it. 

“Head on the pillow in the middle,” he orders, tapping your hip. 

Crawling back, you do as he says, Javi climbing up after you.

He’s on his knees, the bed dipping as he moves toward you, his big hands latching around your calves to spread your legs. He picks up one, bending and turning his head to kiss your inner ankle, keeping his eyes on yours while his lips blaze a trail along your leg to your knee. It feels like electricity is under your skin where he touches, it prickling, his mustache tickling you and making you squirm a little. He brings the other leg up and makes the same journey from ankle to knee that has you biting your lip and wishing he’d touch you where you are pulsing. 

His eyes are so dark hardly any of the familiar chocolate brown remains, excitement bubbling in you when he opens your legs further apart and moves to lie between them, setting them up on his broad shoulders. You’re still wearing your lacy panties, and he shoves his beautiful nose into them, feeling as he inhales deeply and groans, his head moving side to side, nudging your clit, the sensation causing you to dig your fingers into the bedding. 

He must get to the point where he can’t wait any longer, sitting up enough to tug your underwear down and off one leg before he’s back in position. For some odd reason, you suddenly feel self-conscious, shy, and embarrassed about being completely nude, hiding your eyes behind your hands. 

Javi rubs along your sides in comfort. 

“Are you having second thoughts?” he asks gently. 

“No,” you answer. 

“Is it being naked?” 

“Yes.” 

“I love your body, and I’ve told you I think you’re beautiful. Would you be more comfortable wearing one of my shirts?”

“Um, yeah, but I want to do this naked. It’s just new...” 

“Don’t force yourself,” he replies, kissing your inner thigh. 

This tiny conversation has made you feel much better, lowering your hands. Staring at the ceiling, you can see your naked body, and Javi’s lying between your legs in the mirror. 

“I’m not.” Sitting up on your elbows, you want to look at him, a reassuring smile on your face. “Okay, I’m ready.” 

His eyes lock on yours. 

“Promise me, you’ll stop me if I do something you don’t like.” 

“I promise.” 

“Good girl,” he purrs, and you shiver. 

With two fingers, he spreads open the lips of your pussy, and looks at it with a hungry gaze, wetting his lips like he can’t wait to taste. 

“So fucking pretty,” he says. “I’m gonna make you feel good—need to get you really wet.” 

Suddenly, you watch his jaw flex, him spitting onto your clit, you gasping at the warm saliva slowly dripping down toward your entrance. A loud moan leaves you when he dives in, his tongue licking a hot stripe up through your center, feeling the vibrations of his groans. It’s different, odd, new, and you can’t get enough. He has to lock an arm over your stomach to keep you from moving as he goes to work, lapping all over your folds, tracing every bit of your sensitive skin to get all your arousal from the source. 

“You taste so good,” his words are said against your cunt. 

Heat races up your spine as he sucks your clit between his lips, flicking his tongue over it with his pleasure-addled gaze on yours—it’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before, and it’s so good, every nerve in your body alight in bliss, your belly starting to tighten. 

“Oh my god,” you gasp. “It feels so good. I think you’re gonna make me come again.” 

Your heels dig into his back, your toes curl, fisting your hands in the comforter for something to hold on to while your thighs tremble. Somehow, he just knows how to take you apart, finding a rhythm that’s turning you into a mess.  

There are a few seconds where his mouth leaves you to suck on his fingers before he goes right back to working you over; your jaw’s slack, your skin’s heated, and there’s tension in your belly that’s rapidly growing. He carefully starts pressing one thick digit inside you, your eyes snapping shut as you whimper at the new sensation, so tight he has to wiggle it in order to get all the way in—his tongue is teasingly flicking over your sensitive bundle of nerves and counteracting the slight discomfort of his finger, eliciting soft sounds from your parted lips.

It takes some time to get used to the foreign feeling, it slowly turning into pleasure and fanning the growing flames in your tummy. Sucking hard on your clit, another digit slips inside, your body jerking at the intrusion and the stretch it causes, whimpering. 

“Relax, baby,” he says. “Your pretty little pussy is taking my fingers so well.” 

His mouth is back on you, and it’s a tight fit for his fingers, but thankfully, you’re wet enough it eases in, and he languidly works them until your body relaxes, and he’s easily pumping them in and out of you. 

It’s embarrassing how he reduces you to a mewling mess with how amazing he’s making you feel. 

“You’re doing so good for me,” his muffled voice says into your pussy. 

His mouth, his fingers, your stomach is bunching up into tight knots, knowing it will not take much more to get you there—it’s insane that before today, you’d never been able to make yourself come, and here’s this man on the precipice of making you orgasm for a second time.

You’re ruined. 

He’s ruined you for anyone else. 

His fingers twist and scissor to stretch you out, making you whimper, grabbing his hand on your tummy that he squeezes back. He crooks his digits, and on the next pass, he slides against something that has your back arching and eyes blurring with stars, moaning his name loudly. 

“There it is,” he groans into your skin. “Come for me, Florecita. Give me another.” 

His arm is like a band of iron holding you down as you writhe. 

It’s all too much—what he’s doing to you, hearing the squelching of his fingers, the obscene slurping noises, and the rough sounds coming from his throat. Your body is quivering uncontrollably, and then you’re shattering, falling back onto the pillow with your arms giving out, pleasure surging through you as you come with a silent cry. You can feel your cunt spasming around his fingers, your brain a blissful haze. 

His face comes up, his voice a rough rasp, “Good girl.” His fingers are still working inside you. “You’re fucking gorgeous when you come.” 

Your eyes are closed, riding out the high, and you’re starting to believe he actually does think you’re beautiful. Was there a tiny voice in the back of your head telling you he was saying all the sweet things just to get into your pants? Yes. But you’re almost positive he genuinely has feelings for you and does find you attractive. He’s given you so many opportunities to back out and offered to let you wear one of his shirts so you’d be more comfortable—guys who only want to get laid aren’t that kind. 

Javier obviously cares about you, which has you feeling over the moon. 

You’re coming down, your body starting to relax, and your heartbeat slowing. 

“Come up here and kiss me,” you say, sounding drunk and doing grabby hands at him. 

He chuckles, his fingers slipping out of you, and he gets out from under your legs. His mouth ghosts a trail of kisses over the soft skin of your belly to your chest and along your neck, leaving goosebumps in their wake until his hips are resting between your thighs and his face is over yours, smelling your musk on him. 

“You’re gonna boss me around at work and home?” he asks, kissing your chin, the question causing your heart to skip a beat.

At work and home. 

“Maybe.” You wrap your arms around him, feeling his hard cock pressing into your belly. “Someone's gotta do it.” 

“Mmm, I like it when you boss me around.” He kisses your cheek. 

“Kiss me.” 

His lips press to your other cheek, your eyes opening to glare at him. 

“I said kiss me,” you order. 

“I am kissing you.” A peck to your jaw. 

You pinch his ass, and he chuckles. “Please kiss me on the mouth.” 

He’s smiling. “I can do that.” 

His lips claim yours in a hot, open-mouthed kiss, running your fingers through his hair and moaning at tasting yourself on him. His tongue plunders your mouth, licking the edges of your teeth and tangling with your own, Javi’s hips slowly rutting into you to ease his throbbing dick leaking on your skin. There’s an ache you’re feeling deep in your core that needs to be filled, and you know he’s the only one who can ease it. 

Coming up for air, he kisses along your jaw, nibbling on your chin. 

“Javi?” his name comes out breathy. 

Immediately, his head moves into your vision with a look of concern.  

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing’s wrong. I want you to fuck me.” Your lip pulls between your teeth.

“Are you sure? I can finger you some more.” 

Smiling, you stroke his cheek. “Javi, please fuck me.” 

“Okay.” He nods. “Let me grab a condom and some lube.” He starts to move, and you stop him by grabbing his arm. 

“You’re clean?” you ask. 

“Yeah.” 

“I’m on birth control—it helps with my periods. I’m obviously clean, too, and okay without the condom if you are.” 

His eyes go a little wide, and he swallows hard. “You’d let me fuck you bare?” 

“I trust you and want to know what it feels like without the barrier. Is that okay?” 

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re on birth control?” 

“Yes.” You nod. “The pills are in my purse if you want proof.”

“I believe you. Shit, yeah, it’s okay. I’m kicking myself in the ass right now for not asking you out sooner.” 

“Because you could’ve been having a lot of condomless sex?” you ask with an arched brow. 

He frowns. “I care about more than sex,” he answers defensively. “You know I care about more than sex, right? I’d be happy with cuddling with you in bed or on the couch and talking if you didn’t want to fuck right now—hell, I’d be happy falling asleep with you. It’s as long as you’re with me, and I wish I would’ve asked you out sooner so I could’ve had more time with you outside of work.” 

What he says makes you feel like you’re floating—you knew his feelings were genuine. 

“Oh, I know you care about more than sex,” you reply right away. “To be honest, you’re very dreamy, Javier. Like, you make me swoon. I’ve thought about investing in a fainting couch.” He snorts. “But, seriously—” Your palm presses to his jaw. “I know you care about more than sex. I mean, there was that time you had soup delivered to my apartment when I was sick, and now that I know where you live geographically, you had to drive really out of your way to carpool with me for that one week.” When the usual person you rode with was out with a bad flu. 

“That was a good week.” He smiles, turning his head to kiss your palm. “And the flowers.” 

Your eyebrows crease. “What flowers?” 

His eyes sparkle. “The bouquet on your birthday.” 

“The mystery bouquet was you?” you ask in disbelief. 

It’d been a large, beautiful bouquet of your favorite flowers whose card only wished you a happy birthday with no name or idea of who’d sent them. 

“Yeah.” 

“Javier, you ridiculously sweet man.” Sitting up, you kiss him, something tender and loving. Breaking apart, you say, “Okay, now I can see how you obviously like me. I have no idea how I missed it.” 

His lips turned down, Javi sighing. “You didn’t see it ‘cause you convinced yourself I wouldn’t be interested in you.” 

“And the whole you being my boss and figuring you wouldn’t break the rules. Now I’ve learned not to make assumptions.”

“Fuck the rules.”

“Aren’t you the rebel. What do you want to do?” 

He looks confused. “Huh?” 

“All night, you’ve been focusing on me, and I want to know what you want to do. Would you prefer cuddling naked and talking, or do you wanna have sex?” 

“Sex,” he answers immediately, making you giggle. 

“Which are you more excited about, taking my virginity or fucking me bare?” 

“Fucking without a condom. I’m happy I get to be your first so I can make sure it’s good for you, but I’m really fucking excited to be inside you with nothing on.” 

“I’m really excited to feel you inside me with nothing on, and I’m happy you’re my first, too. I wanted you to do it because I knew you’d take care of me.”

What you say makes him smile. “I am. Let me get what I need.” Quickly, he pecks you on the lips before moving off of you, the mattress jostling as he heads toward the bedside table on the left side of the bed. He’s stretching and reaching inside the drawer, returning to you with a small bottle, kneeling between your spread legs. “I’m just gonna use my fingers to make sure you’re ready,” he says, popping the cap and slicking up his digits. 

Looking in the mirror above, you watch and feel as he presses in one that goes in easily, then a second. His attention is on you, his focus alternating between his fingers buried inside your wet cunt, and the expressions your face is making as he slides in a third that stretches you more than before and really tests your limits, reveling in the burn. His other hand is rubbing your thigh. “Relax, baby,” he says, pushing them in and out and spreading them. There’s a thin layer of sweat on your skin, and it takes a second for you to do as he told you. “Do you still want me to fuck you?” he asks. 

You nod your head in answer. 

“Words, Florecita. I need to hear it.” 

“Yes, Javi. I want you.” More than anything, you leave out. 

“I think you’re ready.” He removes his hand. “If it hurts too much or you want me to stop, tell me, and I will immediately. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, Javi.” 

“Good girl.” 

The bottle being opened sounds again, seeing Javi in the mirror stroking lube onto his hard shaft, it glistening in the lights of the room. Your heart is hammering in your chest over what’s about to happen, nerves fluttering all about in your tummy so rapidly you think they might get out. 

He shuffles forward a little, rubbing the tip of his cock through the wetness between your folds. 

“Are you ready?” he asks. 

“Yes.” 

It’s sweet that he moves to have his body over yours, holding himself on one arm beside your head while the other hand notches himself at your entrance—he distracts you by pressing his soft lips against yours in a searing kiss as he slowly starts sliding into you. He has you moaning into his mouth as he fills you, your tight walls stretching around him to accommodate his girth, digging your fingernails into his shoulders. Surprisingly, there’s no pain; Instead, you’re wondering how much more of him you can take with how insanely full you already feel when he’s barely halfway in. 

When his hips finally meet yours, you can’t breathe. 

It’s almost too much for you and bordering on overwhelming. 

The kiss ends, his eyes searching yours while his words come out strained, noticing the sweat on his brow, his bangs sticking to his forehead, “Are you okay?”

Finally, you suck in air. “So big,” you gasp. 

He looks worried. “Is it too much? Do you want me to pull out?” 

“No.” You shake your head. “I just need a second.”

“Okay.” He kisses the tip of your nose, then sweetly nuzzles his face against yours. “You feel better than I imagined. I could stay like this for hours, having your tight little pussy warming my dick. You’re so fucking tight and wet, squeezing me like a goddamn vice. Once I get going, I don’t know how long I’m gonna last ‘cause this perfect cunt is gonna milk me dry.” 

Everything he’s saying has arousal thrumming in your veins, your body getting used to having him inside you to the point you need him to do something, anything at all.  

“Move,” you tell him. 

His eyes meet yours, a flush covering his cheeks. “Okay.” He hitches one of your legs high on his hip, then the other, your heels resting at the small of his back. You can feel the splay of muscle under your calves work as he does an experimental roll of his hips, the angle putting pressure on your clit, pulling a moan from your throat at the pleasure. 

“You feel so good,” his voice is breathy. “So fucking perfect.” He’s thrusting slowly, and you can tell he’s holding himself back, his face ending up in the crook of your neck. “You’re so fucking perfect and beautiful.” He groans, and the sound makes you clench, him pausing with a hiss. “Shit, don’t do that, or this will end quickly.” 

“Sorry,” you mumble.

“It’s okay.” He kisses your cheek. “Fuck, when you come, you’re probably taking me with you.” 

That has a thrill rolling through you. 

He starts back up again, going slow, languid, feeling every ridge and vein on his cock as it presses into spots of bliss you weren’t even aware existed—the beginning of an orgasm is starting to take shape in your center, your toes curled up tight and needing more to get yourself there.

“Faster,” you say.  

Gradually, he picks up speed until there’s a wet slap of skin against skin, and he’s grunting in your ear, his thrusts steady, hard, and fast, the muscles in your belly tightening. All you can do is hang onto his shoulders, your mouth open as his name spills from it in gasping moans, chanting it over and over again. He’s pushing in so deep you’re sure he’s rearranging your guts in order to make himself fit.

His dick is moving in and out of you at a punishing pace, flooding your system with pleasure, unable to think about anything else except how you’re being wrecked by the man above you. 

In the mirror on the ceiling, you can see him fucking you—the way the muscles in his back are moving just under his golden skin, the glistening layer of perspiration shining in the light, the redness on his shoulders from your nails scratching at them, and add in the sounds—the rhythmic bang of his headboard hitting the wall, the mattress springs squeaking beneath you both, the wet suck of him working his cock in and out of your pussy, his rough noises, and your softer ones; it’s all utterly obscene and rocketing you toward your release with how it turns you on. 

One time, and you’re addicted. 

You want Javi to show you more—try out different positions and teach you new things, wanting to make him feel as good as he’s making you feel right this second. This has awakened something in you that’s hungry, and you want to feed it. 

His strong arm wraps around your back, and you squeak in surprise when he rolls you both so you’re on top, keeping himself buried to the hilt in your sopping cunt. Your knees are bracketing his hips, hands on his chest for leverage, and Javi doesn’t make you think about what you need to do; his large palms grab your ass, using his strength to work you up and down his slick cock. 

Somehow, he’s deeper like this, your mouth falling open, and helping him by rising and falling on your own as you keen. 

Sweat is coating both of you, seeing drops caught in Javi’s happy trail, loving the flush that starts on his chest and moves up his neck to his cheeks, the flexed muscles in his arms defined—from the look on his face you’d think he’s in pain, his eyes glazed over in lust and shifting between watching you ride him and looking up at the mirror. It gives you the idea to lean back and hold yourself up with your hands on his thighs to give him a better view as you bounce in his lap. 

“Fuck,” he groans. “You’re fucking gorgeous taking my dick so well,” he says the words through panted breaths. Your climax is near, getting closer and closer with every deep kiss of his cock inside you. “Are you gonna come for me? Are you gonna let me feel you come around my dick? You gonna take me with you? Come on, Florecita, give it to me.” 

His calloused thumb circles your clit so perfectly that it has you falling over the edge, coming with a loud moan of his name, laying forward onto him. Your inner walls tighten around him, hearing Javi groan, euphoria exploding out from your core to spread to your limbs, your mind going blissfully blank. 

Javier firmly grips your ass, grunting as his hips thrust upwards frantically to chase his own high. 

He says something you don’t register, a sharp slap to your asscheek quickly following to get your attention. 

“What?” you ask. 

“Gonna come,” he says through his teeth. “Need you to get off.” 

That made little sense to you since you discussed how you’re on the pill. 

“Come inside me.” 

A pained noise leaves him, his rhythm stuttering. “Fuck, are you sure?” 

“Yes, come inside me, Javi.” 

His orgasm must catch him off guard with how long and strained his moan is as he comes, his hands pulling you down hard and flush against him—it surprising you how you’re able to feel his cock thicken and jerk, the hot spurts of his spend filling and coating your inner depths. 

His chest is rising and falling hard beneath you, welcoming his arms that hug you close to his body, your face tucked into his neck and content on where you’re at, not wanting to move—with how your arms and legs feel like they’re made of Jell-O, there’s a chance you couldn’t move if you wanted to.

There’s no way your first time could've been better—it was perfect. 

Minutes pass as you both share in the relaxing post-coital bliss, your hand ending up in his hair where you play with the sweat-damp strands, Javi humming appreciatively. 

“How was it?” he finally asks, his voice rough. 

“Amazing,” you reply, not sounding any better.

His head turns, kissing your forehead. “Yeah?” 

“Oh, yeah. How long before you’re able to go again…?” 

A huff of air leaves his nose. “Am I in for a long night, Florecita?” 

“You’re in for a long weekend, Javier.” 

“One time, and you’re fucking insatiable,” he chuckles. 

“The one time was life-changing, and I want you to show me all the things I’ve been missing out on.” 

“Your pussy is probably gonna be sore tomorrow, and you won’t want me touching it.” 

There’s already an ache. 

“True, so tomorrow we can go over the art of sucking your dick and hand jobs?” 

He sounds amused, “We can do that, and I’ll make you breakfast.” 

“Yes, I’ve gotta have that breakfast.” 

“And I want to take you out to dinner.” 

It takes you a second to process what he said.

“Like on a date?” 

“Yes, Florecita. I want to take you out on a proper date.” 

Moving your face over his to meet his eyes, you reply, “Where will you take me so nobody from work will see us?” 

His hands rub over your back. 

“I know some places only locals go to. I can also take you to a different city if that will make you feel better.” 

“I trust you.”

A serious look came over his face, his hand coming up to slide along your cheek. 

“I’m really fucking busy with work,” he says. 

“I’m intimately aware.” 

He nods, sighing. “I don’t know if I’ll be any good at being your boyfriend.” 

“Are you gonna cheat on me?” 

He looks offended. “What? No. If I’m with someone, I’m with them and them only.” 

“That’s good. When you’re not busy with work, will you want to spend time with me?” 

“Even when I'm working, I want to spend time with you.” 

“You’re so sweet,” you reply, pecking him on the tip of his nose. “I know you’re a busy man, Javi. The way I imagined this going down is we’d spend time together on lunches and breaks at work. I can either keep you company and rack up overtime at the office when you stay late, or we can come here for you to continue working, and I’ll do my best not to distract you.” 

There’s a curious expression on his face. “How would you distract me?” 

“I don’t know, maybe walk around your apartment in little to no clothing?” 

He wet his bottom lip. “I think I’ll start working after hours at home more…” 

His horniness makes you laugh. “You’re adorable. Then, on the rare occasions you actually have a night or day off, we’ll do stuff.” 

“It’s not gonna bother you we won’t have a traditional relationship?” 

“I’ve never been in one, so no,” you answer with a shrug. “I mean, we already spend basically all of our time together; this just changes our dynamic and means I can kiss you whenever I want.” 

He smiles. “Yes, you can.” His hand gently pulls you down for a kiss. Separating after some seconds, he says, “We need to get you cleaned up.” 

“Right.” You also needed to empty your bladder since that was important after sex. 

“There’s a huge fucking tub in my bathroom, so I’ll run us a bath, and afterward, I want you to drink some water and have a snack.”

“It’s surprising to me you have food here. I honestly thought you survived on coffee and cigarettes.” 

A sigh leaves him. “I usually remember to eat breakfast and dinner… The people who clean this place also buy my groceries, so yeah, I’ve got food here. I’ll make you something to eat.” 

“That’s very sweet of you,” you reply, kissing him briefly. “Thank you.” 

“And I’ll give you a tour—there’s not much, but I’ll show you everything.”

“I’d love that,” you say with a smile. 

“Then you can tell me what you want to do next.”

“I wanna rub your back.” With how tense he always is and the sounds he makes getting out of chairs, you know it has to bother him. 

His eyes get bigger. “Okay.”

“Work out some of that tension, and after, if you’re up for it, there’s this position I saw in a dirty movie where the woman was on her hands and knees, and the guy was just really giving it to her from behind and spanking her, and I wanna know what that’s like.” 

He’s staring blankly at you like his brain has stopped working. 

“Javi?”

It gets his attention. 

“When my job’s finished down here?” he says. 

“Yeah…?”

His hands cradle your face, his eyes staring deeply into yours. 

“I want you to come home with me, back to the States.” You didn’t expect him to say that. “I’ve had you by my side for months,” he continues, “and now that we’re together, I don’t want to go home without you.”  

“We just started dating…” 

“And I already know I’m going to marry you.” 

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