#i know this is a minor issue and i’m probably being dramatic but

[redocity]

Hiii i love your writing!! Currently keeping me alive 😩 im begging for some angst hurt to comfort. Maybe something involving abby but ultimately a happy ending?

MOVING ON - E.BUCKLEY

buck was finally taking the step to move out of abby’s apartment, except it’s not exactly that easy.

WARNINGS: buck has a minor breakdown oops, minor abby slander, happy ending

buck x fem!reader II hurt/comfort Il 2.3k Il requests open!

a/n: thank you for the request! і love writing angsty stuff

₊ ⊹ masterlist!!

Buck had finally decided that he’d had enough.

He wasn’t going to wait for Abby to come home anymore. He needed to move on. It’d been almost five months since she’d left, and five months of the team trying to convince him she wasn’t coming back.

He’d given up trying to convince them all that their relationship was just ‘unconventional’ by now, and after a particularly lonely Friday night he decided it was time to make a move.

"Can you believe it? After five months? I’m finally moving out of her apartment." Buck lugs a half filled cardboard box over to the dining table, dropping it down with a thud.

“I’m proud’a you,” You tap his shoulder with your hand as an indication for him to move, laughing with a roll of your eyes. “Glad you actually got to this point,”

He makes no resistance to your silent instruction, shifting to lean his back against a clear area of the table and watching as you rifle through the box to properly organise his horrible packing job. "I know you were all sick of me moaning about her. I still can’t believe she just up and left me like that."

“It was definitely a dick move, but if we’re being honest here she didn’t deserve you anyway,” You wave off his unspoken apology for talking your ear off for the last few months with your hand.

“I just thought we were really something you know? Then she up and leaves out of nowhere,” Buck sighs. He was sick of her, he was sick of the fact she’d left him with nothing but a half-arsed explanation and an empty promise of them staying in touch.

But sometimes he can’t help but reminisce on how she used to make him feel and believe that maybe she really was going to come home. “She was supposed to be the one, I can’t believe I was so stupid."

“Unfortunately Buck,” You reach over the table to grab the packing tape, it making a harsh noise as you rip off a piece to tape the - now neatly organised - box. “That how real dating works,”

"No, this wasn’t ‘real’ dating. Real dating doesn’t involve her leaving after she said I could move in, she didn’t even say a real goodbye, I had to find out that she wasn’t coming back from an Instagram post of her kissing some random guy in Thailand." Buck’s voice plainly displayed his emotional exhaustion.

He didn’t want to think about Abby anymore, but it was just so hard to get her out of his head when he really thought that their relationship was going somewhere.

“Head up mister,” You tap your middle and index fingers against the underside of his chin with a sigh. “There’s plenty more fish in the sea,”

Buck laughed exasperatedly. He hated that quote, it always felt so insincere. Then again that was probably because he’s used it so many times in the past when turning down his previous hookups who wanted a more serious relationship.

Now he was on the other end of it, and it just felt ironic.

“You just don’t get it, we were a perfect match for each other,” Buck exhales dramatically, turning his head up to the ceiling. "She was beautiful. She was kind. She was smart. Our sex life was perfect, she was exactly who I was looking for but she left. She just up and left."

“It happens unfortunately,” You shrug your shoulders slightly. “Especially with someone who was dealing with so many personal issues like she was,” You give up on your organising for now as you entertain Buck’s want to get everything off his chest.

“Looks like you finally got a taste of your own medicine hey?” Your attempt at lightening the mood a little is met by a roll of Buck’s eyes and a sigh.

You had a point to an extent, he’d never really dealt with a real breakup before even though he’d been with plenty of other women. "What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Everyone’s gotta experience heartbreak at some point, it’s part of your character development,” You mirror the way he’s leaning against the dining table yourself, pressing your lower back against the wood with your arms crossed.

"I don’t think I needed that character development," Buck sighed once again, "I wish I wasn’t experiencing it right now. I just wish she’d call me or even send me something, anything. Tell me she’s not coming back properly you know?"

He’d probably try to convince her into a long distance relationship if she did call him. But he wasn’t going to tell you that part. He was supposed to be moving on.

“I deleted her number from your phone so… she’s not going to,”

“You did what?” You could hear the immediate hurt in Buck’s tone at your confession, demonstrated further by the way his eyes turned to you in astonishment. “Why would you do that?”

“Because, you are trying to physically move on,” You gesture towards the cardboard boxes that are littered around the apartment containing Buck’s belongings. “But you haven’t mentally moved on, you need both otherwise you’re gonna crash,”

Buck hated that you were right.

You were always right.

You always knew what was best for him when he didn’t even realise what was best for himself.

"I hate that all you do is say the right things at the right time."

“It’s a talent of mine,” You nudge him gently with a smile, again trying to lift up the mood a little.

Sometimes he hated that you were so kind too.

Some twisted part of him wished that you would do something wrong, that you would say the wrong thing and give him an excuse to let out all of his pent up frustration without feeling bad about it afterwards.

But you never did. And he didn’t know whether it was a blessing or a curse.

Then he started thinking about Abby again, of course he did. She was like a parasite that had burrowed a little cavity in his brain and wouldn’t leave no matter how many times he hit himself over the head.

He’d never had a truly vulnerable conversation with her when they were together. Not without the sole focus being on her or her mother’s health. He couldn’t remember a conversation that they’d had that was actually about his problems.

He couldn’t hate her for that. Of course not. She was going through a lot. But it really put into perspective who was the primary giver of their relationship. And it’s starting to make him question whether it was authentic in the first place.

Did she see it as a proper relationship like he did? Or was she using it as a distraction from all of the stress she had looking after her mother all the time?

He didn’t even realise he was tearing up until a drop of water hit the back of his hand.

“Are you alright?” You turned your head towards him after noticing how he’d gone quiet, his head lowered to a point where you couldn’t fully see the expression on his face.

“I don’t know-” His words said one thing, but the way he shook his head said something else. He was very clearly not okay.

“Buck…” You sigh softly at his tone, sounding a little forced as if he was scared of his voice breaking halfway through his sentence.

“Can I have a hug? Please?” He asked his question hesitantly, no longer trying to hide the wavering in his tone. He felt stupid for feeling like this over something that was seemingly so trivial to him in the past, but right now he didn’t feel like doing anything but crying until he physically couldn’t anymore.

He felt even stupider acting like this in front of you of all people. You’d dealt with enough of his baggage already, and he didn’t want to do to you what Abby had done to him in essentially using you as a human diary.

You don’t hesitate in your answer at all. “C’mere,”

You barely even open your arms before the space is filled by Buck, his head hidden against the shoulder of your t-shirt to hide his expression from you.

You lean your weight fully against the edge of the table as you envelop him into a hug, rubbing your hand up and down his back in your best attempt at physically soothing him as he lets out a soft cry into your shoulder.

A fully grown man crying into the arms of someone half his size because he couldn’t handle a breakup. Who would’ve thought?

The longer you held him the less he felt like he had to be embarrassed about it. Somebody had his back, and he didn’t ever want that to end.

“You’re gonna be alright,” The hand that wasn’t gently rubbing soothing lines over his back cupped the back of his neck, holding his head securely against your shoulder.

You knew he was going to break down eventually. You were just glad he had someone present during it.

"Thank you," Buck whispered to you as he began to calm down, "Thank you so much."

Embracing you felt like home, the first time in a long time that he’d felt like he had support. Like he could be himself.

He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to let go, and for the first time in a while he felt as if everything would be okay.

“Don’t mention it,” You make no move to pull away from the hug once he’s calm enough to speak to you again, content to wait until Buck was comfortable enough to pull away in his own time.

He didn’t seem like he was going to let go any time soon.

“Can we just stay like this forever?” Buck’s voice is muffled against your shoulder as he speaks, and he links his arms together behind your waist. “That would be nice,”

You laugh shortly at the question, your shoulders shaking slightly as you do and in turn jostling Buck slightly in your arms. “I think my legs would give out after a while, you’re heavy you know,”

"They’d get stronger eventually," Buck muttered, "We could work out together. I could train you."

Buck was enjoying this more than he wanted to admit but, as usual, his mouth spoke before his brain had a chance to control it. He was just glad that you hadn’t actually pulled away yet.

“You can’t train me to do anything if you won’t let go,”You continue to laugh softly at his proposition as your hand scratches gently at the hairs at nape of his neck.

“You can just hold me then,” He drops the idea almost immediately under the favour of staying securely in your arms.

He’d never hugged any of his friends like this before, although he supposes he’s never actually wanted to. But here he is nonetheless, and it was probably the most comfortable he’d ever been in his life.

He just wanted to stay in the little cocoon your arms provided him away from reality for the rest of his life, maybe longer than that. The only question was whether you’d entertain his idea of abandoning everything productive you were supposed to be doing so that he could satiate his desire to stay exactly where he was.

“Not standing up,” You shake your head against the side of his with a small chuckle. “My legs are already starting to hurt,”

“On the couch then? We can watch that movie you were talking about,”

“We still have packing to finish Buckley,”

“Tomorrow,” Buck shakes his head as he makes a move to separate himself from you, although not fully as his hands still lay carefully positioned on your sides. “I genuinely cannot do any more packing today,”

You raise an eyebrow at him and he tilts his head at you with a sigh. “Come on, humour me here I’m emotionally vulnerable,”

He slips one of his hands towards your wrist and gives it a small tug, his grip loose enough that if you wanted to pull your arm away from him you could do so with minimal effort. You don’t of course, allowing him to tug you forward until you’re not leaning against the table any more, your weight fully supported on your feet. “We can watch that movie, order a pizza and I can wallow in my emotions for a few hours until I’m mentally fit to continue packing,”

“Sounds like you’re just trying to procrastinate,” You furrow your eyebrows accusingly, but the smile on your face betrays your feigned scolding, just grateful that he was sound enough to joke about his own misery now that he’d actually had the chance to vent his emotions.

“Oh I definitely am,” Buck’s smile mirrors yours emphatically, and he starts towards the living room with your wrist in his hand so you’re ‘forced’ to follow him. “I hate packing, it’s boring and everyone always tells me I’m doing it wrong,”

#9 1 1 #9 1 1 fanfiction #buck x reader #evan buckley #evan buckley x reader #asks 🚒 #evan buckley angst #9-1-1 angst

[sunlightmurdock]

The Parent Trap | 0.4 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

♡ In which, after a couple of years of listening to Peyton and Parker Bradshaw complain about their parents’ custody agreement, Grandpa Mav’s meddling goes a little bit too far.

♡ warnings: mentions of divorce throughout the fic, flashbacks to arguments and unhappily married people. Idiots who still love each other and don’t know it, drinking / being drunk, flashbacks and references to sex, minors dni, wc: 4.8k

…

“I’m not being mean, I just think he smells weird,” Parker decides with a shrug, moving the little silver dog six spaces and narrowly missing her sister’s monopoly of hotels on the right side of the board. She lifts her gaze and looks at you, just daring you to challenge her logic. “It’s not mean if I’m just saying what I think.”

Peyton’s lips twitch as she shakes the dice in her hand, but she doesn’t add any commentary this time. You narrow your eyes across at your outspoken daughter, finding so much of your ex-husband in the amusedly defiant way she stares back at you.

“What does he smell like, then, Parks?” You challenge.

“Wood.” She answers with a shrug as her sister rolls a solid twelve and picks up the thimble to skip along the board in front of her. Peyton pokes her tongue out in concentration, like it’ll do anything to prevent her solid twelve from landing her right on the Go To Jail space. She growls in frustration and falls back dramatically onto the carpeted floor. She has spent most of this round in jail. You’re beginning to feel sorry for her, but it’s hard when she has some of the best properties and a business strategy that should probably concern you as a parent.

“Well, he is a carpenter.” You remind her, picking the dice up and shaking them in your hand. With that, the man in question rounds the corner with two glasses and two juice boxes balancing in his hands and a smile plastered across his face. This is now the fourth time that Chris has met your children, the first being a month ago.

He seems to be growing on them if Parker is actively trying not to be mean this time. You still haven’t gotten your girls to ‘fess up as to which one of them buried his phone in the backyard like a wild dog. Like you wouldn’t notice when your hydrangeas started ringing.

“Here we go, an apple, an orange, and two coffees.” Chris hands out the drinks and struggles bending his remarkably inflexible legs into a crisis-crossed shape. They made him be the phone piece — you’re certain that it’s to taunt him about the burying incident — but he’s being a champ about it.

Peyton looks down at her drink and hums, “I don’t want apple anymore. I’ll take an orange juice, big guy.”

In the years since you last hung out with Maverick, it’s so easy to miss the little Mitchell-isms working their way into your kids’ vocabulary. Your head whips around, far more concerned with what she said rather than where she got it from. Chris turns his head towards her, opens his mouth and quickly shuts it again, readying himself to get back up. Your eyes widen as you turn to find your eight year old smiling back at you.

“Then go and get an orange juice, P. Don’t be rude.” You correct her with a stern frown. Suddenly, the apple juice isn’t as much of an issue. She stabs the straw through the hole with her eyes narrowed in Chris’ direction, but this is still a big improvement from last time.

This was never going to be easy, but in the weeks since you introduced your girls to your boyfriend, you have to admit that you thought it would be easier than this. You’ve never heard either one of the girls talk about their dad as much as they do when Chris is in the room.

“Dad knows that she prefers orange.”

“Well, she asked Chris for an apple juice and that’s what she got.” It’s hard not to grow tired when you know it must be wearing him down too. You take the dice and drop them suddenly into Chris’ toughened palm. He softens in comparison, simply smiling back at you.

“So, did you guys get up to anything fun when you were at your dad’s last weekend?” He tries. If they want to talk about their dad, he doesn’t mind — he gets it. It makes you feel even worse.

“Yeah.” Payton deadpans, staring across at him like dirt on her shoe. “What did you two do while we were gone?”

Your head turns towards her again. Chris answers coolly.

“Your Mom sold that new dress she was working on. Cool, right? — We went out to dinner to celebrate that. Other than that, it’s pretty quiet around here without you guys.”

He’s looking at the board, busy moving his piece. He doesn’t know your children the way that you do. He misses entirely the split-second in which they glance across at each other. They find you narrowing your eyes at them.

At once, they’re saved by your ringtone. Another glance is shared between the two of them as you push up from the floor and head for the hallway to answer your call. In your absence, Chris’ piece lands on Peyton’s Park Row property, with the hotel sitting on top.

His brown eyes flicker up to find the eight-year old staring at him expectantly.

“You know the rules. Cough up.” She demands, in a tone she knows she isn’t allowed to be talking in. By the look on their little faces, Chris almost instinctively reaches for his real wallet rather than the colourful little notes sitting beside him.

When you walk back into the room, the first thing that you notice is the silence. Looking between the twins and your boyfriend, your frown deepens. “What’s going on?”

“Chris lost. He’s out of money.” Peyton explains calmly, flicking through her stack of ones like she’s Vito Corleone all of a sudden. Chris turns to look at you and simply wiggles his eyebrows, giving a shrug of defeat as he moves to stand.

As much as you find reflections of your ex-husband in them every day, it tugs at your heartstrings to see pieces of yourself in them too.

“You okay?” He asks, cupping the back of your neck, craning his neck to look at your face. Your palm catches his arm, sitting against his bicep as he pulls you closer.

Parker kicks her sister and they both turn their heads to watch.

You lower your voice to a whisper, fighting to keep the disappointment off of your face. “Yeah… The sitter just canceled.”

“Oh.” He sighs. You’ve been talking about this night for weeks, it’s not often that you get to go out with your friends now that you’ve all got grown-up commitments. “D’you think Bradley could watch them?”

“He’s out of town for a work thing.” You explain dejectedly, leaning in to Chris’ touch as he swipes your hair delicately back from your face.

Watching him hold you close, Parker starts to consider burying his phone once again. Or dropping it in the toilet. Or maybe pouring honey into his work boots that she saw by the front door.

Or maybe, if she was staying true to the source material, she could get him on a camping trip and push his mattress out into the middle of the lake. But he’s bigger than Meredith Blake was, and she’s smaller than Hallie Parker was.

The honey will do.

“I’ll watch ‘em.”

Bradley was out of town on a work thing. He was gone from Tuesday ‘til Friday, he told you that. He got in a little after nine and thought about having a beer, but didn’t. Instead, he just sat on his couch and tried to find a show that would keep him up long enough that he wouldn’t wake up at five in the morning.

He woke up at 1am, his neck stiff and the show two episodes ahead of where he thought it should be. Groaning, he had pushed himself off of the couch and decided to head to bed when he had gotten the text.

The conversation he had with Parker last weekend crossed his mind instantly. They had spent hours talking about fate; what is was, if they believed in it. If Bradley hadn’t startled himself awake by snoring, he would have missed the text completely.

He slipped his phone out of the pocket of his jeans with one hand, rubbing at his tired shoulder muscle with the other, squinting down at the bright screen.

Please pick me up from the Hard Deck when you see this.

He hasn’t ever made you ask twice.

Chris offering to watch the girls had come completely out of left field. It had almost caused a full-blown argument, but that man just seems impossible to get angry with. Stroking your hair and calming each one of your nerves step by step, he swore to you that he just wanted you to have a good time, that he could handle two little girls.

Bribing them was clearly the only way this was going to work, and it seemed like Chris had that in the bag. Emergency numbers set up and ready, allergy information written on the fridge and a borderline military debrief with your twins had left you practically trembling with anxiety, but had gotten you out of the house nonetheless.

You hadn’t planned on getting this drunk. The plan was to go, have a couple of drinks with your friends, and Uber home after a couple of hours. It never works out that way.

In fact, you can barely keep your head up straight when you hear one of your friends call out over the music. “Is that Rooster?”

Blinking doesn’t help you see straight. The loud music, and the bodies in the way, and the irregular lighting doesn’t help either. You squint and finally find him. Wearing jeans and a tight fitting black t-shirt, heading straight for you.

When you squint harder, you expect to realize that it’s not him.

“Rooster!” The second that he reaches you, your arms are around his neck and your chest is pressing into his. You haven’t hugged your ex-husband like this in a long time. “What are you doing here?”

He wrinkles his nose, untangling your arms from around him so that he can get a good look at your face. It’s been a long time since he saw you this dressed up. Hair, make-up, heels. The dress looks familiar but he can’t quite place it.

“You texted me.” He watches your eyelids falling shut, blinking heavily and irregularly as he explains to you. He steadies you by your arms. “You wanna go home?”

There’s a disgruntled groaning sound before you try to look around at your friends. At this point, Rooster makes an effort to be polite and greet them all. After all, they were his friends too, once. They’re all as shitfaced as you.

“Come on, mama. I’ll take you home,” He decides for you, hugging you against him like your own feet aren’t secure enough for his tastes anymore. You fall all too willingly against his chest, your cheek pressing into the fabric of his shirt while he tries to keep the attention of your friends. “Does anyone else need a ride?”

Maybe they do, maybe they don’t — maybe their own husbands will get up and come get them. Rooster won’t leave them without knowing they’ve got a way home, so you know that once you feel the outside chill on your skin he must have made arrangements for them.

He sighs quietly and jerks you as he tries to get a better grasp. Outside, you can finally hear him properly.

“Honey, you need to walk. Use your feet.” He tells you, despite all evidence pointing to the contrary. Your head is lulled against the swell of his shoulder, you haven’t moved your feet since he grabbed you, and yet you’re moving towards the car perfectly fine.

Everything is happening in chapters. You’re skipping ahead and losing parts, not paying attention to much. Things aren’t spinning yet, but they sure are blurry. You manage to talk back anyway.

“I don’t.” You answer, head turned towards the sky. It occurs to you, briefly, that you’re going to be horrifically embarrassed about this tomorrow. Your feet try, then trip, and his hold on you tightens.

“What did you drink? — You alright?” His arm around your waist pulls you closer, your head lulling off of his shoulder and awkwardly onto his moving chest. You hum contentedly.

“I had a good time.” You whisper.

He sighs something about you throwing up in his car and you’re faintly aware of the sound of a car door unlocking.

“C’mere, honey. Just sit right there. I’ve got some water. You wanna sit and get some fresh air with me?” Maybe there are pauses in between — maybe he says it all slower than that, but you can’t really focus. Or open your eyes.

You know that he has guided you to sit against the tailgate of the Bronco because of the way your feet dangle. As a mother, you hate this car. As a girl who fell in love with Bradley Bradshaw — fuck, you love this car.

“Wanna drink somethin’ for me?” Rooster offers the bottle to your mouth and winces as you draw your head sharply away from it. He grabs your shoulders and stops you from teetering over.

You’re not sure how, but you settle into his side and find that his arm remains there. Draped around your shoulders as you rest your head against him.

It takes a while, but Rooster gets you to drink. It’s anyone’s guess as to how long you sit on that tailgate sipping from that water bottle, but his arm around your shoulder feels nice anyway — even if he’s just rubbing your back because he thinks you’re going to puke.

When things start to come around a little more, you’re laying across the two backseats and hugging the water bottle like a teddy bear. Your head is spinning.

“You alright back there?” Rooster calls to you, making you frown slightly and lift your head. Passing by traffic lights and street signs, the world turned on its axis as you try to push yourself up and ultimately give in to staying laid down.

He’s really here. Some way or another, you really forced this man to carry you out of the bar and spend his Friday night babying you. You want to know if you called, or texted, or if he was just in the bar and saw you — you thought he was away for work — but that’s all too embarrassing still.

Your mind is too cloudy for that level of conversation, your words still don’t sound quite right.

“You even didn’t question it.” Your body sways as he pulls to a stop at a red light, your focal point on the soft top of the Bronco swaying with you and kickstarting that dizziness all over again. With a swallow, you close your eyes. The swaying continues like the leather seats below you are actually built into a speedboat as opposed to a seventies classic car.

“Did you put that seatbelt on yet?” His dad-voice comes from the front. Eyes still shut, this makes you smile. You don’t even remember him telling you to. He peers at you through the rear view mirror. “Question what?”

All you offer him is a small shrug, not interested in a seatbelt in the slightest in your current state. This next sentence requires a deep inhale first, but is interrupted by a hiccup. “I text you out of the blue and you just… show up. Didn’t even check to see if it was for you.”

Bradley bites at the inside of his cheek, brows drawing together as the light turns green and another check towards the mirror confirms that you still aren’t wearing a seatbelt. He huffs and the car pulls sharply to the side, making you groan in complaint.

The radio plays on as Bradley stops at the side of the road and unclips his own seatbelt, then gets out of the car. Your poor brain hasn’t even had time to catch up before he’s pulling the door open and half-climbing in. You blink as he appears over you.

With the door still open, he’s just illuminated by the street light. His eyes have always looked so soft in the dark. The slight pout of his lips, the sharpness of his jaw, the bump in his nose. He’d started out with the most innocent of intentions, but as he leans over you across the backseat, it becomes clear that you’re both struck by the same abrupt chord of familiarity.

This is far from the first time that the two of you have been in this position. In fact, this is exactly how things started out the first night you hooked up.

He swallows above you. There’s a wonderstruck look on your face that makes his ears burn red. Your eyes search over his face and with each inch they cover, he watches them flood with remembrance. Warm pink spreads across his cheek, extending down his chest. It makes your lips twitch to think you can still get him to blush.

“Come on, sit up.” Bradley whispers, gently taking each of your hands in his and pulling you upright. “Let’s put your seatbelt on.”

Silently, you don’t fight him on the matter and Bradley knows that’s a win in itself. It’s not the first time he’s had to wrangle you into this car after a few drinks either. Your eyes are just on him, and he swears that’s where the heat on his face is coming from. His fingers fumble to get the buckle into the clasp.

The second that he hears that click, he’s withdrawing from the backseat and climbing back into the driver’s side. You stare at the rear view mirror as he pulls away from the curb. In truth, you had forgotten how gentle he could be with you.

“Thank you.”

He glances up at the mirror, then back at the road.

“Thanks for picking me up. Sorry that I’m…” The pause facilitates a deep inhale that stops you from hiccuping mid-sentence. He watches you sheepishly ready yourself to continue. “Such a mess.”

This, makes him smile. It spreads across his face just as easily as the pink hue had, taking over his features.

“Honey, we both know I’ve seen worse.” Oh god, he remembers. He said it so casually too, like he’s reminiscing on a fond memory. The memory isn’t quite as fond for you, but then again, you don’t remember too much of it. He used to always tease you about it.

The night you met him was your twenty-first birthday, and you were flirting all night, but then you had gotten way too drunk and he had to carry you home — with you fighting him the whole way. He called you alley-cat for two months afterwards. Your feral behaviour had clearly caught his eye, though, because he started hanging around the Hard Deck a lot more afterwards.

Things hadn’t ever seemed that serious in the Hard Deck. Everything was easier back then. The career you have now is exactly what you wanted, but you can’t pretend that some days you wouldn’t rather have a handsome aviator leaning over a bar and telling you jokes to make your shift pass faster.

He takes one more look up at the mirror and smiles again, this time because he finds you already not trying to smile back at him.

“God, I had such a crush on you that summer.” The second that you’ve said it, you have to stop yourself from slapping a hand over your mouth. Closing your eyes will do. You can feel him staring either way.

It shouldn’t be weird to acknowledge. You were married for over five years. In love for a good while before that. Of course you had a crush on him originally. But it’s at the forefront of both of your minds that it still feels like yesterday that you were sprawled along this backseat, stomach bursting with butterflies as he unbuttoned your shorts for the first time.

The salt on his skin, the smell of his cologne mixed with sunscreen and sweat. The way his curls dry after he’s been in the ocean. The way the sunset hits the browns of his eyes. The freckles on his shoulders, dipping into the valleys between his muscles.

The brush of the same moustache you had been making fun of for months against the most sensitive parts of your skin and with it — the realisation that you actually loved that moustache.

Shivering through the late summer evening heat, whispering his name to the stars as his smart mouth worked between your legs. He drove around with the top down a lot back then.

He remembers everything about getting to know you. Getting taunted relentlessly by Hangman because of the way he blushed when you used to tell him his drink was on the house. Almost falling off of his stool craning his neck to get a better look at you behind the bar. Making sure you were invited to every beach outing. The first time he kissed you, and the way you were looking up at him before.

“Sorry, that was—“

“It’s alright.” He interrupts. When he closes his eyes at the next stop sign, all he can think of is the sight of your wet footsteps leading up the steps on his back porch. You had come from the beach. He had known he was going to find you in his shower inside. It was the first time he had ever come home to you. You were barely dating back then.

He looks at the mirror, wondering if you remember that time in the shower.

You’re not thinking about the shower. Fingers spread out, trailing the seams in the leather, you’re thinking about the last time you had sex in this car. So different from the first time. Bradley had known your body so much better, the two of you were so much more comfortable together.

The girls were with your parents for an entire weekend while the two of you were out of town for the wedding. Before the reception, Bradley had tugged you outside and bunched your pretty dress up around your middle. Closing your eyes and letting your fingers inch across the seats, you can still remember his breath fanning across his chest, the low grunts as he drove himself into you. His arms wrapped around your body, your forehead resting against his bicep and your legs around his waist.

“Rooster.” You rarely call him that anymore. It’s the first name you knew him by, since all of his work buddies called him that. Bradley was something that came letter, something that felt more for just the two of you. The last thing you would say most nights. Goodnight, Bradley. It’s been a long time since you said that, but you know it would feel just the same coming off of your tongue.

He hums from the front seat, but doesn’t look.

“Could I sit up front with you?”

“Yeah, sure— let me—“ Too late. He hears your seatbelt unbuckle and knows what’s coming next. Sure enough, as he’s going at a steady forty along Palm Avenue, you swing one foot unsteadily over the console and wobble in the direction of the passenger side. “Baby—“

It’s out of instinct, purely because you’re stressing him out. You plop down into the passenger seat and turn your head to look at him. Wordlessly, both of you decide to pretend you didn’t hear that.

For his peace of mind, you tug the seatbelt across your body and clip it in.

“We’re in so much trouble if the girls take after you.” He teases, the smile in his voice cutting through the tension. You giggle beside him.

“Me? — Do you not remember what happens when you get too familiar with a bottle of tequila?” You answer back, eyes closed and a silly smile on your face. You remember. You remember having to carry him, practically dead weight, into your bed from the living room and spend the night rubbing his back while he threw up the next morning.

“Yeah, we’re in big trouble.” Rooster scoffs, pushing his fingers through his hair. You stare across at the tattoo on the inside of his bicep as he rests his elbow against the door.

You’re still drunk enough to blame the alcohol when you reach across and take his free hand as he steadies the wheel with the other. His gaze flickers down as you loop your fingers through his. “We weren’t that bad.”

This time he laughs.

“We weren’t? — So you don’t remember—“ He’s still grinning when he stops himself, already turning into your street. You two don’t talk about that stuff anymore. You’ve moved on. Those funny little stories are private now, entirely his. Your boyfriend sure as hell wouldn’t want to hear them.

He looks over at you as he slows down to pull up to the curb.

You’re already looking across, staring at him with a look he hasn’t seen in a long time. The smile that you flash him makes him think of that first year. Then, you close your eyes and exhale, “I remember everything.”

Even with the radio playing, there’s a silence that sits between the two of you as the car pulls to a stop. It’s at that point that everything in your orbit starts to spin, forcing you forwards and making you whimper. Bradley’s already out of the car and jogging around to your side as you catch your head in your hands and try to breathe.

“C’mere, honey. I’ve got you.” He reaches around you to unbuckle you from the car, pulling you out by your underarms and holding you against him as he shuts the door. It’s still not the most graceful procedure, but he’s gotten better at it. You’re not exactly making it easy for him as you wobble back and hit your head on the window.

“Oh shit, are you okay?” He breathes out.

“I wanna go to bed.” You complain, wobbling forwards and this time crashing into his chest. He secures one hand on the back of your head to keep you there, pretending like he isn’t checking whether or not you have a bump. Even now, he can’t seem to turn the dad-reflexes off. You sigh into his shoulder. “Take me to bed.”

His free hand finds your waist and he glances down, finally clocking where he remembers this dress from. You wore it the second night of your honeymoon. He remembers this dress very well — he used to carry a picture of you wearing it in his wallet. He’s ninety-percent sure that the twins were conceived because of this dress.

“Yeah, you’re going to bed, baby. Nearly there.” In truth, by the time he has carried you to the door, Rooster has almost forgotten that you have a boyfriend. He’s expecting the same sweet old lady that you’ve been hiring for years to answer the door. That’s why he makes no effort to peel you off of him.

Rooster stares at Chris, while Chris looks between the two of you. You’re barely awake and clinging to your ex-husband’s shirt, he’s holding you at the waist, keeping you standing. Chris looks barely awake, still fully dressed. Clearly a man who has been waiting to hear from you for hours.

“Is she alright? — What happened?” His reaction is positive. Rooster appreciates that much about him. Still, he can’t stop thinking about what Maverick said. If Chris becomes permanent, Bradley’s entire family becomes his.

“She just had too much to drink, she called me for a ride home. I gave her some water and stuff, but—“ Rooster starts to explain, propping you up and holding you halfway. It’s unclear if he’s supposed to just pass you over. He doesn’t know if this guy even knows where you keep the products you remove your make-up with.

“She called you?” Chris challenges. There it is. There’s the anger that Rooster was waiting for.

“I wouldn’t take it personally. She’s shitfaced. She just needs to get some sleep and—“

“Yeah,” Chris steps one foot outside and reaches for your waist. You fall compliantly towards him, the toe of your shoe dragging along the ground as he tucks your arm over his shoulder and props you up. “I’ve got her. Get home safe.”

Rooster’s face doesn’t give away anything. He’s not immature anymore. He wants you to find someone who can give you, and by default his kids, everything that you could ever need. That’s why he keeps his mouth shut. He can think whatever he wants.

“Sure, yeah. Can I just ask… uh… where’s the sitter?” He was so close to walking away and just getting back in his car, but it’s after two now. If that old lady is still here, she would have made it known. As sweet as she was, she loves to complain.

“I watched the kids.”

Bradley raises his eyebrows at your stone-faced boyfriend. Once again, his face gives away nothing. “You did?”

…

Tags:

@khaylin27 @fudge13 @slutford @averyhotchner @hangmanscoming @diorrfairy @thedroneranger @phoenix1388 @perpetuelledaydreaming @princess76179 @cherrycola27 @wkndwlff @xoxabs88xox @galaxy-moon @sugarcoated-lame

#bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #miles teller #bradley bradshaw smut #jake seresin #rooster bradshaw imagine #rooster x you #the parent trap #parent trap #parent trap Bradley #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x female reader

[onionsaremeansstuff]

Till the end of the line

Pairing: Soldier boy (Ben) X male reader

Warnings: Mentions of suicide, war and drugs.

Summary: Ben and you have been friend forever, until the day you’re forced to go to war.

A/N: I’m aware that Ben never fought the WW2 but for the sake of this fic, he did.

December 27th, 1943

As he removed his medical kit from the cupboard and entered the room, (Y/N) remarked, "You should stop getting yourself into trouble."

"Why? I always have to have your bothersome ass to patch my woun- oh fuck." Ben groaned as (Y/N) started cleaning his bruises. 

Ben and (Y/N) were essentially lifelong friends. They have been neighbors since birth, and they hit it up right away.

Ben has experienced chronic health issues. (Y/N) grew up seeing his pal visit numerous doctors and take a variety of different medications. 

Ben was found unconscious and covered in his own vomit when (Y/N) was seventeen. On that day, he learned that his pal had a medication addiction and he made a promise to himself that he would study medicine and would do everything in his power to help his friend.

That's exactly what he did.

One of the top medical professionals in the region, if not the entire state, is now (Y/N).

He built a name for himself both as a doctor and as a person.

And for that reason, the majority of people didn't comprehend him.

He was a remarkable and successful individual, yet he wasted his time with a loser like Ben while doing his best to pay for any medical care that his friend would require.

You see, in the public eye, Ben was an unemployed, unwell, unpleasant guy who got into fights because he had nothing better to do with his life.

"Fuck, how can you have this wonderful medical reputation when you can't even treat a minor cut without nearly killing me?" Ben moaned.

(Y/N) came to a halt and rolled his eyes before rising up and gathering his belongings.

"I suppose you're better off without me, good luck repairing yourself."

"Why are you being so dramatic?" Ben asked, but when he saw (Y/N) refusing to leave his house, he became desperate.

Ben ran (or attempted to; his legs are still sore) and jumped on his friend's back.

"I'm sorry, okay? Everyone knows I'm an asshole. No one can stand me, and I should give my life to you for wasting your time with me," Ben could hear his friend sigh.

"Your blood has stained my clothes now."

"Sorry," Ben apologized and walked away from his pal.

(Y/N) wound up bandaging Ben's wounds and Ben was aware of his friends' displeasure.

"Look, I know I don't deserve you. I apologize for being rude, and I apologize for your clothes. I would wash them for you if I knew how."

(Y/N) glanced at him even more irritably.

"I don't care about my clothes or how you treat me. How long have I known you for? 26 years? I'm irritated that you continue getting yourself into fights for drugs, Ben! You promised to quit!"

Ben was speechless at this point. He understands why (Y/N) was upset with him; he messed up again, and there was nothing he could do. He knows that (Y/N) will never trust him again.

He wishes he could help his pal more. He wishes he wasn't so dependent on him.

He hoped he wasn't such a sick and useless being. If only he could figure out how to be valuable to everyone, for (Y/N).

(Y/N) grumbled a little more and then sighed.

"There's some food in the kitchen for you. Go eat it and I'll go wash my clothes." 

—

Ben understands his friend probably doesn't want him anywhere near him, but being in the same spot as (Y/N) was his way of apologizing.

That's why he crept into the other man's room and cautiously laid next to him.

It wasn't an unusual occurrence between them.

Despite being a famous doctor, (Y/N) never made a lot of money, preferring to keep his medical consultations as low-cost as possible.

Because of this, they only have one room with one bed. Ben normally sleeps on their couch, which keeps him warm on cold evenings.

But with (Y/N) enraged at him, it was like approaching a lion about to attack.

When Ben was able to get into the bed without being kicked out by (Y/N), he approached the other man and apologized once more.

"There will come a time when I won't be here for you, Ben. I take care of you because I'm your friend, but people won't do it. I just want to make sure you're okay." (Y/N) whispered. 

"We both know I'm going to die before you," Ben responded, while (Y/N) remained silent.

(Y/N) gazed at Ben when he eventually fell asleep.

Ben was attractive. Sadly, his addiction and fights made him appear uglier than he should, but (Y/N) could see through it all.

(Y/N) couldn't explain why he disliked seeing Ben with the girls he hooked up with. He likes to think it's because they're some addicted hoes, but right now, when that thing arrived, all he wanted was for his friend to have a wife to take care of him.

—

January 2nd, 1944

(Y/N) went to the grocery store and, after nearly an hour in line, was able to obtain some canned food, milk, and a few fruits.

He went home, thinking about the war. 

(Y/N) wouldn't call himself a dreamer. He remembers his early years, how bad things were during the Great Depression, and how hard things are now since some lunatic European decided it was wartime all over again.

Maybe things will get better, but (Y/N) understands he might not be there to see it.

(Y/N) finally made it home after a long walk.

The scent of smoke was overwhelming when he opened the door. (Y/N) rolled his eyes since he understands what is going on. Ben must have fucked someone and is presently smoking someplace.

(Y/N) chose to ignore his friend and place the food in the refrigerator.

When he finished, he turned around to find Ben smoking next to the kitchen door.

His friend seems upset and depressed.

As he waved to his pal, he thought, "The girl probably dumped him or something."

Ben threw his cigarette out the window and began walking in the (Y/N) direction.

(Y/N) was perplexed by his friend's movement, but before he could inquire, Ben punched him in the face.

"What the fuck?!" (Y/N) shouted, putting his hand over his bruised face.

"When were you going to tell me, huh?!" Ben screamed at the other man. "When the fuck were you going to fucking tell me?!"

(Y/N) remained silent.

"You'd wait till the sergeant knocked on the door before telling me?" As Ben continued to scream, a single tear fell from his eye.

(Y/N) could understand Ben's annoyance. He realizes he was the wrong person.

But informing the person you care about the most that you're going to war against your will isn't easy.

Everything was quiet as Ben waited for an answer while (Y/N) considered what to say.

"I…" (Y/N) began, "I don't have a choice, they are forcing me to go. They were running out of field physicians, and they determined I was one of the lucky ones."

Ben rolled his eyes and threw the letter in the face of (Y/N).

"I know, I can fucking read," Ben said angrily as he sat on the chair next to him. "I just don't understand why you didn't tell me about it, for god's sake!"

"It's... complicated." (Y/N) sat next to Ben on the chair, saying, "I barely know how to deal with everything that's going on, and I didn't know how to tell you."

Ben rose to his feet.

"Bullshit, (Y/N). Fucking bullshit," He screamed as he walked out of the home, leaving (Y/N) alone.

(Y/N) remained on his stool, as he cried. 

—

January 9th, 1944 

(Y/N) glanced out the car window, watching the city he used to reside in fade away as the countryside began to take over the scenery.

Since Ben stormed out of their house, (Y/N) had never seen him again, and he was now very certain that the prospects of seeing him again were slim.

"Perhaps it would be better this way," (Y/N) reasoned.

But he couldn't stop thinking about his friend, even if he hadn't said goodbye.

He promised himself he wouldn't cry, but he couldn't stop himself from crying.

The fact that he was going to participate in a war he didn't want to be a part of. The fact that he was destined to die. The fact that his best friend was upset with him.  The fact that he couldn't have what he so much desired.

Throughout the rest of the journey, tears streamed down his cheeks.

— 

March 30th, 1944

Every day brought more anguish, misery, and monotonous rationing.

(Y/N) couldn't see why someone would select military training. He was simply a field doctor, and he ended up in pain throughout his entire body.

And if he had to take another bullet from a rookie's arm, he'd go insane. How can they send those kids to battle when the vast majority of them can't even handle a gun without being hurt?

The last night of training in the United States occurred tonight. Everyone will sail to England tomorrow to carry out the Normandy invasion plan.

(Y/N) was just now gathering his possessions and organizing his clothing in the medical tent.

"Hey (L/N), we have a free night tonight to do whatever we want." Thomas, one of (Y/ N's) coworkers, stated as he entered the tent where (Y/N) was resting.

"I understand, but I don't believe there's anything I want to do right now."

"You should have a good time tonight because it's our last day before traveling to England and carrying out the complete mega invasion plan they want to carry out." Thomas offered (Y/N) some beer, but he refused. 

"Sorry. The general needs to speak with me in a few minutes and I can't go there stinking," (Y/N) replied as he fastened his boots.

"What have you done, man?"

(Y/N) sighed and stood up.

"Hopefully something extremely horrible, so I can get sent out of here," Thomas laughed, adding that he would accompany (Y/N) to the headquarters.

Thomas walked (Y/N) to the headquarters and exited after saying one good luck.

(Y/N) entered the building and went straight to the general's office.

"Just in time, (L/N), please have a seat," General Raynolds said, motioning to a chair near his desk.

(Y/N) sat on the chair and swallowed forcefully.

"So, as you are aware, the Vaugh company-"

"Vought." (Y/N) cut in, and the general gazed at him, "... Sir."

"Yeah, they supply the army with the majority of our medications and everything you doctors require."

"I'm aware. Really poor quality, I must say." General Raynolds looked at (Y/N) once more "... Sir."

General sighed and rolled his eyes.

"They invented new stuff that makes a normal human stronger, healthier, and capable of withstanding anything. It's pretty experimental, and they've only used it in one person so far," the general said as he paused to fetch a cigar from his drawer and lit it.

"I'm sorry, but why are you telling me this, sir." 

"You're lucky I like you, kid, or else I'd break your arm." The general said as he took out some documents from the drawer. "The point is, the guy who took the thing is the perfect soldier now, and he will engage in the war with us," 

The general put the stack of papers in front of you.

"However, they don't know the side effects yet, so they need a doctor to watch after him, just to make sure he's not dying or anything."

(Y/N) picked up the papers in front of him. 

"Soldier boy? Really? A person who calls himself a soldier boy is the army's new weapon?" (Y/N) mocked as he read the report. "But anyhow, why me and not a Vought scientist? They're probably more knowledgeable about this..." (Y/N) checked in the newspaper for information about "Compound V."

"We don't care about his name; we only care about what he can do." General Raynolds said as he stood up and glanced out the window of his office. "Vought scientists don't have the military background you have. Besides, the guy has explicitly requested you, and you still have quite a reputation out there. You're free to go," the General tossed his cigar out the window.

(Y/N) walked back to the dorm from the office. 

He couldn't get the soldier boy person out of his mind.

Who in their right mind would agree to be a test subject for this compound V thing?

— 

April 1st, 1944 

(Y/N) arrived in the middle of the night the following day. 

England was in full disarray. They're currently based in Portsmouth, but according to what (Y/N) has heard, the Germans were bombarding London every day. As soon as (Y/N) stepped out of the jet, his general instructed him to assist the injured citizens.

When he finally got into the dorm to get some much-needed rest, a weirdo appeared and called for him.

He was meant to be introduced to Soldier Boy by this Vought employee.

They were walking through the base halls, and all (Y/N) could think about was this Soldier Boy person.

He not only chose to join the army, but he also agreed to take part in a risky experiment.

What type of lunatic is he? Doesn't he fear for his life? 

(Y/N) would go to any length to return to his city, his home, and Ben.

He's not sure why, but he already despises Soldier Boy. 

—

When they arrived at the room where the guy would be, the Vought guy asked (Y/N) to leave while he entered.

After two minutes, the employee exited the room and instructed (Y/N) to enter.

There was nothing inside the room when (Y/N) entered it.

He searched around but found nothing. 

"Is that some sort of joke?" He thought to himself.

A hand grabbed (Y/N's) waist and raised him, causing him to scream.

"PUT ME DOWN, YOU FUCKING FUCKER!" (Y/N) shouted, and the unidentified guy chuckled as he did so.

(Y/N) turned around to see the soldier boy's face, but as soon as he did, he regretted it.

"Hi, (Y/N). Long time, no see, hmm?" Soldier boy, or Ben, said. 

Ben waited for his friend to respond, but his looks shifted from astonishment to happiness to fury.

Ben was not the same as before.

He didn't appear as "deteriorated" as previously; he appeared younger, stronger, and taller.

Ben appeared to be a model rather than a sick person.

" So... you're not going to say anything?" Ben questioned. 

"Obviously," (Y/N) laughs bitterly. "Who else but you could be that stupid?"

"Sorry?" 

"Why did you agree to be a part of this, Ben? Do you realize how stupid you are?" (Y/N) moved closer to him. "I told you a million times how dangerous medications can be and how I never encourage using ones that have been tested a billion times, only for you to take this compound V garbage and willingly inject it into your body. You could be dead right now!" 

Ben looked to the side, unsure what to say, before returning his gaze to (Y/N) and resting a hand on the other man's shoulder.

"I understand that, but it was a risk I was willing to take. You were going to war, so I wanted to join the army, but because of my health, they wouldn't let me. After I begged to join, they offered me the compound V, and I would do anything to help you, even if it meant dealing with the side effects."

 (Y/N) looked into Ben's eyes. 

"It's still a foolish decision."

"If I wasn't being foolish, it wouldn't be me, would it?" Ben smiled warmly at his friend, who sighed. 

"You don't have to save me. I would have been fine if you stayed in my house, secure and sound."

Ben hugged his friend while rolling his eyes.

"No, we're in this together to the finish, okay?"

(Y/N) returned his friend's hug.

"Okay."

—

August 12th, 1944

Ben and (Y/N) were walking through the streets of the city they just freed. 

(Y/N) requested that his supervisors search the town for any injured citizens. Ben chose to accompany them, saying: "Perhaps some lovely French girl wants to reward me for my assistance."

That made (Y/N) roll his eyes and deliver a monologue about how horrible Ben is

(Y/N) noticed several groans throughout the speech and decided to investigate.

He went into an abandoned building and looked after everybody who was inside. After a few minutes, he came across a young girl who was crying and terrified for her life.

"Okay, little girl, I'm going to assist you. (Y/N) said before realizing it was ridiculous because she probably didn't understand anything.

The girl began to cry even more and attempted to hide even more.

"I'm going to pick her up and take her to the hospital we're using," Ben stated as he moved past (Y/N).

Ben sensed (Y/N's) hand on his shoulder.

"No, she's terrified. We need her to trust us," he remarked as he exited the building and returned a minute later.

(Y/N) returns with a daisy he discovered in the street. He approached the girl again and presented her with the flower.

The small girl took the flower with care and approached him.

"See? I'm not a bad guy!" (Y/N) said as he picked up the girl and placed her on his lap.

(Y/N) brought out his first aid box and began bandaging the girl's wounds.

Ben was mesmerized by the scene as the small girl tenderly grasped (Y/N's) hand as he cared for her.

Ben considered how (Y/N) would be a good parent. He couldn't stop thinking about (Y/N) being a wonderful father and husband.

"Ben?" (Y/N) said, returning Ben to reality. "Are you paying attention?"

(Y/N) picked up the girl and took her to Ben.

"Take her to the hospital; they'll find her parents there, okay? I will take care of any more injured civilians."

Ben held the girl and blushed slightly before mouthing an ok and driving her to the hospital, still thinking about how fortunate someone would be to have (Y/N) in their lives.

—

August 25th, 1944

"Come on (Y/N), we just freed Paris! We deserve a night off to have fun," Ben said to his friend. 

"You don't need me to have fun," (Y/N) replied flatly.

"I know, but see, those Parisian girls are sexy as fuck. I'm going to have a Foursome with them tonight. I can arrange one for you if you like." Ben's elbow made contact with (Y/N).

"Thank you, but I'm not interested," (Y/N) gave his friend a fake smile. 

Ben shook his head.

"Well, your choice, man," Ben walked away with the girls, and (Y/N) watched as he disappeared with them. 

(Y/N) returned to the hotel where they are staying as a base.

The doctor threw himself over the bed, tears streaming down his cheeks.

...If only Ben knew. 

—

April 2nd, 1945

The allies just conquered Munich a few days ago. With the Soviets advancing on the east front, the war would be over soon. 

Ben and (Y/N) have remained close in recent months.

Ben would go to the medical tent as much as possible. He doesn't know much, but he enjoys seeing his friend take care of patients. When Ben needed attention, he would merely state that he was experiencing some side effect, and the General would excuse (Y/N).

And that's exactly what occurred now.

Ben and (Y/N) made their way through the woodland to an abandoned tiny wood house near the community they just freed. Ben is walking in front in case there is a land mine in the area.

They're both sitting on a small bed, finishing the bottle of whiskey. Ben could scarcely feel the effects of the booze, while (Y/N) was completely drunk. 

They're both silent. 

Ben appreciates the uncommon silence and the company of his friend.

(Y/N), on the other hand, began to sob.

"Hey? (Y/N)? What exactly is going on?"

"It's just... everything Ben," (Y/N) began to cry more loudly.

Ben pressed his friend against his shoulder, allowing him to cry.

"I know it's difficult, but it's almost over; we're saving so many lives and-" Ben said before being cut off.

"You're saving lives!" (Y/N) ruptured. "Every fucking day, I see people dying, friends pleading with me to save them, crying that they don't want to die, and you know what I can do? NOTHING! Every single one of them is dying at my hands." (Y/N) shouted and dug his face into Ben's shoulder.

Ben pressed his hand against (Y/N's) cheek, forcing him to look at him.

Ben has never been excellent with words, and he is at a loss for words right now.

He was irritated. (Y/N) has helped him his entire life, and now that he needs him, he is powerless.

(Y/N) locked his lips with his before Ben could say anything.

And it seemed as if time stopped. 

For (Y/N), it was the feelings that he had for Ben for years being released at once. 

For Ben, his entire world was collapsing around him.

Ben didn't have time to respond because (Y/N) rushed out of the house, leaving Ben confused about everything.

—

They didn't have time to discuss the incident.

When Ben arrived at the base, (Y/N) was already sleeping, and when daylight came, he was transferred to another front, leaving (Y/N) alone.

Ben assumed that (Y/N) was too drunk to remember what happened and that he did it because he was drunk and lonely.

But he couldn't deny he was confused. He wasn't gay; he'd always been a ladies' guy, but something about (Y/N) struck him as odd. He wasn't disgusted by the kiss, but he couldn't put his finger on what he was feeling.

He chose to drown out his emotions with alcohol and fight the damned war.

—

May 7th, 1945

The war in Germany finally ended.

The soldiers could be heard celebrating the outcome and Ben was one of them.

He witnessed several of them crying since they were finally able to return home to their wives and loved ones.

Ben had an epiphany as a result of this.

He didn't think about his former town or any girl he'd ever met the instant he received the news.

He imagined how pleased (Y/N) would be, and his adorable smile. 

Ben was pleased when he realized (Y/N) was the one he was thinking about.

(Y/N) was the one he wanted. 

That kiss was just what he needed to make him realize it, even if he chose to ignore it.

So Ben has a plan. 

He would return to (Y/N).

They were going home.

And he would finally express his feelings to (Y/N).

Maybe adopt a puppy together, or a child, even. In secret, of course. 

He knew he didn't even know if (Y/N) few the same, but he was certain.

All he needed to do was wait until tomorrow because the medical tent was pretty far away, and then he could finally offer (Y/N) a well-deserved happy ending.

—

May 8th, 1945

Ben awoke with a bright smile on his face.

Today marks the beginning of a new era. 

It was the day he'd finally get his man.

He hoped he could spend more time with (Y/N), but the General summoned all the soldiers for a conference, so he went to it, wishing it was already over.

"I want to thank each and every one of you for fighting not only for your country but for every innocent life we rescued." The crowd began cheering. "Unfortunately, even in the light of victory, one last tragedy happened," The general said, as the crowd fell silent. "Last night, as one act of revenge, some Nazis bombarded the hospital we used as a medical base, causing the death of many of our brothers."

No.

No.

No, this couldn't be happening.

Maybe (Y/N) wasn't there at that moment.

Maybe he survived.

He survived.

Yes, he survived, Ben reassured himself. He had to. 

Ben rushed out of the meeting and ran to one of the trucks. He was fortunate that the keys were in the ignition.

He drove the truck as quickly to the hospital. 

—

The hospital was completely destroyed.

He could see soldiers attempting to recover bodies from the ruins and dust.

It was total chaos.

He wanted to cry, but he couldn't let go of his faith.

He went straight to a nearby soldier and asked for (Y/N).

But no one seems to know anything about him.

Ben stayed there all night and all day, sifting through the ruins for his life's love.

But nothing happened.

Until finally discovered (Y/N).

Parts of him, at least.

Ben burst into tears right there.

The person he cared the most about. The man who helped him all the time in his life. The best person he knows is no longer alive. 

Ben recalled the kiss. (Y/N) must have assumed Ben hated him.

He died believing Ben hated him.

Ben cried for hours before finally finding the strength to go.

—

?? ??th, ????

Ben has everything a man could desire.

He was famous.

Everyone adored him.

He is free to fuck anybody he wants.

He could drink the best liquor and smoke the nicest cigarettes.

But nothing could fill the void inside him.

He has a team and a girlfriend. Everything.

But he never stopped thinking about (Y/N).

What a gorgeous smile he had.

His hugs were very warm.

He deserved to be happy. 

Ben was desperate to make him happy.

But that is no longer the case.

Ben wishes he could die. 

He tried everything to kill himself.

Drugs.

Fights.

Knives. 

Guns.

Nothing saddened him more than the thought of never seeing (Y/N) again.

As a result, he shut himself off from the outside world.

He became abusive to his teammates, a jerk to the general public, and stayed high all the time.

He is well aware that (Y/N) will never forgive him for his actions.

But Ben already couldn't forgive himself. 

#x male reader #male reader #mxm #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x male reader #jensen ackles x reader #jensen ackles x male reader #jensen ackles x male!reader #soldier boy x male!reader

[almost-a-class-act]

For the Band of Brothers girlies: some Sunday afternoon webgott fluff.

My brother texted me that he got his first white hair and this story was born. Featuring gardener!Lieb, because when do I not feature gardener!Lieb.

You can find more of my stuff on AO3 or here.

--

David leans over the sink, close enough that his breath fogs up the mirror, and uses one hand to flatten the bulk of his hair while he combs out the offending section. The dim yellow overhead light isn’t ideal so he turns his body to try and catch some of the morning sunlight spilling in through the glazed window without taking his eyes off that section of dark curls. One strand catches the light, glinting bright and jewel-like, distinct from the others.

It can’t be.

Of course it can be; he’s forty-two, and his own father has been grey for twenty-five years. He’s probably lucky it’s gone this long. And yet.

Shit. It can’t be.

He is so fixated, turning his head ever so slightly so that the hair catches the light better and he can confirm that it is, in fact, white, that the knock on the doorframe behind him startles him into nearly dropping the comb into the sink. He frowns at his own clumsiness, and then the frown settles into a proper glower when he turns to see Joe hanging in the doorway, watching him.

Joe, unfairly dark-haired still, apparently immune to the ravages of time, some-fucking-how.

His brow dips in response to David’s thunderous expression. “Who pissed in your Corn Flakes?”

David can’t even begin to pretend that he isn’t as unsettled as he is. “I have a white hair,” he announces, imbuing it with all of the real distress he feels over this thing that he knows perfectly well, on some level, is an incredibly minor cosmetic issue and doesn’t mean that he has one foot in the grave.

Joe, to his credit, does not immediately begin not letting him live down how dramatic he’s being, and beckons him closer. “Let me see.”

David obligingly pulls his hair to the side and steps nearer, tipping his head down. Joe presses gentle fingers to his scalp and leans in close. Then, before David knows what’s happening, he feels a painful little pinch. “Ow.”

He reels back, outraged, as Joe leans past him and rubs his fingers and thumb together to drop the white hair into the sink.

“Now you don’t have any white hairs,” he says. “Can I brush my teeth?”

David stares at him in indignation. “You can’t just – pull my hair out!”

Joe gives him a look as he reaches for his toothbrush in the mug on the back of the sink. “Were you going to leave it? Or were you going to obsess about it for two hours and then pull it out?”

David opens his mouth, and closes it. “I was – obviously going to pull it out,” he says, which is so not the point.

“There you go.” Joe carefully squeezes the toothpaste tube from the end, the way he always does, to make the last quarter of the tube last as long as the first three quarters had. “I just saved us two hours.”

David has no words to express how much Joe being calm about this might just be the thing that finally drives him crazy, so he stomps out of the bathroom instead.

In the bedroom, he changes out of his pajamas like they have personally offended him and pulls on a black sweater that is almost certainly Joe’s. He doesn’t care, might actually want to cause some friction, an occasional guilty pleasure of his since on balance they don’t fight nearly as much now as they used to.

The sweater having caused his hair to stand on end, he storms back to the bathroom where Joe is just spitting his toothpaste into the sink and rinsing his toothbrush. David retrieves his comb, aware that Joe is watching him in the mirror.

“Is that my sweater?”

David steadfastly looks at his own reflection, combing his hair down with a level of unnecessary violence that is leaving more strands in the comb than this task usually does. “Yes,” he says. “It’s black, because I’m mourning my youth.”

The look that Joe gives his reflection is so long and incredulous that it might be funny, if David were in the mood to laugh about anything. Instead, he ignores him, and Joe widens his eyes for a moment, shaking his head, before removing himself from the bathroom and the immediate vicinity of David’s wrath.

David spends the next hour banging around the house. He sort of wants everything to pile on, to give this a reason to be a bad day, but the sun shines resolutely outside the window and Joe’s coffee is, as usual, extremely good, so he can’t even justify his continuing bad mood to himself.

Which, of course, does not help.

Joe comes in from tending to the garden mid-morning, wearing that worn-out white t-shirt he always wears and sporting a streak of dirt on his cheek that might be endearing if David were in the mood for things to be endearing.

“I’m getting old,” he bursts out, since he needs to try and put this into some semblance of words and Joe, while not always the most sympathetic listener, can usually figure out what David is trying to say even if he doesn’t actually say it. “The inexorable march of time is sinking in. Right now.”

Joe balances on one foot to tug one of his boots off, maintaining eye contact. “You’re not getting old, Web,” he says, in a tone of voice that he has developed, at some point, specifically for David. David knows he has because he hasn’t heard Joe be this patient with things he considers to be silly with anyone else. It is sweet, he supposes, a little, although he finds it irredeemably annoying to know for sure that Joe thinks he’s being silly and is placating him. “One of us is looking down the barrel at fifty, and it ain’t you.”

“And yet, somehow, you don’t have any white hairs,” David says, because Joe’s hair is as thick and dark as the day they met, more than twenty years ago.

Joe does break eye contact then, yanking off his other boot and placing it next to the first one, and in that moment, David knows. “You have had white hairs,” he accuses.

“Yeah,” Joe says, straightening, with a very faint jut of his chin. “A few.”

David stares at him, unnerved by this betrayal. “What? When?”

“I don’t know,” Joe says. “Over the past few years. I pulled them out. So what?” He is trying his best to look casual about this, but David knows him well enough to know by now when there’s something else at play, and he snorts.

“Don’t pretend you were fine with it,” he says. “You have more hair products lined up in the bathroom than I do.”

Joe gives a half eyeroll, giving in. “Did you think I was going to age gracefully?” he asks. As gracefully as I do everything else? he doesn’t add, but it’s implied. “Come on, Web. You’re not exactly the May to my December but we can probably split the difference and call it August. I wasn’t about to be an old man when you still looked twenty-five.”

For the second time this morning, David opens his mouth and then closes it. He has been so focused on the concept of his own long, slow descent to the grave that it hadn’t even occurred to him to think about anything – or anyone – else. “You’re not an old man.”

The very idea is simply impossible. Joe gets up early in the mornings. He does what he’s always done, which is make coffee and breakfast and then go out to the garden. He carries bags of soil with no trouble and is down on his knees in the dirt half the time, and he has been known to chase his nieces around the coffee table at his sister’s house, which they prefer from Uncle Joe best of all because he always pretends he’s not going to play with them until he does. He trims David’s hair once every six weeks with eyes as clear as the day he passed his army physical, and he still reads comic books like a teenager even though David has spent years trying to imbue in him a suitable respects for the classics.

“You’re not old,” he repeats, and means it.

“I know math was never your strong suit, sweetheart,” Joe says, “but that means that neither are you.”

He’s right, of course. David can navel-gaze and wrestle with his own mortality separately if he wants to, but he simply can’t believe in Joe’s. Shit.

“But what if I get old?” he asks, aware of the inherent ridiculousness of the question. Of course he will get old.

And yet.

Joe cocks his head, which is the only warning David gets. “Kind of hope you do, Web,” he says, quiet, the way he says things sometimes that mean something else. David knows abruptly that he’s thinking about the storm and the empty slip where his boat was supposed to be, the immense luck to be standing here now when the sea had almost kept him.

He swallows, and can’t say anything for a moment.

Joe comes closer, not afraid to invade his space, even when David is in one of his moods, even when the almost-thing they never talk about hangs in the air between them. He settles a hand on his chest, familiar and reassuring. “You’re going to get old,” he tells him, something faintly chin-up in it, almost cheerful. “No way around it.”

David sighs, almost imperceptibly. “I know.”

“Yeah.” Joe rubs his palm soothingly against the fabric of his sweater and then taps, gently, twice. “But if it makes you feel better, I’ll go first.”

#band of brothers #fanfiction #webgott #roaroftheninth

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Jamie Reed

Published: Feb 9, 2023

I am a 42-year-old St. Louis native, a queer woman, and politically to the left of Bernie Sanders. My worldview has deeply shaped my career. I have spent my professional life providing counseling to vulnerable populations: children in foster care, sexual minorities, the poor. 

For almost four years, I worked at The Washington University School of Medicine Division of Infectious Diseases with teens and young adults who were HIV positive. Many of them were trans or otherwise gender nonconforming, and I could relate: Through childhood and adolescence, I did a lot of gender questioning myself. I’m now married to a transman, and together we are raising my two biological children from a previous marriage and three foster children we hope to adopt. 

All that led me to a job in 2018 as a case manager at The Washington University Transgender Center at St. Louis Children's Hospital, which had been established a year earlier. 

The center’s working assumption was that the earlier you treat kids with gender dysphoria, the more anguish you can prevent later on. This premise was shared by the center’s doctors and therapists. Given their expertise, I assumed that abundant evidence backed this consensus. 

During the four years I worked at the clinic as a case manager—I was responsible for patient intake and oversight—around a thousand distressed young people came through our doors. The majority of them received hormone prescriptions that can have life-altering consequences—including sterility. 

I left the clinic in November of last year because I could no longer participate in what was happening there. By the time I departed, I was certain that the way the American medical system is treating these patients is the opposite of the promise we make to “do no harm.” Instead, we are permanently harming the vulnerable patients in our care.

Today I am speaking out. I am doing so knowing how toxic the public conversation is around this highly contentious issue—and the ways that my testimony might be misused. I am doing so knowing that I am putting myself at serious personal and professional risk.

Almost everyone in my life advised me to keep my head down. But I cannot in good conscience do so. Because what is happening to scores of children is far more important than my comfort. And what is happening to them is morally and medically appalling.

The Floodgates Open

Soon after my arrival at the Transgender Center, I was struck by the lack of formal protocols for treatment. The center’s physician co-directors were essentially the sole authority.

At first, the patient population was tipped toward what used to be the “traditional” instance of a child with gender dysphoria: a boy, often quite young, who wanted to present as—who wanted to be—a girl. 

Until 2015 or so, a very small number of these boys comprised the population of pediatric gender dysphoria cases. Then, across the Western world, there began to be a dramatic increase in a new population: Teenage girls, many with no previous history of gender distress, suddenly declared they were transgender and demanded immediate treatment with testosterone. 

I certainly saw this at the center. One of my jobs was to do intake for new patients and their families. When I started there were probably 10 such calls a month. When I left there were 50, and about 70 percent of the new patients were girls. Sometimes clusters of girls arrived from the same high school. 

This concerned me, but didn’t feel I was in the position to sound some kind of alarm back then. There was a team of about eight of us, and only one other person brought up the kinds of questions I had. Anyone who raised doubts ran the risk of being called a transphobe. 

The girls who came to us had many comorbidities: depression, anxiety, ADHD, eating disorders, obesity. Many were diagnosed with autism, or had autism-like symptoms. A report last year on a British pediatric transgender center found that about one-third of the patients referred there were on the autism spectrum.

Frequently, our patients declared they had disorders that no one believed they had. We had patients who said they had Tourette syndrome (but they didn’t); that they had tic disorders (but they didn’t); that they had multiple personalities (but they didn’t). 

The doctors privately recognized these false self-diagnoses as a manifestation of social contagion. They even acknowledged that suicide has an element of social contagion. But when I said the clusters of girls streaming into our service looked as if their gender issues might be a manifestation of social contagion, the doctors said gender identity reflected something innate.

To begin transitioning, the girls needed a letter of support from a therapist—usually one we recommended—who they had to see only once or twice for the green light. To make it more efficient for the therapists, we offered them a template for how to write a letter in support of transition. The next stop was a single visit to the endocrinologist for a testosterone prescription. 

That’s all it took. 

When a female takes testosterone, the profound and permanent effects of the hormone can be seen in a matter of months. Voices drop, beards sprout, body fat is redistributed. Sexual interest explodes, aggression increases, and mood can be unpredictable. Our patients were told about some side effects, including sterility. But after working at the center, I came to believe that teenagers are simply not capable of fully grasping what it means to make the decision to become infertile while still a minor. 

Side Effects

Many encounters with patients emphasized to me how little these young people understood the profound impacts changing gender would have on their bodies and minds. But the center downplayed the negative consequences, and emphasized the need for transition. As the center’s website said, “Left untreated, gender dysphoria has any number of consequences, from self-harm to suicide. But when you take away the gender dysphoria by allowing a child to be who he or she is, we’re noticing that goes away. The studies we have show these kids often wind up functioning psychosocially as well as or better than their peers.” 

There are no reliable studies showing this. Indeed, the experiences of many of the center’s patients prove how false these assertions are. 

Here’s an example. On Friday, May 1, 2020, a colleague emailed me about a 15-year-old male patient: “Oh dear. I am concerned that [the patient] does not understand what Bicalutamide does.” I responded: “I don’t think that we start anything honestly right now.”

Bicalutamide is a medication used to treat metastatic prostate cancer, and one of its side effects is that it feminizes the bodies of men who take it, including the appearance of breasts. The center prescribed this cancer drug as a puberty blocker and feminizing agent for boys. As with most cancer drugs, bicalutamide has a long list of side effects, and this patient experienced one of them: liver toxicity. He was sent to another unit of the hospital for evaluation and immediately taken off the drug. Afterward, his mother sent an electronic message to the Transgender Center saying that we were lucky her family was not the type to sue.

How little patients understood what they were getting into was illustrated by a call we received at the center in 2020 from a 17-year-old biological female patient who was on testosterone. She said she was bleeding from the vagina. In less than an hour she had soaked through an extra heavy pad, her jeans, and a towel she had wrapped around her waist. The nurse at the center told her to go to the emergency room right away.

We found out later this girl had had intercourse, and because testosterone thins the vaginal tissues, her vaginal canal had ripped open. She had to be sedated and given surgery to repair the damage. She wasn’t the only vaginal laceration case we heard about.

Other girls were disturbed by the effects of testosterone on their clitoris, which enlarges and grows into what looks like a microphallus, or a tiny penis. I counseled one patient whose enlarged clitoris now extended below her vulva, and it chafed and rubbed painfully in her jeans. I advised her to get the kind of compression undergarments worn by biological men who dress to pass as female. At the end of the call I thought to myself, “Wow, we hurt this kid.” 

There are rare conditions in which babies are born with atypical genitalia—cases that call for sophisticated care and compassion. But clinics like the one where I worked are creating a whole cohort of kids with atypical genitals—and most of these teens haven’t even had sex yet. They had no idea who they were going to be as adults. Yet all it took for them to permanently transform themselves was one or two short conversations with a therapist.

Being put on powerful doses of testosterone or estrogen—enough to try to trick your body into mimicking the opposite sex—-affects the rest of the body. I doubt that any parent who's ever consented to give their kid testosterone (a lifelong treatment) knows that they’re also possibly signing their kid up for blood pressure medication, cholesterol medication, and perhaps sleep apnea and diabetes. 

But sometimes the parents’ understanding of what they had agreed to do to their children came forcefully: 

Neglected and Mentally Ill Patients

Besides teenage girls, another new group was referred to us: young people from the inpatient psychiatric unit, or the emergency department, of St. Louis Children’s Hospital. The mental health of these kids was deeply concerning—there were diagnoses like schizophrenia, PTSD, bipolar disorder, and more. Often they were already on a fistful of pharmaceuticals.

This was tragic, but unsurprising given the profound trauma some had been through. Yet no matter how much suffering or pain a child had endured, or how little treatment and love they had received, our doctors viewed gender transition—even with all the expense and hardship it entailed—as the solution.

Some weeks it felt as though almost our entire caseload was nothing but disturbed young people. 

For example, one teenager came to us in the summer of 2022 when he was 17 years old and living in a lockdown facility because he had been sexually abusing dogs. He’d had an awful childhood: His mother was a drug addict, his father was imprisoned, and he grew up in foster care. Whatever treatment he may have been getting, it wasn’t working. 

During our intake I learned from another caseworker that when he got out, he planned to reoffend because he believed the dogs had willingly submitted.

Somewhere along the way, he expressed a desire to become female, so he ended up being seen at our center. From there, he went to a psychologist at the hospital who was known to approve virtually everyone seeking transition. Then our doctor recommended feminizing hormones. At the time, I wondered if this was being done as a form of chemical castration. 

That same thought came up again with another case. This one was in spring of 2022 and concerned a young man who had intense obsessive-compulsive disorder that manifested as a desire to cut off his penis after he masturbated. This patient expressed no gender dysphoria, but he got hormones, too. I asked the doctor what protocol he was following, but I never got a straight answer. 

In Loco Parentis

Another disturbing aspect of the center was its lack of regard for the rights of parents—and the extent to which doctors saw themselves as more informed decision-makers over the fate of these children.

In Missouri, only one parent’s consent is required for treatment of their child. But when there was a dispute between the parents, it seemed the center always took the side of the affirming parent.

My concerns about this approach to dissenting parents grew in 2019 when one of our doctors actually testified in a custody hearing against a father who opposed a mother’s wish to start their 11-year-old daughter on puberty blockers. 

I had done the original intake call, and I found the mother quite disturbing. She and the father were getting divorced, and the mother described the daughter as “kind of a tomboy.” So now the mother was convinced her child was trans. But when I asked if her daughter had adopted a boy’s name, if she was distressed about her body, if she was saying she felt like a boy, the mother said no. I explained the girl just didn’t meet the criteria for an evaluation. 

Then a month later, the mother called back and said her daughter now used a boy’s name, was in distress over her body, and wanted to transition. This time the mom and daughter were given an appointment. Our providers decided the girl was trans and prescribed a puberty blocker to prevent her normal development. 

The father adamantly disagreed, said this was all coming from the mother, and a custody battle ensued. After the hearing where our doctor testified in favor of transition, the judge sided with the mother. 

‘I Want My Breasts Back’

Because I was the main intake person, I had the broadest perspective on our existing and prospective patients. In 2019, a new group of people appeared on my radar: desisters and detransitioners. Desisters choose not to go through with a transition. Detransitioners are transgender people who decide to return to their birth gender. 

The one colleague with whom I was able to share my concerns agreed with me that we should be tracking desistance and detransition. We thought the doctors would want to collect and understand this data in order to figure out what they had missed. 

We were wrong. One doctor wondered aloud why he would spend time on someone who was no longer his patient. 

But we created a document anyway and called it the Red Flag list. It was an Excel spreadsheet that tracked the kind of patients that kept my colleague and me up at night. 

One of the saddest cases of detransition I witnessed was a teenage girl, who, like so many of our patients, came from an unstable family, was in an uncertain living situation, and had a history of drug use. The overwhelming majority of our patients are white, but this girl was black. She was put on hormones at the center when she was around 16. When she was 18, she went in for a double mastectomy, what’s known as “top surgery.” 

Three months later she called the surgeon’s office to say she was going back to her birth name and that her pronouns were “she” and “her.” Heartbreakingly, she told the nurse, “I want my breasts back.” The surgeon’s office contacted our office because they didn’t know what to say to this girl.

My colleague and I said that we would reach out. It took a while to track her down, and when we did we made sure that she was in decent mental health, that she was not actively suicidal, that she was not using substances. The last I heard, she was pregnant. Of course, she’ll never be able to breastfeed her child. 

‘Get On Board, Or Get Out’

My concerns about what was going on at the center started to overtake my life. By spring 2020, I felt a medical and moral obligation to do something. So I spoke up in the office, and sent plenty of emails. 

Here’s just one example: On January 6, 2022, I received an email from a staff therapist asking me for help with a case of a 16-year-old transgender male living in another state. “Parents are open to having patient see a therapist but are not supportive of gender and patient does not want parents to be aware of gender identity. I am having a challenging time finding a gender affirming therapist.”

I replied:

“I do not ethically agree with linking a minor patient to a therapist who would be gender affirming with gender as a focus of their work without that being discussed with the parents and the parent agreeing to that kind of care.”

In all my years at the Washington University School of Medicine, I had received solidly positive performance reviews. But in 2021, that changed. I got a below-average mark for my “Judgment” and “Working Relationships/Cooperative Spirit.” Although I was described as “responsible, conscientious, hard-working and productive” the evaluation also noted: “At times Jamie responds poorly to direction from management with defensiveness and hostility.” 

Things came to a head at a half-day retreat in summer of 2022. In front of the team, the doctors said that my colleague and I had to stop questioning the “medicine and the science” as well as their authority. Then an administrator told us we had to “Get on board, or get out.” It became clear that the purpose of the retreat was to deliver these messages to us.

The Washington University system provides a generous college tuition payment program for long-standing employees. I live by my paycheck and have no money to put aside for five college tuitions for my kids. I had to keep my job. I also feel a lot of loyalty to Washington University.

But I decided then and there that I had to get out of the Transgender Center, and to do so, I had to keep my head down and improve my next performance review. 

I managed to get a decent evaluation, and I landed a job conducting research in another part of The Washington University School of Medicine. I gave my notice and left the Transgender Center in November of 2022. 

What I Want to See Happen

For a couple of weeks, I tried to put everything behind me and settled into my new job as a clinical research coordinator, managing studies regarding children undergoing bone marrow transplants. 

Then I came across comments from Dr. Rachel Levine, a transgender woman who is a high official at the federal Department of Health and Human Services. The article read: “Levine, the U.S. assistant secretary for health, said that clinics are proceeding carefully and that no American children are receiving drugs or hormones for gender dysphoria who shouldn’t.”

I felt stunned and sickened. It wasn’t true. And I know that from deep first-hand experience. 

So I started writing down everything I could about my experience at the Transgender Center. Two weeks ago, I brought my concerns and documents to the attention of Missouri’s attorney general. He is a Republican. I am a progressive. But the safety of children should not be a matter for our culture wars. 

Given the secrecy and lack of rigorous standards that characterize youth gender transition across the country, I believe that to ensure the safety of American children, we need a moratorium on the hormonal and surgical treatment of young people with gender dysphoria. 

In the past 15 years, according to Reuters, the U.S. has gone from having no pediatric gender clinics to more than 100. A thorough analysis should be undertaken to find out what has been done to their patients and why—and what the long-term consequences are.

There is a clear path for us to follow. Just last year England announced that it would close the Tavistock’s youth gender clinic, then the NHS’s only such clinic in the country, after an investigation revealed shoddy practices and poor patient treatment. Sweden and Finland, too, have investigated pediatric transition and greatly curbed the practice, finding there is insufficient evidence of help, and danger of great harm. 

Some critics describe the kind of treatment offered at places like the Transgender Center where I worked as a kind of national experiment. But that’s wrong. 

Experiments are supposed to be carefully designed. Hypotheses are supposed to be tested ethically. The doctors I worked alongside at the Transgender Center said frequently about the treatment of our patients: “We are building the plane while we are flying it.” No one should be a passenger on that kind of aircraft.

==

The U.S. gets its Tavistock. It will not be the last.

Fathers may well be some of the unsung heroes at the end of this mess. Whenever one parent is pushing for life-long medicalization of a child, it is invariably a Munchausen-by-Trans (Transhausen) possessed mother, with a father fighting against all odds and the system that favors her.

#Jamie Reed #gender ideology #queer theory #medical transition #medical corruption #medical malpractice #whistleblower #medical scandal #St. Louis Children's Hospital #ideological capture #transhausen by proxy #transhausen syndrome #medical experimentation #experimental treatment #hormone blockers #puberty blockers #wrong sex hormones #pediatric transition #woke activism #woke #wokeness as religion #cult of woke #wokeism #religion is a mental illness

[agentwashingcat]

I Want You

Pokemon fic? It’s more likely than you think lmao. Featuring Arven and Florian being cute. I decided they’re 20 and 18 respectively and that this is set roughly 2 years post endgame cause I do what I want.

Minor warning for Arven’s self esteem issues but it doesn’t get to dramatic about it.

Cross posted on ao3 under the same username!

Something incredibly weird was happening to Arven. Well, not weird, weird, but something he wasn’t used to. Something he’d never thought was possible.

Florian was flirting with him. And it wasn’t subtle, since Arven was noticing it. Not that Florian had ever been subtle about anything. Wasn’t his strong suit. Arven had always found it endearing, although he had no idea what to do when it was directed at him.

But he had to do something, because it was driving Penny crazy that they were both dancing around it. She had told him so herself. Which was easy for her to say, she didn’t experience romantic attraction. She didn’t have to figure out if someone was messing with her or not.

Not that Arven thought Florian was messing with him. Well, he was pretty sure he wasn’t, anyway. It was just… Arven wasn’t used to it. Anyone being interested in him, that is. His own mother couldn’t be bothered to be there for him. What hope did he have with Florian?

And yet here Florian was. Smiling and laughing and making eyes at him in a way the Arven could only describe as flirting. They were working together in Area Zero, Florian studying the ancient pokemon while Arven worked on his final project. It was going surprisingly well, but he was having a hard time concentrating when Florian kept talking to him. The other wasn’t usually quite so chatty, but Arven didn’t want to complain. On the contrary, he really liked it. Really, really liked it.

“Oh, I’m distracting you, aren’t I?” Florian finally said, frowning. “Sorry, I can shut up.”

“No!” Arven insisted. “Well, I guess technically, yes, you are, but I don’t mind.”

Florian perked up a little, smiling, and Arven smiled in return, stomach doing flip flops. He shook his head, staring down at his notebook for a second before making a decision.

“Penny mentioned something to me, the other day.”

Florian raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Were you guys talking about me?”

“What, we would never,” Arven said, grinning in an attempt to hide his nervousness.

“Of course not,” Florian said, rolling his eyes. “What did Penny have to say?”

Arven gulped, twisting his pencil around his fingers. “She thought you were flirting with me. Super crazy, right?”

Florian stared at him, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. Finally he spoke. “Ha, yeah, totally crazy. What does Penny know about flirting?”

“That’s what I said!” Arven stared down at his notebook, trying not to feel the disappointment settling in his bones.

“...but what if I was flirting? What then?”

Arven’s head snapped up, hands stilling on his pencil. Florian was avoiding his gaze now, but glanced over shyly after a moment. “Uh… I guess my question is why?”

“What?” Naturally, Florian looked confused, corners of his mouth turning downward.

Arven shrugged, looking back down at his notebook. “I mean, come on, you’re a champion level trainer who saved all of Paldea-”

“Most people don’t know about that second part,” Florian interjected.

“Still. I mostly meant you could probably have anyone.” Arven frowned, twisting his pencil around again. “Why would you want to be with me?”

The silence hung between them, and Arven cursed himself. He should have just kept his mouth shut, now all he’d done was push Florian away.

He was startled by Florian’s hands cupping his face, tipping it up so they were looking at each other. The other had a look of such gentle affection that Arven forgot to breathe for a moment.

“Arven, you realize you’re part of anyone, yes?” Florian teased. “Maybe I could have anyone. So what? I want you. If you want me too.”

Arven’s breath caught in his throat. “I, you… what?”

Florian laughed, brushing some of Arven’s hair out of his face. “That’s not really an answer, Arven.”

Arven finally managed to put his thoughts together, a grin spreading over his face. “Yes. Yeah, no, definitely.” Arven cleared his throat. “You’re absolutely sure I’m what you want?”

“Absolutely.” Florian let their foreheads rest together. “Can I kiss you?”

It took Arven a minute to parse what Florian had said. “Did you just ask if you could kiss me, you nerd?” That was… Arceus, that was kind of romantic, but he wasn’t about to let Florian know that.

“Just because you like me doesn’t mean you want to kiss me!” Florian had turned bright red. “I’m being polite, you jerk.”

Arven chuckled. Despite being called a jerk mere moments ago, some part of him still felt like this was a dream. And he was sure his imagination would call him a jerk.

But it wasn’t. It was real and it was happening and Florian was still waiting for a reply and Arceus, was he thinking too much?

“Yes. You can kiss me. If you still want to after I called you a nerd.”

“I do,” Florian pronounced, pulling Arven in for a soft kiss.

 Arven felt himself practically melt into his lips, pulling Florian back in when he tried to pull away. Florian laughed against his lips, climbing into Arven’s lap to kiss him more enthusiastically. They were both panting when they broke apart, Florian resting his forehead against Arven’s. 

“We should do this more often,” Florian murmured after a moment. 

Arven chuckled. “I definitely won’t say no to that.” 

“Should we set up a proper date? I’ve heard the cafeteria has really good food.” Florian was grinning, clearly teasing him, but Arven couldn’t help but be offended by the suggestion.

“You are not taking me on a date to the cafeteria,” Arven said. “I’ll cook for us before I let that happen.”

“You’ll cook for us?” Florian asked innocently.

Arven squinted at him. “... I know this was your end game but yeah, I’ll cook for us.”

“It’s a date!”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“You think I’m cute?”

“Shut it.”

#pokemon #pokemon scarlet and violet #Arven pokemon #Florian pokemon #Arven x Florian #my pokemon fic #idk if this is a popular ship or not but here I am #making content for me lmao #idk if I need to specify the Florian is the base player character name or not #but here I am doing it in the tags lol

[crusherthedoctor]

Since the original character designs in IDW have become something of a hot topic, I thought I’d give a brief tier list in regards to how I’d rank the original characters based on design alone (cause you know none of them would be ranked highly in terms of characterization), and how well they can fit in relatively seamlessly with the game cast.

Starting from the top:

Jewel: I don’t have any real issues with her design, it’s cute enough. Maybe the beta design where she lacks a nose would have worked better for a beetle, but it’s no big deal to me. And her attire - both her pink suit and her beta dress - are both good, simple, and compliment her overall colour scheme.

Tangle: I’m fine with her being a lemur, I like her Ristar tail, and while grey might not seem like a suitable colour for a Sonic anthro, it’s usually... shaded vibrantly enough(?) for it to not matter, ala Shadow’s black fur. Her clothing is a little extra than the average character, but nothing too extreme, and not something that couldn’t be resolved with a minor edit or two.

Starline: He’s fine overall, and the elements I initially wasn’t keen on (the side hair and the Neo Metal Sonic-esque shoes), I’ve warmed up to. That said, you can tell what the inspiration for his design was, and I think the most obvious touches from that inspiration are the ones that I’d adjust.

Kit: As a water-themed fennec, he’s... fine. Whatever.

Lanolin: Her hairstyle is kind of stupid, and her clothing is less Sonic and more Kingdom Hearts Lite. The rest of her is alright, I guess.

Whisper: I feel like the basic idea with her design could work, but in execution she’s just a little too cluttered and too obvious Metal Gear Solid reference. There’s really not much point to the mask in particular, as well as her eyes shut gimmick, since she opens them for Muh Dramatic Moment all the time anyway.

Rough and Tumble: I guess there’s nothing technically wrong with their designs, for what kind of characters they’re supposed to be. But I really don’t care for either of them.

Belle: I know it’s probably meant to invoke Eggman’s stache, but the Sticks hairdo (or should I say Aika hairdo) does not look good on her. And her clown nose makes her "No one cares about me uwu” scenes unintentionally hilarious.

Surge: Everything about her design pisses me off, and not just because she’s transparently a Vagina Scourge. Stop making that stupid Twitch streamer grimace, you’re not Eggman. Stop using too much hair gel. Get a less puke shade of green. Give Aladdin his pants back.

Mimic: I acknowledge that an octopus must be one of the trickier species to turn into a compelling Sonic design, but Mimic just looks like a crusty echidna who’s waiting for the right moment to teleport behind you and tell you it’s Nothing Personnel, Kid.

Clutch: I forgot what he looked like.

#Opinion #Tangle the Lemur #Whisper the Wolf #Jewel the Beetle #Belle the Tinkerer #Lanolin the Sheep #Rough the Skunk #Tumble the Skunk #Mimic the Octopus #Dr. Starline #Clutch the Opossum #Surge the Tenrec #Kitsunami the Fennec #Sonic Character Designs

[catsafarithewriter]

A/N: I’m starting to think ya’ll are lying about getting poll privileges. Anyway, part 9!

x

Haru turned the ribbon over in her hands while the carriage bumped around her. The ends were marked with their initials – pre-marriage – and Haru tried not to think of another wedding ribbon she’d encountered not so long ago.  

Across from her sat Baron. Her (temporary) husband. 

Wary of not being too presumptuous, he’d gone out of his way to take the seat opposite her, rather than taking the one at her side. The only slight issue with this act of chivalry was that Muta had already been occupying most of that side of the carriage. The two Cats were elbow-to-elbow and were doing their best to make it look manageable. 

“It’s usual for one of the newly-weds to wear it for the following day,” Baron remarked, probably meaning to be helpful, but mostly managing to make Haru very aware her fidgeting was rather overt. “We probably should adhere to that tradition, if nothing else if to keep my family’s suspicions at bay.”

“Are they likely to be suspicious?” Haru asked. 

“Well, I am turning up with a bride who I failed to mention until yesterday.”

“So you have told them?”

Baron hesitated. “My uncle has passed it on to the rest of the family.”

“You haven’t even given them the news yourself?” she demanded. 

Baron held up his hands defensively – or as best he could while his shoulders were pinned between Muta and the carriage door. “For what it’s worth, I discovered my sister’s wedding through a great aunt.”

“So yer whole family’s like this,” Muta grunted. 

“Not – not all of them,” Baron said, although the hesitation made it sound as if such folk were in the minority. “My uncle on my mother’s side – Toto – is a fairly down-to-earth Cat. He’s also,” Baron added, “the only family member who knows the true circumstances of our marriage.”

Muta coughed, with what might have been covering for a laugh. “Yer have an uncle called Toto? Like the Wizard of Oz dog?”

Haru kicked Muta’s foot. “Says the Cat who goes by Muta No Last Name. Be nice. Or,” she added, remembering just who she was talking to, “at least civil.”

“Toto won’t tell anyone the realities of our situation,” Baron assured them. “He may doubt my sanity, sometimes, but he’s loyal.” 

“That’s at least one thing we can agree on,” Muta muttered. 

Haru kicked Muta’s foot again. To Baron, she asked, “Do you think they’ll like me? Your family, I mean?”

“What do you care, Chicky? It ain’t like yer sticking around for the long term.”

“They’ll love you,” Baron promised. “And you won’t be the only new addition to the family; my sister is bringing along her recently-wedded wife too, remember? And, if my sister is still the same as ever, I’m sure she’ll be hoarding all the limelight.”

Haru thought back to Baron’s (brief, it had to be said) cape phase, and somehow doubted that this elusive sister had inherited all the dramatics the von Gikkingen family had to offer. She held out the ribbon to her ‘husband’. “Since this started life as your bowtie, do you want to be the one to wear it?”

“Seems sensible.”

"Well, that’s no good,” Muta said once Baron had returned the tie to its rightful place. “Yer can’t see the ends.”

“Are the ends important?” Haru asked. 

“If yer can’t see the initials, it just looks like an ordinary tie. You’d better put it into yer hair, Chicky.”

Haru grinned. “Aw, I didn’t know you were such a romantic.”

“If yer gonna be sticking with this ridiculous ruse, you might as well make it convincing. Right, Fancypants?”

Baron’s whiskers twitched with only a hint of irritation at the nickname, but he removed the bowtie, passing it across to Haru without any complaint. She turned it over in her hands, preparing to set it into her hair, when her eyes lingered over the initials. “Hey, Baron, what’s the ‘A’ stand for? Your side says ‘B.H.A.vG’?”

There was a flash of something which may have been mortification on Baron’s face. “That must have been a mistake.”

“But they used your birth certificate to validate the paperwork?”

“Yes, but you recall our clerk,” Baron said. “He was a few fish short of a lake.” 

 “You’ve got a secret middle name and you won’t tell your wife?” Haru demanded, faux-insulted. Her hand pressed against her heart. “We’ve been married not even two days, and you’re already keeping things from me! Oh, the betrayal!”

Muta grinned. “Good luck, Baron.” 

“Haru, you know my first name is Humbert,” Baron said. “Don’t you think that if my middle name was any less embarrassing, I would be going by that? Not all of us were blessed with reasonable names like Haru Yoshyko.”

There was a pause. 

“Yoshyko,” Haru echoed. 

Muta snorted. 

“Yes,” Baron said. “I – that is, was, your name, was it not? Am I... Is that the wrong pronunciation?”

“Oh, no, it’s perfect,” Haru replied.

Muta’s snorted again, and this time his shoulders began to shake with unshed laughter. 

“I rather feel,” Baron said slowly, “that you might be lying to me, dear wife of mine.”

“And whyever would I lie to you, Baron Humbert Ambrose von Gikkingen?”

“That was a good guess, but wrong.”

“Albert?”

“No.”

“Antigone?”

“No, and it’s pronounced ‘an-tig-gony’ not ‘anti-gone’.” 

“Bold words from the Cat who can’t even remember his wife’s maiden name.”

Muta leant back in his seat, grinning. “You’re perfect for each other.”

#double fake dating au #congrats to lin iva for joking that baron wouldn't be able to pronounce haru's surname #I've been trying to find a way to squeeze this in for aagggeees #cat writes

[blackberrywars]

Campfire - Jaskier/Suffering

SFW prompt fill for day 2 of the @witchersummercamp event!!! Many thanks to my lovely beta @hellinglasses and a big fuck-you to netflix

Rating: T

Words: 2848

Pairing: Pre-Relationship Jaskier/Geralt/Yennefer, Geralt/Yennefer, Jaskier & Ciri

Tags: Angst, Arguing, Self-Worth Issues, Emotional Trauma, Physical Trauma, Hunger, Protective!Jaskier, Toxic Relationships, Parenting, Geralt Always Says The Worst Possible Thing, Yennefer Is Defensive

Summary: Jaskier has a front-row seat to watch the two people he loves most destroy each other, and as much as he hates it, he can’t leave Ciri alone when Geralt and Yennefer are so destructive. He lights the fire himself and gives them a piece of all of our minds.

Read on AO3

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Sometimes, Jaskier misses his jail cell. The guards had been tasteless, tactless bastards, to be sure, but Martin and Polly had been good little gentlemen and even better companions to him, tiny and furry though they were. He hopes that they’re well. They listened to his songs and his words and his pain. With them, he could speak about his heartbreak until he made something useful out of it, or at least was able to put his own stupidity out into the air —how foolish he’d been to fall for two immortal beings who, even now, regard him as a plaything at best. Even now, he wishes to talk to the little mice. Tell them how terrible it is, to watch the people he loves love each other and hurt each other and ruin each other right in front of his eyes. Just as in the cell, it might give him a bit of peace while Geralt and Yennefer bicker.

“I lit an entire army aflame, witcher, for fucks’ sake, I can handle this.”

“Hm. And then right after that, you lost your magic. You’re still weak.”

“Gods, you’re insufferable. Don’t you hear yourself, you self-righteous prick?”

The witch and the witcher. As gorgeous as they are powerful, as lovely as they are dreadful, as pretty as they are petty. Jaskier admires them from his stump across the large clearing, memorizing the sharp planes of an especially frustrated Geralt’s face and the unfairly lustrous swish of Yennefer’s hair as she turns away from him, groaning with irritation. They’re awfully beautiful. He has and will again go on about it in the future when they decide to behave less fucking immaturely than the skinny, nervous seven year-old beside him. The past few weeks hadn’t exactly been quiet between the two, but such a squabble was inevitable. If they don’t argue over some trifling bullshit at least once every two weeks, he’s convinced they’ll explode. And probably take it out on him again. He sighs, turning to look at Ciri, who watches, just as fascinated. 

The poor thing.

Four parents dead, and all she has left are these two, who, while certainly good people at heart, have clearly never had decent examples themselves of how to parent or be parented. She has him too, he supposes. An uncle, of sorts, or perhaps a kindly older cousin, like the ones he’d grown up with in Lettenhove. Not an outsider or a stranger, but not quite a mother or a father either. He can’t replace the parents Destiny decided to gift her —he doesn’t fuck about with Her or Her wishes anymore, gods know he’s learned his lesson on that particular front— but at the very least he can show them how it’s done. Lowering his voice to a stage whisper, the kind Geralt would hear if he wasn’t so occupied with his grunting, he nudges the girl’s shoulder.

“And they call me dramatic.”

She huffs out a giggle, tiny but genuine.

“No, really. I swear on my lute, I punch one alderman, and suddenly I’m making a ‘fuss over nothing,’ and being called ‘bard’ again instead of my name!”

“But aren’t you a bard?”

“Yes, but that isn’t the point. The point is that even with all that power between them, a witcher and an ex-court sorceress, they can’t solve a minor disagreement! Either they skipped their etiquette lessons, or both Kaer Morhen and Aretuza are woefully inadequate educational institutions —I’ll have to teach you myself once we get to the Blue Mountains.”

Remembering his own classes on the subject, Jaskier can’t help but smile when Ciri groans. He’d spent more than his fair share of days hiding from his own private instructor, avoiding all talk of how to run a household, conduct business, and behave himself in public around people of every station. And all that as a two-penny count’s son. A princess, and more than that, the only princess of Cintra, would have had far more to learn, with far stricter teachers than old Garam. Even as young as she is, there’s no possible way she escaped it. Not with a pout like that.

He’ll teach her to hone that too. She already has the face for it, round and cute as a button, but the art of big, sad eyes is one he excels in, and he’d be remiss to not pass on his knowledge. Especially when, more likely than not, she’ll be aiming them at the very same target. Geralt, for all his many foolish pretenses at stoicism and apathy, already melts into a puddle around Ciri and would certainly fetch the moon for her if she asked it of him. Not that she would. She’s too good for that, always calm and placid, so much so that it worries Jaskier more than a little. The dear girl had lost everything in the space of a few weeks and she’d yet to even cry about it. Geralt and Yennefer might appreciate that, but Jaskier knows better. It’s unhealthy. For anyone, really, semi-immortal or not, but for a child without even eight winters to her name… he likes it even less.

“Well then. Tell me, Fiona, which lessons did you enjoy in Cintra?”

Immediately, her eyes lit up, pale eyebrows shooting up her forehead. They’ll have to dye them soon, but not yet. Let the girl get used to her new name, start processing all that has shifted in her life before changing her appearance.

“The sword lessons!! Grandmother and Grampa Eist gave me a big, big sword for my last nameday!! It’s only wood, but it’s tough, and I already learned the first forms.”

“Knowing the Queen and King, I believe it. They were some of the finest warriors alive.”

“Yeah! Grandmother was too busy to teach me herself, but Grampa’s really good too! His sword is really heavy though.”

“Yeah? What other things did they teach you?”

She’s happy to ramble on about it, and Jaskier lets her, interjecting with careful hums and nods and chuckles and questions where appropriate. Talking puts some life in her sallow cheeks, when she goes on about learning to read at Moussack’s knee until she graduated to asking him to pull the heavy tomes down from the palace library for her. He encourages it with appropriate nods and noises, drifting his senses back to the pair behind him. And, oh, what a blessed fucking surprise!

“I can light a simple fucking campfire! Just because you finally decided to take Ciri as your daughter doesn’t mean you have to mother-hen all of us to death, Geralt!”

“I’m not mother-henning, just let me handle it! Why does this even matter to you?”

They’ve graduated from an argument to a unnecessary, vicious row. 

“It doesn’t!”

“Like fuck it doesn’t! One Igni and the problem’s solved, but here you are, dragging it like a corpse!”

“Oh, I’m the one dragging this out? You kicked your feet for so long avoiding your Child Surprise that I’m hardly shocked Destiny killed her whole family —it was the only way to make you take responsibility!”

He focuses back on Ciri, who, thank the gods, is still talking about her life in Cintra. The last thing she needs to hear is her new mother being cruel or that her father hadn’t exactly wanted her in his life, albeit for his own reasons, right and wrong. 

“Sometimes I could sneak out to play in the square, but Ser Danek would always drag me back to the castle before I was done. I miss him.”

“I know, dear heart. But it’s always good to have things you miss. It means you have things to love. What else do you miss?”

“Oh! I miss Grandmother and Grampa. And Moussack and Ser Lazlo and Marina and all the horses! Grampa never let me go see them alone, but they’re so big! And I miss the food…… I don’t like being hungry.”

As if on cue, her stomach rumbles. A sad, tiny little sound, and all Ciri does for it is tucking a skinny arm over her belly, shushing the noise with a finger pressed to her lips. And Jaskier’s heart breaks. Geralt and Yennefer keep screaming in the background of his mind, over petty shit, all while their little girl hasn’t eaten since the gods know when. Immortals. They forget about lowly humans and their needs, always either pushing them past the limit or dropping them like deadweight, but Jaskier won’t let them do either, not with him and not with her. So, he does what he does best. He talks. Asks Ciri more questions, takes over the conversation when their companions get too loud, and keeps her as distracted as he can while he reaches for his own flint and steel. 

Quickly, he arranges the wood and sends Ciri for Geralt’s saddlebags. There won’t be much, mushrooms and dried meat, but he has his spices and there was a patch of wild onion less than a minute’s walk back. Three strikes light the tinder, and by the time Jaskier has a pot perched on top of a makeshift spit, the damned campfire burns as brightly as any other he’s made for himself in Geralt’s absences. Ciri returns, trotting back with a skip in her step, promised pack in hand. He pours in his waterskin, emptying it, and hands Ciri a small scarf.

“Alright, dear. We’ll eat soon, and though I can’t promise it’ll be anywhere near as good as Cintra’s best, I’ve made enough trail stews that you should be able to at least get it down. But I need you to do one last thing for me.”

Ciri nods solemnly.

“Good girl. Just outside this clearing, you see that big tree over there?” He points to the one in question, with the creeping vine crawling over it. “About five trees in that direction, you see some hollow green shoots on the ground. Those are wild onions, and you have to pick them —but don’t eat them. Bring them back so I can look them over.”

“Okay.”

Her eyes slide over to Geralt and Yennefer, still screaming at each other, then back to him. Clever girl. Of course she’d heard them, and figured out what he’s trying to do by sending her away into the woods —another thing to scold the pair for. He nods at her, pressing the scarf further into her little hands.

“Go. There’s nothing in the woods that can harm you, not with those two here, no matter how foolish they’re being now.”

Blessedly, she accepts it, leaving Jaskier to deal with the couple of the hour. Yennefer’s skirt flares out just as her hair does, but it’s less pretty, with a hungry girl in the woods. Geralt’s jaw tightens, and he can’t find the line of it as handsome, not when Ciri just shushed her own rumbling stomach like the noise would get her punished. Stalking across the clearing should alert them, or at least make them stop for long enough to look his way, but instead they escalate in their usual way, stepping closer until the spittle flying from their mouths hits the other’s cheek. He thinks of the mountain. He thinks of the mountain and how they ruined each other so fucking quickly, dissolving their relationship like it meant nothing at all, and throwing the remains at his chest. Two people this fucking old ought to know better. But instead, they just make the same mistakes for longer.

By the sound of it, the water hasn’t boiled yet, but he has. 

This time, when he puts himself in between them, he reaches out only with his hands —already burnt and broken as they are, easy enough to sacrifice— and not his heart. He knows better now. Never again will he stand outside a shattered window and struggle not to weep. He won’t be sent away down a mountain, alone in the cold with every rock digging into his feet through his thin soles along the way. Before either of them can stop him, he puts one arm across Geralt’s chest and a hand at Yennefer’s shoulder. 

“Shut the fuck up. Both of you.”

For about a second, it occurs to him that he ought to be more cautious, saying that to a powerful sorceress and a witcher, both of whom have cast him aside before. He tells the thought to fuck off and turns to level a glare at Geralt, who flinches.

“You. All those heightened senses, and yet you can’t figure out that the witch here is trying to heal herself and prove her worth, after, as you put it so delicately, losing her magic. She lives and dies on Chaos. But you don’t even try to understand her pain. And despite how fucking poorly it’s gone for you in the past, in case you don’t remember your idiocy in Rinde, you just keep making decisions for her safety, disregarding her wishes entirely. I don’t care about your intentions, and neither does she.”

Yennefer huffs, turning her face away but not breaking out of his hold. 

“And you. Yes, Geralt has been supremely irresponsible about Ciri. But if that was your issue right now, you would have had the sense to not scream it at him right in front of her. Do you think she needs to hear that? So she can feel unwanted and unloved? But instead of facing the actual issue of your power being gone, you deflect away from your own weakness, treating whoever you hurt in the process as collateral damage for your own pride.”

He steps aside, gesturing towards the fire he’d lit all on his own, no magic or cantrips required. The whole fucking situation is proof that sometimes all you need a simple person and their pracice, tools, and love.

“There’s your fucking fire, so you can stop using it to cover your own asses. Now, your little daughter is hungry, and she’ll be back any minute. Geralt, go find a rabbit to feed her. Yennefer, magic her up a bowl and a spoon if you have the strength.”

Amazingly, then don’t protest. Yennefer scoffs at him and Geralt swears under his breath, but they separate, off to their assigned tasks. Excellent timing, when Ciri comes running back with both little hands full of onions for him to clean so they can make a proper soup out of it all. Yennefer produces three bowls and three spoons, since only Geralt has his own, and though it takes her longer than it should, it lines up well with Geralt’s return, skinning a fat hare as he walks over. Jaskier takes the carcass, butchering and cleaning out the insides as fast as he dares, with his shaking hands. Within the hour, Ciri’s eating like she hasn’t been fed in days, and Jaskier relaxes, looking to the other side of the fire.

The witch and the witcher. What fucking fools, both of them, sat on opposite ends of a log, eating silently. Jaskier watches them again, how they chew their food just a little too long, shrink into themselves in between bites just to puff back up before retreating again. In between them, he can see where their boots still touch. But he’s fine with that. Time and heartache have taught him wisdom, but more importantly, they taught him patience. He waits until Ciri hands him her bowl, asking him to tuck her in, and she sleeps peacefully in his bedroll with his red coat pulled up to her chin, dwarfing her little body. He waits some more, watching the fire dwindle into embers, for Yennefer to speak.

“Jaskier. We’re… we’re sorry.”

“You can apologize to her tomorrow.”

“Not the point, bard,” Geralt says, lip twitching downwards and knee pressing closer to Yennefer’s thigh, “You shouldn’t be the one looking after her.”

“Someone has to.”

It hurts, even though he’s sure Geralt doesn’t even realize what he’s said. But he keeps his eyes on the dying flames, trying not to see Yennefer return the witcher’s touch, shuffling over on the small log. Brown wood, gray ash, yellow fire. All are safer to look at than Yennefer’s black hair next to Geralt’s white, or the way their hands press against each other, warm brown and ghostly pale. Geralt tries again.

“You’re good at it. Better than either of us, with children, and Ciri needs your help.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

He forces enough levity into his voice to make it convincing, trailing it into a yawn. Ciri needs his help. That’s not what Geralt had said, when he’d swept him up and away from the jail cell with his sad yellow eyes and soft voice, but it had always been like him to deny any mention of dependency after the fact, no matter how much proof existed of it. Beside him, the witch nods, and they’re off to their own pushed-together bedrolls, leaving Jaskier to doze with his head pillowed on his pack, letting the embers soothe him to sleep.

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[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]

#witchersummercamp #witcher summer camp #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #jaskier #geralt #yennefer #ciri #pre- #geraskefer #self-worth issues #angst #arguing #bittersweet ending #yenralt #yennskier #geraskier #berry's fics

[velveteen-leaves]

I’m reading the comics, and the more I think about Sandman’s ending, the more I worry about how Netflix will adapt it, so here are my thoughts. (Spoiler warning for the comics, obviously)

I feel like Netflix wont want to adapt Morpheus’ death. I’ve seen a few people online complain about having watched Sandman and then gone on to read the comics or spoil the comics for themselves, only to express their sadness and anger at what happens. And I’d like to say, I agree with them– I know Sandman is a purposeful tragedy and it’s meant to make you upset, but at the end of the day I’m only human and I don’t want one of my favorite fictional characters to suffer, sue me. But that just makes me think, these people have got to be in the majority opinion here. I don’t know any of the statistics for what perfect of Sandman viewers have/haven’t read the comics, but I would imagine that lots of them haven’t, and out of that group, plenty of them probably don’t expect it to take such a tragic turn.

Because it will end up being a twist, I’m fairly sure of it. It’s obvious in the comics that Morpheus isn’t okay, and even more so that the people around him don’t seem to notice because “that’s just how he is, you get used to it”. (The first thing to come to mind is Merv telling Lucien that Dream is being dramatic about Thessaly again, when really he’s grieving his son’s death– no one thought to ask him if he was alright, they just went on like normal) But in the show, it seems less so. You can tell in the comics Morpheus has issues, but in the TV show, it’s more lighthearted. Someone made a post somewhere on here pointing out that the show is more kind to its characters; John Dee doesn’t kill Rosemary, Unity and Desire are in love rather than one assaulting the other, etc. I’m glad that the show is lighter, I think it was a nice change. However, I also understand that it’s setting a somewhat false pretense for new fans who have no idea what’s in store for the show if it gets a full run, and I also think that Netflix is well aware of the fact that these show-only fans will be furious if the Morpheus they’ve grown to love over the course of 3 or 4 seasons gets killed off “out of nowhere”. Which leads me to the few options I think Netflix will end up considering. 

The first is a fully faithful TV show adaptation. They accurately portray Morpheus’ battle with suicidal thoughts and he ultimately dies tragically– Neil Gaiman is happy, comic fans are happy, TV show fans (the ones Netflix cares most about) are decidedly not. These fans might leave bad reviews and scare off any potential future watchers, or stop watching the show altogether, assuming there is more content to be made out of Overture, Endless Nights, etc. It’d appeal to showrunners and fans of the comic but would be an awful business decision.

Second option is that they drop the show. Netflix understands that Neil Gaiman and comic fans both want a comic-accurate portrayal, but if comic readers are in the minority of the viewers of the show, they’ll be ignored. So, if Netflix isn’t allowed to drastically change the script and keep Morpheus alive, they won’t kill him off, either, and just end the show and leave it open to interpretation for all fans. It’s unclear how many people would be upset versus happy over this, because it would depend whether Netflix was going to originally kill off Morpheus or not. If they made this show with the intention of keeping him alive and discovered that it *really* wasn’t allowed once they finally get to season 4, well...they won’t be happy, so no one gets to be. There’s also an option 2.5 here, where they could include Morpheus’ death, but they botch it terribly somehow out of spite for Gaiman or comic fans wanting them to properly kill him– it’s extremely petty, but who’s to say they wouldn’t?

Third option is that they keep him alive. This, I think, is the least likely. Even though I’m a terrible fan of the comics for wanting Morpheus alive and well and very much so wanting this to happen (sorry neil for not appreciating the modern greek tragedy of it enough), I can’t imagine Neil lets it happen. Season one was incredibly faithful to the comics, and the only changes made were either ones to make it less dark for Netflix (as I mentioned before), or things to do with the timeline shift, like Dream missing his 1989 meeting with Hob because the show takes place 30 years later. The accuracy of season one is something that everyone and their mothers has praised vehemently, so I would be really surprised if not only the showrunners were totally fine with a complete 180º of loyalty, but comic fans, too. They’d probably consider it because it would appeal most to show-only Sandman fans, and they have begun to set it up at least a little bit (Daniel plotline change, Dream has faster character development, so on and so forth), but it just seems very improbable. Undoubtedly its something Netflix has considered but I’d be shocked if they go through with it. 

TL;DR: Because of how many show-only Sandman fans get upset when they learn about Morpheus’ death in the comics, I think netflix will have to either piss off show fans, comic fans, or the writers of the comics when they choose how to adapt his death. It’ll probably come down to a matter of “who makes us the most money and how do we keep them happy”, and my guess is that it’ll be the show-only fans, or, they try to appeal to everyone all at once and do a horrendous job at it.

#the sandman #sandman #sandman netflix #sandman comics #morpheus #dream #dream of the endless #i want him to be happy and healthy :( #its corny and lame of me to want him to become a human and learn to love life but i want it anyways i want the best for him. god #he just means so much to me #netflix do NOT fuck thsi up please itll hurt my feelings

[alienelvisobsession]

THIRST WATCH #5: “Change of Habit”

In “Change of Habit”, Elvis plays Dr. John Carpenter, a doctor in a difficult neighborhood who is helped at the clinic by three nuns in incognito and is attracted to one of them, Sister Michelle (Mary Tyler Moore). I don’t know if he consciously wanted to play the jaded overworked doctor who has has seen too many things, but Elvis in this movie looks bored and is acting on autopilot, apart from maybe the scene where he plays football in the park. If that was an acting choice, there should be a scene that explains why he seemed so disgruntled. The sets look embarrassingly cheap and unfortunately the story, even though written with good intentions, failed to entertain me or interest me. I’m afraid that Elvis didn’t enjoy filming this movie, so it seems to me that he wasn’t making much of an effort to act: he delivers his lines as quickly as he can, as if he were almost embarrassed by them.

This was filmed in what with my Discord Besties we call Elvis’ Silky period (1968-1970) , but he looks like freaking Spock sometimes when he’s wearing scrubs. “Live long and prosper, Elvis!”. I wonder if anybody told him that or if he realized watching himself. Would he have laughed at it or would he be pissed off? I already imagine myself being dragged by the hair and kicked out of Graceland by a Spock-looking Elvis! He needed a “Change of Hair”, not a “Change of Habit”! Seriously, those short bangs don’t suit him and his hair is combed too neatly. His hair weirdly changes from scene to scene, but overall I don’t even find him that hot in much of this movie, just attractive. Perhaps that’s because Dr. Sideburns is a boring character without much of a backstory and for the most part he lacks emotions, just like Spock. It’s honestly more fun to think about Elvis in a Star Trek episode (he was a fan)! Who would he play, Spock’s son? Or one of the red shirts who always get killed at the beginning of the episode? What about one the weird alien races on a planet of Elvii who all wiggle their legs and have incredibly long fingers? Okay, now I need about a fanfic about Elvis in a Star Trek episode, lol. 😂

Now back go the movie. The jokes made me cringe, even acknowledging this was 1969. Example: “The last few nurses who worked here couldn't handle it. Two of 'em got raped! One of them even against her will." Here they’re trying to say that unwanted pregnancies are a problem in the neighborhood, only partially because of sexual assault, but the issue is tackled with the same poor taste as Elvis’ hairdresser. Was Larry Geller around for this movie? Because this is kind of an early helmet in some scenes!

Elvis plays a serious doctor, but in my opinion the character is too goody goody for him. There’s a disconnect between the subject of the song “Rubberneckin’”, where Elvis seemingly sings about liking a lot of different girls and being alright with it, and the character of a single doctor in his early 30s in love with a nun with a very traditional view of relationships and marriage (the two don’t even kiss). If I were the scriptwriter, I would have flipped the roles and made Elvis a “hot priest” that you can’t totally read, like Andrew Scott in “Fleabag”.

“Change of Habit” tries to be socially conscious, but very clumsily. The main plot is an aborted rom-com, but minor themes are inequality, criminality in poor neighborhoods, changes in society and black power. Elvis deserved more dramatic roles, but with well-written round character and good plots. I must admit, though, that I liked the scene where he wears Converse sneakers, jeans, a University of Memphis sweatshirt and plays football in the park. He probably had fun filming that and he looks very modern.

During his time at the clinic, Dr. Sideburns deals with a stuttering boy, a drug addict and an autistic girl. It’s interesting to think that Elvis might have been all of these three things. No comment on that scene with the autistic girl, because they didn’t know how to deal with autism back then. Some fans are thrilled that issues of sexual assault, race and autism are addressed in an Elvis movie. While I agree that this is good for issues of representation, that’s not enough for me to make it a good movie, especially when these things are mentioned awkwardly in an attempt to update these vehicles to the progressive counterculture of the late ‘60s in a way that doesn’t move the ostensibly very basic “will-they-won’t-they” plot forward. This movie just made me uncomfortable, instead of being either fun or thought-provoking (or both). It didn’t help that serious issues are handled with throwaway one-liners like “I think our neighbors are Catholic. – Yes. It's too bad they're not Christian”. It’s not that I’m applying modern standards to an old movie: this for me was simply poorly written. It’s trying to attach socially-progressive issues to a vapid rom-com.

The best thing to come out of this movie for me is this meme of Dr. Sideburns that I made. Tell me if it doesn’t sound like El ad-libbing a line here:

The ending is like that of “King Creole”: they couldn’t really make up their mind, so they left it a bit ambiguous. Elvis doesn’t end up with the girl, but they want to leave it open if you want to think that he will in the future. This frustrates me because, unlike what happens in “King Creole”, the only conflict in this movie other that the clinic is in a tough neighborhood is that the doctor is attracted to the young nun.

It doesn’t even have a good Gospel number at the end, because these people are boring Catholics, like me. At a certain point, Elvis plays “Lawdy Miss Clawdy” at the piano (which would also be slightly out of character for Dr. Carpenter), but he doesn’t sing the words, maybe because of budget problems with the rights of the song, who knows! He looks so good in those elegant clothes. He’s suddenly unspocked!

Overall, I didn’t like the movie. Sorry for being this harsh and I know that there are Elvis fans who really love “Change of Habit” and that’s fine, but for me it’s a weird hybrid between a light-hearted and a socially-conscious movie and it didn’t work. This movie was boring, predictable and Elvis was sleepwalking through it. Sorry El, it wasn’t your fault. You deserved better. You wanna know how to fix this? Watch “Sister Act”.

Here’s a link to my other Thirst Watches, including “King Creole”, “Jailhouse Rock”, “Blue Hawaii” and “Flaming Star”.

#elvis #elvis presley #elvis movie #thirst watch #change of habit #1960s movies #star trek #spock

[dayydreams-s]

i have less then 24 hours to pack and half of the clothes i’m bringing are dirty and i’m sitting in bed having a mental breakdown

#i’ve had a bad day #my sister hosted the after prom party and after 1 it just was a mess #my sisters friend had sex in my moms get ready room and got blood all over my moms nice ass couch and i literally walked in on them and had #to get a bandaid cause a girls foot was bleeding out and they just….kept going???:) #i know ppl have sex at parties but like girl you knew that room was not to be touched like fuck do it somewhere else #also she has a bf???? and she was v much NOT hooking up w her boyfriend????? #my mom was like lowkey guilt tripping me for being annoyed like girl you didn’t walk in on them then have them keep going at it when you #needed in the room 😭 #i probably would’ve been less annoyed if i wasn’t already stressed and pissed off #i dunno last night was so annoying and my rooms in the basement so even when i was in my room my ass wasn’t sleeping #i know this is a minor issue and i’m probably being dramatic but

[twilight-orchid]

How The Demon Brothers React After Fighting With Their SO

tw: some angst with resolution at the end, mentions of past arguments, insecurity.

Lucifer:

This man is petty as hell.

He doesn’t do the silent treatment, but he acts like you aren’t dating.

If you need to work on something together, you’re a co-worker.

At RAD you’re a classmate.

Around the house you’re just a housemate.

His poker face is immaculate and it will not crack when you’re around.

If someone didn’t know what was happening, they’d probably think you two barely knew each other.

However, you won’t notice, but as soon as you look the other way his eyes are on you.

He’s used to arguing with his brothers and is no stranger to explosive fights that end with he and the other person not being on speaking terms.

But you’re different.

He tries to go on with business as usual, but he can’t think about anything other than how much he misses you.

Yet, he lets it continue because he just can’t put his pride aside and apologize.

If you decide to sleep in your old room it’ll both hurt his feelings and royally piss him off.

He thinks you’re being childish and will be pretty rude about it, but that’s because internally his blood just ran cold.

It adds a degree of seriousness to the argument that he’s uncomfortable with.

Yes he’s mad, but he can’t lose you.

If you still sleep in his bed, he makes sure to scoot over to the very edge so he doesn’t cuddle you in his sleep.

In fact, the first night after the argument he’d probably put a pillow between you just to really punctuate the fact that he’s still upset.

I’d say it could go 4 days to a week tops without you making up.

After a point though, he just can’t function until the issue is resolved. He can’t sleep, he’s falling behind on his work, and he’s just generally not doing well.

You get called to his office one night and find him at his desk surrounded by piles of paper, disheveled and exhausted.

“MC, come sit down. I’d like to talk this through. Please.”

Mammon:

He’s so dramatic.

You dare defy him? The Great Mammon can’t believe this tiny fragile human would have the audacity.

The theatrics are just a front though.

His ‘The Great Mammon’ act is a mask for his insecurity, one he hasn’t had to use with you in awhile.

Even as the words leave his mouth he regrets them.

He’s going to be very uncomfortable with everything until the argument is resolved, but most of all himself.

He’s learned not to take his brothers too seriously when they toss insults his way, but words have a way of morphing to belief over time.

Internally he is going to be super hard on himself. 

Regardless of if the fight was his fault or not, he’s going to kick himself constantly for making yet another mistake.

He’s over the argument pretty fast. The anger quickly melts into anxiety.

Are you going to leave him? Do you hate him? Did he hurt your feelings? 

That being said, he doesn’t know if you’re still mad and he doesn’t know how to ask. 

As a defense mechanism, he defaults to how he treated you when you first arrived in the devildom.

Calls you human, disregards you, stuff like that.

If you decide to sleep in another room, before midnight expect him to be knocking on the door.

“Oi, MC. You awake? I just - I can’t - *sigh* Can we talk about this?”

If you sleep in his bed, he makes a point of sleeping with his back to you.

Less because he’s actually mad and more because he doesn’t want his image of you as he drifts to sleep to be a look of anger.

Though as soon as he passes out he’ll roll over and tuck you into his arms on instinct.

I’d say any after effects of an argument with Mammon would be resolved in a day, maybe two tops.

Leviathan:

Arguing activates his trolling the forums mode.

Goes back to calling you a normie and contradicts everything you say.

He’s less mad about the argument and more using the bitterness to cope with how upset he is.

He feels like a break up is less of an if and more of a when.

Why would someone as amazing as you settle for weird otaku like him?

Honestly doesn’t understand why you’re with him in the first place, so when there’s a serious argument he assumes its over.

Tbh don’t know how you and Levi would sleep together being that I doubt two could fit in a tub, but any deviation to your routine sends him into a panic.

It’s his reality check that the situation is serious and he needs to fix it NOW.

He’d have trouble apologizing in person. He can’t think of what to say, he stumbles over his words, and he feels like he’s on the verge of a panic attack.

Instead, expect a long ass text message.

He says how sorry he is, how much he misses and loves you, and legit begs you to forgive him.

If you sleep with him like normal, he’ll probably try to make up after laying there for awhile. His mind is going a million miles an hour and there’s no way he can sleep.

Still really has trouble verbalizing how he feels, so give the poor boy a break and take over the conversation.

He hasn’t had a serious relationship before and he doesn’t know what he should do to make it better.

So the after effects will last however long it takes him to read several mangas, watch some anime, and play a few games to see how the characters get over arguments in the story.

Satan:

Satan makes sure not to fight with you over minor issues.

He’s worked tirelessly to tame his wrath and he refuses to feed into it over a minor issue.

Thus, if you fight with Satan it’s a major argument and it’s explosive.

The aftermath isn’t much better.

He doesn’t want to risk blowing up again, so he’s frighteningly calm.

He’s an absolute master of the silent treatment.

He won’t say a word to you until he’s certain he’s calmed down enough.

For the first few days he’ll straight up leave a room if you enter.

For a good while the only way you can expect to communicate with him is through his body language and the expression in his eyes.

Satan’s biggest fear is losing control and lashing out at you. 

He couldn’t live with himself if he hurt you and he can’t stand the thought of you being afraid of him. 

He’s a whirlwind of emotions, so he isolates himself until he can figure out how to deal with it.

Not just from you, but from everyone else too. 

Satan will not share a bed with you for at least the first night.

If he got worked up enough to actually fight, it’s gonna take him time to simmer down.

And he’d rather not risk doing or saying something he regrets in the meantime.

Once he’s ready, he’ll approach you when he’s completely calmed down and has thoroughly analyzed the situation.

He’s considered both of your sides, tried to pinpoint what caused the disagreement to turn into a fight, and made a plan of action to prevent it from happening again.

“MC? I’ve been thinking quite a bit about what happened. Would you please talk it through with me?”

He won’t apologize for the argument if he feels like he was right, but he will apologize for letting the disagreement escalate into a fight.

Satan could go weeks without making up if necessary, but he tries to resolve it within a couple of days.

Asmodeus:

Wants to give you the silent treatment, but is physically incapable.

He can’t stand to have you ignore him.

He’s the type to go back to normal then suddenly remembers you guys had a fight.

“Wait, no! I’m not talking to you! I’m mad at you!”

His biggest downfall is that he’s so stubborn.

If he thinks he was right, he will die on that hill.

There are arguments with his brothers that happened a thousand years ago and he could still tell you exactly why he was right.

But with you, he realizes that doesn’t matter too him nearly as much as it usually does.

If it means going back to normal, he’ll forget who’s right or wrong.

If you sleep in another room, he’s beyond offended.

“What?! Well fine! I don’t want you in my bed anyway!”

Laying in bed alone is a different story though.

He can’t sleep. All he can think about is you. Your face when you sleep next to him, your smell, the feeling of his arms around you.

He 100% cries.

Finally goes and knocks on your door with wet, glossy eyes.

“MC? Can we talk about this? I can’t get my beauty sleep and my tears are wiping off all of my skin care lotion!”

Will throw himself into your arms before you can answer.

If you sleep next to him still, he rolls over and watches you sleep.

It puts him at peace and he decides seeing your sweet, resting face every morning is worth more to him than the argument.

He’ll initiate the conversation the next morning.

I think Asmo could make it a few days if it was a really serious argument, but he will not function well until you make up.

Beelzebub:

Wants to make up immediately.

He doesn’t like to argue, even less so with you.

Whether he was right or wrong, he blames himself. He’ll take all the blame in the world if it makes you happy.

He’ll go make you your favorite food and bring it to you.

If he thinks you don’t want to talk to him, he’ll leave it outside your door and text you to let you know it’s there.

He’s honestly devastated if you decide to sleep in another room.

You guys migrate to your old room when you want privacy from Belphie, but you almost never sleep separately.

Seeing you grab your pillows and march out of the room nearly stops his heart.

He goes completely numb and silent as he just stares at the space you had just occupied.

Like Levi, he thinks this means the relationship is over and he genuinely does not know what to do with himself.

He can’t even bring himself to eat, he just wants to lie there, lost and trying to grapple with his emotions. 

He’s another one who will absolutely cry, but unlike Asmo he will make sure no one knows it.

If you still sleep in his bed, he’s very nervous about it.

He doesn’t know if it’s okay to touch you, what he can or can’t say, stuff like that.

He just lays there stiff as a board not even able to close his eyes.

Honestly the fight would probably have to be resolved before bed. His anxiety just can’t take it.

I don’t think he’d initiate the apology. Not because he doesn’t want to make up but because his confidence is rock bottom in these situations.

He catastophizes and honestly thinks you hate him.

If you don’t initiate the apology soon, Belphie will. He can feel what his twin won’t say, and he knows Beel won’t approach you about it for fear of making it worse.

Belphie will lock you two in a room if that’s what it takes for you to make up.

Belphegor:

The embodiment of if looks could kill.

He won’t talk to you, won’t look at you, basically pretends you aren’t there.

If he must interact with you he’ll roll his eyes and sigh the whole time.

Tries to sleep through any interaction so he doesn’t have to deal with it.

He feels almost betrayed by the fight.

He thought the relationship was stronger than to have such a huge divide, so he’s really insecure about it.

After the first day, the anger has melted away to guilt.

He ‘s not guilty that you fought, but he is guilty about how he treated you after.

Guilt and self-blame have become unwelcome friends at this point. Guilt over Lilith, over his plans to destroy the human world, everything.

But more than anything else, the guilt for the fact that he attacked you weighs on him every day.

He moved past it quickly after, essentially pretending he hadn’t killed you, but that’s because he just couldn’t confront what he’d done. 

He feels like the luckiest demon alive that you forgave him, let alone  opened you heart enough to love him, and now it’s all in tatters.

Another thing to regret.

If you decide to sleep separately, it’ll hit him like a bag of bricks.

“You - what? Where are you going?” 

It’ll take him a second to process what you were doing, but then he’ll roll over and let you leave.

“Fine. Don’t let the door hit you.”

No one will see him for awhile. 

Belphie sleeps all the time anyway, but he just can’t make himself get out of bed.

If you don’t approach him to apologize, Beel will tell you that he’s been nauseous and randomly emotional which must mean his twin is coping very badly. 

Will beg you to go make Belphie happy again. 

If you sleep in his bed still, the argument will be resolved by morning.

He can’t keep himself from embracing you in his sleep, and it’s hard to say you’re mad at someone when you wake up in their loving arms.

It’s hard to pinpoint how long it could last with Belphie. If you don’t apologize first, he won’t let himself be conscious long enough to approach you.

This is both my first hc post as well as my first obey me post so I’m sorry if le boys are ooc. I just got this idea and couldn’t stop thinking about it so here we are.  Especially Belphie, he was hard to me for some reason. Let me know if you guys agree or disagree and if you want to send a request or ask, my box is open! 

#obey me #obeyme #obey me shall we date #obey me lucifer #obey me lucifer x mc #obey me mammon #obey me mammon x mc #obey me leviathan #obey me Levi #obey me levi x mc #obey me leviathan x mc #obey me satan #obey me satan x mc #obey me asmodeus #obey me asmo #obey me asmo x mc #obey me asmodeus x mc #obey me beelezebub #obey me beel #obey me beelzebub x mc #obey me beel x mc #obey me belphegor #obey me belphie #obey me belphagor x mc #obey me belphie x mc #obey me lucifer x reader #obey me mammon x reader #obey me leviathan x reader #obey me satan x reader #obey me asmo x reader

[angelz-dust]

Bro cowboy!jason with some smut would be beautiful 😭

yeehaw baby - minors avert y'all eyes 🤠

(as i was writing this i realized i was writing a female reader but if you'd like a male or gender neutral reader instead let me know and i'll come with up an whole new scenario!!)

minors/ageless blogs who interact will be blocked - read rules before interacting

what's a sheriff without his hat? (jason todd x female reader)

warnings: nsfw 18+ (no condom, pulling out - wrap it up y'all). angst if you squint.

...

"sheriff!"

you kicked in the doors to the saloon, gathering the attention of some of the patrons nearby. the place smelled of smoke and sweat, which was why you tried your best to avoid the spot altogether. however, it was becoming increasingly difficult to do so with sheriff todd making it his new hangout spot. the bastard could've picked a place with a bit more circulation as far as you were concerned.

"sheriff!" you yelled again, holding your dress up as your steps increased in speed. you saw the man in his booth with deputy harper and the rest of their little posse. they felt more like thugs to you.

"he's asleep," the woman, artemis, said to you as she opened her bottle of booze on the side of the table, subsequently chipping off some of the wood. you weren't sure if it was due to the poor structural integrity or her strength. probably both.

"i don't give a damn if he's neck deep in his grave," you spat, walking up to him. his seat was leaned back, which mean he was definitely awake. no one could balance their own weight like that and be unconscious. his hat was covering his face, some smoke coming out of the sides. asleep my ass.

you ripped the hat off of his face, bellows of cigarette smoke barreling out. his eyes shot open, the white slightly red from how he was abusing them just now. how he was still breathing, you didn't know. maybe the rumors about him coming back to life and being immortal were true.

"can i help you?" he glared, making an attempt to snatch his hat back from you. you quickly pulled back, making his seat lunge forward and his chest hit the table. you heard the deputy snort at the scene. "as my companion just told you, i'm asleep."

your glared right back at him, holding his hat behind your back. "you promised to keep those hooligans away from my place of business, todd."

"did i?" he asked you, giving you a fake grin. "well, i'm sorry little lady. it musta slipped my mind."

"don't get smart with me!" you snapped at him, the entire saloon getting quiet now. everyone was suddenly very interested in your little spat. "you're supposed to be protecting us and all you do is sit on your ass. i'm surprised you ain't collecting dust already."

"someone should sew that damn mouth of yours shut. maybe then we'd get some peace and quiet around here," he said back, getting a few chuckles from his little fan club. "give me my hat back."

you stared at him as your frustrations bubbled inside of you. that's all he had to say? his lack of concern for your issue just let you know what kind of man you already knew he was. he wanted his hat back? fat chance. you silently grinned at him before turning around and starting to walk out of the saloon. screw him and his stupid hat.

"hey!" he shouted as you continued walking off. you could feel the vibrations of his movement in the floorboards. he was coming after you. "get back here!"

you sped up, running out of the saloon and back towards the bathhouse. maybe if you got him off his sorry ass he'd be more willing to hear you out. that is, if the theft of his precious little hat didn't irritate him too much. if you weren't so preoccupied with outrunning him, you'd love to see the look on his face. you made it up the few step to the front door, where he quickly caught up with you. you pressed your back against it, securing the hat in between.

the sheriff glowered down at you, his hand pressed against the doorframe above you. you stared into each other's eyes, the sounds of your panting breath sinking up with one another. as much as he agitated you to no end, he was a very handsome man. it was the only thing that had kept you from shooting him in that pretty face.

"you've had your fun," he told you with a low tone, holding his other hand out. "now give it back."

you were surprised he hadn't just tossed you around and took it for himself. back when jas- the sheriff... first came to town, he seemed like a respectable man. you didn't cross paths very often, but every encounter with him was pleasant and memorable. he was kind, sometimes even a little flirty with you. he was a little rough around the edges. all those cowboys seemed to share that trait. but it was worse when when he returned after disappearing for a long time. you barely recognized him. it seemed he had been hardened by... whatever it was he experienced while he was gone. you didn't ask, nor did you care. he and his gaggle of dirty thugs had taken control of the town and it's been this way ever since.

"you don't deserve it," you decided to say, relishing in the instant gratification that came from seeing his expression change so quickly. oh, he was angry and you loved it. "you're no sheriff. you're an outlaw. you don't care about anybody but yourself."

you felt the hot air blow out of his nose and you had to fight back the smirk that was playing at your lips. you looked down and saw his hand moving towards your waist. the hell was he trying to do? before you could move or protest, you had fallen backwards into the bathhouse, right onto the freshly cleaned floor. he looked down at you from where he stood with a smile, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. you scrambled away from him, his hat still firmly in your grip. you got yourself off the floor, ready for whatever he was going to try.

instead of making his way towards you like you assumed he would, he looked around the place, taking in his surroundings. he eventually started walking in your direction. it was menacing watching him slowly approach you with an expressionless face. he stopped at the counter, looking down at the little bell. pressing his finger on it, it rung. he waited a few seconds before ringing it a few more times, looking over at you expectantly. your gaze narrowed as you made your way behind the counter.

"yes?" you asked with gritted teeth.

"i'd like to have a bath, please."

"... i'm sorry, sir, but we've had to close early today on the account of having no sheriff to protect my girls from harassment," you explained with a sickly sweet smile. "if we had a sheriff, which we don't, then maybe my girls would feel comfortable continuing to work. but since we don't, there's nothing i can do to help you. sorry for the inconvenience."

you saw a flicker of what appeared to be remorse on his face. he looked down at the counter, his finger tracing the grooves. "you're here, aren't you?"

"you must be out of your natural mind."

"why? because i'm requesting that the bathhouse worker give me a bath?" he asked with a snarky tone.

"that you're requesting anything of me after disregarding my concerns earlier."

he pulled some money out of his pocket, slamming it on the counter. "let's discuss it over a bath."

...

this was the last thing you wanted to be doing. you stared at the back of his head as he laid in the tub of warm water. you grabbed the rag from the bucket of soapy water, ringing it out and bringing it to his chest. as much as you wanted to be rough with him, your desire to not touch him at all prompted you to just be gentle instead. you heard him let out a content sigh as you scrubbed him down.

"you wanted to talk to me, didn't you? so talk," he said, resting his chin in his hand while you worked.

"i already told you what the problem was," you reminded him, lightly pressing against his back to get him to sit up. you scrubbed his back, watching as the dirt and grime disappeared, revealing his actual skin color.

"don't present a problem without a solution. what do you want me to do?"

"kill them."

he let out a hearty laugh at your suggestion, laying back down once you finished with his back. your fingers went to his hair as you poured some water of it, massaging it into his scalp. you could've sworn you felt him leaning into your touch. "isn't killing your clientele bad for business?"

"their existence is bad for business," you told him matter of factly, leaning down to wash his stomach. "i want them gone."

"now darling," he chuckled softly, turning his head towards you. his scruff brushed against your skin, making you shiver. "you know i can't do that. try again."

you could feel your face heating up, so you pulled away, washing his arms now. you dragged the rag along his muscles, revealing all kinds of scars as you cleaned him. "give them a stern talking to."

"about what?"

"respecting my girls."

"or else what?"

"use your imagination."

he hummed with a nod as you finished up with his upper body. "i can do that."

you threw the wet rag at his face, making him flinch. he dragged down his face, plopping into the bath water. "i'm not washing you below the belt. you can see yourself out."

...

after dramatically stomping your way up to your bedroom, you changed out of your clothes and into your nightgown. being around the sheriff was exhausting and you weren't going to waste anymore time on him. your only hope was that he'd stay true to his word. as you were getting ready to retire for the night, you heard a knock at your door.

"i want my damn hat back, y/n. i'll kick the door down if i have to," you heard him say through the door. you went and grabbed it off of your dresser, putting it on your head and looking at yourself in the mirror.

"i think i'll keep it for myself, actually."

"you have five seconds to open this door."

out of frustration, he start twisting the knob. unbeknownst to him, it was never locked to begin with. he opened the door, surprise on his face as he let himself in. he looked over at you, the same expression on his face, but for a different reason now.

"take it off."

"i actually quite like it, so i don't think i will."

he must have been fed up with you at this point, because he started approaching you with purpose in his step. you stepped back some, slipping on the length of your gown and falling back on the bed. the hat had fallen off of your head, onto the floor. instead of going around to pick it up, he found himself on top of you. the two of you held eye contact, but it was different from earlier.

"why do you do these things to me?" he asked you softly. "i'm starting to think you're doing it on purpose."

"i don't like you."

"you used to like me."

that may have been true once upon a time, but it wasn't the case now. the person you used to like didn't exist anymore. he was replaced with a hollow shell of a man and you wanted nothing to do with him.

his thumb made its way to the corner of your mouth and your heart started racing. "i still like you," he said with a small frown, his fingers tracing your jaw and moving down your neck. "i think deep down you still like me."

"no," you responded without missing a beat. his hand was on your chest, feeling the shockwaves of your pulse underneath. "i don't."

"i think you do."

you wanted to badly to smack him in his face but his response was different than you expected. the snark and smugness you were expecting was replaced with a tenderness you were unfamiliar with. or, more accurately, had forgotten he was capable of conveying. he sounded honest. genuine. like he really believed what he was saying. or wanted to, at least.

that's what caused you to let your guard down and let him in. his nose rubbed against yours before he leaned down, giving you a kiss. his large hand cupped your cheek while his other one lifted you off of your back and into his lap. you parted from him and he looked at you with a little smile. "see?"

"that doesn't count," you objected, despite not moving out of your new position. you actually found yourself getting comfortable, placing your legs on both sides of his lap. you could feel his erection growing beneath you.

"sure it does," he insisted, grabbing his hat and putting it back on your head. he laid back on the bed, starting to slowly undo his belt. you didn't dare look down at what he was doing, too stubborn to give him the full satisfaction, but you didn't stop him either. you felt your own arousal becoming stronger. it was hard to ignore when you didn't have any underwear on to begin with.

you soon felt his tip rubbing against your slickness and you sucked in a gasp, getting his attention. he stopped moving, looking up at you for approval to continue. still feeling stubborn, you just looked away and felt him slip inside of you. his hands moved up your thighs and to your hips, repositioning the skirt of your gown. it allowed the two of you to reserve a bit of modesty in your compromising state.

the first movements were shallow and slow, as you were both trying to adjust. it didn't take long for you both to find a rhythm. soft pants and moans came from you as you rode him, his hips thrusting upwards so you weren't doing all the work. you had been resisting from touching him, but as he bounced you on his lap, his hand went to yours. his fingers grazed yours, sloppily laced together as he brought it towards his mouth. he planted a kiss on your palm, placing it on his heart.

shifting your weight, you pressed your hand firmly against his chest and he picked up the pace, his hips snapping up into you. your arm was starting to grow tired and he picked up on it. he sat up, pulling you into him. his face rested in the crook of your neck, his breath fanning against it while his hands slid up your back, one at the top of your spine and the other at your ribs. you continued rocking against him while his mouth made quick work of your neck, sucking at the junction between it and your shoulder.

your moans became embarrassingly loud. you were just glad no one else was around to hear them. jason kissed up the base of your neck until he met your lips, swallowing up all of your sounds. you felt his hat slipping off of your head and you both reached back to catch it, his hand on top of yours. the two of you smiled into the kiss as he readjusted it for you.

feeling your release coming up, you slipped your fingers down to your clit, teasing it to help push yourself over the edge. jason moaned against your lips as he pulled out of you, making a mess on your nightgown. you were too blinded by your own pleasure to yell at him as you continued rubbing yourself. you felt his fingers probing at your entrance, thrusting in and out until you came all over them.

"sorry about the stain," he breathed out, pulling the skirt up in an effort to keep it from touching you. his other hand worked to untie the bow in the back, making it easier for you to get it off. he grabbed his hat from off your head and used it to cover his face while you slipped out of the gown. you set it aside, pulling your blankets up to cover yourself. "are you decent?"

"yes," you answered as he lowered it, giving you a grin before putting it back on your head. your eyes peered upwards at the brim. "i thought you wanted it back."

"i'll come get it later. there are a few men i need to give a stern talking to first," he said, fixing his pants and getting up. "you'll be here when i get back, won't you?"

you raised your brow at him, chuckling. "it's not like i have somewhere else to be."

"i'll be back soon," he winked before walking over to the door. "oh, and darling?"

"...yes?"

"leave that on for me, alright?"

#jason todd x reader #askbox

[idreamtofmanderleyagain]

Hot takes about Severus Snape are a wierdly decent glimpse into how a person with progressive values analyses things. Literally every time someone talks about Snape, it’s like this tiny window into how one-dimentionally people actually think.

Recently saw a twitter post that was a fantastic example. Here’s how it goes (paraphrasing):

Person A:“Snape is POC and Queer coded, that’s why you guy’s hate him uwu lol.”

Person B: “Actually I hate him because he was mean and abusive to children under his care uwu but go off I guess lol”

Both of these takes are designed to be dramatic and/or reactionary. They each use partial truths to paint very broad strokes. These are get-em-in-one-hit quips. This is virtue signalling, if you’ll excuse that loaded phrase. Nobody had a substantial conversation, but now everyone who sees their statement knows the high ground they took.

At least a hundred other people chimed in to add their own little quippy hot takes into play, none of which add anything significant, but clearly made everyone feel very highly of themselves.

So many layers of nuance and complex analysis is completely lost in this kind of discussion. On tumblr, you get more of this kind of bullshit, but you don’t have a word count limit, so you guys just spew endless mountains of weak overblown evidence backing up your bullshit arguments, none of which was really about engaging in a real conversation anyway.

Here’s the thing about Snape.

He is a childhood domestic abuse victim. His abuser is a muggle.

He becomes a student at a magical school that takes him away from his abuser and immediately instills in him the idea that being a part of this magical world is a badge of self-worth, empowerment, and provides safety and security - provided that he keeps in line.

There is a war is being waged in that world over his right to exist (he is a half blood).

He is a marginalized person within the context of the narrative, forced to constantly be in the same living space as the children of his own oppressors who are being groomed and recruited into a hate group militia (the pureblood slytherins). They are in turn trying to do the same to him.

He is marginalized person bullied by children who are also part of his oppressor group, but who have “more liberal” leanings and aren’t direct about why he’s being targeted (the mauraders are all purebloods, Sirius, who was the worst offender, was raised in a bigoted household, the same one that produced Bellatrix.).

He had a crush on a girl who is a muggleborn, and therefore she is considered even lesser than him and carries a stigma to those who associate with her. That girl was his only real friend. In his entire life.

For both Snape and Lily, allying themselves to a pureblood clique within their own houses would be a great way of shielding themselves from a measure of the bigotry they were probably facing. There would have been obvious pressure from those cliques to disconnect with one and other.

Every other person who associates with Snape in his adulthood carries some sort of sociopolitical or workplace (or hate cult) baggage with their association. Some of them will physically harm and/or kill him if he steps out of line. He hasn’t at any point had the right environment to heal and adjust from these childhood experiences. Even his relationship with Dumbledore is charged with constant baggage, including the purebloods who almost killed him during their bullying getting a slap on the wrist, the werewolf that almost killed him as a child being placed in an authority position over new children, etc. Dumbledore is canonically manipulative no matter his good qualities, and he has literally been manipulating Snape for years in order to cultivate a necessary asset in the war.

He is a person who is not in the stable mental state necessary to be teaching children, whom has been forced to teach children. While also playing the role of double agent against the hate group militia, the one that will literally torture you for mistakes or backtalk or just for fun. The one that will torture and kill him if he makes one wrong move.

Is the math clicking yet? From all of this, it’s not difficult to see how everything shitty about Snape was cultivated for him by his environment. Snape was not given great options. Snape made amazingly awful choices, and also some amazingly difficult, courageous ones. Snape was ultimately a human who had an extremely bad life, in which his options were incredibly grim and limited.

In fact, pretty much every point people make about how shitty Snape is as a person makes 100% logical sense as something that would emerge from how he was treated. Some if it he’s kind of right about, some of it is the inevitable reality of suffering, and some of it is part of the cycle of abuse and harm.

Even Snape’s emotional obsession with Lily makes logical sense when you have the perspective that he literally has no substantial positive experiences with other human beings that we know of, and he has an extreme, soul destroying guilt complex over her death. Calling him an Incel mysoginist nice guy projects a real-world political ideology and behavior that does not really apply to the context of what happened to him and her.

Even Snape’s specific little acts of cruelty to certain students is a reflection of his own life experiences. He identifies with Neville; more specifically, he identifies his own percieved emotional weaknesses in his childhood in Neville. There’s a very sad reason there why he feels the urge to be so harsh.

Snape very clearly hates himself, in a world where everyone else hates him, too. Imagine that, for a second. Imagine total internal and external hatred, an yearning for just a little bit of true connection. For years. Imagine then also trying to save that world, even if it’s motivated by guilt. Even if nobody ever knows you did it and you expect to die a miserable death alone.

There are more elements here to consider, including the way Rowling described his looks (there may be something in there re: ugliness and swarthy stereotyping). These are just the things that stand out the most prominently to me.

J.K. Rowling is clearly also not reliable as an imparter of moral or sociopolitical philosophies. I don’t feel that her grasp of minority experiences is a solid one, considering how she picks and chooses who is acceptable and who is a threat.

All of that said, this is a logically consistent character arc. Within the context of his narrative, Snape is a marginalized person with severe PTSD and emotional instability issues who has absolutely no room available to him for self-improvement or healing, and never really has. And yes, he’s also mean, and caustic, and verbally abusive to the students. He’s also a completey miserable, lonely person.

There are elements in his character arc that mirror real world experiences quite well. If nothing else, Rowling is enough of an emotional adult to recognise these kinds of things and portray something that feels authentic.

In my opinion, it’s not appropriate to whittle all this down by comparing him directly to the real world experiences of marginalized groups - at least if you are not a part of the group you are comparing him to. There have been many individuals who have compared his arc to their own personal experiences of marginalization, and that is valid. But generally speaking, comparing a white straight dude to people who are not that can often be pretty offensive. This is not a valuable way to discuss either subject.

Also, I believe that while it’s perfectly okay to not like Snape as a character, many of the people who act like Person B are carrying Harry’s childhood POV about Snape in their hearts well into their own adulthood. And if nothing else, Rowling was attempting to say something here about how our perspectives (should) grow and change as we emotionally mature.  She doesn’t have to be a good person herself to have expressed something true about the world in this instance, and since this story is a part of our popular culture, people have a right to feel whatever way they do about this story and it’s characters.

The complexity of this particular snapshot of fictionalized marginalization, and what it reveals about the human experience, cannot be reduced down to “he’s an abuser so he’s not worth anyone’s time/you are bad for liking him.”

And to be honest, I think that it reveals a lot about many of us in progressive spaces, particularly those of us who less marginalized but very loud about our values, that we refuse to engage with these complexities in leu of totally condemning him. Particularly because a lot of the elements I listed above are indeed reflected in real world examples of people who have experienced marginalization and thus had to deal with the resulting emotional damage, an mental illness, and behavior troubles, and bad decisions. Our inability to address the full scope of this may be a good reflection of how we are handling the complexity of real world examples.

Real people are not perfect angels in their victimhood. They are just humans who are victims, and we all have the capacity to be cruel and abusive in a world where we have been given cruelty and abuse. This is just a part of existing. If you cannot sympathise with that, or at least grasp it and aknowledge it and respect the people who are emotionally drawn to a character who refects that, then you may be telling on yourself to be honest.

To be honest, this is especially true if you hate Snape but just really, really love the Mauraduers. You have a right to those feelings, but if you are moralizing this and judging others for liking Snape, you’ve confessed to something about how you’ve mentally constructed your personal values in a way I don’t think you’ve fully grasped yet.

I have a hard time imagining a mindset where a story like Snape’s does not move one to empathy and vicarious grief, if I’m honest. I feel like some people really just cannot be bothered to imagine themselves in other people’s shoes, feeling what they feel and living like they live. I struggle to trust the social politics of people who show these kinds of colors, tbh.

But maybe that’s just me.

[4dtk]

NCT 127: finding out you're older than them

“Hey, can I request an NCT127 reaction to finding out you're actually older than them when they thought you were much younger than them? (like you look really young despite your age lol)” thank u for waiting honey <3 ps i just used random years that are older than the members!

enjoy! this was fun to write ^^

→ TAEIL would have his mouth in an ‘O’, but more of a ‘ooh cool!’ way where he’s nodding repeatedly to nothing seconds after you’ve spilled the beans. it sinks in more later when he thinks of your birth years side by side and he’s like omg! i’m finally not the oldest and it garners a laugh out of you that you don’t mind being called old by him. honestly, you don’t mind being called old at all by the other members, since technically you are taeil’s s/o. the members are closer to the male, so when they call him old, you join in lol

“woah hyung/noona! i can’t believe you now take the place of oldest in our group,” mark says, although gets a smack from haechan for saying that.

“ack! sorry taeil-hyung and (y/n)-hyung/(y/n)-noona, mark’s mouth is a little big today.”

taeil waves it off, curling an arm around your waist to bring you closer as mark avoids eye contact. slowly the members crowd around the four of you, interested in the topic that’s taking place. it was well over 11pm in the practice room, and having just ended dance practice, they cooled down by taking part in the conversation.

“yeah! you finally can call someone else old!” another smack and a whine from mark accompanied by an apologetic look that wasn’t seen often on donghyuck.

“i’m sorry for them,” taeil whispers with a laugh, placing a kiss onto your cheek before taking a swig of water from his bottle. he takes your shaking head as acceptance of your new position of the oldest, pleased when you return his kiss with one to his lips.

→ JOHNNY is the one to pull a dramatic face lol. you know the one where his mouth is in a ‘O’ and his eyebrows are knitted. the expression is playful, but there’s a bit of genuine shock behind it. recovers from it quickly tho and jokingly calls you ‘daddy/mommy’ to annoy you. i can see him calling you the term later if you get married or have kids though, just in a third person kinda way - something like a running joke from when he discovered you were older years ago.

“no way, you’re born in 1992?” his jaw is dropped, eyes wide that makes you smile just a little, “holy shit you’re old,” there’s a fit of laughter when your hand lands on his back as a form of retaliation (“like you’re not!”), but you agree either way, shrugging nonchalantly at the year of birth.

“then maybe now i can call you daddy/mommy,” you groan at that, shoving him for real now as he lands on the sofa behind him and doyoung at the dining table contemplates whether he should interfere. he decides not to when you full on attack your boyfriend, although with half-assed punches as johnny continues to moan out theatrically in between attacks, “but for real though, next time, i wanna hear voices calling you.”

“the fuck? you mean in like a horror movie way?”

“nah, in the i wanna have a family way.” you gulp with a surprised expression and you launch a badly timed attack that hits him in the balls. you’re apologising with a fluster, johnny is groaning in pain. oh well, this could be story to tell your kids or adopted babies next time.

→ TAEYONG is making surprised noises. it’s so cute lol that you’re the one ending up teasing him about it. taeyong forgets it sometimes, so you have the pleasure of seeing him react like a couple of times bc it finally settles in his mind that you’re older than him. other than that, yong loves you all the same and sometimes acts like a baby just so you’d cave and take care of him. he argues that it’s only the right way! older s/o? you take care of me! i want to be babied.

“huh? you’re older than me?” taeyong asks, mindlessly digging through your stuff until he comes across your ID. he curiously sifts through the information on it, but the number of your birth year seemed to stand out the most.

you hum, placing the last bits of your mask on yourself as you turn back to your boyfriend with a similar look: hair band pushing his dyed hair back, with a mask like yours on his face.

a noise of approval spills from taeyong’s mouth, and you’re left giggling in confusion until he explains his reason for it. you nod through it, happy to give your boyfriend what he wants while he takes his place in your arms. “feels nice,” taeyong mumbles, loving the way you’re playing with his fingers before he asks a question with a small voice. “can we do this more often?”

“of course,” and now you’re glad for taeyong’s curiosity of your things, presenting you with the opportunity (and excuse) to hold your lover in your arms.

→ YUTA doesn’t care either tbh. he may be one of the ones to figure it out before the others - how? you don’t know either but i have a feeling he might’ve taken a look at your ID or something along those lines. mans just nods at the year. as long as you’re still yourself and don’t change how you act in the relationship obvi bc he’s dating you bc of how you’ve presented yourself so far. it’ll feel weird if you suddenly start to dote on him just because you’re older. still likes to take care of you <3

“hey babe? were you born in 1993?” yuta inquires one day at dinner, the whole table of members somehow going a little quiet at the revelation.

“mhm! how’d you know?” you tilted your head, placing a piece of fish into your mouth and ignoring the shocked faces on the faces of the different members.

“eehh- i just saw it on your ID accidentally the other day,” yuta smiles when wiggle your mouth around to feel for the fish’s bone, finally able to shoot your boyfriend a smile as you both go back to your dinner. your laugh is the one thing that’s heard across the table and the occasional clinks of chopsticks against porcelain, and you’re confident if you were on a sitcom, the camera would just have all the members staring into it in shock.

“is it that surprising?” you asked the members, some of them waving their hands and shaking their head, knowing that yuta would probably take it up to them if they happen to have a problem with it.

“so i actually needed to call you hyung/noona?! i’m so sorry!!!” mark exclaims, earning a giggle from you.

→ DOYOUNG would react a little intensely too, but more in a starstruck, quiet kind of way. he just has this wide eyed look that make you burst out in laughter at the discovery and his lips are making a funny shape. he nods it off calm and cooly, but inside he’s like oh my god wtf really???? why didn’t i know this holy shit are they going to leave me for not knowing you can see no thought behind his eyes but you know the man’s spiralling a little inside that you have to reassure him that it’s just a minor thing (he gets out of the dump pretty quickly). your age reveal doesn’t affect him much either.

“you’re- you’re older than me?” doyoung’s mouth dries, coffee cup hovering just below his lips as you drop the bomb without much care. it’s quiet in the early morning, having had just finished filming his relay cam, but you can practically hear doyoung’s thoughts. he’s brought of it when you place a hand on his wrist.

“babe, baby, it’s okay. i didn’t tell you anyway, don’t worry about it,” your smile is blinding, and it has doyoung smiling as well, agreeing along to your reasoning and slowly easing into his previous action of drinking his beverage before he halts again.

your head tilts in question. “what is it?”

your boyfriend waves it off with a shy smile, bringing your hand to his lips as he lands a kiss on the skin there, “nothing. just thinking about how much i love you.”

“did it change?”

there’s a blush on his cheeks when he says it, glad for the two of you being in the only ones awake. “no, not one bit.”

→ JAEHYUN would one way or another kind of know already, although he’s not 100% sure. he’s observant, sometimes content with watching you take care of the other members (poor guy gets jealous tho) or just cleaning up after him when he’s a little too tired to do things - like wash his hair and what not. even if you’re not a naturally ‘taking care of others’ person, jaehyun picks up on the things that he’s heard his friends talk about regarding their older siblings (since he’s an only child) or compares to how you act around the group that’s similar to taeyong or doyoung. i can see jaehyun being a little disappointed, but it doesn’t change much as long as he can keep the dynamic of the relationship (so him giving the affection with you in his embrace). jaehyun is a quiet kind of shock like doyoung.

“huh… you’re born in 1994?”

“sure am,” you’re filling out a form for a membership, pen scribbling with swiftness in order not to hold up the line. you pass it back in a minute as the cashier processes your membership, and you feel jaehyun squeeze your hand. “why, why? is it an issue?” you mumble a thank you to the cashier, heading out of the store hand in hand while you find a spot to talk to your boyfriend.

“no no,” jaehyun giggles, a low one that makes your heart flutter, and he leans down to place a kiss onto your lips. it lingers there longer than you expected and you feel his smile on your lips. “there’s no issue. it just kinda adds up, in a way. you’re such a natural at giving advice and taking care of the other members. i’m just… a little surprised, is all.”

you laugh at that, meeting his lips again in a loving peck, “okay, that’s good then!”

→ JUNGWOO says “woowww!” like video game commentary and claps. yes he claps, you’re not sure why either but he’s just so thrilled to learn of your birth year that he just nods along and gives you a thumb-up after. i can’t say he’ll be that shocked, more of like happy for you like you just told him you passed a test or something. when you ask him about it, he just shrugs and pats you on the back. it’s all part of his personality, though, and like taeyong/yuta, he wouldn’t care much apart from being able to call you ‘sunbaenim’ as a joke. sometimes calls you senpai LMAO

“woah, you’re older than me by four years?” jungwoo mumbles when you show him your old IDs, the topic of your birth year overriding the original goal of wanting to see your foetus pictures.

“hm? oh yeah, i guess i never really mentioned it, huh?” you continue with what you were doing, cleaning up the stray hairs sticking out from your hairdo before jungwoo comes back hugging with his long limbs and silky outfit.

“congrats!” he meets your eyes through the vanity mirror and proceeds to peck your cheek and your expression that follows next brings laughter to jungwoo’s chest. you can feel it move from behind you, hoping he wouldn’t mess up the hour you spent on your hair. “why congrats?” your lip is curled with a raise of your eyebrows as your boyfriend continues to hang off your shoulders.

he thinks, then replies with a dunno and leaves the area to settle back on the bed. the snap of his camera follows next, no doubt taking pictures of the serious face shots of your old ID cards.

→ MARK would be one of the ones that you think is over exaggerating, except he’s just that shocked. he would stumble over his words and texting johnny or whoever to tell him and be like “yoooo? huh? what?” mark would probably be the last one to make the connection and johnny is all like “yeah? u didn’t know?” and mark is like “HOW WOULD I KNOW THEY LOOK SO YOUNG?????!!” hysterical, this man. mark almost doesn’t believe it for a second and you have to take out your ID to show him lmfao

mark’s head snaps to you once he overhears you in conversation with the flyer distributor, catching your attention with something that was in line with your interests. mark tunes out the promoter explaining the features of the product, only coming back to earth when you mention your date of birth for a trial of their services.

“you’re WHAT? nah. no. no way, show me your ID.”

the other jumps back at the sudden exclamation while you just raise an eyebrow. sorry, excuse him, you mumble, and you’re dragging mark off to the side as you fumble in your bag to pull out your ID in exasperation. the timing is imperfectly perfect: mark bends down to inspect your birth year, you flip open the wallet a little too hard, it hits his head in a loud thwack!

“ow.” mark giggles, squinting his eyes to finally make out the fading ‘1998’ on your card, “oh! so the same as jungwoo hyung?” he giggles again, “he finally as someone to talk to!”

→ HAECHAN is shocked but would immediately mask it and go like “oh my! still so pretty, miss halmeoni,” he coos and you’re so ready to smack him. in a way acts like johnny but will not stop using the word on a daily basis (unless you tell him that you don’t like it). it becomes part of the pet names that he calls you, but he still likes the classic baby/honey/love. sometimes also like to whine with hyung/noona if he wants something, like a new video game or for you to buy food for him. other than that, haechan is pretty indifferent about you being older than him.

“hah?! you’re born in 1999?” haechan has his neck stuck out like a fish out of water, not posing that much difference since he’s just finished a shower. you make the bed with deftness, tucking in the duvet easily as your boyfriend approaches from behind.

he’s shocked, but before you can comment on it, he recovers quickly to deliver a quip through his toothpaste-filled mouth, “oh my! halmeoni, then you should take a seat!” your hands are on your hips, glaring at him while he only grins.

you indulge him, though, and take a seat on the newly made bed, relaxing into the softness of the sheets with elbows.

“if i’m considered elderly, then, you can do the housework for me, right?” the dread that slowly fills up haechan’s features make you explode into giggles, before pushing yourself up to come face to face with him.

“thought so,” you whispered, petting his head as you continue the clean-up of the room.

#it's 4am im dying but THIS WAS SO FUN TO WRITE #nct #nct scenarios #nct x reader #nct headcanons #nct reactions #nct imagines #nct fluff #nct fanfic #nct smut #nct soft hours #nct angst #nct 127 drabbles #nct drabbles #nct 127 x reader #nct 127 fluff #nct 127 headcanons #nct 127 imagines #nct 127 scenarios #nct 127 smut #johnny scenarios #mark smut #taeyong scenarios #haechan fluff #jungwoo x reader #nct 127 #jaehyun angst #taeil imagines #yuta nct #doyoung scenarios