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milkywaydrabbles · 8 months

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He who was found in chains, set free. | IV.

Cross posted on AO3, here!

“Ci..circumde..Circum--” You huffed, frustrated with yourself for not being able to pronounce the words in front of you written as plain as day. (Well, you couldn’t read very well, give yourself grace). You tried again, still tripping over your words. It wasn’t even in a language you knew, this was more difficult than you imagined.

“Here,” Alucard came over, tracing his finger over each syllable, slowly, and repeated it for you. “Circumdederunt me caeli, da mihi ignem”, he spoke so eloquently, as if it had been second nature to him. Well, it had. “Try again, take your time. Once you can say it, we’ll focus on intent.” You paused for a minute, garnering the courage once again to speak, “Circumde-derunt...me caeli, da.. Mihi ignem.” You exhaled, feeling more sure in yourself. Alucard smiled at you, and you swore your heart ached out of the kindness he had been showing you. “Good, now, let’s think about intent. Do you know anything about that?”

You nodded. “I..understand the thought behind it. I’ve read only a little bit about it. Magic is focused on intent, thinking and visualizing what you need done, what you want to happen...right?”

“Yes, more or less. I know you can do it, you’ve created fire before.” Barely, you wanted to retort, but bit your tongue. “Now, try simply thinking these words, focusing your intent on making fire again in your hands.”

I can do this, I can do this, I can do this...

You focused all your might into thinking, eyes closed and brows scrunched. You cupped your hands, like you did before, and continued to focus. A spark happened, here and there, but nothing substantial. You couldn’t even get another flame like you did last night. And you were so frustrated. This was a simple, stupid spell that you should be able to do. Why was this so difficult for you? You tensed up, continuing to furrow your brow and mumble to yourself, trying your best to get this to work.

“Hey,” a hand gently placed on your shoulder. You jumped. He retracted, apologetic. “Relax, you look like you’re going to combust. Try again, with intent, but don’t think too hard okay? You need to relax.”

You sighed, releasing as much of the tension in your body as you were able to (years of trauma really makes that hard), and started again. This time, things came much easier to you. A spark, then a small kindling, and then a real flame appeared in your hands. You gasped, and waved it, thinking it was going to dissipate but it didn’t. “I did it...” you sighed, bright eyed looking over to Alucard. “I did it.”

You really were harmless, weren’t you.

“You did, good job.” He praised, nodding once. “That is how you hone your senses. Replicate that for spells, remember how you felt, what you thought, for the future.” You put out the fire after a few more tries, and clasped your hands together. You were so proud, you couldn’t believe it! The first time you were able to use magic, real magic, and not it be an accident or a miracle. Maybe now you’d be able to actually survive out there with the night creatures! You could live!

...in six days’ time. Right. You had agreed one week.

Over the course of the next few hours, Alucard would teach you higher education words, learning a bit more magic along the way and getting used to reading on your own more fluently. You were sure the magic book would be easy for you now!

“I can only teach you so much magic, it’s never been my strength but you are a natural born witch, you will be able to learn so much more. If you continue to study, I’m sure you’ll be a fierce opponent.” He chuckled, making himself laugh. “Thank you, Alucard, this has been so helpful, really, I can’t tell you enough times thank you.” You shuffled a bit closer, hands clutching at your skirt. “I would...I would like to repay you.” A hand reached out to his hands, fumbling with the metal buckle of his belt.

“What are you doing?” He sounded panicked, pushing your hand away a bit too harshly and stepping back. He was reliving too many memories, too many nightmares standing in front of you. You blinked, bringing your hand up to your chest to grasp at nothing. “I...am repaying your kindness.” You sounded meek, so soft spoken. “Isn’t this...My master...He said men enjoyed that. It’s all I’m good for, I can’t give you much else--”

“No.” That sent you reeling. “Men don’t ask for that as form of payment from innocent girls, pigs do.” He spat. You flinched, tears accumulating in your eyes. You blinked them away. He took a step forward. “Is that what he asked of you? Is that what he made you do?”

You said nothing, looked off to the side so he couldn’t notice your red eyes. Didn’t matter, he did anyways. He whispered your name. “I won’t ask that of you, ever. Do you understand?”

“But then how can I service you?” You nearly cried. “What can I do for you to repay you? I’m no good for anything, I’m no good--” a sob escaped. Your hands came up, covering your face in shame.

Alucard wasn’t sure how he could possibly remedy this. This, was much deeper than just consolation. He wasn’t equipped for this. He hadn’t even been able to deal with his own trauma, much less someone else’s. He sighed, closing up the book with a marked page, for later.

“Go get cleaned up...I’ll make dinner.” And with that, he left.

Back in your room you tormented yourself over what you’ve done. I made him angry, he’s going to kick me out sooner now. I just wanted to thank him, is that not normal?? To thank someone after kindness? You continue to pick at the skin around your fingernails, pacing around the room. It’d never dawned on you that what that vile man made you do was inherently wrong. He was cruel, but you had always assumed he was doing what any other man would do. Now, you felt sick to your stomach. You had been the only one in the village doing this? It wasn’t normal for women to do this to whatever man that bought them? Stupid, stupid, stupid. They weren’t bought. Just me! Tears pricked your eyes again, and you rubbed them as if by doing so hard enough, they would just erase off your face.

You found it best to at least wash your face and change your bandage, before Alucard showed up at your room to collect you for dinner. That is, if he showed at all. You went over to a...sink, is what he called it once in passing, and turned the knobs similar to the tub. You went as cold as it could go, and splashed yourself in hopes the frigid water would knock some sense into you. Thankfully, the shock did its job and you were able to calm down some. After you removed the old, sticky bandage from your upper arm and examined it. It was clean, for the most part. You washed that up too, just a bit, before getting a fresh bandage on one of the shelves nearby.

You heard a soft click of a door, and curiously you went back into the main bedroom area.

There were fresh clothes laid out on the bed.

Cautiously, you went over to look at the garments, and you gasped. A gorgeous, clean dark emerald dress, knee length. The bodice was sprinkled with embroidered leaves, the sleeves belled and flowing, and by the cut of it you can only guess it was off shouldered. It was still made of linen, and nothing extravagant by wealthy standards, but it was honestly stunning. You weren’t sure what to make of it. Should you put it on? Should you pretend like you didn’t see it? Should you tell him it’s too much for someone like you?

All alarms are firing against you, and you wanted nothing more than to run away from kindness, lest you make a fool of yourself again. But you touched the dress anyways, enjoying the way it felt on your fingertips. You grasped it lightly, and inspected it further. It looked...about your size. You weren’t sure if it would fit, but you tried anyway. Your worn down, tattered skirt slipped off you and you pulled the bandeau top away, sheepishly donning on the dress attire. It fit. Somehow, somehow Alucard had a dress in this castle that fit. You would question him about it, if you weren’t terrified of angering him and having him kick you out again. So you’d keep quiet about it. You did your best to tighten up the back of the bodice, and you’re so sure that it looked a mess, but it was cinched up at least. You wished you could have seen what it looked like on you. You had been in your room long enough, and figured it was time to tiptoe into the kitchen and see if Alucard was still in there. You wanted to apologize for earlier, and at the very least verbally thank him for the dress.

Alucard was finishing up plating dinner--it was fish, freshly caught from the stream about a half mile away-- and setting the rest of the side dishes when he heard, faintly, so faintly, footfalls. You were so deadly quiet whenever you walked, he wondered if you did it on purpose. If you’re trying to sneak up on him, if you’re trying to see how far you can get without getting caught, if you’re--

Stop that.

He shook off his suspicions once more. You had already proven to be innocent, let alone broken. It was far more difficult for Alucard to move past the...series of unfortunate events that had happened fairly recently than he imagined. Instead, he continued to listen to your silent patter of bare feet on the old wood come closer.

“Hello.” You spoke first. He was surprised. Alucard didn’t turn around, instead went towards the table and finish putting down the last plate.

“Good evening, dinner is ready if you would like to join me.”

“Thank you for the dress.” It was quiet, but it was there. “I would... I would like to join you, yes.”

Alucard looked up, finally, and couldn’t help but stare for a touch too long.

You looked beautiful. The silence was deafening.

“..It suits you.” Was all he said.

Not much else was spoken between the two of you, as you sat across one another and ate dinner silently. The tension was palpable, nearly suffocating, and Alucard found it difficult to swallow.

“I’m sorry--”

“About earlier--”

You both blinked, and stared at each other, seems you both had a mind to talk about what had transpired. You let out an exhale from your nostrils that, if he squinted, would have seen it was a laugh. Alucard shook his head with a smile, “You go first.” You stalled for a moment, looking down at your half eaten fish (which was delicious, but decided that if you were going to keep crying during every meal you would look mad). Then you found your voice.

“...I apologize...for earlier. I didn’t--” another pause. “...It wasn’t my intention to offend you.” I didn’t know this wasn’t normal. You braved a look up through your lashes, hoping he wouldn’t be upset with you.

And how could he?

He spoke your name with respect, another lurch of your heart. “I think you misunderstand. I was not upset with you, I was...I was upset that some monster made you think that. You are more than just a...” sex slave? “You’re more than that. I hope you understand this now.”

“It’s...difficult....to understand. But, I will try.”

“Good.”

Dinner went on, and when you were both done you made move to stand up before Alucard.

“...I can clean.”

He blinked, confused.

“I can clean,” you pressed on. “And I can cook, and I can help farm, I can do all these things.” You didn’t look up at him. “I did them, back in Gresit. He said I wasn’t any good, said I wasn’t good for anything except--” You stopped yourself, feeling bile come up your throat. Saying it was difficult now, with the realization. “But I did them, and I can do them here. I can help you, if only just for the week, to repay your kindness.” Please, let me do something.

You decided to look at him now. He smiled.

“I would like the help.”

#adrian tepes x reader #adrian tepes #alucard (castlevania)#alucard tepes x reader #alucard x reader #alucard tepes #castlevania (2017)#castlevania netflix #castlevania #milk writes #he who was found in chains set free #hwwficsf

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ohwhataniight · 12 days

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more than the world can contain - Chapter 4: A Scandal in Belgravia

Part 2

If I had a therapist, she would note down yet another trigger in my list of traumas: swimming pools. The smell of chlorine. Semtex. Although I am fairly certain that having a phobia of deadly explosives should be considered the picture of good mental health. Anyway, I don't currently have a therapist. But, on second thought, maybe I should reconsider.

Because my flatmate is complete bonkers, and I have to deal with his antics every day.

I’ve only managed to get what feels like two hours of blissfully dreamless, uninterrupted, Xanax-induced sleep, after we return to Baker Street, before I wake up with a scream.

The reason I'm screaming is that Sherlock is awake and hovering over me, watching me sleep, his pale blue eyes glinting in the dark as the lights from the street catch them in their stride through the windows. He’s staring intensely at my face, brow furrowed, as if he's trying to decipher some code. He’s wearing a look I became acquainted to for the first time tonight: uncertainty, with an unusual tinge of vulnerability. Once again in this night that feels like a century, he looks much younger than he is.

“What on our-planet-that-orbits-the-sun are you doing?” I hear myself mumbling as I rub my eye with the heel of one hand, and even I’m surprised with my own eloquence at this ungodly time of the night, after a near-death experience. It’s then when I register the slight pressure of cold fingers on my other wrist. “Your hands are cold, you look like a vampire, you act like a vampire. Is there anything you need to tell me, Sherlock?”

“Nope, nothing,” he pops his p quite dramatically, drops my hand on the frame my bed rather gracelessly (this is going to bruise later) and throws himself up, walks away, silk blue robe swishing around him.

I sit up and my eyes slowly get accustomed to the darkness of the room. “Sherlock,” I demand, cutting him dead as his tracks by the door. “You were taking my pulse,” it sounds like an accusation. “In the middle of the night.”

“Nothing to worry about, all seems normal.”

“Yes, but why were you taking my pulse?”

“It’s for an experiment.”

I’m still faced with his back. “Listen,” I say. “There’s no need to be worried. I’m alive, and I'm home, thanks to an uncharacteristic stroke of luck. And, well, you.”

A breath hovers in the empty space between us for a second. “You've got your answer, John,” he eventually exhales, still refusing to turn around and face me. "Not the one you want, maybe, but definitely the one you need."

“What answer? Sherlock, why do you have to be all enigmatic? It’s bloody 3 in the morning, you’re allowed to take a break, y'know?” I stand up from my bed, barefoot on the carpetted floor, infuriated.

Finally, he turns around. Be careful what you wish for, Johnny, I think, because his gaze is burning through me. It's pretty intense, disarming. Especially considering everything that’s taken residence in my mind during the past couple of days.

“You have been wondering whether I am capable of human emotion for a while now. Whether I care,” he almost spits the word. “Well, John, tonight you have observed it’s in your best interests if I don’t. I hope that explains my usual... disposition. Now, go back to sleep. You are still in shock.”

“And you aren’t?”

He doesn’t respond. Just stares at me. Then, “why would I be?”

I take a few steps, closing the distance between us. My heart is thrumming like a caged bird and I want to extend my hand, touch him, comfort him. But this isn’t how Sherlock Holmes works. “We are all bound to lose people we care about in our lifetimes, Sherlock,” I eventually resort to say, realizing I’m feeling slightly dizzy - the shock, the benzo, his stare. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t. Care. I mean.”

More seconds pass. They eavesdrop, they dance in the room, its air thick with our scents (sleep, leather, upholstery, sweat, whiskey?) My flatmate remains unmoving, the bloody vampire. “Right,” he says eventually, before turning around again. “Goodnight, John.”

During the following days, we become... closer. It’s strange to observe, even stranger to feel. I find Sherlock doing our laundry one morning. It’s almost endearing, even though my white jumper is now bright pink after being washed with his aubergine shirt. He even makes me toast a couple of times, makes sure I’m always properly nourished. I don’t catch him checking my vitals again, to my slight disappointment, as I realize with a feeling of dread one day. But I remain feeling quite touched. If not a bit flattered.

Also, my blog is booming. He develops a habit of mocking my titles, but even though he’s the king of banter, I am the writer in this equation. I make him internet famous, he makes me tea. Deep down, I know we both like it.

One night about a week later, I’m at a medical conference in Dublin, I’ve had a couple of beers, and I’m flirting with a beautiful brunette. An oncologist. She’s brilliant and sexy. I think her name’s Sue? And then the facetime app on my phone starts ringing. I’ve been ignoring Sherlock’s increasingly urgent texts all night. They ranged from “John, are you up?” and “I need your insight on the comic book case” to “Pick up John it is a matter of life and death”.

“I’m sorry, I need to get this,” I sigh, and Sophia (?) looks frustrated. My knees wobbles as I try to stand up from the bar stool and it takes a while for my feet to get accustomed to the floor again. “What do you want?” I hiss at the camera after picking up.

“The printer, John, it’s all in the printer. I need you to find out the model of the printer, quickly.” He looks... naked, wrapped in a white sheet, in what seems like his bed. My flatmate texts me “u up” when I’m away, and then facetimes me from his bed in nothing but a sheet. No wonder people talk.

“I’ve met someone, Sherlock,” I whisper-shout, walking out of the pub and the cold Dublin air slaps me in the face. “It was going very well until you rudely interrupted us...”

“Don’t tell me you’re not in the least bit excited to hear my brilliant deductions, then write all about it in your little blog...”

“I’ve met someone, as I just told you. The world doesn’t revolve around you...”

“I don’t think that the world revolves around me,” he says, looking terribly offended. “Although admittedly it would make much more sense if it did...”

“Come on, Sherlock,” I chuckle at the camera. “I see how you dress, flamboyance is your middle name, and you love an audience. Need I remind you that my first role in your turbulent life was that of a skull on the mantelpiece?”

“You’ve evolved since then.”

I’m left gaping incredulously at the level of his audacity. “Well, ta.”

“Anyway, John, contrary to your assumptions about my person, and despite the fact that I still do think you would profit profoundly from an introduction to the joys of custom-tailored trousers, I don’t care what people think.”

I hear myself giggling in the middle of the pavement as people less drunk than I am pass by, chatting merrily. The buzz of the city makes me somewhat giddy too. “Prove it.”

“How?”

“Wear what you’re wearing now during our next case.”

“What do I get if I do that?”

“You see, you don't have the balls to do that...”

“What do I get?”

“My acknowledgment and utmost respect.”

He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Dull.”

“Okay, okay,” I chuckle again. “I’ll buy us dinner. Wherever you want.”

“Cafe Royal?”

“Cafe Royal.”

“Fine,” a wide smile spreads on his face. It’s endearing, really.

When I return inside, Susannah is unfortunately nowhere to be seen.

Sherlock, please tell me you’re not currently headed where I’ve just been informed I’m headed wearing that sheet. I was drunk last night when I dared you.

Reservation for two at the Cafe Royal at eight. See you soon. SH

And God save Her, of course. SH

To be continued...

#sherlock holmes #john watson #johnlock #bbc sherlock #johnlock fanfiction #johnlock fic #sherlock #fanfiction #queer

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tenebsolis · 20 days

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So you've mentioned that you like all the Soulsborne games, not just Bloodborne, but which Soulsborne was your first exposure to the series? What made you want to check them all out, and what is your favorite thing about them (each individually or in general as they also have reoccurring themes? nobody trolls people in power like they do xd) .

Also I can't forget you asking me about Creighton so I assume you like DS2 as well (rare but huge W in these trying times vvhjgjjg). Who are your DS2 favs? 🌛

I need you to know that I had to pause for like one hour after getting this ask because I got so excited to respond to it that I couldn’t think straight enough to properly manage a reply with actual words. in fact what I’ve written down here isn’t as eloquent or articulate as id want it to be but. autism works in funny ways so the best I can do rn is say words and giggle to myself with glee

im putting the reply under a cut bc it’s long af also lmao

the first dark souls was my initial exposure to the series as a whole! I got into it some years ago but I don’t think I was as invested in it then as I am now. I’ve always loved the themes of the series and the gameplay was, despite all the frustration, very fun and engaging so I wanted to check out more souls games after it. Dsi remains my favourite game of all time along with bloodborne btw! I would blame it on nostalgia but honestly the game really does have so much to offer. dark souls i meatriding is very cliche but there’s a good reason for that yk. Nothing teaches you patience like dark souls. (this game also has one of my two favourite characters of all time, gwyndolin! they managed to create a transgender allegory that speaks so closely to me- from familial expectations to the desire to be seen and recognised by the family that constantly neglects you and shames you for your very existence to the point where your identity ceases to exist because you are trying so desperately to belong. you try to forge yourself into the perfect shape but the core of the problem lies not in the shape of your identity, but your very existence. the unending cultist devotion to the people who made your life hell because this is all you have. I love gwyndolin so much)

I moved to dark souls ii after and honestly loved it (and still love it) very much. I feel like people give it too much shit and criticise it too quickly because of its reputation, which is a shame because it has so much to offer. The lore is so rich and the gameplay can get so fun if you just give it a chance. I agree that the start is difficult, but isn’t this true with every new fromsoft game you play? The thing I really love about soulsborne games is that there is a learning curve. Absolutely anybody can finish these games even if they are a terrible gamer because of the fact there is a learning curve. And sure it’s a frustrating one a lot of the time, but when you get comfortable enough with the mechanics and become more confident in playing, the experience becomes so so fun and rewarding. The estus problems people always complain about at the beginning of the game honestly stop being a noticeable issue after you discover items that help you replace this bother. I can 100% see why somebody would dislike dsii because it unfortunately went through developement hell, but I do believe that 98% of the time people judge this game too quickly and too harshly just because of the negative reputation it has. It sucks that they don’t give it a chance. I’ve seen so many people have an opinion on it (always a bleak one) without even playing it themselves also which is so dumb. At least play it man. Idk. It gets the second-installation-in-a-series curse I guess. dsii fans need to stick together and call it the best game oat to piss everyone else off

i got into bloodborne after dsi and dsii, i think I started playing bloodborne in mid 2021? Not that long ago but it has been my absolute favourite thing in the world ever since. SO much about it has kept me around because it manages to cater to so many of my general special interests lol. I’ve always loved cosmic horror and the victorian era of medicine. religion (and how those in power can use religion to control the masses) is another thing i always end up getting fixated on, so bloodborne was just the perfect thing for me. I love the themes! And characters! And designs! And gameplay mechanics! The world building! Everything is so so good. The thing that has mainly kept me around so intensely is how important exploration and personal interpretation is with this game. this is honestly my favourite thing about all spulsborne games actually- fromsoft never gives you any direct answers, and we are still finding new things about bloodborne several years after its release which is insane. It has just an endless amount of things to offer, I can’t say ENOUGH about it. I could write pages upon pages on why I love bloodborne so much, it’s difficult to keep my answer here concise. All I can say is it consumes my every thought every second of the day. Very good.

Dsiii was the last soulsborne game i got into (not fromsoft tho, that was elden ring, which i somehow only got into on august of 2023) i love dsiii because i love the dark souls series so so much in general, but for some reason it’s my least favourite out of all spulsborne games. The story and bosses are all super cool and i loved the conclusion it provided for the series, but it’s the one i find the least entertaining? or not the least entertaining, but it’s the one I think about the least. maybe it’s because i still kind of experience it as a. second version of bloodborne since i played bloodborne before ds3 lol. which is an unfair judgement but I can’t let go of that feeling it gives me for some reason. great game but I end up fixating more on the others fsr

navlaan is my favourite character in ds2 also! i love a little fucked up sorcerer. I need more grey thinking. good and bad mean nothing in the name of acquiring knowledge. nuance is required to understand navlaan and its why I often avoid reading stuff about him lol.

I’m realising my response to your ask focuses more on just my personal experience with the games rather than what it is within them that I love, I didn’t really get into detail about that at all lol but. I already said so much 💀

#i put the yap in um. in uh. Idk i just love to yap #asks

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bookwyirm · 4 months

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At your earliest convenience (Part 1)

There’s something about working at a 7-11 at 2 am that’s incredibly peaceful. It’s been about an hour since you last saw a customer, and the hum of the vent that blows icy air down on you lulls you into a light doze. That is until the sliding doors open with that annoying chime that jolts you right back awake.

You shove your hair back from your face and straighten up, trying to show some semblance of professionalism “Welcome to…” The words die in your mouth when the newcomer drags himself to the counter and the acrid scent of booze hits your nose.

His silky white shirt is wrinkled and the buttons are popped almost all the way to his stomach, he smiles at you but his red eyes are blown wide and wet with tears that refuse to fall. “Hello darling,” he purrs leaning heavily on the counter. He eyes your apron “You look lovely tonight. Let me guess, minimum wage chic?”

You frown, trying not to inhale too deeply “Yeah? Well you look like shit.” The jab isn’t as eloquent as you would’ve liked, but it gets the desired reaction. A mock pout crosses his face.

“You wound me darling,” He stumbles into a 360 spin “surely you can’t resist all this.”

“Are you even gonna buy anything?”

His eyes roll “Pushy.” Despite his protest he saunters over to the refrigerator grabbing a coffee. You scan it quickly. “That’ll be 3.75,” your eyes meet his expectantly, but he doesn’t even pretend to look for his wallet.

“Oh my, it appears that I’ve forgotten my wallet. Isn’t there any other way I could reimburse you?” Icy fingers dance over the back of your hand as he gives you a sultry smile.

You pull away with a scowl “Haven’t you whored yourself out enough today?” His smile freezes on his face, for the first time tonight, it seems you’ve struck a nerve. It doesn’t fill you with the satisfaction you thought it would though. You look away guiltily “Just take the damn coffee.”

He snatches the bottle, flopping down into the creaky metal chair by the counter. There’s a far away look in his eyes, and you try to patch the mess you just made.

“Rough night?”

His eyes slide to yours, a bitter smile crossing his face “What do you think? Since you know so much about me.” He spits. Right.

“Sorry ok? That was a dumb thing to say.” He shrugs sipping his coffee with tight lips. “C’mon. Just…free coffee for a week?” He perks up.

“My emotional duress is worth more than a week of free coffee darling.”

“Two weeks.” He looks away, a dramatic, melancholy gaze in his eyes. “Two and a half weeks, I can’t afford more than that.”

“Offer accepted. I appreciate your swift apology darling.” His inclines his upper body, a mock bow in the chair. But the buzzing of a notification stops the words that are about to come out of his mouth. He looks at his phone, and if it’s possible, turns paler than before. He stands quickly shoving the device in his pocket. “I must go.”

“You didn’t even finish your coffee-”

He isn’t listening to you. His hands fly to button up his shirt and smooth down his hair. His pupils have turned to pinpricks, whatever he saw on that screen instantly sobered him up. A desperate look crosses his face. “Please tell me you have a mint.” He pleads as a sleek limo pulls up.

“Um…” Your slight hesitation gives you the chance to see the fear in his eyes. A tall thin man with dark hair steps out of the car, his arms impatiently folded. His cold gaze sends a shiver down your spine, but he’s not looking at you. He’s looking at Astarion, like he’s a meal just waiting to be devoured.

That must be his pimp…

You fumble for some gum you keep in your purse, he takes it with a grateful look before hurriedly leaving the store. His whole demeanor changes as he greets the mysterious man.

He bows and the man grabs his chin, cruelly yanking him up. He crushes his lips against Astarions. You look away, feeling awkward at the sudden affection, if it could be called that. When the car door slams you look back just in time to see the limo screech off. What a weird day.

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 7 months

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[I am sharing this eloquent post as a cry from the hearts of all people of good will ; when like Job we seek voice for our despair.]

* * * *

People both here and around the world have checked in to ask how I am. I appreciate this more than you can imagine. But it puts me in a bind as to how to respond, beyond to affirm my physical safety and that of my children.

Those of you who know me personally, or even at length virtually, know that I struggle to restrict my responses to such a question to generalities and formalities. On the other hand, I’ve been working over the past year, in the wake of radical upheavals in my personal life, to restrain my openness. Some see that openness as oversharing that overburdens them.

So, responding to this question is challenging.

Yes, it would be correct to say that I’m fine. Because in many senses I am. Especially if we contextualize this with how others are doing. And even in this situation, I try to remember that context, and I try to remember both the morality and usefulness of gratitude. But I don’t always find the strength.

So, for those who want more detail, here it is.

I’m angry. This is of course to be expected. Joe Strummer (because you knew I’d quote him somewhere here) once wrote “let fury have the hour / anger can be power / you know that you can use it.” He was talking about a rather simple situation of resistance. When anger is directed in one clear direction, and it’s righteous, then outrage, literally directing one’s rage outward, can be an antidote to despair and fear. And if directed effectively, can be a powerful force for change, or at least survival. But that’s not where I am. Because I’m angry in so many directions I struggle to find a center on which to stand. In some senses, all of my angers are pulling me apart.

Given this predicament, I want to add a caveat before I particularize them. I am conscious of being in extremis. I may change my view on many of the things I lay out here. I may repudiate them. I may be embarrassed by them. I may be very wrong about some of these things, though explaining to me how I am wrong, even if done with good will, likely won’t help either of us. At any rate, the question “how are you?” is in the present. This is how I am now. A snapshot of the moment.

Yes, I am answering because I know some of you are personally interested, and yes, I am answering because I need to speak, and I live alone, and because I am Ori. But I also know that some have found value (because they’ve told me so) in my openness in sharing my views and experience.

Nonetheless, I’d like you to keep in mind the most important line in the Book of Job. After Job loses everything and is subjected to intense physical and emotional trauma, he cries out to God, demanding an explanation. Three friends gather to discuss how he might continue to believe in a just and good God and the possibility of a just and good world. And they all mean well.

The friend who speaks last, Eliphaz the Temani, holds he most correct position. He’s really smart, even wise. He isn’t simply an orthodox (small ‘o’) apologist for religious dogma demanding fidelity. He probes the problem deeply and calls for a complex subject position and view of God and the world.

God then speaks to Job from out of the whirlwind, before pivoting to the friends, not addressing all three, but speaking directly to Eliphaz.

וַיְהִי אַחַר דִּבֶּר יְהוָה אֶת הַדְּבָרִים הָאֵלֶּה אֶל אִיּוֹב וַיֹּאמֶר יְהוָה אֶל אֱלִיפַז הַתֵּימָנִי חָרָה אַפִּי בְךָ וּבִשְׁנֵי רֵעֶיךָ כִּי לֹא דִבַּרְתֶּם אֵלַי נְכוֹנָה כְּעַבְדִּי אִיּוֹב.

“And after Hashem spoke these words to Job, Hashem said to Eliphaz the Temani, ‘I am incensed with you and your two friends, because you didn’t speak to me appropriately like my servant Job.’”

God doesn’t commend Eliphaz’s powerful theodicy, one that has provided many later rabbinic theologians – the Rambam (Maimonides) foremost among them (see the discussion of Providence in Part III of the Guide of the Perplexed) – with great intellectual inspiration. He doesn’t say ‘yep, well done Elushkeh, you got it right my brilliant child and your benighted brother Job just needs to listen to you.’ Rather, as the Rambam emphasizes, God rebukes him for being too invested in his own argument and correctness. The great Jewish historian Amos Funkenstein read Job as teaching that we don’t always deserve answers, but we have the right, and even obligation, to demand a hearing. Especially in extremis. Even if we are wrong or lost or broken or. . .angry.

With that in mind, my answer to the question “how are you?”, that I’m angry includes a list of things I’m angry about. In no special order and certainly no hierarchical ranking.

I’m angry at Hamas about the vicious slaughter and widespread trauma they inflicted, gleefully, on so many people.

I’m angry at Israel’s vaunted security and intelligence communities and institutions, whose often appalling moral decisions and violations of rights have been justified with recourse to the necessity for security, for nonetheless failing to keep us safe.

I’m angry at this absurd government led by a man who has time and again placed his own interests and power above duty to country, while posing as a superlative patriot. And has never paid a political price.

I’m angry at his party for clinging to him despite his amorality (or immorality) because doing so has served their own interests.

I’m angry that for years he funneled cash from Qatar to Hamas while posing as the only one who can keep Jews safe. And I’m angry that so many people bought into this. And angry that so many still do. I’m angry that more than 2% of the population somehow doesn’t want him to resign immediately.

I’m angry at everyone who voted for any party in this government who hasn’t apologized for empowering such a group of corrupt and irresponsible chauvinists and zealots.

I’m angry at Hamas for undercutting the struggle for Palestinian rights and lending credence to the caricatures of Palestinians as bloodthirsty savages who just want to kill Jews, which is far from the truth. This will not only cost Palestinian lives in the immediate, but it will also set back their pursuit of justice and dignity by decades. They have alienated hard-won support in the international community. And they have made it harder to stand for their recognition, rights, and justice. Here, in Israel, it makes answering the refrain that ‘they don’t really want freedom, they just want us all dead and gone’ exponentially more difficult. And they have reinforced the flawed attitude that any failure of brutality to subjugate others is evidence of the need for more brutality.

I’m angry at the harm that this will perpetuate for Israel and Israelis, now and in future generations, on so many levels. Dehumanizing themselves and us, dehumanizing us all, plunging us ever deeper into a morass of hatred and violence. There is no security and dignity for Israeli Jews if there is no security and dignity for Palestinian Arabs.

I’m angry at those on the right who are already waving this as vindication of their cruelty and hate-mongering.

I’m angry at those on the left who are celebrating this as valid resistance and a step in the direction of justice.

I’m angry at their glib equivocations that show zero compassion for individual lives.

One cannot seek justice for peoples if one isn’t seeking justice for people.

Justice only comes when we provide safety and dignity for all.

I’m angry at the arrogance of so many privileged people with little knowledge and enormous self-righteousness, who deny their own implication in a global system that has enabled this situation and glory in accusing others, and who celebrate or rationalize this slaughter as just desserts. Especially those who have never stepped foot here, haven’t read a 100th of what I’ve read, who don’t interact and work with Palestinians every day, yet who like to “educate” me about the Palestinian suffering I’ve witnessed, stay abreast of, and seek to alleviate. There is no justice without humility.

My supposed allies on the left in regard to so many causes, including justice for Palestinians, this isn’t about YOU.

I’m angry at those who obscure context and discredit it by calling it justification. Understanding something more deeply and broadly doesn’t mean one thinks it is just. To any and every brutal situation, some will inevitably respond with brutality. Others will not. That brutality is therefore inevitable, but not justified. It doesn’t exonerate someone who decapitates a parent in front of their child. It doesn’t exonerate someone who throws grenades at people who are dancing. It doesn’t exonerate someone who rapes or beats or shoots or bombs others. Systemic and historical analysis does not neutralize moral agency and responsibility. When we fail to attend to either, we are part of the problem.

I’m angry that someone next to whom I sat Shabbat after Shabbat for years in synagogue went to a music festival, had his arm blown off with a grenade, applied his own tourniquet, and now is a hostage in Gaza with no medical attention to his grave injury. And his parents and sisters, like so many others, are living a nightmare.

I'm angry that my youngest child has spent hours with her best friend, keeping her company, while she's overcome with fear for her beloved older brother (they are so close that one of his profile pictures is of the two of them) who was sent to the front.

I’m angry at myself that this is the world and childhood I’ve given my three children.

I’m angry that I did not build a career that would have given me a meaningful role of some sort in this crisis. I’m angry at the reasons I didn’t do so, many of which have to do with an illness I was both born with and that was exacerbated by my experience and failures to overcome it.

I’m angry at my supposed allies here in Israel who have refused to recognize that democracy and dignity for only some is a delusion. In fact, it is democracy and dignity for no one.

I’m angry that my country is filled with creative energy and courage when it comes to technology and the arts, but absolutely devoid of any creativity and courage when it comes to politics.

I’m angry that I once found Israel’s precariousness romantic and thought it provided a more authentic experience of life and greater purity of commitment and affiliation.

I’m angry at the dishonestly partial and propagandistic education that informed those sentiments.

I’m angry at those who have turned my people’s traditions into distorting mirrors of superiority and cudgels of cruelty.

I’m angry that thousands of Palestinian children will be killed and traumatized in the next days and weeks.

I’m angry that my own children’s immediate welfare and that of my people, and the immediate welfare of another people and its children, are now seemingly mutually exclusive.

I’m angry that I don’t currently possess a plausible vision for a better future.

I’m angry that I live by myself and that the nights are very very long.

I’m angry that this week will forever shape my children’s lives, and my own.

And I’m angry that, unlike Job, I don’t have the kind of faith that gives me an address to demand a hearing and express my anger.

So if you’ve read this, you will have to do.

And I’m angry that some who read this will feel pain.

[Ori Hanan Weisberg]

#war in Israel #Israel Hamas war #words and writing #Ori Hanan Weisberg #the book of Job #theology #war

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mmmoicca · 1 year

Text

Angel can[‘t] cook?

Angel/David Shaw

Mostly fluffy, slightly angsty feels ahead.

It has been a hot minute since I last wrote anything at length in English, and I fear it will take some time before I’ve managed to scrape off all the rust that’s built up over the years.

Regardless, I found myself word-vomiting this onto a google doc last evening after this idea has been living in my head for the last couple weeks.

Also posted over on ao3

Throughout the years, Angel has found themself on the receiving end of many a description from both coworkers and friends, some arguably more accurate than others: dedicated, dependable, forthright, passionate, energetic, silly, snot. The fact that “liar” wasn’t included on that list was not by coincidence.

And yet, as they were standing in their and David’s shared kitchen, tomato sauce sizzling happily in the pot behind them on the stove, one of the two homemade pizzas heating in the oven while the other laid half-assembled on the countertop, buffalo mozzarella drying in a sieve by the sink, themself covered in flour and their man, their mate, the love of their life standing in front of them with his work bag in hand and a look of mixed worry and confusion furrowing his brows, they found themself wishing they were a better liar.

Because truth was that Angel, try as they might on rare occasions, was a terrible, terrible liar. Sweaty hands, flush cheeks, flickering eyes; the whole shebang and then some came tumbling over them whenever they had to lie about something, no matter how trivial. So just like how the sun is known to rise in the east, or how the tide ebbs and flows with the moon, Angel is known not to lie.

The irony of the situation was not lost on them as they stood in the kitchen, face flushed and wringing their flour-covered hands while their mate was staring them down. They felt like a deer that after nine months of carefully and thoroughly painting the floor had finally been caught - with crumbs strewn around them and the empty cookie jar on the floor beside them - sitting in the metaphorical corner.

“You’re back early,” they hurried to say when David started opening his mouth, no doubt to ask when they’d hit their head and if they were in need of medical care. Unfortunately their poor attempt at distraction did nothing to ease the concern-slowly-morphing-into-suspicious look on his face.

“The clients came to an agreement quicker than anticipated,” he put his bag down, eyes firmly glued on Angel as if the entire kitchen would spontaneously combust if he looked away for nare a second, “so yes, our trip was shortened by a day”.

“Ah,” they mumbled. Eloquently.

“Angel,” David closed the distance between them, joining them by the kitchen island, “what do you think you’re doing?”

“...cooking?” as if that alone would in any way explain how Angel, known noodle lover and Kitchen Wrecker only second to Asher, was making a whole ass meal by themself. From the ground. The various bowls with the different toppings not yet cleaned off the counter.

The timer on the stove beeped, alerting them to the first pizza already being done.

Fuck.

They hadn't meant for this… slight alteration of the truth… to go on for this long.

There was no secret that if you looked up the definition of “hardworking” in the dictionary, the first word you would stumble across would simply read: “Angel”. The problem with definitions though, is that they leave precious little wiggle room for deviation. So when life gets hectic and Angel finds themselves in the midst of a hurricane of papers and reports and meetings and timetables, they tend to forget (to their own immense chagrin) that they're also a human being with human needs.

The point of this is to say that when David came along and entered their life, Angel was barely operating as a functional human being. Work had at that point been a living nightmare for the past three weeks, and the majority of their day-to-day was spent in the office. They slept an average of 5 hours at night, got maybe another half hour on the train to and fro, and since they’re fortunate enough to have a relatively good cafeteria at work, cooking at home quickly became the lowest of priorities.

Once things started settling back into the normal amount of stress-per-day, and Angel at long last found the spare time to invite David over for a long overdue movie night, their excitement had sort of, maybe, perhaps made them forget to restock their fridge and pantry in advance. The memory of exasperation on David’s face though when he went to search said fridge and pantry to get the designated movie-night-snacks, and found little else in there other than a couple stacks of ramyeon noodles, some cans of beans, one pack of coconut milk and a half full bottle of ketchup, almost made all future teasing they would receive on the subject worth it.

Indeed, that little incident had in fact stirred quite a few jabs from him about how Angel couldn’t possibly survive on preprocessed food like that, and that if they wanted to live a short life then there were easier ways to go about it than starving their body of all necessary nutritional needs.

Problem was, the teasing had been fun! Angel found immense joy in riling David up, and had therefore not made it a huge point to correct him in his assumptions about their cooking-abilities. Whenever had they tried to comment on the fact that they weren’t, in fact, completely useless in the kitchen he would disagree and say they were a disservice to Darvin’s theory about natural selection while they laughed and made some half-baked, farfetched innuendo about servicing, he grumbled and rolled his eyes so far back that by now they were sure he must be painstakingly familiar with the inside of his head, they kissed him on his nose, he kissed them on the mouth, scandalous little man that he is, and they both went about their day!

And, alright, so maybe that little “almost accident” he had been witness to a few weeks into living together didn’t do a whole lot to change his mind about whether or not they should be allowed in the kitchen. In their defence, a new deadline at work had been closing in, and having only gotten a few restless hours of shut-eye that night, the toast they’d been heating up for breakfast had promptly been forgotten when they started dozing off by the dining table.

It had taken the entire day to air the remaining smell of burned bread out of their home…

And then, bless this man’s heart, David had taken it upon himself to try and teach Angel how to cook. And he’d gotten up all close and personal and touchy and feely, pressing himself up against their back, covering their hands with his bigger ones, his calloused fingers caressing theirs, soft breaths tickling the hairs at the nape of their neck. No way in hell were they going to turn around and tell him that they were quite capable in the kitchen, thank you very much, despite all the evidence pointing to the contrary. Not when they could feel his chest expanding with each breath against their back. So they stayed put, kept quiet, and enjoyed every second of their Basic Cooking 101 lesson, (not offering a single thought to the actual learning part of the lesson, mind you).

Their little… secret (not lie!) had almost been revealed one evening when Angel had invited a small group of friends over for dinner. One of them had made a comment on how sweet it was to see Angel not being the one responsible for dinner for once, allowing themself to take the time and actually talk and hang out instead of flying around trying to make everyone else feel comfortable. David had snorted and muttered something about how he wouldn't have let Angel within a ten metre radius of a kitchen if he could help it, before disappearing around the corner to finish up the last preparations for the food.

The looks they had received from their friends had them squirming in their seat, and with sweaty hands, flushed cheeks and flickering eyes they’d stuttered their way through the Toast Incident in hopes of satisfying their suspicion before quickly changing the subject, sighing in relief when neither of them had comment any further on their strange behaviour.

If they were being completely honest with themself… it was nice having someone else do the cooking for a change. Growing up Angel often had to be in charge of dinner, with two parents working their asses off trying to make ends meet for their little family. They had never blamed their parents for relying on them to act as a stand-in parent for their younger siblings at times; not even when they had to get a part-time job in the kitchen of the local italian restaurant, spending the hours after school to clean and chop and stir in various pots and pans, just to come back home and do the exact same thing there.

Their parents were doing their best with what means they got, and so was Angel.

After graduation they’d stayed another year at the restaurant to earn some extra money for their family and to try and save up some for themself, learning how to make the perfect pizza and lasagne and bolognese and carbonara and risotto (and gods the tiramisu) along the way. They’d enjoyed it, all things considered, but it was also exhausting.

And then there came David - sweet, gentle, stubborn David - who had started lecturing them about the importance of feeding themself properly, and they hadn’t found it in them to correct him. When he had dragged them to the store the morning after their first movie night at their place to fill up their barren food supply, they’d let him. When he started showing up every other day at their apartment after work to cook them something to eat, they’d simply dug around for their spare key and given it to him.

Because for once someone had been concerned about their health, and it felt nice.

In just the few short minutes it took for him to unlock the front door, untie his shoes, hang his jacket and move to the kitchen, their rose-golden bubble was popped, and in the process their world had abruptly shifted three inches to the left, leaving them frozen in vertigo not knowing if they should stay put or try to follow. After having lived together for seven weeks and four days (not that Angel was counting…), they had not once attempted to correct his misconstructed impression of their cooking skills. Because it had felt nice.

They hadn’t meant to lie.

It wasn’t a lie.

They had actively told David that they could cook. Just purposefully hadn’t demonstrated it yet…

So why did it feel like one fat, neon coloured lie now that they were facing their mate with what felt like a crime scene surrounding them?

…it had been so nice.

Whatever their face was doing must have been quite the sight, cause’ while David was surely still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Angel was seemingly apparently quite capable of replicating the entire italian cuisine in their kitchen on their own, the sceptical look on his face was quickly replaced with concern as he reached forward to softly brush his fingers against their cheek.

“Angel?”

No, Angel was not a good liar. Never had been. So now, when the truth was so clearly written out behind them on the counter, they felt their shoulders sag and a breath they hadn’t realised they’d been holding for the nine months they’d known each other rush out of them in a choked sigh.

“I- um…” they cleared their throat before trying again, voice a bit steadier this time: “dinner’s almost ready?”

They could still see the sceptical worry clear in his eyes and the dozen questions forming in his mind, but whatever he read on their face made him shelve them for later, opting instead to kiss them softly and promise to be right with them after he’d put his bag in the bedroom and gotten changed to something more comfortable.

He returned just as they were placing the second pizza - fresh out the oven - onto the dining table and they smiled as he sat down across from them.

They would answer all his questions tomorrow. Tell him everything he wanted to know about their suffocated love for cooking that they hadn’t realised they’d missed until they had gotten themself so tangled up in their accidental lie that they felt themself unable to cook, whether they wanted to or not.

But that was tomorrow, after they had eaten and cuddled. After David had showered and unpacked, and they both had had a good night's sleep to replenish their depleted energy stores. They would make them breakfast, they would sit him down, and they would talk about it. But not now.

For now, dinner was served.

#redacted asmr #redacted audio #redacted davey/angel #redacted david #redacted angel #fluff and angst #there's one (1) lie involved #accidental mind you #maybe it's a lie #maybe its maybelline #fanfic #i'm very fond of italics as you can probably tell

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tea-and-conspiracy · 1 year

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I’m terrible at this sort of thing

And thus I’m way past the deadline for expressing my appreciation and admiration for Sounsyy. Part of it was hoping to get a bit of art done in time, but since that can’t happen I have to settle for measly words now instead. orz

I don’t even know what to say that others haven’t expressed better and more eloquently. All my friends wrote such heartfelt things and my brain’s just been stalled the whole time. How do you adequately express gratitude to a literal pillar of your community? Someone who’s given countless volunteer hours for a passion project they’ll never get paid for? Who does it purely as a service for others? I’ve been haunting this damn game since ARR and I can’t think of a single RPer I’ve met who hasn’t referenced Sounsyy’s work. Mirke’s Menagerie is an island of sanity for all of us trying to navigate the often convoluted waters of XIV lore, doubly so if you’re a nerd for it.

Hell, so much of this community has come and gone in the decade-plus that XIV has been around. Many of the old RP resources we used to have, that once seemed like institutions, are gone. Sounsyy’s outlasted them all. Still here, still writing, still helping out.

As someone once crazy enough to create and run large-scale events in the past, I legitimately don’t know what we would have done without Souns. I still don’t know what we’d do without them. Maybe this community doesn’t deserve their hard work, but we’re sure as hell all better for having them in it.

Thank you, Sounsyy, for giving all you have to this community. If I see you in Vegas, let me buy you a coffee or beer or something.

#FFXIVMIRKESWEEP

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iambic-stan · 11 months

Text

Portobello gills

Another Star Trek-themed heart story, featuring Voyager's Doctor and an Ensign/former member of the Maquis. These stories are all very silly but I hope someone enjoys them. :) And here's a sorta related gif of The Doctor and Kes.

This is the moment I built myself up to, but now I’m worried that I read it wrong. My assumption was incorrect—the EMH did not have stethoscopes entered into his database already. They must be such outdated medical tools that his programmers saw no need for him to be even tangentially aware of them. I’ve just spent the last twenty minutes explaining what mine is, what it’s for, and trying to eloquently describe what it all means to me. He has become so still that I’m almost afraid he’s malfunctioned somehow and deactivated without either of our commands. “Doctor,” I say a little loudly, reaching across the couch to touch his shoulder. I know he’s photonic energy, but I’ll be damned if he doesn’t feel like flesh. He stares into my eyes, but it's like he sees nothing. “Please state the nature of the medical—just kidding, Ensign,” he laughs. I shake my head and smile, glancing down at my shimmering pastel stethoscope sitting between us. My vision blurs slightly, my astigmatism causing the glint of the glitter to expand in an odd way. It takes me a second longer than it should to focus. Maybe I’ve had too much to drink, but at least I haven’t inadvertently activated some subroutine I wouldn’t understand how to deactivate. Somehow, in the last couple of hours of candor, something clicked for me. I’ve told him about my house on Earth, my partner, my cats, and my job as a freshman composition instructor, before I joined the Maquis. I’ve heard his stories about sickbay challenges, his growing fondness for Kes and revelations about her species, and his fantasies about taking command of Voyager and demanding the same respect and admiration Janeway enjoys. Now I’m asking him to listen to my heart, and this has somehow put a wrench in what was an enjoyable evening, a distraction from the dullness of waiting to get home. Is it a step too far? How do you know when you and a hologram are on the same page, emotionally?

“So you’re anxious about something? What are your symptoms?” he asks. “It’s nothing like that!” I say, laughing, wishing at this moment I’d tabled this until later, or maybe never. “I just think it’s really cool,” I say, immediately realizing my mistake. “Is it warm in here?" He asks sarcastically. "Maybe you had too much synthehol?” I have to look at him for a second to realize he’s joking again, and at my expense, really. “You realize I use a much more efficient instrument to scan multiple vital signs for multiple crew members all day? What about this is different, other than it being less comprehensive and less efficient? At the risk of sounding like a Vulcan, is this logical?” I take in a deep breath. I know he's well aware that I'm not asking him to be my doctor, at least not at this moment. I was obviously unprepared for this conversation, and I can feel my heart pounding away in my chest--a circumstance that, unfortunately, makes me yearn to be listened to even more.

“It’s more intimate,” I explain. “And I brought it up because I feel close to you. I want to share my heart with you. I mean…metaphorically. It’s been great…being one of the humanoids you connect with. I hope that we can still be friends after we’re back home. Keep in touch somehow, if you decide to stay aboard Voyager? So yeah…I’m fond of you, I love seeing you develop into someone more complex than the guy I first met. I don't know if you've thought about it this way, but that is very relatable to me, as a human who is also continually changed by my own experiences, as that's practically unavoidable. And I would just love it, if you listened to my heart." The last five words tumble out of my mouth almost as one jumbled mess, so difficult to say out loud. I have to get better at that, I think.

I grow silent while he considers what I've said. "I greatly enjoy your company," he begins. Then, with some hesitation: "I'm just not sure how that is connected to your request." He throws his arms up in the air, a little exasperated, or at least appearing to be. I know that the human doctor he was programmed to simulate, a Lewis Zimmerman from New Jersey, was notoriously ill-tempered, stubborn, and condescending, and our EMH did not stray from that programming easily when he was first activated full-time. It was only when Janeway agreed to expand his programming--both out of necessity and later at the Doctor's request--that he developed a personality all his own. My hope for him when we reach the Alpha Quadrant is that the Federation will grant him personhood on the basis of his sentience, because I'm finding the differences between us continually grow smaller. A precedent has already been set, if not for holograms, then sentient androids, I believe, with Data on The Enterprise. Whatever happens, I like to think I've helped him figure out his individuality, just as he's helped me feel much less lonely on Voyager.

“Am I bothering you with this? Was it a mistake to bring it up? I’m having a nice evening and I’m not trying to ruin anything,” I say. “You’re fine,” he assures me. “I’m simply curious. I want to understand and apparently, I just don’t. I have researched human bonding activities rather extensively. In the context of friendship, at least when it comes to Americans like yourself, evidently there’s little physical contact involved. Humans enjoy hunting for sport, drinking—like you’re doing, dining out together (except I don't consume food), and this game that involves throwing or kicking a sort of oval-shaped leather ball over a goal but is also rather violent...” I’m trying not to laugh at the poor man as he describes American football as no one from my hometown has ever heard it. “But this is not a romantic gesture of some kind? I’ve read about those, too, and—“ I have to stop him. “No, it’s ok—it’s not meant to be a romantic gesture. I still have hope that I’m going to get home to my partner, you know? But it's very emotional. I have strong feelings about it. If that's not obvious.” He sighs. “Well, despite all of my research into social skills and relationships, I’ve never found a reference to this outside of a medical setting. I don’t know what you expect me to do, if not behave as a trained physician. Perhaps I should be advised on how to act and what to say.”

It dawns on me that it is confusing to his mind to be asked to do something for which the only context he has is the wrong one. And there was no prior reason for him to deviate from the parameters that were programmed into him. “So the thing is,” I explain slowly because my heart is pounding in my ears and I’m beginning to feel so embarrassed that I want to hurl myself out of an airlock and into the Delta quadrant void. “I really like being on the other end of a stethoscope. Like, a lot. It makes me feel loved and safe. It's very sensual. I understand that hearts are organs that don’t have opinions, but I feel like my heart lives for being listened to. That’s my thing, admittedly—but I thought you might get something out of it, too. You know how to read a medical tricorder; you know everything that might cause a minor fluctuation in any given reading of the dozens or maybe hundreds that your device can keep track of. But have you ever actually just listened to someone's life force, in real time, with them sitting beside you? An unusual shared experience, right? Just permitted yourself to exist in that moment, outside of anything in your life that's causing you stress? And pondered that for all it represents? I can't tell you what to say or how to act. It just depends on what comes to mind for you, what you feel. Maybe you'll never want to do it again, or maybe you'll enjoy it and then you can just say whatever you want to say. Or keep that to yourself if you'd rather, you know? It would mean a lot to me, anyway, but it's up to you," I add sheepishly.

"No one has ever said that," he says, appearing dumbfounded and...impressed, is it? "Which part?" I ask nervously. "You said 'anything in your life that's causing you stress.' You acknowledged that I could experience stress. That I have a life. I haven't even been active for more than two and a half years." "Well, we all have to start somewhere? Why wouldn't I refer to that as your life?" I ask. He doesn't reply, but takes the stethoscope and affixes it in his ears, uncertainly. “Do I look like a 21st century doctor?” he asks, smiling almost haughtily. “I wouldn’t know firsthand, but yes?” I offer, shrugging. He moves closer to me on the couch and places the chestpiece in the middle of my chest. Immediately he blurts out an, "Oh!" and then "I didn't know it would be so loud. And so fast." "Yeah, I didn't realize you'd just like, go for it just then," I say, staring at the floor, giggling. "But I'm glad." Slowly, he starts to move the chestpiece around, listening everywhere: pulmonic, aortic, tricuspid, mitral. He does know anatomy. I find myself wondering if this is the first time anyone--human or otherwise--has enlisted an emergency medical hologram to have a friendly auscultation session with no medical purpose involved in any way. Is this novel to me, or is this altogether novel an occurrence? I look up and our eyes meet. "Still fast, I guess?" I ask, smiling. "Less so," he tells me. "It's a bit slower, and steady." "I like having you listening to it," I tell him softly, though I wonder if he understands me, in more ways than one. I wait a few breaths, then reach for his other hand to hold it for a moment. I look into his eyes, deeply brown like portobello gills--a pretty organic comparison my mind has conjured for someone computer-generated. They seem inquisitive, and I tell myself (or lie to myself?) that there's also a hint of emotion, of affection, he's associating with this act. I close my eyes while he listens a few seconds longer.

"Well, you are alive," he finally says, handing me the stethoscope, the grainy glitter on its tubing grazing my hand. "That much is certain. As far as standards for humans go, judging by the fact that you clearly have synaptic activity taking place. What I heard indicates that you have four functioning heart valves, as is expected," he continues. "Alright," I say kind of dismissively, holding up my hand that's still clutching the binaurals and grimacing. "You don't have to do that. I mean I guess if that's what you wanted to say. But I mean...this is a sweet moment. I mean, speaking for myself, anyhow. Thank you. You made my night." He cracks a smile and I reach over and put my arms around him, something I've never done before. He seems startled at first, then returns the embrace. He feels surprisingly warm and human himself. For one of the few times in the past two years, I don't mind that I'm stranded in an uncharted part of the galaxy if I get to be surrounded by amazing people.

#cardiophile #cardiophilia #stethoscopes #auscultation #cardiophile story #Star Trek #Star Trek Voyager #Star Trek: Voyager #heartbeats

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milune-vox · 1 year

Text

The Dawn of Redeeming Grace (chapter 1)

(Hello Dreamling shippers, I come with an offering) (Continuation of the Dreamling present time meeting) next chapter You can also read it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43003029/chapters/108048981

Chapter 1:

It was but another day on Earth, in the year of our Lord 2022. A human being was seated on a chair, relaxing after a long day teaching young minds at a university nearby. He was sipping on a beverage whose recipe had rippled across centuries, shifting through time but staying the same at its core, much like he himself had. As per his habit, stacks of homework crowded his table, and he was going through them at a rapid rate, red pencil scratching and underlying and crossing and leaving snarky comments in the margins.

He read, tapping the rhythm of an old, forgotten tune on the table: “Shakespeare was a man who knew how to use words to describe things well,” and snorted. Circling the sentence, he wrote: “a most eloquent description. Worthy of the man himself.” On another, with writing so dreadful it almost made his eyes bleed, he took the time to note: “Honest work, maybe do it with your glasses on next time, I know you think, I quote, that they “give you the look of a deceased ferret,” but one; however creative, it is not a fair analogy, give yourself more credit. Two; if you don’t start wearing them I’ll be the one in need of glasses soon, and three; seriously, it pains me to have to remove credit for this.”

Going through a peculiarly obscure work in which the student had obviously used Wikipedia blindly, he was frowning in disappointment when he suddenly felt eyes on him. He raised his own at the man in front of him, and it took him a moment to understand what he was seeing, and react accordingly.

Bloody hell, FINALLY, was the one resounding thought in his mind, blanking out any others. The blue eyes, the pouty lips, the modern look still dark and broody. His stranger, after all this time, here, now. An overwhelming joy grows steadily in his chest and the following words cross his lips, a playful, barely heated thing, like his eternal companion had just made him wait a few minutes at most:

“You’re late.”

This smile of his. He had never smiled this way before. Free, unbidden, genuine. A thing of ethereal beauty. Hob couldn't believe his eyes, the sight too good to be true.

“I apologise. I’ve always heard it is quite impolite to keep one’s friends waiting.”

He couldn't believe his ears either, turns out. If he had been less in control of his emotions, he would have been reduced to a sobbing mess right now.

His nameless stranger… No, his nameless friend sits across the table from him, and Hob is still trying to process the overwhelming relief and warmth he is flooded with as the mysterious man stands back in his chair, his posture relaxed, a warmth in his eyes that pushes him to once again question the reality of it all. It is not a dream, however, he can tell—this is too marvellously tangible and precise and it makes him feel as giddy as a child. In the golden hue of the light, his divine features glow, a relished, chiselled perfection. He had tried so often along the years to keep them from escaping memory through recollection, the occasional attempt at drawing and painting. Any such attempt feels foolish now. It was nothing like what he sees there, his imagination and memory paling significantly in face of the real thing. His friend seems… less pale, more human, in a way, in this century, in this light, with this fond expression warming his features… Hob can’t help but chuckle in disbelief, slightly shaking his head.

Oh, this moment is delicious, he absent-mindedly comments in his heart, tentatively leaning forward on the table, and resting his chin in his palm like a lovestruck fool.

In all his years, there have been a few moments of pure joy which he kept close to his heart, to hold on to in the grieviest hours. He can now add this moment to the list.

“I am glad you could make it this time, my friend.”, he says, beaming so wildly he feels his vision blurring with happy tears.

He should feel silly, and he does, to be letting himself feel so strongly after the deep hurt his friend's rebuke had imparted to him, but one hundred and thirty years is a long time to hold a grudge, and he is now more relieved, unquantifiably so, to see him than anything else. Yes. Maybe he will not have to face eternity as alone as he had thought he would be. Maybe they could share the tiniest bit of forever together, still.

“I hope you find this place to be a worthy replacement from our usual hang, I am afraid it got closed a little bit after, well, 1989…”

His mystical stranger’s expression dims slightly, and a melancholic cloud looms over his beautiful face. Hob’s smile dims in kind, a weed of worry crawling inside his chest, instinct whispering of hurt and doom. A group of young people enters the inn and he pays them no mind, their boisterous laughter does nothing to fill the silence between them. A few seconds pass before his friend carefully says in this low, velvety tone Hob has so dearly missed listening to:

“Believe that I would have made it to our appointment, had I not been…”

He stops there, at a loss for words, with a faraway look, and Hob furrows his eyebrows in concern. Definitely, a lot had changed since last they met, and clearly, there was something wrong about this whole thing. In a flash, his friend’s words make him recall the warning he’d heeded in the eighteenth century ‘You can still be hurt, or captured’.

“Something happened,” he guesses tentatively, afraid of setting the ire he knows him capable of since their last meeting.

Slowly, his friend nods. He does not look him in the eyes. Hob feels a heaviness grow and sit on his chest, weighing him down, turning his body to lead. He fears to know the truth of it, he fears to push too far. However, most importantly, he wishes nothing but to tend and care and this instinct wins out, for he manages to ask softly:

“Are you alright, my friend?”

“Dream. You can call me Dream.”

And that was… not the answer he expected. His immortal heart misses a bit. He stares in confusion. His friend has the gall to look amused, and after a beat in which he seems to delight in Hob’s dumbstruck expression, he adds mercifully:

“I go by many names. Some know me as Morpheus… My most truthful name would be Dream of the Endless.”

Morpheus… Like the Greek god of sleep? Was he talking to a god?... Dream. Dream… Dream, Dream, Dream. His excitement at finally knowing his friend’s name grows and surges in his chest with the overwhelming strength of a tsunami. Hob doesn’t have a clue what it all means, truly, but he nods, a puzzled, delighted expression probably showing on his face, torn between the sheer joy of finally having a name other than stranger, and now friend, for the one being who has been a constant in his immortal life, and the thorough concern he is feeling at the thought of… Dream coming to harm. Because this is all that it was, wasn’t it? An attempt at deflecting his question? And why else would he escape it so?

“Dream,” he tries, and it sounds so much like an endearment, and maybe it is, in his mouth. He watches the rapt attention his friend gives him at the call of his name, the sparkle in his blue eyes, uncanny, like the light isn’t reflected but instead is coming from within. It is terribly bare, vulnerable, to be but a human under this unfathomable gaze, he thinks. He feels holy reverence from centuries past trying to bring him down to his knees in a posture of worship. He isn’t sure this would fare very well with his friend, nor would it fare very well with who Hob’s grown to be. He settles back in his seat, breathes in, out, and continues:

“Dream… Thank you.”

His friend smiles at him, a small thing which warms his heart and brings him back to his original concern. He must know for sure, cannot take a cowardly path out of heavier topics. At least, not until he’s been well and truly rebuked. He has to make sure Dream knows he can speak to him. This is what friends are for. This is what Hob is for.

“Do you wish to talk of… what it is that kept you away?”

“No.”

Dream answers too quickly, his voice harsher and louder, removed from its usual whispery quality, but then instantly recoils, and seems ashamed of his outburst, looking down at the table, hands clenched together in a tight grip, an all too human gesture Hob has never seen in him before. He feels a lump in his throat at the sight. His centennial companion has this faraway, haunted look he has seen on many others before, especially during and after the horrors of the world wars. Something bad happened to his friend, this he knows to be true, and a part of him screams in anger and despair. He doesn’t show it though, and simply leans in very slowly, very gently, and places his hand on the table not too far from the pale hands, not daring to touch them but trying to convey a sense of comfort with their proximity anyway. Dream finally seems to notice, for his eyes focus back on him, and the lingering redness and shine slightly dissolves from his eyes.

“Not yet,” he says with more softness, and adds in a murmur, glancing towards the window, the afternoon light and the chirping birds: “Later, perhaps.”

An instant passes, contemplative, and then, his face relaxes again as he, in turn, leans forward and crowds the space separating them, saying with a small, damning smirk:

“I am here to hear about you, Hob Gadling. How did these last one hundred and thirty years treat you, my friend?”

Hob is feeling all sorts of things at the way Dream says his name, and calls him his friend, and looks at him with those starry eyes of his, of which he sees every individual eyelashes with their new found closeness, and the delight of it so pure and strong he feels dizzy with it.

With the aplomb only one with such a long life experience could muster in such a feet sweeping situation, he takes a shaky breath and asks the waiter over to bring them drinks.If his friend, Dream, wants to get his mind off things, he shall indulge him and regale him with tales. He draws nearer as he answers conspiratorially, with a sure smile and a bit of mischief glinting in his eyes:

“Well, my friend, be ready for the story of the century —and yes, this was an easy play on words, and really not good at all, but his friend’s mouth curls up every so slightly and he feels like he’s standing at the top of the world.

He goes through it all. The wonders, the horrors, the enterprising spirit of mankind in both its benevolent and malevolent endeavours, navigating a stormy sea filled with wonders and despair. Through it all, he speaks grandly, animated with gestures, silly anecdotes, a few wriggle of eyebrows and, at one time, a wink, which earns him a god to honest chuckle, and he decides here and there that he must find a way to make his friend laugh again, for this is the sweetest sound he has ever had the chance to hear. His friend interjects a few times, asking for clarifications or musing some mystical truth from his retailing, and Hob delights in his attention, in his viewpoint on the stories he tells. A few times, he even makes a few cynical comments, only the twinkle in his eyes revealing his jest, and Hob responds with a boisterous laughter, absolutely stricken by his friend’s strange, certainly dark and entirely damning sense of humour.

After what seems to have been minutes pass, which actually might have been hours as it is now dark and the influx of people coming to eat dinner spikes up, his great retelling is now reduced to a more mellow tone. He is sitting back with a fond smile, as he breaches the topic of his new job, and that of his students, how some of those young minds are a marvel to him, in how they allow themselves to be more freely with each generation, and how he learns more of the world and himself everyday through the lens of their bolstering youth. He stops, catching a depth of fondness in Dream’s eyes that simply steals away his words, and they simply look at each other for a time, simply relishing each other’s presence. It is a peaceful and content affair, so comfortable and pure, and Hob feels like his rightful place in the world can be found in this moment, like something just clicked into place, like a void he had forgotten was there has suddenly been filled to the brim with complete satisfaction, and— A glass falls to the ground, shatters, and Dream jumps on his chair, eyes wild.

“Dream!” comes his surprised gasp.

In reflex, he brought his hand on his friend’s forearm. The latter freezes, incredibly tensed, staring at the offending appenage with an unreadable expression, and quickly Hob takes it back, and circles the rim of his glass instead, to occupy his hand and pacify himself.

“... Are you… are you alright, my friend?”

This question again, he realises after it has crossed his lips. They have come full circle, it would seem. A long silence. He clenches his fingers nervously around his drink. He finds himself almost wishing for his friend not to answer, to go back to these joyful moments shared, to remain in blissful ignorance, or better, for his friend to admit that, yes, he had simply been brooding and trying to make his point clear, back then in 1989, and his absence was very much of his own fault, thank you very much. All quarrels pass in time, however, and he was just passing by and thought “What is becoming of this old cogger?” and simply went, which, ah, Hob can forgive, easily, selfishly, because in this anxious moment, he would have taken any reality other than the one in which the cruel truth takes form, inescapable, cemented in spoken words.

“... I was locked away in a cage for a hundred years,”

Dream admits with a voice so incredibly soft it breaks Hob’s heart in a million pieces. It is like angel tears, both beautiful and unfathomably sad, it is like a beautifully welded knife, searing through his flesh. Images of prisons in wartime flood his mind. He suddenly notices how much thinner his friend appears behind this coat of his, how emaciated his cheeks, how sunken his eyes, and at that, his blood slowly starts to boil.

“There was neither air nor sustenance in my captivity.”

Hob sees the memories choking his friend, pulling him under, and he reaches out on instinct, taking both of his hands in his, to try and anchor him. The blue eyes snap at him, and Hob starts pulling away again when his friend takes them back, keeping them both pinned on the table, jealously guarded by his own. As if to procure an explanation for this desperate hold, he adds, almost sheepish, with eyes filled with unshed tears:

“No kind company.”

His hands are soft, and cold, their press is strong and unyielding, and Hob fears the moment Dream will let go. Words do not come easily. Not when tears well up in his eyes, mirroring his friend’s. He wishes with all that he is to wipe away his pain, to hold him and protect him against the world. “You need not have come to my defence.” And yet…

“I'm sorry, my friend… had I known-”

“No. I would not have endangered you so.” Hob opens his mouth in protest but he’s quickly cut by the mellifluous yet intransigeant voice of his friend;

“One of my subjects, my faithful raven Jessamy…she tried to free me. She perished for her loyalty. I would not have you meet a similar fate. You may have survived, but you can sti-”

“Still be hurt, or captured.”

A shadow of a smile, a sad, small thing, as he nods in recognition. It is this inopportune moment Jen, the waitress, choses to interrupt, coming up to their table with an apologetic smile.

“Hey Robbie, sorry to interrupt your date-”

He tries to interject and reestablish the truth of the matter, which, in his head, would be something akin to “ah, I wish it were one, but it is not”, and stutters:

“Uh it’s, it’s not-”

His rebuke is rather weak and she plainly ignores him as she keeps saying her piece:

“-but are you guys going to order something? There are a lot of people here tonight, and I don’t want to have to turn down any customers.”

Dream retrieves his hands- and Hob feels terribly bereft-, then looks around him like he’s noticing for the first time how packed the place has become, and from the sour turn of his lips and increasing tension in his shoulders, Hob wagers he doesn’t like the chaotic, rambunctious crowd very much.

“It’s quite alright, Jen, we —do you want to come upstairs?”, he asks his friend, adding with a knowing smile “There’ll be less noise.”

A beat in consideration, then he answers with too much solemnity and intensity for such a casual offer:

“I shall follow where you lead.”

He turns his head to Jen in an attempt to avoid the intense look in his friend’s eyes, and sees as Jen slack jawed snaps out of her surprise and raises her eyebrows suggestively at him. Hob considers an instant the possibility of once again trying to dispel her assumptions. He ends up shrugging mentally. He’ll see about that later. The rumour mill will run crazily in the meantime, he knows, but, frankly, a part of him is preening at the idea people would think them a couple. A man can dream. Hopefully, his friend isn’t privy to those peculiar dreams. … As the, what, probable god of dreams, he very well might? Now that’s a distracting, life threatening thought if there ever was one, ha. He picks up his stack of half graded homeworks (he hasn’t made much of a dent in them, he knows he’ll come to suffer from it when he’ll have to sacrifice his sleep and his peace to get them done in time, but he can’t be bothered at all right now, his happiness full and impervious to regret). As he closes the locks of his briefcase Dream comments, watching him intently like he is resolving a puzzle:

“You know the staff quite well.” Ah, there it goes. He cannot quite escape this much longer, he guesses. Especially now Dream has agreed on his offer to come upstairs. Where he might have assumed the rest of the inn lies, but where his apartment lies also.

“Well, I do own this place, so, it comes with its perks.” He shrugs like it is no big deal, avoiding his friend’s eyes, and stands, coming at Dream’s sides to guide him through the crowd by the small of his back (not quite touching, simply gesturing). He brings them upstairs, feeling the heavy stares of his employees (and a few regulars). Rumour mill shall run, indeed. A silly anticipation rises in his gut, a buzz singing in his blood. He feels a little lightheaded. He rarely lets people come up to his apartment, but the sense memory of it mixes with his current circumstance anyway, and makes for a very combustible cocktail. He fumbles for his keys. It takes more time than usual to find the right one from the set.

“You live here.”

Dream's voice, much too close for peace of mind, vibrates through his body and leaves a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

“Well sussed.”, he laughs without looking back, feeling how his friend crowds his personal space, and not daring to verify the fact, else his heart explodes in his chest. Hob breathes out. Opens his door. Bends in a silly and outdated courteous gesture:

“Welcome to my humble abode, my friend.”

#dreamling #fanfiction #the sandman #the sandman fanfic #morpheus x hob #hob gadling #morpheus #dream of the endless

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transphilza · 2 years

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I. I dont know how to cope. This seems fake still. It feels like if I come onto social media it's just all mourning and I can't bc its jsut a reminder that he's gone. I dont know what to do. This is the first big loss I've experienced, I dont know how to cope.

I know he lived a good life, a happy one. And I'm happy for him. But like. I just. Dont know. Its suffocating. I just want to curl up into a ball and cry about it, but I also want to forget.

I'll get distracted and feel fine and then I'll remember and feel guilty for being happy and fuck dude I just. I dont know what to do. Writing things out like this helps a bit, the pinned post on my blog helped, writing that out was helpful. But I'm at a loss. How are you coping at all? I cant watch the clips they hurt too much I'm feeling so deeply adn I didjtn watch much if his content I'm

heya nonnie <3 i’m gonna answer this under the cut cause i found i had a lot to say

i’ve only dealt with one major loss in my life before this one and it was last year, so i’m still very much still learning about grief and how to deal with it. i honestly don’t think it’s ever something you can prepare yourself for, not fully, so just know that feeling overwhelmed or unequipped or at a loss is completely fine and i feel you

in terms of coping, i think really allowing myself time to just sit and do nothing except think about him and cry my eyes out has helped. if you haven’t watched phil’s stream from yesterday, i seriously recommend it. it’s just music and minecraft, so it was less overwhelming than trying to watch clips or videos for me. i was crying for six hours after i heard the news… i cried for another hour when i woke up this morning. it’s okay to do nothing except curl up and cry and feel bad. it’s difficult and horrible and it’s okay to just sit with that feeling. give yourself time. distractions can be wonderful, but don’t force yourself into them, don’t force forgetting or moving on if you don’t feel ready for that

additionally, understand that feelings don’t have to be mutually exclusive to one another, if that makes sense. you’re allowed to feel happy just as much as you’re allowed to feel sad, and you’re allowed to feel all of it all at once too. you’re allowed to laugh and cry at the same time

for me? …the clips hurt a lot too. the vods hurt a lot. the pictures and the memories hurt a lot. they make me cry and they make my chest clench up but i keep on watching them because i know that i need to feel that horrible horrible feeling in order to process that any of this is real. even still, i can hardly believe it. mostly though, i know that above all else, techno has been a massive source of joy and comfort and inspiration in my life, and i need those clips to remind me of that. i need to remember what he means to me while i grieve, so i can preserve the joy of these memories. i’ve sort of been inspired by him even in my grieving, that immovable object mindset of his… i refuse to let this ruin the positive impact he’s had on me. i refuse to let my grief outweigh my love, no matter how awful and overwhelming it is…. does that make sense?

i’m really good at pretending that i understand my feelings more than i do, and i’m sort of eloquent, so i might come across as coping better than i actually am. but you’re not alone in this, nonnie, i feel just as hollowed out and overwhelmed and it’s all so so suffocating, but reminding myself that it’s okay to feel like that has really been the main thing that’s kept me going.

much love to you, i deeply deeply understand how difficult this is. please, be kind to yourself. i’ll be here with my silly words every step of the way

#❤️#talking #anon

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that-is-just-so-typically-me · 10 months

Text

Wish me luck, if you have some to spare. I’m having dinner with my parents tonight. I’ve been avoiding seeing my dad as much as possible since the conversation he sprang on me in public a couple of months ago, wherein he loudly lectured me about how I have to hurry up and get my career launched and “hunt” for a partner since now that I’m 30 and single it’s going to be incredibly hard for me to find someone (if that wasn’t awful enough, it was at a dead-silent, tiny lunch spot he’s a regular at that was empty except for us and the whole staff, where I was seated so close to the checkout counter I could have turned around and hugged the hostess). It was the powerful combo-move of talking down to me in his dad voice that always make me go quiet, adding cruel validity to the voice in my head that shouts these things at the top of my lungs all the time, and humiliating me in public. And of course he couldn’t help but add the final blow of lecture me once more about how I stumble over my words and can’t enunciate, one of my insecurities since I was in speech therapy as a child and something he always feels the need to comment on every couple of years, as if I’ve made no progress. Although to be fair - he gets the least eloquent side of me, because I have to mince my words so carefully around him to avoid his interrupting with disagreements, corrections, or assumptions about my meaning because he doesn’t understand what I’m saying like most others do - because he lives in such a bizarre, narrow, reality. And most of all, I want to avoid saying something that sets him off.

I had to take half an edible hours ago to start getting calm enough to do this. I have never felt so full of dread to see my father in all of my life. If I weren’t so scared about worsening my mom’s mental and physical health after all of the pain and loss she’s suffered in the last 7 years, I would confront him about it, and I just don’t think I’d have any real relationship with him at this point. I don’t know how I can ever get him to try and change and prioritize how I ask him to treat me/what makes me feel actually supported and loved versus what he decides he needs to do to “fix” me or the world - without realizing that so much of my foundational damage is because of him.

I leave every interaction with him feeling so incredibly low and upset.

0 notes

creampill · 2 years

Note

May I request reader prompt 25. for Bayverse Optimus, please?

Bay!Optimus/Reader Prompt Fill: ”Were you drawing me?”

Being one of the first humans on earth to interact with an alien life form was not mentioned in the job description.

That being said, you were a government agent: you were not expecting normalcy from this kind of career. But you had been trained for crime rings and nuclear threats, not whatever sci-fi movie bullshit this was.

Your entire unit had been ordered into a military hanger at an ungodly hour, and what you’d expected was some sort of national terrorist attack or something normal, but no, it was robots.

Giant, completely sentient, super cool looking robots. And up as close as you were, sitting just behind your superior as he negotiated with these goliath metal aliens?

You just had to draw them.

Your little note-taking clipboard had become and easel in a matter of moments, your pen twirling in your hand as you tried to make sense of all the intricate shapes and plates these beings were made of.

Your current subject identified himself as “Optimus Prime”, a very grand name befitting somebody of his stature. He had the kind of voice and manner of a leader, one that could pierce through crowds and rally armies. There was no question that he was the head of his crew, the Autobots, the symbol for which you were trying your hardest to try and recreate but from the angle you were at it was very difficult to get the details right.

Eventually conversation hit a lull, and the your superior went to converse with other members of your group. As you were off to the side, you weren’t noticed and you didn’t notice either, leaning on your side of the balcony and refining each of the scattered sketches you’d covered your page with.

Then suddenly, came a voice deep as pitch and very close to you, “Excuse me, human?”

One would think that a fifty-foot man made of metal would make a bit more noise when he walked. You fumbled with your clipboard, and, spurred by the burst of adrenaline, you blurted out that previous thought (with a lot less eloquence than I’ve written it with)

The regret hit as hard as the shock did, and you faced him to apologise, “So sorry, uh, sir, you just startled me. Sorry.”

You looked up (and up and up and up) at him, and were surprised to see what almost looked like mirth glittering in those blue-LED-like eyes of his.

“It’s alright, human,” he said, “And please, call me Optimus.”

“Well, Optimus, hello. What… brings you here?”

(Very smooth. A+ for effort.)

“I was curious. You haven’t looked up from that data pad in a while, and you look incredibly focused. I simply wondered what you were doing,” then he frowned, “apologies if that is rude to ask.”

“Oh!” The ‘data pad’ must be your clipboard, the one you held loosely with your doodles fully on display for the mech behind you…

Quickly, you pressed it to your chest and tried to laugh it off, “you aren’t being rude, and it wasn’t anything important, h-hah.”

He quirked a brow at you (how were his expressions so readable when he wasn’t even human!?), “Were you drawing me?”

(Ah, shit.)

Your words escaped you, and you floundered for a bit before he seemingly took pity on you and spoke up again;

“I am not offended if you were. I’m rather honoured that you’ve deemed me fit enough a subject to draw me.”

“Oh, yeah. I was,” you answered, barely keeping a red flush down at his sweet words.

And then he asked the question every artist had been asked whenever they had the gall to draw in public, “could I see?”

Could… could you say no? Speaking truthfully, this guy could crush you in an instant if you said something he didn’t especially vibe with. But something about his face, and the tone in which he asked made you kind of want him to see.

So you obliged, turning your clipboard around to show him. He crouched down to be eye level with it, and you watched those eyes flick over the page for a few moments longer than felt normal, then they flicked to you with a soft smile.

“Wonderful. You are very talented,” he said, his already pleasantly deep voice dipping down and almost rumbling through your body in his sincerity.

That red flush was unstoppable now. “Thank you, Optimus.”

#reader insert #x reader #asks #transformers x reader #transformers #transformers bayverse #optimus x reader #optimus prime

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phoenixes-and-wizards · 4 years

Text

little things i never want to forget about the hargreeves:

all of them used to defy their father, sneak out to griddy’s, and in five’s own words “eat donuts until we puked. simpler times, eh?”

luther wrote poetry while he was on the moon, especially about comets

tom hopper and the UA crew have said that the scratches all over luther’s body were made by him. he couldn’t stand the loneliness, especially during that first year, and would often resort to harming himself as a way to vent his frustration

it’s also pretty likely that he's had body dysmorphia at one point or another

he also has a habit of stress eating

diego almost became a detective, but he dropped out because he wasn't good at following orders. he even went to police academy!!!

diego has the cross stitch grace made specifically for him on the wall of his basement apartment, and in a frame no less

he’s also a big-ass momma’s boy

and he’s the only one grace calls “silly” as a term of endearment

and he has a fear of needles due to getting that tattoo when they were kids (y’all know which one i’m talking about)

plus his stutter only comes out when he's under extreme emotional stress

and a close rewatch of 1X03 shows that his bedroom had an overflowing abundance of books so what if him and ben used to bond over that😭

allison speaks seven languages

she told her daughter about her siblings, and claire obviously knew them well enough that she was calling them "uncle” and “aunty,” and that last one is especially heartwarming because this was around the time that vanya’s book had just come out, and yet, allison--who has the option of never telling claire about her--still does, and even explains why she wasn’t allowed to go on missions

klaus was smoking blunts at fourteen

klaus was clutching dave’s dogtags right before five teleported all of them to the past

and i’ve noticed that he has a habit of doing that in general in season 2, especially when he’s feeling kind-of low, but sometimes it’s also an unconscious habit and that’s cute, too

klaus would write the things the dead would say to him, all over his bedroom wall

klaus has a habit of going barefoot whenever he’s at home

five was the only person vanya felt comfortable enough with to present new violin pieces to

five outright says that everything he’s done so far was to get back to his family and keep them safe

@me-evil-never wrote in the tags: “five has watched his family die/be dead like 3 times if i’m counting correctly (YES YOU ARE AND IT’S A PAINFUL FACT WE MUST ALL LIVE WITH), plus all he has ever done in his life since age 13 was to get back to them so he could spend time safely with them” and YES I AGREE why would you hide such an excellent point in the tags because, sometimes, even i forget that it’s only been two weeks for him, and they’re probably the roughest he’s had since being stuck in the apocalypse as an actual child, and idk about you guys, but i just really want to give five a big hug because lord knows he deserves needs it

allison used to paint klaus' nails during meals

and was apparently a daddy’s girl, though how one could become a “daddy’s girl” if the father in question was reginald hargreeves is beyond my capacity to understand

ben was reading chekhov as early as 14

ben was a bookworm, both in life and death

vanya had the smallest room

vanya openly called ben the kindest of their siblings in her book, and said that when he died, none of them had any more reason to stay

before he left, diego gave reggie a piece of his mind

all of them know how to dance

they all know how to speak and read greek (ancient fucking greek, as one of you oh-so-eloquently put it)

vanya knows how to speak russian and god knows how many other languages

(by this point i'm really convinced they're all multilingual and there just hasn't been an opportunity for them to utilize that yet)

she also has a mr. snuggles teddy bear

according to klaus, vanya used to cry when the others would step on ants as kids

klaus is pansexual

he also dated twins once (though i’m not sure if he dated one then the other or both at the exact same time)

and has mild claustrophobia from being locked up in mausoleums all the time as a child

diego swore a pinky promise with lila and called it “the pinkiest promise” he’d ever make, and even though he’s a hard-ass who won’t hesitate to cut anybody in half, he’s still at his gentlest when he’s around her and he doesn’t even try to hide it

off her meds, vanya got first chair and a solo on her first try (as a violinist in a professional orchestra, lemme tell you that this is no easy feat to do)

she also seemed to have an affinity for bach (again--not easy!!)

even though he was barely starting puberty, ben was smart enough to reprogram allison's teddy bear to say "luther smells dad's underwear."

upon possessing klaus for a few minutes in season 2, ben could be seen clutching various flowers and smelling them repeatedly

klaus can actually levitate in the comics

according to @valkerymillenia, ghost!ben once saved klaus' life in the comics after he overdosed on heroin yet again

both klaus and diego repeatedly tried to open the lock to vanya's old anechoic chamber and were absolutely furious when luther wouldn't let them

diego called elliott "one of ours" despite knowing him for all of a week and a half

he also calls herb “herbie,” calmed him down after accidentally drawing a weapon on him, and created a secret handshake with him, all within two hours tops of meeting him

if one really thinks about it, diego is actually good with people? and that makes sense because he left the academy as early as seventeen, and he would’ve had to talk to a lot of people just to make ends meet that first year alone, and even though reggie tried to squash that part of him down, he’s still a good person at heart, you go prince of pointy things, make us all proud

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dorimena · 3 years

Note

Hi, I love your work and if your requests are open would you consider the following?

Monoma is on patrol with y/n and Monoma being well....Monoma, he was horny and was teasing y/n. Not having any of this shit, she proceeds to dom the fuck out of him during patrol. She takes him into an alleyway and fucks him with a strap that she had on her already (she was already planning on something but didn’t go through with it because work is work and she’s aware that Monoma and her could take their time when they got home). She pushes him into the wall and fucks him silly. Monoma is loving it and keeps begging “Mommy fuck me more, please!”. She gives him what he wants but she tells him to be quiet or else the bystanders would fine their great Phantom Thief in a puddle of his own cum while getting fucked by his mommy. At some point two civilians hear Monoma panting and hiccuping and get concerned. Y/n keeps fucking him and reassures them that Phantom Thief is fine. He cums then and there and she tells him to reassure the civilians that he’s ok. Monoma whimpers out that he’s fine and y/n cleans him up and cuddles him in the alleyway telling him how much of a good boy he was.

(I’ve been thinking about this ever since I read your shower blowjob story. This man makes the dom in me go crazy. He’s already a whining bitch, having him be like that in the bedroom just- 😫)

Let me say that I’ve had a scene in my head almost the same as this one you sent me and I am absolutely thrilled because yessss more attention to bratty baby Monoma ٩(♡ε♡)۶

And honestly, this man is just asking for it. Bet he wants to fucked anywhere, anytime, as long as he's put back into his place. That's his kink-

𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔱𝔢𝔯; Monoma Neito

𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱; 3.5k

𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰; fem!reader, pegging, mommy kink, slight exhibitionism, public sex, mentioned sex toy (butt plug), implied overstimulation, multiple orgasms, implied after care, domme!reader, sub!character

𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔰; begging, humiliation, Monoma being a little shit, because he wanted your attention, and to rile the fuck out of you, aged-up character: Monoma is 20+

𝔰𝔦𝔡𝔢𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔢; I unknowingly kind of changed a few things from the ask, like the conversation between Monoma and the bystanders, but I hope you like it anon! The ending is kind of rushed, sorry about that!

𝕭𝖊𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖆 𝖇𝖎𝖙𝖈𝖍 𝖎𝖘 𝖒𝖞 𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖐

“Now, now, y/n, you know ignoring someone, specifically the love of your life, is a crime? How else are you to beg for my love if you go on and ignore my graceful presence? Are you listening to me? At least lend me your attention.”

He’s been like this for the past couple of hours since you’ve both been assigned together for patrol. You thought it’d be a good idea, and Monoma was also excited when your boss told you both to get ready and head to the neighborhood you’re meant to keep a watch over.

The neighborhood turned out not as empty or quiet as you expected, rather close to a busy street. Some stores and restaurants seem to align themselves around this area.

You thought things would go smoothly, go even better and much quicker now that you and your boyfriend are finally patrolling together, months since you’ve transferred to this agency from your old one.

But Monoma’s been leaving any and every snide remark since you two stepped foot into the area, teasing you for any small mistake he believes should be (loudly) called out for or simply trying to mess up your way of doing things.

You don’t even want to count how many times he’s criticized the way your hero outfit currently looks on you. And no, you’re not getting insecure, but rather more… cautious.

There’s a reason why the uniform seems a bit odd around your crotch, but he doesn’t need to know that, not here, not now. Maybe until you both get home-

You trip, almost falling flat on your face if it weren’t for your boyfriend quickly grabbing you, pulling you up to your feet as he looks at you with panic before it quickly dissipates to his stupid mockery.

“See? You cannot do anything right, not without me at least. You, my dear, cannot live without me yet you still ignored me. This is what I mean when you should listen to me. Anyone would truly be grateful for having me, Phantom Thief, as their beloved lover.”

That’s it. You usually can take so much of his weird comments, but right now he’s pulling anything out of his ass at this point. (Soon you’ll see what actually comes out.)

You don’t answer, just look around to make sure no one is watching as you grab him by his stupid tie, dragging him to the nearest alleyway you remember passing by, glad it’s still pretty empty and dark enough to hide your bodies in the shadows.

He isn’t even struggling, just letting you walk him as if he’s a dog, quietly following you. If you were to turn around, you’d see the way his eyes are wide yet full of lust, his pupils dilated as he mentally cheers, thanking the gods for listening to his horny prayers of being sucked in an alleyway.

Do you know how hard it was for him to not jump you and beg you to help him? All because of how sexy you look in your hero outfit, how the small fixes and modifications bring out more of your body, the body he loves, yearns, desires, every day and night. Hopefully you don’t find his surprise before he can debut it once you guys are back home. (But unintentionally came prepared.)

He’s a complete fool for you, but you can’t know that, or else it’ll be the end of-

“Monoma Neito. You have 5 seconds to tell me why the fuck you’re being a piece of shit tonight.”

He didn’t realize his back is against a cold wall or how you’ve trapped him between your arms, the way you’re glaring at him while counting down in such a low tone, it makes his legs feel weak and threaten to buckle..

“Horny.” He barely whispers, crazed eyes never leaving your face as he stays still, trying to control his breathing and heartbeat as you scan him from head to toe, eyes finally staying in place where his boner is visible, even with how poor the lighting is.

You grin, but not your usual friendly grin or familiar flirty grin, but the ‘I’m gonna fuck you till you die’ kind of grin.

And Monoma’s both terrified yet super, duper much more hornier than before. But, with what are you going to fuck him with?

In a flash, he’s suddenly turned around, his clothed-covered chest pressing against the wall as he feels your hands make quick work on his belt, on his pants, pulling them down to rest on his thighs. He hisses and shivers when the cold air hits every exposed part of him, yet makes his dick twitch in interest.

You also free your bottom half to finally let out the strap on you’ve luckily managed to hide until now, searching your pockets for the small tube of lube you brought with you, just in case.

But when you spread his butt cheeks, you gasp in surprise with the butt plug he’s wearing, going to grab the toy as you slowly pull it out in disbelief.

Did he know?

“I-I want you to know you’re not the, um, only one to be prepared for what they want.” Monoma speaks, but in such a soft tone that it has you wondering if he’s the same person who had pestered you since the beginning of the patrol, the same boyfriend you love who has a talent for being loved and hated simultaneously by various people.

But at least he didn’t know. He simply decided to take this extra mile.

Cute. No wonder he’s such a good boy for mommy… sometimes.

“Then I guess I shouldn’t prepare you, right?”

You don’t wait for his response, not when you dispose of the toy away from you both, and you make quick work to lube up your silicone cock.

Monoma doesn’t get to ask you about the wet sounds behind him, or ask where you threw his butt plug before you’re entering him. You felt how his body jolted, his back arching enough to push his ass back more towards you.

You land a smack against the smooth skin, listening how the impact echoes in the empty alleyway and the way he whimpers in pain.

“You’re such a slut for mommy, aren’t you Monoma?”

“Yes!”

No hesitation.

Monoma usually sounds hesitant whenever you two do something new, as if he evaluates the pros and cons from anything and everything, figuring out if he’ll come out benefitted or you.

But he sounds desperate, shameless. He sounds like he’s ready to cry.

New, but not too surprising. When he wants to, he’ll always be a good boy for his mommy.

“Want to tell mommy again why you were being a little bitch tonight?”

Never mind, his hesitation came back, his mouth pressed shut as you peek at him, trying to catch a glimpse at his periwinkle eyes, wondering what’s taking him so long to answer. He answered you so easily, so quickly a few minutes ago.

You hear a soft mumble, see his lips move but no sound gets to your ears. So you spank him once more, hearing his cute squeak and the way he fucks back.

“Louder.”

“I wanted mommy to fuck me! Fuck me until I can’t walk! Fuck me until I’m just your stupid little hole! Please? I’ll-I’ll be good now, I promise!”

If anyone were to ask you just how stupid Monoma gets when he’s completely horny and turned on, this is a prime example. His usual eloquent vocabulary? Gone. It doesn’t exist once mommy’s pleasing him.

But he’s also promising about being good? Let’s see how good he’ll be then.

No more words are exchanged, just the soft desperate pants of the pretty blond and some small airy whines that leave his mouth in anticipation for what you’ll do next.

You don’t even start slow, you go absolutely feral.

He barely gets to inhale one last deep breath until you’re fucking that out of his lungs, his head turning to look back at you as best he could as his body begins hitting the wall in front of him, his clothes rubbing against the roughness of the bricked exterior of the unknown building. He lifts head enough to not get itself hit against the wall and his hands are clawing at the bricks desperately, trying to find leverage to hold on tightly, his brain struggling to catch up with how vicious yet delicious you’re fucking him.

When he does remember he’s a human who can speak words, he cries out “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” in such high pitches, it sounds like he’s singing, probably trying to continue seducing you into such a horny haze. His pent-up sexual frustration must have been infectious, with how you find yourself being merciless with him and his ass, your hips slamming into the back of his in such a brutal pace you wonder if the skin will bruise, if he’ll be able to sit or walk properly.

Probably not, but that’s the point, isn’t it?

Your baby boy wanted you to fuck the living shit out of him, so that’s what you’ll do, it’s what you’re best at doing.

Fuck the annoyance out of him so that when you guys get home, he passes out.

You momentarily forget you guys are very much still in public and even if it’s night, civilians are very much still awake and walking, either going back home or going to work, maybe hang out with their friends or find themselves a sub to fuck.

Monoma doesn’t even warn you that he’s cumming, not even his loud, prolonged whine of your name gets your attention. But with how he’s spasming around your toy, how his hips are twitching quickly in between your hands, his eyes that never left from looking at you crossing…

Yeah, since you missed that orgasm and you’re not in the mood to exactly punish him, why not fuck him some more until he can’t remember his name and only yours?

You briefly pause, the tip of the toy the only thing still inside of him as one of your hands rubs circles on his lower back and the other remains on his hip.

Through the panting, Monoma lets out a whine, one that sounds almost disappointed. Probably because he came far quicker than what either of you two expected, or because it feels like you’re pulling out already and calling it a night.

No words are exchanged as you watch him catch his breath for a bit more, memorizing how rosy his cheeks and nose look, how the blush looks like it’s on his neck while his white pupils are fully dilated, oozing his adoration for you.

When you hear him suck in a breath, whether he’s preparing a sentence or to finish pulling himself off the toy, you slam back into him, grinning like a maniac upon feeling how his whole body jumped, going back into action and having blood pump everywhere in him, mostly towards his reawakening dick.

And you slam, slam, slam, slamming into him at such a steady pace, making sure to roll your hips the way you know will make him start squealing in such a girly tone, or like a dirty pig he sometimes becomes.

And once you feel him begin to push back on you and one of his hands leave the wall, you lean forward, pushing his body more up on the wall. He’s bent too much, it’s obvious you’re fucking him doggy style. What if people decide to go through this alley?

He obeys but whines in complaint, not wanting you to stop your ministrations as he pulls himself together, standing up as much as he could as to leave his lower back still bent for you.

“Keep your hands on the wall or else I’ll leave you here like this.”

He loves it when you speak to him in such a low voice, in such a way that you know makes him want to suck your cock for days until his jaw hurts. He puts his hands back on the wall, both placed where his face is at, acting as support as he rests his forehead there. His neck hurts a bit from how long he’s been straining to look at you.

You go back to fucking him, going back to what you were doing, moaning his name repeatedly to keep riling him up, arouse him and make him start begging for you to go faster, harder, deeper, make him dirty.

And he does with loud wails, ones that have you freezing and stopping all together, slapping a hand on his mouth and whispering how he should quiet down, unless he wants to be whored to other people.

“Be mommy’s good boy and keep quiet. Unless you want someone else’s cock.”

“No! No muh-mommy! Only y-yours~ Please!” He moans, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he impatiently grinds against you, feeling how sticky his thighs are getting with sweat and some of his cum and precum, somehow.

“Mommy, fuck me more, please!” He whimpers so cutely, so pathetically, so melodically you’re sure he somehow copied someone’s siren quirk, because your head feels dizzy, your heart is beating erratically and your hips sync with the pulse, forgetting about being consistent with speed, with roughness, with how deep you reach inside of him.

Fucking him silly until he’s trying his best to muffle his screams and cries into the back of his hands pressed on the wall, his fingers trying so hard to find solace on them, to grasp the reality of him being defiled in an empty, dirty alleyway, pressed so ruthlessly against a wall he doesn’t know how exactly dirty it could be.

Monoma’s hiccuping your name until you spank him, growling softly how that’s not who you are, making him wail out “Mommy! Cumming!” in such an erotic way, you wonder if you’re fucking your boyfriend or a girl with how he’s managed to reach such an incredible pitch.

You keep going, and even when he’s done cumming, you don’t stop impaling him, and a hand goes to wrap itself around his dick, trying your best to match this chaotic fucking, hearing how he’s struggling to breath, to comprehend this painful yet electrifying pleasure.

His toes are curling in his shoes, his knees don’t stop buckling, his hips never stop trying to meet with yours, the burn of overstimulation flowing through his veins yet motivating his dick to keep going, to keep obeying, to not disappoint mommy.

Monoma’s speaking gibberish, babbling whatever nonsense and begging he could think of or come to make up, the tips of his fingers turning white with how hard they’re pressing against the bricks as he tries to not fall. He’s not sure how or why he’d fall, but with how you’re touching him, squeezing him, stroking him, playing with him, he’s ready to give into the inquiry of whether being a househusband would have you fucking him like this everyday.

It’s a weird thought, one he’s never had before, one that’s still early to even care about-

Oh my god you’re abusing his prostate!

He’s seeing stars, planets, flashing strobe lights and envisioning his uproaring third orgasm, mouth hung open stupidly as whiny sobs and strangled cries escape him, trying his best to keep quiet like you said but he can’t!

“Feels s’ good!” He slurs, once again turning his head to look at you, eyes completely wet as tears fall in graceful droplets, hair messed up and drool staining a bit of his chin.

And just as you were going to respond, you heard footsteps.

You both freeze: you’re halfway out of him while Monoma’s struggling to not let his coughing fit be heard, having swallowed his saliva far too quickly with the scare.

The sounds stop, but now you both can hear a female voice.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

Monoma whimpers, embarrassed.

So this is how he’ll get caught and shamed.

This is the end of his career.

But you’re not having it, not with how his dick has stopped twitching and is starting to soften.

You’re not done yet, and neither is he.

“Answer, Monoma.” You harshly whisper, wiping your thumb over his hypersensitive tip, making him hiccup loudly before composing himself as best he could.

“Y-yes? It-It is I, Phantom Thief- ooh~”

Another voice pitches in.

“Phantom Thief? The Phantom Thief?!”

“Y-Yes!” Monoma squeaks out, trying to cover up his gasp as you begin to slowly fuck him, making sure to keep hitting him straight to the prostate, amused how he’s gripping his jaw, muffling his hiccups while frantically shaking his head, begging you with his eyes to no, no, please!

The two bystanders gasp, seemingly walking more towards where you and Monoma are, making you press him more into the wall, hoping the angle you’re both in and the small hiding spot is enough to keep you hidden.

“We’re huge fans of yours! But, um, are you alright? We heard someone crying.”

“Fuck!” Monoma whimpers, struggling to keep his breathing in check as you continue to move, even rolling your palm all over his tip, your other hand going to pull at one of his nipples.

“What was that?”

“N-nothing! I’m fin- ugh~”

“You… sure?”

“YES!”

Monoma yells, back arching as his head touches your shoulder, eyes rolling up this head as he’s torn between pushing back or bucking forwards, feeling his body submerged in such an intense heat, in such shame, in such pathetic desperation to cum, he’s begging you in quick hushed moans to please, pretty please, make him cum, he wants to cum, needs to cum again.

“And your fans?” You whisper teasingly, feeling how he shivers with how close your breath is near his ear.

“Fu-uck my fans-”

“Now now, that’s something you never said before. Did I fuck Monoma Neito out of you?”

And you go back with the brutal pace, not caring if the other two bystanders can hear what’s going on, not caring if they come out traumatized or probably aroused with how obvious it is that their dear Phantom Thief is getting fucked in a shady place, in a nasty place, yet he’s silently wailing and convulsing with everything you’re giving him.

Your hand soon enough gets sticky with what little cum his poor, weak body produced, his hole clenching tightly around your strap-on while his hands fly back to grasp any part of you that he could reach, which ended up being your head.

The bystanders speak again while Monoma’s busy wheezing his gratitude.

“Are you sure you’re alright? We could call the police-”

“I’m alright! ‘m fine~” He managed to sing-song, but if you heard a bit of his whimper seep from the last word, you don’t say anything, simply slow down your stroking before pausing.

You hear their footsteps slowly go back towards where they probably came from, making Monoma let out shaky exhales of relief and satisfaction, small giggles slipping from time to time as you kiss his neck, his cheek, his jawline.

And once you are certain you’re both alone again, you slowly pull out of him, helping him to turn around so that his back presses against the wall.

Until he grimaces.

“My essence is, from my deduction, splattered on this disgusting wall.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you point down to where his pants are, laughing harder when you see how his grimace turns into a face of disgust, horror, shame, surprise, arousal- wait what?

You don’t question the last one, simply letting out the last of your giggles while you search for the disinfectant wipes you tend to carry with you in your utility belt. And once they’ve been found, you make him lick your cum-covered hand first before properly passing a wipe. You hand Monoma one so that he cleans his face if needed, disinfect his hands, his thighs, anywhere he thought he needed to clean.

No, that's a lie. You took care of his thighs and pelvis, trying your best to clean the spots where his cum reached his pants before peppering a few gentle kisses around his exposed skin.

Pulling his briefs and pants up, buttoning, zipping, fasting his belts. You let out a happy sigh, fixing his hair and tie.

You then fix yourself.

“Who’s mommy’s good boy, Monoma?”

He somehow managed to chirp. “I am, mommy.”

“Then, you’ll stop being a bitch tonight, right? Mommy made sure to fuck it out of you.”

“Oh, um,” aw, he’s blushing. “I suppose…”

When you both walk away from the much-more defiled wall, you hold back an amused snort with how Monoma seems too unstable with his feet, how his legs seem to shake with every step he tries to take and how frustrated he looks with how uncooperative his body is.

You decide that chilling and cuddling in that corner wouldn’t be so bad, and considering how your shift ended minutes ago, you doubt either you or Monoma will get into trouble.

#✿; impurity #⏱ Monoma brain rot #bnha smut #monoma neito smut #monoma smut #sub monoma neito #sub bnha #mha smut #ლ; blasphemy #𝖒𝖔𝖓𝖔𝖒𝖆

415 notes · View notes

yoonpobs · 3 years

Text

bad boy good thing xiv.

pairing: jeon jungkook x oc

genre: angst, smut, fluff, miscommunication (we hate her lol), pining

warnings: smut, jungkook is really an asshole, the angst hurts a lot tbh, unhealthy relationships (?)

words: 5, 690

summary: a series of drabbles where you're confused and jungkook's confusing

a/n:

hello!!!! we’re here at fourteen chapters omg ✨✨when i first started this series it was mostly self-indulgent and now there are people who actually enjoy reading it??🥺 it almost doesn’t seem real T.T

thank you so much for the love and support!!! just so I don't give too much spoilers for this chap - I apologise to my fellow geminis for the potential slander 🤣 this is more of a self-drag lmaooo

anyway, I hope you enjoy this chap!!!

“Ah. I’m getting allergies.” Yena sniffs, scrunching her nose.

You furrow your brows in concern, “Are you okay? Do you need any medicine?”

“It’s just the seasonal changes,” She brushes you off.

You nod in understanding, “I get it. My mom has horrible reactions towards pollen so—”

“I’m not allergic to flowers.” She blinks.

“Then what—?”

“It’s Gemini season. It’s like—literally the worst time of the year.” She blinks.

You gawk at her, taking a whole ten seconds to process her serious tone when she doesn’t waver under your scrutiny.

“I’m a Gemini,” You inform her slowly.

“I mean …” She shrugs all as you scowl at her, opting to throw the closest object you had, which was your favourite pen so you decide against it; simply shooting her the meanest glare you could possibly muster.

“Look, it’s not you,” She sighs, and you’re half-expecting her to finish with an it’s me to make you scoff, “It’s me.” And there you go. “I mean, it’s Gemini’s in general because they’re two-faced bitches who have the worst emotional attachment issues. Like they’re literally what the opposite of glue is. And they’re so over-analytical. How is it like psychoanalysing every person you meet only to hurt your own feelings and sulk about it?”

You blink.

“I mean it’s not you but if the shoe fits.” She says casually, plopping a grape into her mouth that you’re tempted to slap away.

“You’re so mean!” You pout indignantly.

She cackles, throwing her head back as you continue to sulk. You weren’t that bad. You just … you were risk-averse! You liked having the freedom to observe everyone and anyone and package them into tiny compartments in your head so you could understand them better. You weren’t … that Gemini.

“You’re so cute,” She coos pinching your cheeks. “No wonder Beef One and Beef Two like you so much.” She teases.

Your first reaction is to blush because you know who exactly she’s talking about, but you have more pressing matters, like—

“You have nicknames for them?” You ask, baffled.

“Hey, I wasn’t friends with many girls in high school. Don’t girls usually have nicknames for their crushes?” She says through a pout.

You stay expressionless as you try to gauge the level of seriousness you can extract from her tone.

You realise she’s dead serious.

“Yeah, but we’re in college,” You argue, scrunching your nose, “And sides’, it’s not like they’re strangers. We know them.”

She rolls her eyes, waving you off like you were the inconvenience here. Then she leans forward, her eyes twinkling as she takes a complete one-eighty that you try to adjust to.

“So … you Gemini hoe, what’s your plans?” She nudges you.

You raise a brow, “Did you just call me a—?”

“Plans, ___. Stay on track.” She scolds.

You sigh, still fond but you pretend to be annoyed. You really couldn’t get annoyed with Yena. After all, the more time you spend with her the more you realise how much life sucked before you had her in your life. You spent each moment learning more about her quirks and habits, her choice of words that made you giggle or laugh until you were crying.

And you realise that this is how she loves, a little rough but welcomed nonetheless.

“If you’re talking about my birthday then … not much. I’m probably stuck doing admin work for the college’s charity programme.” You shrug, stabbing a fork into your soiled salad.

Yena gapes at you, “Not much—excuse me? It’s your birthday! You’re turning twenty-five!”

You look at her dryly, “I’ve been twenty-five since the year—”

She groans, “That’s not the same! You’re like—officially twenty-five. You’re literally hitting the mark for a quarter-life crisis. Isn’t that something to celebrate?”

“Me going through an existential crisis at the end of my degree is not how I want to celebrate my birthday but okay,” You blink.

She rolls her eyes at your realism.

“That’s not the point. Point is, this is our first birthday together and I want it to be special.” She points out.

You snort, “What? Are we doubling my birthday as our monthsary or something?”

She shoves you with a brute force that has you snickering but she continues to pester you anyway.

“You’re so dumb. So smart, but so dumb,” She shakes her head, “You’re always studying or doing some form of work that requires the use of more than one brain cell. You deserve a break. Besides, you have two dudes to pick from on how you’d like to be wined and dined and—”

“Yena!” You whine.

“—it’ll be like an episode of the Bachelorette! But just with a super cool and smart best friend that’ll make the decision for you. It’s not your birthday. It’s ours.” She emphasises towards the end.

You stare at her for a long second, before the two of you are bursting into laughter at the absurdity of her statement.

It was nice, just to laugh about things without having your heart feel so heavy. Even if it was a mild distraction, it was still wholly pleasant to be able to just talk about mindless things that didn’t require much mental gymnastics to navigate the conversation with.

“What are the two of you laughing about?” Taehyung and Jimin arrive at impeccable timing, sliding into the booth with their own packaged food. It’s very college-student-esque, a cute paper (because no plastic) container filled with an array of assortments.

“None of your XY chromosomes business.” Yena retorts.

Jimin blinks, “You are literally so hostile.”

“Then don’t give me a reason to be.” She sticks her tongue out petulantly.

You laugh, nudging her with your shoulder, “Be nice.”

Taehyung rolls his eyes but manages to keep a civil smile on his face. Always the more rational one between the two.

“Anyway, Yena definitely isn’t going to answer me so, what’s up?” He turns to look at you.

You roll your eyes but it’s half-hearted, “She wants to celebrate my birthday like we’re on the Bachelorette.”

“Like you’re on the Bachelorette.” She corrects.

“Oh my God, our baby’s turning twenty-five!” Jimin coos at the reminder, pinching your cheeks as he coddles you. You scowl and weakly shove him away, even if you preen under the attention.

“I’m literally older than the both of you.” You huff.

Yena blinks, “There’s no way I’m the oldest person at this table.”

Taehyung furrows his brows, “Wait—how old are you?”

She sends him a scathing glare that has his arms raised up in defence.

“Jeez, okay. Don’t answer.”

“I’m going to answer because you told me not to.” She clips. “I’m twenty-seven.”

Jimin blinks, “No wonder you and Yoongi hyung are so alike.”

You almost miss it, but as Yena so eloquently pointed out, you were a sucker for psychoanalysing people (even if you didn’t want to admit it yet) that you notice the way she flushes ever so slightly as she scoffs.

“Him? How dare you compare me to that sorry excuse of a—!”

“Okay, everyone is beneath you. I’m sorry your highness.” Jimin rolls his eyes.

You make a note to ask her about it because you know for a fact that Yoongi ‘complains’ about Yena every hour he can. It’s almost as if he can’t go long enough without mentioning her.

You smile to yourself as you duck your head.

“Exactly,” She flips her hair over her shoulders before turning to face you. “Anyway, back to you—our baby.”

Taehyung nods, “Exactly, the baby.”

You scrunch your nose, “Don’t coddle me.”

He pats your head before cooing at you like he would to an actual baby, “But you’re just so cute. You’re too good for this shitty world. Too good for the likes of mere mortals like us.”

“Not me.” Yena blinks before gesturing to their bodies, “You.”

Jimin sticks his tongue out in retaliation as you sigh at their never-ending bickering.

Somehow … it felt right. You think it most of the times but you don’t know any other way to describe how it feels to be back with your friends, laughing, bickering and just appreciating their presence.

When you and Jungkook had your issues, it was like you made the conscious choice to avoid everyone and anyone as much as you could, and any interaction you had during that period was purely out of coincidences and not the intention. You remember actively avoiding Jimin and Taehyung because it felt too draining to pretend like you didn’t have a battle in your head. Even studying or spending time with Namjoon made you feel guilty, the thought of Jungkook lingering in your mind. Yena was there through it all, but even then you saw her as much as you did with any of your classmates you so happened to share a class with.

In fact, if it weren’t for Yena you’d probably have zero social interactions as a whole because she just knew. She somehow picked up on your internal conflicts but never outwardly shamed you or confronted you about it. All she did was be there for you, offering you her presence and you were grateful.

So, yeah. Things were better, but your heart was still at its core—confused. Your feelings for Jungkook didn’t disappear overnight and you knew that you were the one that asked for space.

You forgave him … you did, honestly. But there are things you can’t forget, and those are the things that you wished you could. The words he said in principle, was outright shitty. But the fact that it came from him only poked at every single one of your insecurities that you developed over the years.

You knew it wasn’t healthy to compare yourself to other women when they were living vastly different lives than you were, but it’s proven difficult when you’re forced to see these type of women every day, at college, in your community work or on the media.

Believing Jungkook’s apparent feelings for you was harder because, well. Jungkook was Jungkook. He wasn’t just another guy, and despite his shortcomings, he had more merits than he’d let on and you knew that people saw that. It was also the fact that Jungkook had a charm that drew all types of people in. He was soft-spoken but passionate, and people loved a quiet achiever.

You … knew about the women. Way before Jennie and way before the thing between the two of you happened. Jimin and Taehyung would always update you about the new fling or girl he had tied to his hip just as he was in his final year in high school. You had to force a smile every single time they’d snicker and joke about how your Jungkook suddenly became a man overnight.

And you noticed the trend with the women he liked. They were … captivating. Beautiful wasn’t even enough to describe them because they looked like they could carry the world on their shoulders and spark immense change with just the movement of their lips. They were confident and charismatic, outgoing and just the right amount of flirty. You were anything but.

It sucked, majorly, because you spent years agonising over the fact that you were already coined with the older sister title in the group because of the way you acted—just a little more uptight than the average woman your age. You were quiet but loud in the right company; you didn’t like crowds, socialising or mingling around with people you didn’t know and based on your observations it seemed like that was the only thing that Jungkook’s been doing ever since he made it to senior year in high school, and even in the first years of college.

You don’t resent him, you think. You couldn’t blame him because you weren’t honest either. You consented, to all of the kisses and touches even if he hadn’t officially had sex with you. You wanted to, but you were terrified. Not at the prospect of penetration but at the prospect of not being enough and the fact that Jungkook was the only person you wanted to have sex with while he had options that were far more attractive and experienced than you were.

That’s why you needed time because at least you could get your shit together even if it was an uphill battle.

“Earth to ____?” Taehyung waves a hand in front of your face with a concerned expression.

You blink, snapping out of your daze as you offer a meek smile and an apology.

“We just asked you if you wanted a small get together at Tae’s and I’s place for your birthday?” Jimin asks.

“Really?” You beam. That was exactly what you preferred.

“Yeah, we know you don’t like clubs and stuff. Just a small and intimate gathering with all your best buds.” He grins.

You nod your head, but Yena beats you to a response.

“By best buds you mean the three friends she has, which is us and the two meatheads duelling for her affection.” She snorts.

You flush, “Y-Yena!”

Taehyung snickers at your embarrassment.

“It doesn’t help that both of them are literally the biggest dudes on the football team. It’s literally like watching King Kong and Godzilla getting into a fight for world domination.”

Jimin throws his back in laughter as you fold your arms across your chest at post at the way your friends are practically crying in laughter at the image. Jimin was clutching onto Taehyung for his dear life because if he didn’t then he’d fall off the chair.

“Stop,” You whine, “you guys are being mean.”

“Oh my God, you’re literally the only person on this earth that would take two people fighting for your attention as an offence.” Taehyung groans.

“I-It’s not that!” You deny exasperatedly, “I-It’s just … awkward …”

Jimin sighs with a small smile, patting your head.

“If it’s any consolation I think it’s offensive that Jungkook thinks he even has the right to breathe in—”

“Jimin!”

“Wow. It really is like King Kong and Godzilla.” Jimin whistles lowly, eyeing the scene before him with amusement lingering in his eyes.

“Do you think they’re gonna start slamming their chests soon or …?” Taehyung trails off in a whisper, leaning into Jimin so that the two other men wouldn’t notice.

“I can literally hear you.” You say dryly.

Jimin offers you a plastic smile, “You’re meant to hear us, babe. How about you try to tame them like Jane did with Tarzan?”

Jimin nearly shrieks when you shove him so fiercely that he topples over into Taehyung’s grasp as the second part of the duo only catches him in the process.

You sigh, completely ignoring the way that Jimin’s muttering curses that were directed to you under his breath. Instead, you were transfixed on the scene before you—which specifically is Jungkook and Namjoon staring each other down through the mirror of the gym. You were lucky that it was just the five of you since Namjoon was able to use his captain privileges to book the gym because you had no idea how to explain the fact that two big-sized men were attempting to outdo each other in their circuit reps as if they were on a suicide mission.

“Listen, when I agreed to help you out with your sets I thought I was meant to help log it in for a report.” You exasperate, but the two men continue their manly lift-off as they huff and puff their exertion away.

“Trust me, you are helping. Being the motivation is more than—”

This time it’s Taehyung who faces your wrath as you thwack him upside the head.

From where Jungkook and Namjoon were, Jungkook can only deliver death stares into the direction of his captain who returns it tenfold. He wasn’t even sure why they were doing this but something a flicked definitely switched in Jungkook when Namjoon (purposefully) revealed that you were helping out with something. At the gym. Supposedly alone.

Jungkook’s primitive side came out because the next thing Namjoon knew was that Jungkook managed to drag himself, and Jimin and Taehyung as a diversion. He still feels his chest swell with pride when recalling the scowl on Namjoon’s face when he entered the gym, all fake smiles and a pep in his step.

“____, could you help me spot?” Namjoon breathes, sitting up from whatever the hell he was doing with the barbell. You weren’t fixated with gym language and you weren’t even sure why he was asking you when there was an entire Jimin and Taehyung right next to you.

“Uh, okay sure—“

“Noona,” Jungkook calls.

You freeze.

“Jungkook … I thought we established that you don’t need to call me that anymore.” You raise an eyebrow.

You miss the obvious glare that Namjoon shoots his bitchass friend, as well as the snorts that leave Jimin and Taehyung’s mouth.

“Pay attention to me,” Jungkook pouts. Like, actually pouts. You somehow flush because he seemed so much like the younger version of Jungkook who used to always coddle you for attention.

“Okay but after I help—”

“Yeah. After she helps me.” Namjoon interjects, and you nearly jump at the way he’s suddenly behind you, more so—pressed against your back with his hands on your hips as he moves you aside to get to another piece of equipment.

Your breath hitches because while you weren’t exactly invested in Namjoon in the romantic sense, he was undeniably attractive and … big. You could salivate in private.

“Oh my God, do you see that?” Taehyung hisses in a hushed whisper.

“Hyung is petty,” Jimin gawks.

“This is Namjoon we’re talking about. Didn’t he steal all the umbrellas from your dorm because you ratted him out to the librarian when he broke a bookshelf?” Taehyung recalls.

Jimin pauses to retract his mind to that moment.

“He’s so petty and I’m living for it. Look at Kook’s face,” He snickers, nudging Taehyung with his shoulder.

Jungkook only can clench his jaw in return because he knew that you wouldn’t be a fan of him reaching out to strangle the shit out of Namjoon. But the older boy seems fine, if not pleased with how Jungkook’s fuming in his own spot.

“Let me just …” You cock a thumb to Namjoon, before releasing a breath of your own and going to help him with whatever he needed in the first place.

“Jimin can help him. I have a more pressing problem.” He complains.

You stop in your tracks before turning around, raising an eyebrow at Jungkook who finally sits up, still staring at you like you held all the solutions in the world.

“Literally wait for your turn,” Namjoon scowls.

“My arm hurts,” Jungkook says, raising his arm to show you.

“I don’t … see anything?” You furrow your brows.

“Because my muscles hurt, Noona,” Jungkook emphasises with a flex of his bicep and you can feel yourself get hot in the way your eyes can’t stray away.

You’re momentarily distracted by the blatant display of muscle by Jungkook that you completely miss the way that Jimin and Taehyung are struggling to breathe because of how hard they’re stifling their laughter or the way that Namjoon is contemplating on throwing the nearest dumbbell into Jungkook’s direction.

You flush, “Okay, you know what? Wait here. Let me get the first aid kit.” You mumble, quickly scampering off to alleviate yourself from the situation.

The moment you leave the room, Namjoon takes two long strides until he reaches where Jungkook’s sat, before wrapping a hand around the arm that was supposedly hurt—and squeezes.

“Ow! What the fuck hyung?!” Jungkook shrieks.

“Don’t hyung me, you brat.” Namjoon seethes, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Jungkook gapes, while Jimin and Taehyung watch in amusement.

“Me?! What’s wrong with you?” Jungkook retorts, equally as agitated, “Oh, _____, help spot me! Woe is me! Like she wouldn’t get crushed under you, you meathead!”

“Like you’re any better,” Namjoon snaps, “Oh, Noona, pay attention to me. My arm hurts. You might as well have asked her to change your fucking diapers at the rate you’re acting like a damn child.”

“You’re the one that started all of this!” Jungkook exasperates, “With all due respect hyung, I love you and you’re my captain but I really feel like smashing your head into the wall right now.”

“That’s it?” Namjoon scoffs, “Well I’ll do you one better and let you know that every time you breathe in my direction I feel like—”

“Oh my God will you two idiots shut the fuck up?” Taehyung interjects, snapping at the two boys who pause, staring up at him with wide eyes.

Even Jimin is surprised at Taehyung’s intervention, purely because he was the type that usually let shit slide or let other people put problematic individuals into place. He was the mediator, the diplomat—not usually the aggressor.

“Wha—”

“Another peep and I’m going to smother your body under the dumbbells and leave you here to rot and die.” Taehyung seethes, staring straight into Jungkook’s soul.

That shuts him up.

“Both of you are acting like goddamn children, and for what? To battle out your masculinity to see who gets ____’s attention first?” Taehyung exasperates.

Namjoon clears his throat, “We were just—”

“—acting like a bunch of barbarians who’s never seen civilisation?” Taehyung retorts dryly, “Yeah. Because that’s exactly what this looks like. The two of you are so petty and for what? You two are literally rubbing the last remaining brain cells you have with each other but nothing is coming out from it. Like—nothing. Do you think she’d give a shit which one of you can lift more reps? That means absolutely nothing! She’s already freaked the fuck out at the prospect of her childhood best friend being in love with her and now we have Big Tit Number One and Two battling it out like you’re in the Greek Olympics.”

Jungkook blinks, and Jimin is mildly impressed.

“So before she comes back and tends to Jungkook’s hurt muscle,” Taehyung sneers, eyes narrowing at a guilty-looking Jungkook, “Both of you better sort your shit out.”

Namjoon flushes, embarrassed at the prospect of being called out, all while Jungkook is avoiding eye contact at all costs.

“Oh my God, do you have a crush on each other or something? Apologise!” Taehyung gestures towards the two boys who awkwardly blink at each other, feeling much like reprimanded children.

It’s Namjoon who breaks the silence first, clearly the more mature one in the situation.

“Look … Jungkook,” He sighs, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … drag it out like this. I don’t mean it maliciously and you’re my friend and teammate, so I’d really hate if a girl got in the way.”

Jungkook nibbles on his lips, eyebrows still scrunched; and the irrational part of him tells him to ignore the apology. But with the way that Taehyung is glaring him down, with Jimin’s expectant gaze, he knows that he doesn’t have much of a choice.

“I’m sorry … too,” he winces at his own voice, “But just to let you know … I really …” He shuts his eyes, feeling his chest tighten when he tries to force the words out, “She isn’t just … a girl to me, hyung. I really, really like her. And—I know you like her too but … I fucked up and I really want to make things right and seeing you—”

Jungkook is flushing while he rambles on, fully aware that the rest of his friends are listening intently to him speaking his heart. But a hand rests itself on his shoulder, and when Jungkook opens his eyes he sees Namjoon offering him a gentle smile.

“I know,” He says, “I know I said I wouldn’t back off …” He trails off and Jungkook recalls the conversation he had with him in the very same gym just a few weeks back, “But I don’t think I can compete with a decade long love story.”

Jungkook scoffs, though his ears are flushed.

“It’s really not—”

Namjoon waves him off, clasping a tight hand onto his back that tells him it’s okay, and whatever that was going on would get better. And Jungkook feels marginally better and allows himself to let out a sigh of release.

“So are the two of you gonna kiss or what?” Jimin asks in the midst of the silence.

Namjoon glares at the boy, “Don’t make me give you an extra ten laps.”

He backs down immediately, raising his hands up in defence. And at that moment, you return, all smiles and with a pant as you raise the first aid kit up.

“Your arm?” You smile sweetly, and Jungkook can only offer a weak on in return.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Depends. Will I have to run from the government if I answer you honestly?” Yena ponders out loud.

You roll your eyes but shake your head anyway. The two of you were meant to be cooking dinner but you’ve surrendered yourself to Netflix and Yena’s witty live commentary on horrible films you were scrolling through an hour earlier. Though, your head wasn’t quite in it, to begin with; your thoughts drifting to other aspects, ones that you thought too hard for and didn’t necessarily know the answer to.

It was frustrating, the way that you wanted to have a solution for everything but overthought every single case that happens to pass by your mind.

“No one’s hunting anyone down, your anarchist,” You say, “This is a little … personal.”

You didn’t have any girl friends prior to Yena, and that was your first mistake. You weren’t the person that actively avoided having girl friends because you thought they were dramatic or overly emotional but purely because you never knew how to befriend women. It was weird—being a woman yet being muddled with your own sense of femininity that suppressed your ability to form meaningful friendships with your women peers.

Throughout most of your childhood and teenaged life, you only had Jimin, Taehyung and Jungkook. While they were more than enough to keep your memories cheerful and filled with laughter, there were more personal things that you couldn’t quite approach them with. They had each other to confide in their ‘manly’ discussions, small talk that you’d often flush at—but you couldn’t ask them the same things you wanted to.

You knew, that on a fundamental level that your personal things were just … things. It wasn’t that deep, nor did it require a PhD in Gender Studies to fully understand the nuance of periods or apparent ‘girl’ problems; you just needed to listen. But you were timid, and you got embarrassed super easily—so that never boded well whenever you’d want to approach them with a question of your own.

But now, you had Yena—debatably the most open and understanding person you’ve met in your life; and you owed it to yourself, and her—to be honest, to live yourself vicariously in your girl best friends eyes—and ask:

“How do you have sex?”

Granted, there was definitely a smoother way of peeling off the bandaid, but you supposed if you were going to be discussing this one way or another, you’d go big or go home.

“I’m sorry,” She coughs, “What?”

You blink.

“Sorry, I guess I should’ve asked if you were a virgin first …” You mumble.

Yena stares at you with a stupefied expression as she gapes at you.

“Hey, repeat after me: candy, tree and cat.” She grabs you by your shoulders.

“I’m not cerebrally compromised, Yena,” you say dryly.

“Repeat,” She glares.

You huff, shoving her hand off your shoulder.

“Candy, tree and cat. There, happy?” You huff.

She eyes you weirdly as you sigh.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes!” You exasperate, “So like … how? Do you just? Penetrate?”

Yena blinks one more time, her eyes trailing to the ceiling as she asks for a higher being to give her strength before she returns her gaze onto your figure.

“Babe, that is literally the unsexiest way to approach sex.”

“Penetration?” You furrow your brows.

She scrunches her brows, “No.” She gestures to you, “That.”

You scowl.

“I don’t know how to approach sex! That’s why I’m asking you. I literally don’t know who else to approach. If I went to Jimin or Taehyung I’m pretty sure they’d just stare at me and cry. Namjoon is out of the picture because he’d likely approach sex textbook style and I don’t need that level of detail right now. I definitely can’t ask Jungkook because he’s the guy I wanna have sex with. So yeah. I’m here because you’re a woman and the only person I can have a full conversation with without losing my will to live.”

Yena gawks at you, jaw slack as you finish your ramble; ears flushed.

“… you …” She begins, wracking her brain for the words that seem to fail her, “… okay. You know what, the fact that you’re here and putting your big girl pants on and asking me this is a feat in itself so I’m going to just ignore the fact that you said you wanted to have sex with Jungkook.”

You flush, “I was word vomiting—”

“Ah,” She holds her hands up, levelling you with a knowing glare, “If you want honest, you be honest too.”

You slump in your seat, sighing as you nod your head defeatedly.

“Firstly, I’m not a virgin. I could never be a virgin.” Yena declares, “Granted, I’ve slept with three people and two of them were women. But the idiot I lost my virginity to was, unfortunately, of XY chromosomes so … I guess I can answer your questions.”

“I mean … I know how sex works but … approaching it …” You mutter.

“And sex isn’t this groundbreaking act that requires Einstein’s IQ to partake in. It’s both intimate and not, and that’s definitely a personal preference. You can know the semantics of how people have sex, for hets in this case, which is just the classic ol’ penetration method where the penis enters the—”

“Your point?” You exasperate.

“—okay, I got a little carried away. But really, sex isn’t … difficult. It’s scary, I’ll give you that. But you don’t go into your first time thinking you’ll be great at it. Hell, you won’t even like sex that much your first few times unless your partner is a sex demon or something.”

“I mean when Jungkook …” You shudder, “When he … I … you know, did things … it felt …” You fiddle with your fingers. Your ears were undoubtedly on fire, and you were so embarrassed saying these things out loud because it was just so awkward!

“Good? You know I’m not going to judge you for it,” she says pointedly, “That’s what friends are for, right?”

You flush, covering your face with your hands in embarrassment. You knew that Yena would never judge you for something as trivial and as unimportant as your sexual endeavours, but this was still a road you’ve yet to properly navigate yourself.

“I … came,” you wince at your breathy voice, “It felt good. And … he’s experienced, you know? I just don’t want to …”

Yena looks at you inquisitively.

“You don’t want to …?”

You sigh deeply, considering your next words with a soft murmur, “I don’t want to not live up to his expectations, you know?”

She frowns at you, “Jungkook’s made some mistakes but you said it yourself. He’s in love with you,” she says softly, “There’s no pressure to have sex with him just because it’s out in the open now, you know?”

You nibble on your lips.

“It’s … more than just that,” you tell her, “I told him I needed time, and really, I do. But it isn’t because I’m confused. I mean, kind of—but really it’s because I don’t want to walk into something and disappoint him … I’m just … scared.”

Yena holds your hand in hers while offering you a gentle smile.

“It’s valid that you’re scared. But there really isn’t anything that can come out of being scared right now. The two of you worked through an obstacle, and here you are creating another one that doesn’t quite exist yet. Trust me, when the time feels right, it does. And you’ll feel ready. Will you still be scared? Maybe. But it’ll feel like it’s meant to fit within your timeline.”

You nibble on your lips, “Is it bad that I’m overthinking this?” You wince.

Yena shrugs her shoulders, “Like everything else in your life?” She teases.

You whine, shoving at her shoulder playfully where all Yena does is snicker in response. You weren’t quite sure what you were expecting out of the conversation, even if it was vaguely about the ins and outs of sexual exploration. And she was right, you’ll always be afraid of something, whether it’ll benefit you or harm you because that’s what change does. It shifts your comfort zone into a space that may be unfamiliar but necessary.

You lean into Yena’s shoulder, and a wave of overwhelming emotion washes upon you when you look at her. You really didn’t know how you survived a time without Yena in your life. And as if she’s noticed your glassy gaze, she raises an eyebrow at you.

“What are you looking at?”

You grin at her, all teeth and gums on display as you hug onto her arm like a koala.

“I’m just really happy you’re in my life.” You sigh wistfully.

She pauses for one whole second before she snorts.

“Wow, talk about sex once and suddenly you’re in love with me?” She wiggles her eyebrows at you, “Tell Jeon and Kim that you’re mine now.”

You giggle, rolling your eyes.

“They’re not even competing in the same league as you are,” you assure her.

She smiles.

“So … does that mean I don’t need to get you a birthday gift?”

That earns a thwack on her shoulder.

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