#*cries in fear*

[tubesock86]

saw wicked and I think these two should kiss

[baeshijima]

being married to duke!blade is a feat inconceivable to many.

overseeing the northern region where monster outbreaks are high and temperatures are low, he is feared by many for not only his undeniable battle prowess, but also his cold and dismissive demeanour. from all the stories and rumours passed down from those who battled alongside the duke, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say his mere presence alone is sufficient enough to take on an entire army.

but despite his infamous personality, the young duke had made rounds within high society when he first showed his face. he was handsome, having that rugged appearance expected of a blood-soaked warrior residing on the battlefied, yet beautiful with a haunting allure — those crimson-marigold eyes of his can simultaneously bewitch an unassuming victim and bring the most prideful of monarchs down to their knees.

and, as expected of someone with such descriptors, many of the nobility found themselves drawn to him in spite of the rumours which clung to his very being. noble ladies wished to be the first he ever danced with, while many families seeked to gain even a morsel of his power through arranged marriages. relentless as they were, none succeeded in swaying the stone-cold duke.

and stone-cold he was upon your first meeting, albeit in… less than fortunate circumstances.

having meandered around the foresty northern borders not too far from where your family estate is, you certainly were not expecting to stumble across a rotting corpse smack-dab in the middle of your path! okay, well, rotting may not be the most suitable term, but the slumped body, battered and bruised and bloodied, you accidentally kicked was very much a corpse.

you had contemplated leaving the body there but, upon seeing a bloodied insignia of an all-too familiar ducal household, you decided you wanted to live a little longer. of course, this led to you lugging a slumped, muscle-packed warrior of a man all the way to where your estate was, heaving and huffing with your body trembling under the weight.

(to say you were just about ready to collapse when the family knights spotted your emerging figure was no understatement!)

whisked away into a guest room near your own, your parents called for the family doctor immediately. when the blood was cleaned and his wounds were wrapped, the sight of his injuries mending themselves was sure to be a sight you would never be able to rid your mind of. it was a strange but intriguing phenomenon to see his skin stitched anew, that horrid sight of him collapsed in the forestry almost like that of a dream.

your father immediately sent word to the duke’s estate to notify them of the circumstances. in the meanwhile, the man of the hour was unconscious for three days. seeing as how you were the one to find him, you took it upon yourself to help look after his well-being. changing his bandages, regularly wiping the accumulating sweat with a freshly damp cloth, ensuring the room is well-ventilated — you did the lot!

(sometimes you would stare at his resting face, wondering just how much more handsome he would be with his eyes open; only to retract that sentiment when recalling the tales about how his eyes could burn a man alive. exaggerated or not, he is still a dangerous individual you would rather not further entangle yourself with.)

with his people having retrieved their master from your care, promises of hefty compensation for taking care of their lord ringing in your ears, you were ready to sweep the whole ordeal under the rug and never get yourself involved with a man like him again! after all, he is the fearful duke responsible for your region, while you’re just another noble within his domain.

so, naturally, when you first heard of your soon-to-be marriage, you thought your parents did something to offend him and were sending you as a sacrifice meant to appease his wrath.

because, well, why else would the very same duke infamous for having zero interest in romantic and political marriages be sending a letter for your hand in marriage of his own accord? being unconscious the entirety of the time made him unable to see you, let alone know your family, so of course that meant his staff had filled him in on what happened. but why would he initiate this proposal without even knowing who you are first???

(did you get a say in this? no. would you have refused? yes. did your parents care about you and your well-being? aside from their apologetic gazes at your slack-jawed reaction and somewhat rational reasoning of “his grace may have an infamous reputation, but he is not a cruel ruler nor man,” you would like to deny the parental affection they have given you thus far in favour of objecting the claim.)

well, no matter. there was little time to prepare for his arrival to your estate, as the letter stated he would be arriving to escort you himself.

after much fuss over your clothing and luggage, the day arrived; you were going to see him again, except this time, he would see you as well.

a regal carriage entered the estate’s gates. the door swung open. a black gloved hand was the first to appear, followed by a ducked head of long navy hair, a familiar figure donning a freshly pressed suit and black overcoat, and finally — finally — a pair of burning crimson-marigold met your own gaze.

you weren’t sure if it was the adrenaline of your fight or flight response kicking in or the butterflies which ruptured within you that caused your heart rate to increase, but you found yourself unable to tear your gaze away from him.

he stopped in front of you, the features you once saw up close felt more complete than ever with the addition of his eyes open.

and thus, with your palm settled atop his outstretched gloved one, your fate was sealed.

(man. was this the compensation the staff were saying to you as they left…?)

that was two years ago.

savage. cold-blooded. inhumane. brute. monster. these were some of the ways in which duke blade was described. the man who currently sits on the edge of the bed watching you dress his wounds, however, is much different than the public opinion.

ever since exchanging vows at the altar and slipping sacred rings of matrimony onto each other’s fingers, you have come to know many sides of blade you never thought possible.

and while he rarely spoke in the beginning, his actions spoke louder than any voice could ever hope to measure up to. and, eventually, he became more vocal in regards to his feelings for you, just as you have with yours upon witnessing firsthand his true character.

from his battle-haggard, near manic state when on the verge of succumbing to the curse before falling into your healing embrace, to his tender fleeting touches and ever-adoring affection repressed within his gaze when in the presence of others, you have seen it all.

the process of getting to know and understand the intricacies of his life is almost like unravelling layers upon layers of thin bandage wrapped tightly around a gaping wound, hoping to block out the vulnerabilities which could be exposed. it was rocky at first, you being in an unfamiliar environment while he had his own inner battles to deal with first and foremost, but time carved its path for the two of you to partake in talks lasting late into the night, a subtle fondness growing more pronounced as familiarity grew alongside it.

and, of course, the time he returned from a subjugation battle-worn and mind having been overriden with mania. it was the first you’d seen him in such a loss of control. knights were rushing to subdue him while the servants desperately tried to usher your bewildered form some place safe, as though this had been a common occurrence well before you came into the picture. that hadn’t gone as planned, however, as the moment blade’s heaving figure locked eyes with you, a state of chaos ensued the moment he broke through the wall of knights with ease and appeared in front of you. no time was wasted when he lunged, a panic chorus of cries following suit as you remained rooted in place.

while you would never forget the blown-out, near-animalistic look in his eyes as he drew closer at an impossible speed, the gentle — almost reverent — manner in which he embraced you then, rigid body instantly relaxing against you, would forever be the turning point of your relationship, as well as a long-cherished memory of his first true feelings.

a dull sensation poking the space between your brows snaps you out of your thoughts. “stop frowning. i’ll be fine like always.”

your hands pause in their ministrations, hovering over his bare torso where you finished tying up a bandage. a blink and a sigh, another swab of disinfectant is in your hands working at the wound on his bicep.

“but that doesn’t mean i like seeing you return to me wounded,” you mutter bitterly, blatantly ignoring his stare. “i know you can take care of yourself, what with that regenerative ability of yours, but i still worry over you. you can still feel the pain, after all, and not to mention that curse—”

a swift tug forward abruptly cuts you off, your words fizzling on the tip of your tongue as a familiar warmth encases you in its entirety. instinctively, your hands grip onto his shoulders, the coarse material of bandages not unfamiliar to your touch, while blade’s hands are splayed across the expanse of your back as he holds you against his seated form.

his nose nudges along the slope of your neck, the shape of your jaw, the contours of your face, a trail of soft kisses leaving searing imprints in its wake.

a deep breath, a ticklish sensation, a thrumming heartbeat.

and when he rests his forehead against your own, crimson-marigold eyes dyed with devotion and seeping ardour, you think the world will be okay.

(even if it were to burst into flames and be reduced to ash, if it means you would be by this man’s side for a little longer, you think it will be okay.)

[eatsurspleen]

everyday i get jealous of those people who write essays analyzing, picking apart, and overall appreciating their favorite character's dynamic with another, the character's personality, or backstory cause im usually left like this when i think about Marcille for too long

[liesmultixxx]

“Why did you leave me?”

can you hear me crying?

the way annabeth thought percy had abandoned her like everyone else

… girl he fell into tartarus for you, he would never leave you

NEVER

rick was evil for that

[ceaselessims]

the fact that martin blackwood haters exist is so confusing to me like he's a bitch who moans and complains but also sets fire to things for fun and successfully manipulates avatars and gets jealous about the avatar of death waking up his boyfriend up from a coma and is both jon's staunchest defender and not afraid to call out jon's bullshit

[reallybadblackoutpoems]

a treatise on government (c. 350 bc) - aristotle

"there are some persons who think, eurgh"

[inamindfarfaraway]

Batman fun fact! Did you know that Scarecrow’s toxin doesn’t always cause fear? Sometimes it does the opposite! In Detective Comics #571, he wields a variant that completely inhibits the biochemical fear response, preventing people from feeling any concern for themselves or using basic common sense. He runs a racket administering it to star athletes, who take huge risks and get badly injured. Then they’re willing to cough up a lot for an antidote. Batman and Robin - here Jason Todd - catch on, but Bruce is dosed with the reverse fear toxin; since his intelligence is his greatest strength, being too overconfident and reckless to think twice about anything makes him his own worst enemy.

This premise was adapted in the Batman: The Animated Series episode “Never Fear”. There we see that with no fear of losing his moral integrity, Bruce becomes cold and merciless to criminals. Robin - here Tim Drake - has to catch somebody he leaves to fall off a building, tie him up to stop him endangering himself and others and give him the antidote to prevent him murdering Scarecrow.

But in the comic book, Jason is kidnapped by Scarecrow. He gets gassed and hallucinates Bruce dying and telling him that it’s his fault. He isn’t around to keep Bruce in check as he goes to rescue him through a series of death traps that he can’t resist cutting it as close as possible in. So how does Bruce not go off the deep end? How does he not lose sight of what’s important? Not lose himself?

Because even a drug designed to shut down stress at the most fundamental level can’t overpower his true worst fear. The Dark Knight might feel fearless…

but a parent never is.

[my-fancy-hat]

The process of creating is the active, constant question of the self, to question the extent of my capacities to convey a message worth of people's respect and admiration. To me, Look Back is a tale of self-reafirmation for Tatsuki Fujimoto. I'm aware it came out in the gap between part 1 and part 2 of the author's best seller, Chainsaw man, which makes this oneshot such an intimate soul-shaking story after what may be the pinnacle of his career. This made me question, why would he write this kind of story after CSM (and Fire Punch) anyways?

Through Fujino and Kyomoto's journey (which funnily, their names convined are Fuji-moto) we are put in the shoes of the stirring yet self-doubting mind of the creator: "why do you draw manga? why do you create?" is the question the protagonist has to find the answer for. Fujino navigate her life for her passion and pride as a talented story-teller artist, while Kyomoto does so for her love for art itself in a more reserved and personal way. Combined, I think they are the rope that pushes Fujimoto back and forth in his mind, the fear of the creator to tell a story worth of people's respect (Fujino) while being faithful to oneself (Kyomoto). Fujimoto knows there always will be an expectation, a mark above his head everytime someone is aware a new story has his signature, so it's understandable for anxiety to take the worst of you, the fear to be openly judged by the masses. So why do you even bother to get through that unpleasant thing? will I ever surpass what I made in my past projects? why do I keep creating? is this all I will ever be? the entire process is tiresome, boring, a never-ending task, I enjoy art better as a consumer anyways, so why?

If there's only one person who my art made their day better, made them smile or excited for what is coming next, then it was worth every single second I spend working on it.

It's a reafirmation to keep going. That I was born to live into this world for this sake, and I'm worthy to connect and receive this love. This is my place.

I deeply respect you for it, Tatsuki Fujimoto.

[meloooooonade]

Dadhara being a good Dad

[lyrisnightblood]

All I can think about is how god of tides Rafayel would kill for this reality - a life filled with joy and happiness where his biggest woe is pissing off his wife and being put on timeout while his kid watches from a corner with the most shit-eating grin (that he is familiar with as he sometimes see that same grin in a mirror)

I- 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

(thank you fishiefishiebride and cherry-burst for your posts 🥺🫶)

[crismakesstuff]

what if instead of the viltrum empire they were the viltrum cuntpire and instead of conquering the galaxy they served cunt

[mrhunnynuts]

logged in to post this cameo i got late last year . have fun dadviders i like them a lot .. bye

[witchingwithscissors]

Agathario AU | She said she was straight, then came back from Paris ready to beg for her girlfriend back.

Rio leaned quietly against the gallery wall, fingers nervously tracing the rim of a half-empty glass of cheap wine.

At twenty-seven, she had grown weary—tired of meaningless dates, fleeting connections, and empty promises. Working in music curation at an indie label, Rio lived her life through lyrics that articulated feelings she rarely expressed aloud. Beneath her easy smiles and casual demeanor lay a deeply romantic heart, longing desperately for genuine connection.

Her restless shifting knocked the wine glass, spilling crimson liquid across her scuffed boots. A soft, amused voice gently interrupted her embarrassment.

“Smooth,” teased the woman softly, eyes twinkling with gentle amusement.

Rio blushed instantly, captivated by her quiet, commanding presence. The woman, clearly older—about seven or eight years Rio guessed—held herself with graceful composure. Auburn hair neatly tied back, gold earrings catching subtly in the dim gallery lights, she exuded an elegant confidence.

“Grace is overrated,” Rio joked, heart fluttering nervously.

“Agreed,” the woman replied warmly, extending her hand. “I’m Agatha.”

“Rio,” she replied softly, feeling the warmth of Agatha’s handshake linger sweetly on her skin.

Their conversation flowed naturally—Agatha, an architect passionate about restoring forgotten spaces, listened thoughtfully to Rio’s excited ramblings about music and emotion. Rio was instantly drawn to Agatha’s reserved kindness, sensing depth beneath her careful surface. As the night wound down, Agatha lingered near the door with a softness that felt intentional.

“I’m glad I came tonight,” she said. “You’re…unexpected.”

Rio smiled. “I get that a lot.”

Their courtship unfolded gently—brunch dates stretched into afternoon walks with Rio’s dog named Billy, indie film screenings filled with subtle tension, and coffee shop visits punctuated by quiet laughter. Rio found herself quickly drawn to Agatha’s patient kindness, feeling increasingly captivated by every nuanced smile and guarded glance. She began pulling away from casual flings, stopped responding to flirtatious texts from other women, and found herself indifferent even to the most tempting figures in crowded bars. All Rio wanted was Agatha—beautiful, complex, and heartbreakingly cautious.

But it wasn’t easy.

Agatha, though deeply kind and attentive, always held part of herself back, subtly uncomfortable with public affection or overly intimate gestures. Rio noticed the gentle resistance—how Agatha pulled away slightly from her touch in public, or grew tense when Rio’s affection became too overt.

“Sorry,” Rio said softly one day, feeling embarrassed after gently taking Agatha’s hand on a crowded street.

“No, it’s not you,” Agatha murmured sincerely, looking away nervously. “I’m just… still figuring this all out.”

Rio understood immediately. She sensed Agatha might be recently out—or perhaps still partially closeted—and felt an aching tenderness for her cautious vulnerability. Rather than pull away, Rio leaned in patiently, offering gentle support without pushing too hard. Even when Agatha’s reserve hurt slightly, Rio responded with compassionate patience and gentle humor, teasing playfully to ease the tension.

There were moments when Agatha nearly let her guard down completely. One afternoon in the park, Rio joked about Agatha’s stuffy architectural jargon and tickled her waist until Agatha let out a surprised, unguarded laugh that made Rio’s heart stutter.

Behind closed doors, Agatha’s careful facade unraveled.

In the dim, familiar light of Rio’s apartment—after a dinner of traditional Puerto Rican dishes seasoned with stories and stirred with love—something shifted. The scent of sofrito still hung in the air, plates forgotten in the sink. Agatha stepped in close, pressing Rio gently against the counter, her hands trembling just slightly. And then she kissed her—slow, searching, like she was trying to memorize the shape of her safety. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for permission, only patience.

“You’re different when it’s just us,” Rio whispered, tracing Agatha’s jawline softly.

Agatha met her gaze, voice tenderly vulnerable. “You make me feel safe. I just… need time to get there publicly.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Rio assured softly, feeling her heart ache sweetly for Agatha’s delicate bravery.

Their intimacy unfolded like something sacred—slow, consuming, full of reverence. Rio moved with intention, her mouth learning Agatha’s body like a familiar song rediscovered. Every kiss was patient. Every touch, a question answered.

She took her time, lips dragging against the sensitive skin at the inside of Agatha’s thighs, relishing the way Agatha trembled beneath her. Agatha’s fingers twisted into the couch cushions, her hips jerking upward as Rio’s tongue circled again, and again.

She’d already come three times, soaked and wrecked, her body shaking with each wave—but Rio showed no signs of stopping. She stayed there, steady and warm, as if she was trying to etch her name into every nerve Agatha had.

“Fuck,” Agatha breathed out shakily, thighs quivering around Rio’s head as pleasure built again—slowly, inexorably, almost painfully.

Her knees tightened against Rio, breath stuttering unevenly. The sensation of each taste bud on Rio’s tongue dragging slowly against her overstimulated clit was almost too much.

“Baby—” Agatha gasped suddenly, voice rough and pleading.

Rio froze for half a second, her breath catching in her throat. Slowly, she lifted her head, lips slick, eyes wide with something between wonder and hunger. “Say that again.”

Agatha blinked up at her, dazed, vulnerable. “Baby.”

And Rio—God, Rio lit up like it meant everything.

Her mouth returned with new purpose, tongue relentless and loving, one hand anchoring Agatha’s thigh as she pushed her closer to the edge again. It was worship, pure and simple.

When Agatha shattered again, crying out into the thick, quiet air of Rio’s apartment, Rio didn’t stop—she kissed her through it, slow and gentle, like sealing a vow with her mouth. Agatha’s body trembled beneath her, breath caught on a broken sob.

Rio slid up slowly, her hands firm but careful, lips brushing against Agatha’s flushed cheek, her temple, her mouth.

“You did so good for me, baby,” she whispered, voice low and warm, every word dripping with praise. “Fucking beautiful.”

Agatha’s breath hitched at the tenderness in Rio’s voice, her heart aching sweetly amidst overwhelming sensation. Rio’s patience and confidence—her unwavering devotion—made Agatha feel truly seen, deeply cherished.

And Rio felt it too—the way she found herself smiling at Agatha’s texts in the middle of meetings, or hearing Agatha’s voice in every melancholy chord she laid down in the studio. She didn’t want anyone else. She wanted the woman who stiffened in public but melted in her arms, who flinched when touched unexpectedly but leaned in when she thought no one was watching.

One afternoon, after a long nap together, Rio overheard Agatha on a phone call in the next room.

“She’s… sweet. It’s nothing serious,” Agatha said casually. Her voice was light, but something in the way she said it made Rio go still.

She didn’t bring it up. She didn’t ask. But it lodged deep in her chest like a stone, and that night, when she kissed Agatha’s shoulder in bed, there was a flicker of hesitation.

Agatha invited her over one evening, tension radiating palpably.

“I have news,” Agatha began nervously, gaze lowered. “There’s a project in Paris—a major restoration. Career-changing, really. But it means months away. Possibly longer.”

Rio’s heart clenched painfully, pride and sadness battling fiercely inside her chest. “That’s incredible,” she said softly, hiding the ache behind genuine admiration. “You deserve that, Agatha.”

Agatha noticed Rio’s hidden pain, reaching out gently to touch her hand. “I promise we’ll stay connected. I’ll be better about communicating.”

Despite Agatha’s sincere intentions, their connection suffered quickly. Conversations grew infrequent, responses distant. Rio tried filling the silence with carefully curated playlists—songs that quietly begged for closeness. But the increasing silence hurt deeply.

One day, unable to bear the emotional distance, Rio impulsively texted Agatha, her heart wide open.

Rio: This song made me think of you. I miss you.

She waited. Five minutes. Fifteen. Forty. Three hours.

Finally, Agatha’s reply came. It was detached.

Agatha: Oh you’re sweet... but if I’m being honest with you, I’m straight. I think I was just experimenting.

The message hit Rio like a physical blow, knocking air from her lungs. Tears blurred her vision as pain radiated sharply through her chest. Her thumbs hovered, shaking, typing out the raw truth.

Rio: It wasn’t nothing.

Yet she deleted it quickly, feeling heartbreak burn bitterly at the corners of her eyes. Standing numb on a busy sidewalk, she felt suddenly small, foolish for believing her quiet devotion would ever be enough.

She walked home silently, music filling her headphones like an ironic elegy to her aching heart. Each step echoed painfully—every careful gesture, patient moment, tender touch seemingly discarded. Rio, the perfect girlfriend material, now felt utterly discarded, wounded by the woman she had patiently and deeply loved.

Rio spent weeks trying to recover from Agatha’s abrupt dismissal. Every song she heard seemed to remind her painfully of Agatha—of moments shared, gentle touches, whispered words. Her friends noticed her withdrawal, gently urging her to move on, but Rio felt frozen in heartbreak, unable to shake the belief that their connection had been real.

She stopped writing music for a while. Her keyboard collected dust. Even the studio felt hollow.

Meanwhile, in Paris, Agatha walked around in a city full of beauty, but everything felt gray. She poured herself into her work, overseeing blueprints, arguing with French contractors, trying to convince herself she was fine.

But she wasn’t.

Late at night, in the quiet of her apartment, Agatha would replay every moment with Rio. The softness of her voice. The way she looked when she cooked barefoot. Her laugh, her mouth, her patience.

She pulled up the old playlists, listening with headphones, tears slipping quietly down her cheeks. Each song Rio sent her was a love letter, and Agatha had deleted her.

She tried to explain it to herself in a hundred ways—she wasn’t ready, she panicked, she didn’t want to hurt Rio—but none of it held. The truth pressed down harder each night: she had been falling in love. With a woman. And she had run.

Agatha had spent her whole life controlling the narrative. She dated men. She kept things neat. Structured. Her queerness wasn’t something she had allowed herself to name. It felt too messy. Too vulnerable. Too real.

But Rio had changed that. Not by pushing. Just by being herself. By loving Agatha without needing her to be anything other than real.

Agatha realized she hadn’t been experimenting. She had been afraid.

And she’d made the biggest mistake of her life.

Agatha’s first text back was careful.

Agatha: I’m sorry. I think about you more than I want to admit.

Rio didn’t respond. Not at first. She stared at her phone, her heart clenching. Then she turned it over on her nightstand and left it there.

Days passed. Agatha tried again.

Agatha: I miss you. I was scared. That’s not an excuse. Can I see you when I get back?

Rio typed and deleted a dozen replies before finally sending it.

Rio: I’m not sure I can trust you again.

Agatha understood. But it only made her more determined.

When Agatha returned from Paris, she didn’t go to her apartment first. She went straight to Rio’s.

Rio opened the door wearing loose sweatpants paired with Agatha’s sleepover shirt, her hair up in a loose bun, eyes wide with surprise and something guarded.

“Hey,” Agatha said softly.

“You’re back.”

Agatha nodded. “I had to see you.”

They sat on Rio’s couch, stiff and silent for a while. Rio’s mutt curled up at their feet.

Agatha spoke first. “I panicked. I felt everything and it terrified me. And instead of sitting with that, I pushed you away.”

“You made me feel disposable,” Rio said quietly, voice low but even. “Like all the ways I showed up for you—meant nothing.”

Agatha nodded, throat tight. “It meant everything. That’s why I couldn’t handle it. You saw me. Really saw me. I’d never let someone that close before. And I didn’t know how to accept that I was in love with a woman. That I loved you.”

Rio looked at her, steady and quiet. “What are you looking for now, Agatha?”

Agatha’s voice shook. “I want to learn how to love you out loud. If you let me.”

Rio studied her for a long, quiet moment—long enough for Agatha to start shifting under the weight of it. Then she exhaled, slow and steady, like she was done giving anything away for free.

“I’ll let you try,” Rio said, voice calm but firm. “But you’re doing it my way now.”

She leaned in just enough for Agatha to feel the warmth of her breath. Her eyes didn’t waver.

“I’m not chasing you, Agatha. Not again.”

The older woman nodded, barely. “Okay,” she whispered. “Your way.”

Agatha started small—but deliberately. Every morning, a text.

Agatha: Good morning, hermosa.

Every night, a call

Agatha: Tell me about your day. I want to know everything.

But it was Rio who set the pace. Rio who decided when she would see Agatha, how often they talked, what level of affection she allowed. It wasn’t cruel—it was controlled. Intentional.

When they met for coffee, Rio reached for Agatha’s hand only when she felt ready. In public, it was Rio who initiated touch. When Agatha hesitated, Rio would tilt her head and say, “You want to be with me, you don’t hide me.”

Agatha swallowed it all—her discomfort, her fear—and nodded. She followed Rio’s lead, relearning how to love her with grace and humility.

They sat on Rio’s couch one night, a movie playing forgotten in the background. Agatha leaned into her, kissed her shoulder. Rio didn’t move.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about your mouth,” Agatha whispered.

“Say it louder,” Rio said.

Agatha shifted to straddle her. “I think about the way you kissed me. The way you touched me. You terrify me, Rio. You undo me.”

Rio held Agatha’s waist, steadying her. “Then let me.”

That night, Rio guided everything. She undressed Agatha slowly, watching her tremble, but never rushed. She pressed her down onto the sheets and murmured soft, dirty praise between kisses. When Agatha arched and sobbed beneath her, Rio whispered in her ear, “That’s mine. Say it.”

Agatha’s voice broke: “I’m yours. I’ve always been.”

One evening, over candlelight and wine, Rio leaned back and asked quietly, “What are we doing, Agatha?”

Agatha looked straight at her. “We’re building something. Something I’m not walking away from.”

“What do you want from me?” Rio asked. “For real.”

“I want you, Rio. I want to be seen with you. I want to wake up next to you. I want to tell everyone you’re mine.”

Rio studied her. “You’re sure?”

“I’m gay,” Agatha said, out loud for the first time, like it was a truth she could finally carry. “And I’m in love with you.”

They didn’t rush. They kissed like they had time. Made love like it was a prayer. Agatha surrendered everything—her doubt, her fear, her past. And Rio took it, kissed it away, showed her how it felt to be loved without shame.

Later, with Agatha’s head in her lap, Rio played with her hair and whispered, “I waited for you to catch up, cariño. But now I’m driving.”

Agatha smiled, blissed out and bare. “Thank God.”

Weeks passed.

Rio ran the show—not loud, not flashy, just steady. She chose the playlists, the date nights, the shitty road trip snacks. She fixed the leaky sink and left notes on the mirror in smudged eyeliner. Agatha—buttoned-up, always composed—thrived under it. She grew bolder, lighter, a little reckless in love. She never stopped showing up.

They danced barefoot in the kitchen. Rio cooked—usually pantsless, always with music on. Agatha cleaned, humming along, swaying at the sink. Billy barked like a tyrant from under the table.

Every now and then, Rio would catch Agatha staring at her across the room. She’d smirk, push up her sleeves, and ask, “You good, baby?”

And Agatha, softer now, would nod and whisper, “I’m home.”

[miojiinho]

angles and expressions studies with a little of ep 46 angst sprinkled on top

[nonranghaes]

warnings: spider mentions bc writer is terrified and needs to write comfort. this is idol au, btw. (also readers in a polyamorous relationship with both chris and felix, just a heads up)

chris jolts awake when he feels you tugging at his sleeve, barely opening his eyes by the time you speak up.

“christheresahugespidercanyoupleasegogetridofit--”

it’s... a lot. it’s clear that you’re terrified (although his brain hasn’t deciphered what you said yet), and he sits up, reaching out to pull you in. on the other side of the bed, he can feel felix stir from his own slumber--and he hears him stifle a yawn. chris just focuses on you, though, “honey--”

you sniffle, fingers dinging into his arm as you hold him by the forearms, “please go get it before it moves--”

he doesn’t even have to decipher what you said anymore. he knows only one thing gets you this scared, and he gently pulls you in further until you’re actually sitting on the bed. “it’s okay,” he says, “i’ll go catch it. don’t worry,” he presses a kiss onto the crown of your head, getting out of bed. “i won’t come back until it’s gone, okay?”

you nod frantically, and chris mumbles felix’s name to rouse him further. felix turns over, gaze meeting chris’s--although he quickly nods toward you, redirecting the attention--and he understands. he kicks off the blankets, crawling over to you as chris takes his leave as designated-spider-getter.

“it’s okay,” he murmurs softly, drawing you in for a hug. “chris will get it.”

your breath hitches, and felix can feel as you start to cry. it’s a frustrating fear to have--felix knows, as does chris, because you’ve cried to them before about how you wish you could just be normal about those eight-legged little things--and you know that they’re far more afraid of you than you are of them. or, well, that’s what everyone tells you. you haven’t seen a spider have a breakdown because of you, but what do you know?

he holds you, gently tracing hearts on your back as he lets you cry your fears out. felix’s lips press against your softly, just for a second, before he pulls you in again. he draws your face into his shoulder, gently talking you through it. when he finally draws back, once your cries have stifled, he begins searching around.

“where’s bbokari...?” he mumbles. when he and chris are away, the plushies they gave you take their place (... alongside the others, sometimes, but you don’t tell them about that since you’ll never live it down). he moves, patting around until he hears chris come back. “hey,” he calls out, voice raspy with sleep, “do you see bbokari?”

chris stops for a moment with a “hm?” but looks over to your dresser where the group was last assembled. he reaches for the little chick, tossing him over to felix. he returns to bed soon enough after felix moves out of the way, gently guiding you back to the middle of the bed by the arm. he’s pushed bbokari into your arms, and already snuggled in next to you as chris pulls the blankets back over you all.

“it’s okay,” chris presses a kiss against your shoulder. “it’s gone. i took it outside. we’ll protect you, baby.” there’s a teasing lift to his voice, but you know he genuinely means it. 

“mmhm,” felix sounds, planting a soft kiss against your lips. “we’ve got you,” he promises. “alright?”

you snuggle in, both of your boyfriends cuddling in to keep you as safe as they can. it takes you a while to get back to sleep... but it helps to have your silly saviors nearby, always happy to catch and release the spiders and soothe you with as many kisses as it takes.

[kyrup]

brennan. hey. brennan i