#Sorry once again for horrific quality

[autumn-may]

in honor of mermay I drew riku as one of them fricked up deep sea creachers

[answer2jeff]

not a lot, just forever.

carmen's opening up, but he wishes you'd do the same.

warnings: fluff + angst. fem!reader who is also a big reader (mostly poetry) and occasionally journals. unestablished relationship (friends to lovers, mutual pinning.) very touchy-feely. writing is overly detailed and so painfully poetic you might vomit.

word count : 2.4k

hey. i think i left my book at ur place. 11:15pm.

sorry, just got home. i can bring it over now 11:36pm.

oh yeah that'd be great! thank you. (sorry for the inconvenience) 11:38pm.

no worries 11:41pm.

lmk when ur here. xx 11:45pm.

Carmen had some idea of what that meant: xx. He knew what it meant when girls signed notes with xoxo in replacement of red kiss marks and strokes of long acrylic nails through their secret lovers hair—not that he ever received one, no. But your occasional visits practically felt just as intoxicating. If the order was x-o-x-o, and the worded statement being hugs-and-kisses, then xx must've been hugs, right? Two hugs. Like the one you shared the first time you met at Natalie's baby shower. He smelled like authentic Italian cologne with a hint of cigarette smoke diluted by dish soap and warm water. His grasp was hesitant, but ever-all-consuming once his shoulders relaxed. It was like metamorphosis. The way he wrapped his arms underneath while you tossed yours up around his neck, his gold chain feeling cold and hard against your skin, unlike the rest of him.

He was an under-hugger. He kept the ones he cared for unsuspectingly close to him. Such physical touch felt familiar. Maybe you'd just remembered stories and inside jokes about him through Natalie so well his tenderness and anxious nature was fitting to the idea of him you had in your head.

That was almost 6 months ago. And surprisingly, you'd become pretty good friends. Not that either of you really did friends at your age...but somehow it worked. You'd come to realize that he was so much kinder than anyone painted him out to be. And yet, you never really talked about yourselves.

Not in a way that really mattered, anyway.

The articles you'd written, the interviews you conducted with snobby assholes, the dozens of freelancing jobs with horrific schedules you had before, what you loved about writing and what you hated about the world around you—those were topics of discussion. Carmen's favorite restaurants he ever expanded his career with, the odd relationship he had with his sister that flipped like a rusty switch after highschool, candle scents he loved and bought over and over again despite their poor quality wicks, the first time he got drunk and how he swore he'd never let another drop of alcohol touch his tongue—those were normal methods of late night conversations.

But what about your dream to publish a novel? Or the memoir you read that completely changed your views on love as a whole. What about Carmen's uncle being his only friend his entire life? Oh, how he would've become a starving, broken artist if he ever believed he had enough talent for it. Hell, what about the girl you met in middle school who mysteriously moved away and shared all her secrets on the true meaning of life, death, and everything in between? Why didn't you ever talk about those things? Maybe it was too close, too personal. If he knew you too well, maybe he'd see you as you saw yourself.

Carmen had been thinking about those colored pencils you bought him for his birthday and can't get himself to tell you he uses them every day. Not just to illustrate his dishes...but you, sometimes. Your hair, your smile. He used that photo you begged him to snap of you staring out your window melodramatically with a bowl of pasta carbonara and a glass of bubbling champagne in front of you as reference. How could he ever show you the endless amount of pages containing the essence of your existence in that goddamn sketch book?

Questions. Questions. Questions.

Thoughts of potential ate away at your patience with every pacing step you took around your bedroom.

Answers. Answers. Answers.

—

"Do people even have deep conversations over pasta and wine anymore?" You trace the pad of your middle finger against the rim of your glass, your elbow propped up on the counter so your chin can rest in your hand.

Carmen draws his eyebrows together, the little crinkle in his forehead showing. You glance up at it and struggle to stifle a growing smile. He cocks his head before barring his bottom lip behind his teeth, picking at the skin with the tips of his fingers. That signature pose; where his left arm is crossed against his chest and his hand holds the elbow of his right arm. It's a habit you almost immediately picked up on. It told you time and time again that he was nervous.

Thinking. Contemplating.

"Is that, like—" he breaths a chuckle, but it comes out more as an accidental huff than anything. Smug bastard, he is. Especially when he drags his gold chain across his neck as it loops around the finger that once picked at the dry skin of his mouth.

"Your way of..asking me for a deep conversation over wine and pasta?"

Ah. He's called you out. The one thing he couldn't shake was his annoyance when you were so completely and utterly vague about your wants, your needs, your desires. Hell, Carmen Berzatto would wrap a lasso around the moon, or any planet you put your claim on, and drag it down so it could be yours and only yours. Only if it meant you'd stop feeling so complacent. You knew this. At least to some extent. His little favors buttered you up until you a mushy mess of adoration. What really scratched at your urges and your patience was how blissfully unaware he was of his show of affection toward you. Part of you feared that if you ever told him how much it caressed that bruised, fruit fly infested, rotted spot of your heart so gently it felt like a kiss, despite the sting, he'd stop.

"Y'know what? Yeah. I'm asking."

You shrug your shoulders and stare down at your nearly finished bowl of penne with vodka sauce. Stabbing a stack of pasta onto your fork and the clinking sound of the metal banging against the ceramic bowl seemed to fill the silence before Carmen finally spoke again, though with much hesitation.

"Okay," he barely whispers, nodding his head and fumbling to take a seat in the barstool underneath the counter. Sitting across from you gives him the constant justification to just look at you.

Starting off this session with a question was quite a kicker.

"Y'know Sade Zabala? Author of that book you brought back for me."

Carmen blinks slowly. He pretends to dig deep in his memory to identify the name, wondering if you'd ever mentioned her. But he fails, pulling his lips taught, so as to say 'I've got nothin.' The sound of your dramatic sigh and the 'tsk' sound of your lips separating makes his palms sweat.

"She's a wonderful writer. A poet. I mean, really, her book Coffee and Cigarettes was one of the most gut-wrenchingly beautiful and altruistic collections of.. of love, pain, rejuvenation—all of it."

If he was completely honest, he doesn't have a clear image of what those words meant. But it doesn't seem to matter what comes out of your mouth or how you phrase it. Your use of specific language fascinates him. There is nothing else he can do in this moment but nod and allow the corners of his lips to curl into a smile strong enough to make the apples of his cheeks go pink.

"I'll tell you one line of one of the greatest poems she had ever written in that book. In the humble opinion of yours truly, of course."

"Sure," he assures you. "Of course, of course."

"Tell me every terrible thing you ever did, and let me love you anyway."

Saliva pools in your mouth as you speak the quote, the taste of every vowel washing down your throat as if you dedicate them to Carmen himself. Which, in bare and naked truth, you do. The only thing you could ever ask of Carmen was to let himself tear himself open with the hope and belief that you would crawl into his fears and convert them into profound discoveries. And the trust that you would not stitch him up with your own hands, but rather clasp your fists around the circumference of his wrists as he carefully closes the wound his trajectory of life has created.

"Wow." Carmen's eyes go another centimeter wider, the language still processing in his mind. He interprets it over and over again.

"I know. And—" you set your fork down so you can have complete focus as you recite your following question, "I was just wondering what you'd say if someone told you that, y'know? What would you tell them?"

Vulnerability, he thinks. Fuck.

"I mean...fuck that's—that's a good question. Um.." he chews on the flesh of his bottom lip once again, looking above at the warm glow of the light that hangs over your island counter as if he'll find the answer up there.

"I don't even like the good stuff about me, so. I'm not sure how to, like, articulate that? Is that the word?"

Now the quickening pace has started.

"And what do you think the good stuff about you is?"

Probing questions like this are somewhat too-close-for-comfort inquiries for friends. But Carmen would be stupid to mind it. He relishes in it, actually. With much guilt. But it's tainted with the secret pleasure of being cared for by someone he so deeply valued the opinions and thoughts of.

Since the first day you met, Carmen knew he would never go to anyone else for some piece of mind. For some sanity. Or even just for someone to explain the method to his madness. You understood it—what he believed.

"I care a lot, I think. But that's not always practical. It hardly ever is now that I think about it."

"You do. You care so much." You soften your tone, hesitantly reaching for Carmen's tattooed hand that rests on the cold marble counter.

"Sometimes it freaks me out."

"Like, this whole thing, the—the restaurant, where my life is right now, it makes me crazy. But it also keeps me..."

"Human," you finish.

"Yeah, human."

Though it takes him a couple seconds for his digits to not second guess themselves, he gently takes your hand in his. The slow pace in which he intertwines his fingers with yours is enough to kill you.

"Can I tell you something?" Carmen asks.

"Anything."

"You take good care of me. Of everyone, really." . His thumb gently rubs your warm skin, the rough and calloused mounds over his fingerprints soothing you. A deep breath moves in and out from his lungs as he meets your eyes again. This time, he won't look away.

"It's like you were made to just be good."

You smile, but you're not convinced you're certain on what he means. "Thank you, Carm. But—good?"

"I don't know. You're warm. I'm—I'm not like that. I'm not warm."

This, this is where truths as bare as untraveled paws of loyal dogs that roamed the streets in search of security uncover themselves.

"What? Of course you are." You lean forward, feeling your heart pound so hard it could leap out of your body.

"I don't think I am."

To think—no, to know that Carmen Berzatto cannot share at least one feature of his layered soul he genuinely likes. God, that pains you. You could write a million sonnets listing every little thing you adored about your friend.

"Carmen, you—" you sigh, your head dropping for a fraction of a second. "You have such a big heart. You're not cold or...or out of reach, or anything like that, okay?"

Even with Carmen's tendency for rage and his tattoos that displayed yet another callback to his culinary career—his way of speaking: so gentle and unsupported, you're certain that he is something so much greater than just a chef. He took care of people too. His staff, his clientele, his family—of you. Whether it was home cooked meals when you were sick, or when you needed to complain about Natalie. Carmen listened. Not as her brother, but as your friend. You don't really remember when you started to regularly see each other during his leisure. Either at the restaurant, or a coffee shop next door to your complex, and eventually his living room.

"This is so fucking selfish, but—"

No, Carmen. You could never be selfish.

But you let him be hungry. You want him to be hungry. Starving for reassurance. Because you'll feed him until the empty space in his existence is filled.

"I just wish you'd look after yourself the way you take care of me. Like, fuck, hearing you look at yourself and point out all this shit that nobody notices—which I wish they fucking would—because I notice them and I still love those things about you is..."

Oh, what a beautiful mind you've always had. He'll always store all the love you can't have for yourself in his own heart. Your wit, your intelligence, your smile, even down to the way you have to readjust the grip of your fountain pen as you inscribe your thoughts into your journal

"Wrong." He completed his thought with just one word. "I don't like it. It makes me sad," he says again.

That breaks you. So much that a tear sure to be followed by many more wells up in your waterline. The glisten of the salty liquid in your eyes startles the wonderful man across you. You can see the immediate guilt in his face, his blue eyes filled with concern and regret. But you shake your head, holding onto his forearm as he raises his hand to your cheek to catch the falling tear. Fuck being friends. Fuck small talk. Fuck jokes and laughs and cigarettes and poor communication that just ended in silence.

This was here and now. There was no going back.

With that, you cupped Carmen's own cheek, leaning closer and closer to his lips before he desperately kissed you. His free hand anchored itself on your shoulder blade while yours crawled to the back of his head to burry itself in his golden curls. Your taste was everything. Salty with pasta with a sweet aftertaste that echoed from your fruity lip balm, followed by a final twinge of bitterness from your glass of red wine. He tasted of comfort, of acceptance, something you'd never felt against your tastebuds from the previous years of the dating pool. With every separation of your lips to swallow gasps of air, the further the two of you hovered over the counter in a needy attempt to get closer.

You didn't need answers. Not a lot from him either. Just him. Forever.

tags: @lemmejustpulloutmylightsaber @sexyyounglatinoboy @febris-amatoria @diorrfairy

[kirbybecomesastarwarrior]

💋: what motifs/symbols do you associate with your ship?

I would love nothing more than to explain all of them.

Motifs/Symbols

When I say that they're the heart & soul of KBASW I mean it! Arthur & Celestine are the moral compass of the story/KBASW AU.

Tropes/Themes/Dynamics

@kirbyoctournament

As you can see once again I had too much fun. Sorry, it took a while for these inbox questions. I ended up putting them together because they went so "hand & in hand". (link to questions)

Once again I will say this again... "writing romance is a different type of beast I kid you not!" Shoutout to all the romance writers. I've been a single pringle my entire life so... that's why these posts (Celarthur/Merther) post take so long!

I hope my portals of romance aren't... I don't know how to put this "don't seem too romanticized" or that cringe (LOL).

Keep reading for my long in-depth explanation of the content. (and honestly I still don't think it's enough lol)

I hope you guys enjoyed the post.~

Please continue reading if want a full explanation of the following...

Motifs & Symbols explained~

Creatures:

Celestine: Owls are the symbol of wisdom, power, and spirituality; the birds of Athena. But they're also the symbol of bad luck and are also known as an omen of death.

I've worked this into her character, she's all known just like the animal she represents. But also worked the "bad omens" in her future sight... she mostly (if not always) sees horrific futures. Despite this, she's used that to her arsenal, after all, you learn more from your mistakes, or in this case horrible futures.

And of course, her "cracked warpstar" is her omen of death.

Arthur: Dragon (of course) can either be a force of good or evil. Bravery, ambition, and strength a symbols of adversity, and wickedness.

This paired so beautifully with Arthur's character, (since he is a redeemed good bean). All the best qualities can be used for good and evil... Also, I made his dragon green & red as a reference to the Welsh flag and well...

Alright truth be told the only reason I had Arthur go to "Yomi" is so I can justify why he as dragon monster form (I've been working on it)...hopefully you'll be seeing it soon

Flowers:

Celestine: Lotus represents overcoming adversity, the cycle of rebirth, and enlightenment. Not only that but spiritual growth.

Just like the flower itself, she was able to bloom in the murkiest water and despite all made the most of her life. The (sad) truth of it all is had she not had that hardship... she would have been just as egotistical & selfish as Icarus & Uther.

It was her "future vision" & her struggles that made her into such an empathic person.

Arthur: Marigolds represent family ties divinity and the connections between life and death.

And as I have recently revealed Sir Arthur is why Morpho Knight can go in & out of the living world. Also without spoiling anything refers to when he becomes King of Avalon. (and those of you who have seen Coco... there is indeed going to be a Marigold bridge that Arthur can create with his powers :3)

Elementals (symbols):

(Water power) Celestine (like her elemental) is a very go-with-the-flow person. She understands that the unexpected can happen at any moment and will change the course.

With Arthur when he's particularly stuck in a rut, Celty will give him options, or mentally stuck she goes to her "Rolodex of knowledge." Adaptive and flexible with he thinking, she's very willing to think outside the box.

This is also throwing Arthur's burn mark: I changed Arthur's burn mark (caused by Uther's fire magic) to just be the right shoulder. To represent the burning of the " angel on your right shoulder."

Celestine (who's a water element) is healing his right shoulder, or basically, the goodness he lost. Of course, the mark is still but in the sense he no longer bears the burden alone. "Literally taking the weight off his shoulders. " That he doesn't have to be this perfect soldier... that he can just be a "wart".

(Earth powers) Arthur, he can be stubborn (as a rock) and stuck in his ways, (which is why it takes him a while to get him out of Uther's thumb). But this also applies to his determination. Someone who doesn't give up and makes him incredibly ambitious.

When she's thinking "what I could've done" or "what I should've done", ruminating on it. (trapped in her own current) Using his "very a matter of facts" to remind her of what she's done, and that things are better because she did act.

Out of the many vast futures she sees, Celestine can rely on one constant... who was there for her was Arthur... he's her constant her rock. And was the thing that ultimately made her choose Arthur to be the one to help her fulfill Kirby's prophecy. Because she knew he'd still complete it even after she was gone/.

~

(I'd love to explain Arthur & Excalibur but if I'd go into detail with it that'd be going into spoiler. But for those of you who aren't familiar with Arthuriana lore... the true value of Excalibur is in the Scabbard...

But here it's for another reason... because the Scabbard & Excalibur are two separate relics. The scabbard belongs to Arthur... the sword however was never his.~)

The Yin & Yang to each other & when the sun and moon are brought together they form the dusk & dawn~ Taking on and bringing out the best in each other.

Tropes/Themes/Dynamics

Enemies to Lovers troupe & cop vs. vigilante.

As a result, they have such a fun back & forth and witty banter... but despite it they.

In short, the cop working for the corrupt system is first at odds with our lovable rogue. And believe they are the villainous one (because society says so), only to realize through their many interactions that they are fighting for good despite operating outside of the law.

Then eventually (the cop) realizes "Oh, crabs" I'm working on the wrong side. For Arthur, his hesitation/ignorance of this doesn't come from the idea of a "holier than thou mindset" (like Uther). Rather it comes from "I want to be accepted" & "I want to be worth something..." Arthur started as the weakest of the three (students of Uther) which is why he was burned by Uther (to be used as an example to the other two)

When he finally beat the odds it was his proudest moment. The desire to be seen by Uther was what blinded him and made him see his mentor as the pinnacle of what he should be. (but in reality, it was actually just a want for affection and praise.) And believed in these ideals (that Uther spits out), making the ends justify the means & ignoring the damage they cause. (For the greater good)

The fact that accepting this means that the suffering & all the hard work he went through were for nothing.

But it's through Celestine's influence as Merlyn who actively tried to expand his worldview. That there was so much more to life than war, and showing "Might is not always right" him there are other ways than (Uther's) brute force.

A more fulfilling & smarter way, where he can still do his duties without having to sell his soul for it. Having his first taste of unconditional love.

Leading him to be able him to befriend Gaius, and Kit Cosmo (who is Sir Kay in this) later become his sworn brothers, emotionally adopted by Sir Ector (Kit's father ), and tame/ befriend Fritz Stahlbaum (Ribbon's Grandfather).

The Double life /Secret Identity

Are very much an important aspect of Celestine's character. While she is confident in herself and who she is... it's not as herself it's as her alter-ego Merlyn.

Basically, being Merlyn it's not just her "redemption for Shiver Star" but this is also her escape as well.

She's seen as this hero, someone great and fantastical when she dawns on the the cloak and the mustache. She's the great mage Merlyn she can be herself... But when she's Celestine her true self she's seen as the broken... the useless Hero of Yore something to be hidden away and ashamed of.

(I'd know you from anywhere & any form)

Celestine only ever told her friends (Minerva Mimi- great grandmother, Dairus Drosslemeyr- Daroach's great uncle, and Velvet Stahlbaum- fairy Queen, Ripple's stepmother) about her Merlyn persona.

That's why it's such important that the only person to ever figure it out (without Celestine telling them... ) was Arthur. You see, Arthur Celestine as Merlyn, but as she became more popular in the diplomatic world, she. had to be seen more. (Much to Icarus & Uther's dismay~)

Arthur started to see the similarities between her and Merlyn... it was through her quirks & character that she was indeed Merlyn. And does not mind at all she's still the same person. Respectfully Arthur pretends that he does not know..

It was also through these interactions realization... that she does not value herself (true self) as Celestine.

And this hurts Arthur deeply, the person who he always saw as this amazing mage, who was the smartest person he knew.. doesn't see that in herself at all. Arthur has always asked her (as Merlyn) "what he could do to pay them for everything they've done for him..." But all they'd ever say was... "the fact that we're able to be finally partners in crime is enough for this old man" (basically they were saying, the fact we were finally friends & your company is enough).

Uses this as a chance (of knowing her identity and Celestine not being aware of it) to repay her for everything she's given him.

Not only that but he actively does things that make her more comfortable and appreciate herself more (as Celestine.) Buy subtly reminds her that she is Merlyn. And performing these small acts of kindness for her gives her chances to be herself around him and encourages it.

Scene Example of this/ & more of their Dynamic :

C: You know you don't have to do this for me, you merely have to just guard me have to-

A: Oh but I do...It seems your diplomatic work was overlooked... Unfairly I may add especially.

C: Thank you so much... War-ta (had to stop herself from calling him Wart) The war on the battlefield must be so physically taxing on everyone... people tend to forget it's a political one as well... this means a lot but in reality, it's not that much as you do.

A: I don't see it like that... if anything your battles are one of tongues

Y' know an old friend of mine told when people forget to appreciate you... you forget the importance of yourself, so they told me to perform small acts of kindness to myself... to remind myself.

I hope I'm overstepping or making you feel uncomfortable *sees her blushing & getting embraced*

C: No, it's nothing I just wasn't expecting someone to give me flowers today (Oh, hoot he's talking about me *as Merlyn*)... Your friend sounds wise~

A: Oh my friend? *smiles sweetly at her* I wish they could tell you this themselves... they have such a fantastic way with words... I don't know how convincing I sounded compared to them, after all... *looks at her directly* They're the smartest person I know~

C: Oh is that so * gets more embarrassed* that's so sweet of you to say... I should take his advice... I tend to forget this myself.

A: Oh no need to be so hard on yourself... Actually...* grins wickedly* the friend I speak of is actually a very old man... with very old bones... at first I thought he was making up old bones since he seemed so energetic for an old man~

C: Oh hoo hoo, hoot really? *nervously laughter

A: Ah, but alas I haven't seen him for awhile... perhaps its old bones have caught up to him... he just seemed so lively... but who are we to determine the vitality of the elderly after all... We're not old men!

C: Yes we most certainly are hoo hoo hoot *still nervously laughing*

Oh look dear we're already at the temple!

Good night dear have a wonderful evening *hilarious sprints inside*

A: Go-od night, My- la-lady *tries to stifle his laughter then-* AH BwaHAHAHAHAHAH!~

Alright, admittingly he does have a little slice of revenge for Celestine hiding her identity as Merlyn. With little fun jabs like that. (LMAO)

~

They do have this "More than the mask moment..." Arthur admits the only reason he ever found out that she was "Merlyn," was because they were the same person with or without the cloak.

Oh I have so many ideas for this but that'll be for another day~

Forbidden Love

And of course, it's forbidden!~

Since astral are born from wishes (made by the positive energy of the Fountain of Dream) there was no need for "relations". Not only that because of status, or (mainly Uther ), but a tragedy involving Sir Orpheus & his lover.

Uther took this as a chance to further his agenda "Look & at the tragedy of Sir Orpheus... look what happened to him and his lover! It's clearly a sign from Void... THIS LEADS TO WEAKNESS AND WEAKNESS LEADS TO DEATH! WE ARE SOLDIERS NOTHING MORE THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN WE DIVERGE FROM THE PATH! THIS IS OUR LOT IN LIFE DO NOT BELIEVE YOU CAN BE ANYTHING ELSE!"

And yes that is indeed Papi. (Sir Orpheus )

Nobody Gets Me Like You ~

They are the two sides of the same coin. Both of them are trapped in the positions they were given...

Arthur is trapped in the position of being Sir Uther's (bloody) right-hand man, his Perfect Killing Mach- I mean soldier- his golden boy.

Celestine is trapped in the position of being the Oracle... the broken one, the one cast aside, the overlooked and underestimated.

The key to breaking these chains that they've been cursed with is finding self-love within themselves. And they find that within each other. "A Steven Universe Love like you" moment.~

It's this deep understanding and trust they have for one another that allows love to develop feelings for one another. Emotionally they're both dealing with the same issue.

Being able to be there for one another and not having to explain it allows the other to put their guard down. And truly fall apart in front of another knowing that the other will hold them together.

I really love these two so much... if you've read this long thank you so much I hope you guys enjoyed the post!

[xoxonxo]

i love you , im sorry.

summary: a romione fic based on hermione’s

point of view during her sixth year at hogwarts

(chapter 1/?)

A/N: i mixed the events of the books and the movies to make it flow better, i’m also posting it on my ao3. hope you like it! italics mean memories.

Hermione knew she was smart— everyone knew it too.

She was the brightest witch of her age, a fact that she carried with pride since her first year at Hogwarts. She was also a prefect, and hoped that in her 7th year she would be Head Girl. Hermione thought she wasn’t bad looking either. She learned the hard way that her hair had to be properly kept, and not just brushed until it had grown to the volume of a lion’s mane— which was something she wasn’t aware of until she was 12.

She was fit— although she had to give most of the credit to Harry due to their near-death experiences they went through on a yearly basis.

Hermione was remarkably resourceful, and was great help to anyone who asked for it. By her third year, she had nearly read the entire library at Hogwarts and begged the librarian to bring her in a new collection.

The best quality Hermione had was that from a young age, she knew what she wanted in life. The day she had gotten her letter from Hogwarts she practically ransacked every bookshop in Diagon Alley for any book that explained the phenomenon that was magic. In her fourth year, she created S.P.E.W after witnessing Dobby and Winky undergo horrific treatment from wizards and witches like herself. Hermione even managed to get Outstanding in all OWLs but one, a feat very few had ever accomplished.

She had reached every step in achieving all her aspirations, yet there was one thing that remained unclear, and that was the feelings she had developed for Ron.

She figured there was always a spark there. She thought it had started in her second year when she saw Ron’s face light up after she returned from being petrified, or when she secretly wished to had been dancing with Ron at the Yule Ball, rather than with Viktor Krum, or even when the only memory that casted her Patronus was centered around him. After spending the entirety of the summer at the Burrow, she felt her concealed and hidden emotions spiral out of control. There were times Hermione thought she felt her heart explode after sharing small moments with Ron. Those of which were put on a hold once Harry arrived.

She began to read into exchanged glances and soft smiles like never before. Hermione’s logic was always telling her that she was being ridiculous, but her heart squealed in defiance when he merely called her name. She felt like she had lost grip of the girl who once strategically planned each day, to a ridiculous school girl, who was fawning over her latest crush.

There she was, sitting in the prefects compartment next to Ron with a silly smile plastered on her face. She had a book propped up on her lap, flipped open to the first page, yet every time she finished reading a sentence her mind trailed off to only re-read it again.

“Blimey, ‘Mione. I haven’t seen you this happy since we got our OWLs back. What are you reading about?”

Hermione slightly froze, before closing the book to the front cover, which read: Visions Beyond; Explaining the Mysteries of Divination. Ron shrugged, glancing up at Hermione who was blinking rapidly, as if finding something to say.

“I thought you hated divination,” Hermione toyed with the thin, gold chain delicately drooped on her collarbones.

“I do,” she hummed out, uncrossing her legs to now face him.

“So why are you reading it? You’re not taking a N.E.W.T for it, are you?”

She quickly shook her head, her bottom lip curling up, displeased at the thought of having to take another year in Divination,

“I think I’d rather die.”

He let out a small laugh before returning to his thoughts. Hermione’s eyes met the window of the compartment, staring at the scenery that was quickly passing by and the only thought that crossed her mind was how she was going to get out of this situation.

Once a few more hours had passed, the train arrived at Hogwarts. Ron, who hadn’t seen Harry since their arrival to Kings Cross Station had his arms crossed peering his eyes through the heads making their way off the train.

“Hermione, he’s got to be coming soon. Can’t you wait a couple more minutes?”

Her eyes searched the line of students, then breathed out a long sigh.

“Come on, Ron. By the time we get off, all the carriages will be gone. He’s probably already at the castle.”

As the two walked off the train, she took one last glance at the empty compartment at the back. She saw a glimpse of something flashing through the air and chose to ignore it. Hermione and Ron made their way through the leafy forest ground, dirt smudging against her sneakers. The area had began to clear out, a couple of second years and third years lingering around trying to figure out how the carriage managed to pull itself. They briefly split up; Hermione gave Professor Filch her and Ron’s luggages, patiently waiting for it to be approved, while Ron managed to get them a vacant carriage.

Ron, who was still worried about Harry kept looking around. She understood why he was so worried. Harry had gained so much in the last year, and then managed to lose it all. She recalled the first weeks when Sirius had passed away. Harry hadn’t spoke to anyone for days. He didn’t eat, he barely slept, and began to let himself slip away. Being Harry Potter’s friend was hard— not because he was famous, or because he was the ‘Boy Who Lived’, but because whenever he found peace, it would be destroyed right in front of him. Hermione cleared her throat, slightly nudging Ron’s leg with the front of her shoe.

“Ron?”

He tilted his head, impatiently tapping his fingers against the steel of the bench he sat on.

“He’s going to be alright.”

A soft smile tugged on his lips before looking straight into Hermione’s eyes, almost grateful for her words.

Classes at Hogwarts had never been this difficult for Hermione. It had only been a week since class had begun, and for the first time, Hermione was dreading having to read another chapter on protective charms.

She stood in the newly arranged classroom. It had completely changed since Snape had taught Potions. Streaks of sunlight now filtered throughout. The desks were now closely grouped together, allowing for more than two people to a table. She noticed photographs neatly placed onto his desk. Moving frames displayed a Quidditch player, a group of students with a much younger looking Professor Slughorn, and one last photograph with a woman who had long, red hair, smiling ear to ear. Slughorn flicked an hourglass that sat next to the smallest picture frame. The sand that was trapped, began to move, almost instantly falling though the small hole, laying its entirety on the bottom. Slughorn cleared his throat, scanning the classroom, his smile slightly faltering before limping his way over to a table which had three large cauldrons, and one tiny clear flask containing a tinted liquid. As the Professor began to speak, Hermione heard a rustling coming from the back of the class. Annoyed, she whipped her head back, only to face Harry, who was grabbing Ron by the arm. Her furrowed brows relaxed into place, letting out an airy chuckle.

The lesson eventually resumed— Slughorn introduced himself, while Harry and Ron fought over the textbook they would use for the remainder of class. Hermione had answered each question he asked the class, her hand shooting up before he could even finish each sentence.

“Amortentia. It’s the strongest love potion in the world. For instance, I smell,” she paused, taking a large inhale of the bubbling potion in front of her, “Freshly mown grass, new parchment, and…” Her voice trailed off with a quiver before she barley finished her sentence with a whisper, “Spearmint Toothpaste.”

Her eyes quickly glanced down at her feet, before meeting Ron’s, his mouth agape. The classroom buzzed with excitement, their attention drawn to the vial being showcased by the gray haired man. Hermione, however, couldn’t tear her eyes off the cauldron that contained the bubbly, pink mixture. What one smells in Amortentia displays what, or who they love— Hermione knew that. She studied all the Potions that were on the marble table the summer prior. Hermione also knew it was likely the potion would smell of a familiar scent. But, she didn’t think it would be an embodiment her memories with Ron. For the first time, Hermione allowed herself to daydream during class.

Freshly mown grass.

Hermione recalled the first week she stayed at the Burrow. Molly, who had always adored Hermione since she was a little girl was thrilled to have her stay over the summer. The two had bonded almost instantly which caused Fleur, Bill’s fiancée to have an outrage (something she had commonly done while at the Burrow).

Molly taught Hermione how to knit, she shared recipes that were passed down since the beginning of the Weasley family tree, and had even given Hermione old books that were collecting dust in her cabinet. Hermione had offered to help Ron around the house when Molly had to leave with Arthur for sudden ‘errands’ with the Order. Molly graciously accepted her offer and apparated soon after, leaving Hermione and Ron alone, with the blaring sun twinkling over them. The grass around the burrow was long over grown, weeds beginning to sprout from bushes, and thorny vines grew around flowers that had bloomed last spring.

“We could always just use magic, Hermione.”

The sun was beaming over them, causing Ron to cover his eyes with the palm of his hand and squint back at Hermione. Hermione fiercely shook her head as she tied her hair up messily, huffing a strand off her forehead to see better.

“Not everything has to be done with magic, Ronald! Besides, I don’t want to get in trouble with the Ministry over mowing the lawn.”

Ron and Hermione continued to banter while she searched for a lawnmower in a shed that had a wooden plank nailed to the wall, labeled Muggle Findings. Once found, Ron let out a grumble, causing Hermione to shoot him one last glare (which inevitably shut Ronald up). She let Ron pull the handle, causing the motor to sputter. After a few more attempts from the two, the lawn-mower crackled and began to work. To much of Hermione’s surprise, Ron enjoyed playing around with the machine. He ran around the field, passing over weeded areas several times before moving on to the next. To Ron’s dismay, the once clear sky turned dark, clouds looming over the two.

“Ron!”

Hermione shouted, her arms waving around like a lunatic, “Turn it off!”

Drops of rain fell on her hair, trickling down to her forehead. The rain quickened, and before Ron could react the engine let out a loud grumble and spit at Ron. A thin line of smoke floated into the air straight from the engine, causing a shriek out of Ron.

“Bloody Hell, Hermione! Were you trying to kill me?”

Ron kicked the tire, knocking the lawnmower onto its side.

“Oh, honestly, Ronald! It runs on petrol, not on enchantments. You seriously couldn’t believe that it could get wet, did you?”

A brief moment of silence grew between the two before a sudden laugh erupted from Hermione, soon followed by nervous laughter from Ron. The sprinkling turned into a pour, yet neither Ron or Hermione had moved an inch.

The air smelt of humidity mixed with smoke, and a slight hint of freshly mown grass.

Parchment.

Hermione had grown a liking to the books that Molly had gifted her over the summer. Most of the books were stories made for children, and she was sure that Molly had read it to her own. She had came across one book that was particularly beaten up. The cover was a dark red, and the pages were thick pieces of parchment barley stitched into the spine. Hermione made her way to the sitting room and gently sat on the sofa, brushing the velvety plush with the tip of her fingers. She physically recoiled when her nails scratched the silky surface, retracting her hand quickly.

On her left sat an end table where she had previously set down a mug filled with warm tea. She pressed the mug to her tightened lips, barley sipping the tea. Once the steaming beverage hit her tongue, she hissed at its temperature facing the book that was against her thigh. The candlelight was flickering in the once dimly lit room, casually casting shadows against the dark walls. The once distant figure had increased in its stature as it drew nearer. Hermione jumped and tossed her book across the floor, yelping once she whirled around.

“What are you doing up so late?”

Ron rubbed his eyes, a slight yawn evading his throat before he could finish his sentence. Hermione clutched her chest, exhaling a shaky breath.

“You scared me out of my wits!”

Ron made his way around the sofa, a lopsided grin forming on his face. His eyes crinkled at her, lines forming at his temples.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she began, pushing her knees up to her chest as Ron settled down, the couch sinking below his weight.

“I had too much on my mind.”

Ron’s neck dangled over the backrest, returning her words with a hum.

“You’ll be safe here, Mione.”

Hermione was thankful the lighting had been so faint because she was certain Ron would’ve seen her cheeks flush pink. A comfortable silence grew between the two. Hermione’s heart rate eventually settled— allowing her to return to her ‘light’ reading. She flipped the dusty, yellowed page, her finger sliding against it, slicing a thin line of her skin open. She hissed, squeezing her finger with her thumb.

“Papercut?”

Ron asked, a slight concern wavering in his throat. Hermione hummed as she swiped the twin line of blood trickling at the seam.

“It’s nothing crazy. It’s small.”

He reached for her finger, examining it carefully. Hermione nearly laughed at his worried expression.

“I’ll be fine, Ronald. It’s not like it hasn’t happened before.”

Hermione’s waited until her papercut settled before returning to the book that was flipped over on her knee. Ron seemed unlikely to leave her side—though she wasn’t sure if it was because of the paper-cut or her anxiety prior to him frightening her. He slid the book down her leg gently, his thumb keeping her place in the story.

“My mum would read me these as a kid. I didn’t know she still had the book.”

His face was plastered with nostalgia. His upper lip curled up and his blinks softened.

“Have you read ‘The Tale of the Enchanted Broomstick? It’s one of my favorites.”

Hermione’s shoulder blades rested against the cushions, supporting her posture, her eyes beginning to fight against her drowsiness.

“Not yet, I haven’t gotten to it.”

Ron skimmed through the pages, mumbling the page number 285 continuously. Once he found the page, he cleared his throat, quietly mumbling the words to Hermione. She felt sleep catch up to her, her breathing relaxed as Ron found a rhythm with his voice. Hermione laid her head against his shoulder, erupting a deep inhale from Ron. All the stress that Hermione had felt since the fateful day at the Ministry of Magic was extracted from her veins momentarily.

She dozed off before he could finish the introduction of the tale, sleep took Ron soon after.

Before Hermione could fully recall her final memory, the students’ attention shifted to the cauldrons placed on each table. Shaking herself out of her daydream, she glanced at the ingredients laid out before her. The rest of the session was a frustrating blur. Despite meticulously following every instruction, Hermione watched in disbelief as Harry, who seemed to ignore each direction, achieve perfect results. Her frustration grew with each passing minute.

By the end of class, Hermione’s hair had frizzed twice its normal size. To add insult to the injury, Harry earned the vial of Liquid Luck, something that sent her annoyance through the roof. She gathered her books, her movements sharp and precise. She huffed at Harry, who had a cheeky grin on his face, showing off the miniature vial to anyone who asked.

“Unbelievable, isn’t it?” Stepping out the classroom, Hermione paused in the corridor, waiting for Harry and Ron to join her. To her surprise, Ron emerged, leaving Harry alone.

“You alright, Hermione? You seem shaken up.”

It took everything in Hermione to not snarl, or make a nasty comment. Hermione refrained from making a remark towards Harry, despite the obvious tension in her voice.

“I’m fine.”

He knew her better than that, and she knew it too.

“You don’t always have to be perfect, Hermione. You’re bloody brilliant as is.”

Hermione forced a tight smile, clenching her jaw at his words. She was aware that her perfectionism was blatant to Ron, especially since they had spent 10 months of the past 6 years together. He studied her for a moment, his eyes softening at her features. He noticed her furrowed brows, arching in ways that proved her anger. He watched as her mouth pursed as their silence grew louder. Her arms crossed themselves, tapping her foot as her impatience increased heavily.

“Let’s not wait for Harry. He said he was caught up on something. We should just meet him at the common room.” Ron suggested, breaking the growing silence between them.

Hermione reluctantly agreed, catching up with Ron, who had already taken off. As they walked through the corridors and climbed the never-ending staircases, Hermione’s mind wandered back to Potions. To say she was curious on what Ron smelled from the Amortentia would be an understatement. Her mind whirled with possibilities. Ron hadn’t truly liked anyone— at least that she was aware of, and the closest thing to a date Ron had was taking Padma Patil to the Yule Ball (that of he had dreaded the entire time). Hermione was forcibly snapped out of her thoughts when the two arrived into the common room by Ron waving his hand in her face.

“Hermione, are you even listening?”

Ron let out an exasperated sigh, dramatically rolling his eyes.

No.

“Yes, sorry. Uh—What were you saying?”

Hermione grimaced when Ron shot her a frustrated look, before he shooed the idea off with his hand.

“Forget about it.”

She felt a twinge of guilt at Ron’s words. It wasn’t her fault that she kept on daydreaming, she couldn’t help it!

“Did you smell anything from the cauldron?”

Hermione’s words shot out quickly, catching even herself by surprise. The question had been pounding in her head since she had left Potions, and if it weren’t for Ron’s hum of acknowledgement, she would’ve thought she hadn’t said it out loud. For someone who had always been so opinionated, Ron’s expression was unreadable.

“It was far away.”

That was a lie.

From the second Hermione stepped into Slughorn’s class, she smelt the bubbling mixture. It was strong and it enticed her. It begged her to step closer to it. Ron’s sense of smell was remarkable, and that was a fact no one could deny. He could identify the scent of a home-cooked meal from miles away. Ron’s eyes searched for conformity in her own.

“My mother’s cooking.”

Hermione blinked slowly, patiently waiting for him to say more. The clock in the common room ticked, each click sending a rush of anticipation through her veins.

“Freshly mown grass.”

Ron’s words slowly fell from his lips, the crackle from the fireplace breaking the ever growing tension fueling between them. Hermione swore she felt her heart skip a beat. With a loud cough, she cleared her throat, pressing further.

“And what else?”

Her voice trembled as she watched Ron form ideas in his head. He hesitated before his eyes flicked towards hers.

“Parchment.”

Hermione stood in disbelief, her eyebrows raised to the middle of her forehead. She sternly shot her jaw at him.

“Parchment?”

Ron nodded, his pale cheeks beginning to redden.

“Why does it matter to you?”

Hermione shrugged, attempting to control her nonchalance. Otherwise, Hermione thought that she would have no choice than to jump into his arms and confess all her feelings she sought to suppress until the end of eternity.

“It doesn’t,” she began, although her brain pounded and begged her to tell him the truth.

“Who do you think of then?”

Hermione took in a deep breath, her nerves prickled at her skin while her eyes watered. Ron scratched the back of his neck, a long sigh escaping his lips before he could respond.

“When I think of parchment I think of you, ‘Mione.”

Her breath hitched, a rush of relief and overwhelming emotions washed over her.

“I guess since we have been friends for so long, I think of you when I think of love.”

Oh.

Friends.

Hermione knew that is all it meant— of course it did. His mother’s cooking had no correlation to Hermione, and freshly mown grass could’ve just meant the Burrow, and parchment just meant they were friends. Hermione fought her frown and forced a tight smile onto her face.

“Right, me too.”

Ron flopped onto the sofa, patting the empty spot beside him. Her response echoed in her head as she walked over to him— it couldn’t have been farther from the truth.

taglist:

@polosweaters @nena-96 @catacombspooks @bree-ii

[saintmeghanmarkle]

Well now we know where she got the "paps on the school run" fantasy by u/dearest-ribwich

Well now we know where she got the "paps on the school run" fantasy The David Beckham documentary on Netflix is a very entertaining watch, and not just because it was basically 4.5 hours of eye candy 😁 As a Canadian, I don't really know much about him, just that he's gorgeous, married to Posh Spice, a friend to the RF, and a former friend of Haz. He came off as very likeable, fun, and hard working, though stubborn as anything, an extreme perfectionist, with his own share of insecurities. A decent human being. After watching the show, it's obvious he's sooooo much higher quality than Halfwit.In the last episode, there are a few moments where they discussed the unrelenting paps and press when they lived in Spain, and how it was quite overwhelming and scary for their kids. They said this was one was one of reasons they moved to LA. They knew they'd get attention in LA, they'd get attention anywhere, but it would be nowhere near as bad as in Spain. The schools in LA are much more private, and they weren't really targeted when there were much bigger stars around. But this little passage really stuck out to me:DB: Every time I went to drop Brooklyn off at school, 10-15 paparazzi were there every morning. The school run, it was live on Spanish TV. Brooklyn at the time was so young, and he had to go through it, and I, uh, I don't know if it's harmed him. I don't know. It strongly reminded me of what Meghan said in The Cut about potential UK schools runs with Archie:Earlier in our conversation about her goals for the life she’s creating here, she’d remarked upon how, if Archie were in school in the U.K., she’d never be able to do school pickup and drop-off without it being a royal photo call with a press pen of 40 people snapping pictures. “Sorry, I have a problem with that. That doesn’t make me obsessed with privacy. That makes me a strong and good parent protecting my child,” Meghan says.I'm wouldn't doubt the Beckhams talked to H&M about their experience with the kids & paps in Spain, and now two things have happened:1) H&M used the Beckham's story as their own to justify their move to LA, and2) Meghan was shading David & Victoria following their feud. Beckham very clearly had guilt and regret over the whole situation, and Meghan saying a "good" parent wouldn't allow it to happen seems (to me) like a comment meant to hurt him and Victoria.The Beckhams must be so relieved they are no longer friendly with H& M. They're such trash for not only taking that horrific experience lived by (at the time) their friends while also exaggerating it for their own benefit, but also for questioning the Beckhams' parenting through a difficult situation they had no control over. Remember The Cut article came out first, and now, just over a year later, we get an actual account of paparazzi harrassment at school by former friends of the Sussexes. Once again proof they haven't an original thought in either of their heads! post link: https://ift.tt/BijYAcP author: dearest-ribwich submitted: October 10, 2023 at 05:27AM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit

[reservoirreputation]

House, Season Two

In pro wrestling, there is a little phrase called 'go away heat'. It's when a bad guy is so infuriating, you don't even want them on your TV. They've ceased to be entertaining, and you don't even get satisfaction from booing them, you just want them gone.

Season two's finale has a villain just like that, and I consider it both a me problem, and a flaw in the writing. One, a lot's happened in the US since 2005, and I don't have as much time nor patience for insane people with guns. I also think having the writers embody the worst/most annoying qualities of House in this one character, that the viewer will despise from the get go, is both genius, and incredibly frustrating. It's hard to get your philosophical points across when I'm audibly begging for the characters to smack this idiot.

Realizing that House is actually at war with himself, and that this is how he sees his actions, all the bullshit aside, would be devastating if I weren't constantly begging for this fucker to get knocked out.

Anyway

Season two:

The parallel of House and Wilson's relationships going down the toilet, then leaning on each other for support, only to again go their separate ways. The joke of 'Wilson's actually more unhinged than House' really showing itself several times throughout this season. Wilson going so far as to sleep with a patient, mirrored with House and Cuddy's flirting with multiple lawsuits.

I didn't remember seeing Foreman's dad from my original viewing of the show, but with this, and getting Chase's dad last season, I wonder when we'll see Cameron subjected to similar family drama. Also;

Chase's Dad is the worst? Yeah, he's the worst. Think about it; doesn't tell his only son he's dying, only tells his wife, does nothing in the way of telling her 'don't break the news of my death while Robert's on the clock' and she sure as shit didn't think of that herself, either, despite being married to someone in the medical profession. Chase, baby, I'm so sorry your Dad was shit, and led to such a horrific snowballing affect.

The multi-episode arc of Cameron and Foreman bickering, Cameron 100% being right to call out a theft when she's sees one, and Foreman's stubborn bullshit, only to lead to that moment of 'we're colleagues, not friends', and you see her heart break in real time. But then! She's the one to volunteer to go back to the cop's place, knowing she might get as sick as Foreman, because it's an unrequited friendship, babbbbbbyyyyyy. But when he does apologize, and uses her first name?? My own heart broke?? And she doesn't accept his apology so that he has something to look forward to when he gets out of this, but then caves before the operation because she's so damn scared?? So far, one of the better character dynamic arcs in the show.

Aside from his family being awful, it felt like a very light season for Chase- and the NICU episode happened. Nothing like a person who's all but abandoned their faith turning to it once more to send a prayer for a dead baby. That was more than enough, good god. How has this show worked in two baby autopsies already?!

A part of me wants Kyle Hill to review the orphan source episode, see how accurate radiation poisoning is depicted in it. Also, the morbid way I pop for the episodes where the heavy hitters appear: 'oh my god, it's rabies with the steel chair!' 'It was me, House! It was me, the bubonic plague, all along!!'

Speaking of, shoutout to that one episode, with the lesbian couple, where one's been planning to leave the other for a long time, and now must accept a part of her partner's liver or die, and Cameron's all about advocating for the truth, no matter what, despising when people lie, (funny, sounds like something House would do) and then the GF who donated part of her liver reveals that she knew her partner was planning on leaving her for a while, and is all like, "Now she can never leave me" and we just see the look of horror on Cameron's face. Man, Cameron's been exposed to some of the worst behavior humanity has to offer, and she still has enough innocence at the beginning of each episode for us to watch die away as the human race finds new and interesting ways to disappoint her. It's great.

Season Two!! In the books!!

I love this show.

[kerink]

you brought up such good points and it gave me a platform to yap more so sorry about that

for PTSD and survivor's guilt: i'm a psychologist and i work at the VA where PTSD and survivor's guilt are the name of the game. you'd honestly be really surprised how people can cope through and compartmentalize some of the most horrific shit imaginable.

PTSD is at its worst immediately following the event and several decades after the dust of your life has settled. i often tell people that once you hit your 40s-60s your PTSD will ramp up again, as bad if not worse than it was after the event. now this is specific to veterans, who are 18-25 typically when the event happens, and then spend their 20s-30s trying to go to school, get a job, have a family, start a home. all of this your brain perceives as "trying to survive" so it doesn't try to deal with the trauma just yet. this is also not true for everyone, it's true in most cases i've seen and it's true for my personal PTSD, but there are also some people for whom they never get a break from their trauma.

so immediately after the event, curly's going to have to be going through pretty extensive medical treatment where his primary focus is still going to be surviving in this moment. he's also going to be going through exhausting and painfully and mentally taxing physical therapy. all of this is going to enable him to compartmentalize what happened on the tulpar, since he will still technically be in a life or death situation and living with his sympathetic nervous system activated. in the game we saw how stressed curly was, how sleep deprived he was, and know he was hallucinating too, but was still able to do his job and support his coworkers. to me this show that curly is very resilient and able to compartmentalize things well enough in order to get things done. i think the initial PTSD effects would be pushed aside, and since you only need to get over that initial hump, after awhile he'd be symptom managing instead of dealing with trauma. that distinction may not make total sense and tell me if it doesn't, but there is a difference.

now the survivor's guilt will eat him alive for sure, people don't shake that one off unless they go full avoidance mode. i think curly would be able to flip it to "i have to live for them" because he's nothing if not self-sacrificial. also, curly would blame himself for having brought jimmy along. and after seeing, hearing, and experiencing everything jimmy did to them only for jimmy to kill himself and get out of being held accountable, curly wouldn't want to take that "coward's way out." he'd want to live and heal and get better so he could face the music. he's going to take responsibility not only for what he did but also what jimmy did. their whole lives he's been shouldering the burden of Jimmy, what makes this any different?

thinking about curly's prosthetics and what physical supports he'll have access to is a real tricky one, i agree with you. esp since we do only have limited capabilities today and we have no idea what the world looks like outside the tulpar.

i see people call the pony express scifi amazon and. yeah... i agree. but we make that comparison because we have an analog. so let's look an our analogs. we have a society where we allow amazon to have the working conditions it does. but we also have HUD glasses, controllable prosthetics, we're working on artificial organs, various forms of vocal recovery (we don't know what the damage to curly's speech system are, if he lost his tongue or if his vocal chords were damaged or if he was just in too much pain to speak), the brain chip thing you pointed out, and all sorts of other things either currently available or in the works. society continues to push to improve quality of life without addressing the systems that cause poor quality of life.

and bouncing off that statement into the next thing i wanted to talk about: we can get an idea of what curly's recovery might look like by turning to other scitfi dystopian stories. the cyberpunk and star wars series were the first ones i thought of when making this post. cyberpunk has a prosthetic and augmentation focus, while star wars (motions to darth vader). anakin skywalker also had full body burns, multiple amputations, and damage to his speaking abilities. and look at what they were able to do for him!

the tulpar has a very retro-future vibe that screams fallout to me, so i think poking around in the fallout universe for inspiration would be meaningful. sadly i dont know shit from fuck about fallout other than from monster factory lmfao

i think curly's situation is ultra complicated, which is a good thing for a fandom. it allows everyone to explore it however they want to, whatever's going to bring them catharsis. which is exactly what curly is to jimmy: something to project his own pain and suffering out on and someone too helpless to stop us taking it out on.

edit because i forgot to touch on the money bit: i think pony express would pay a lot to make this incident go away. even tho jimmy was fucking around on the psych evals, he was doing that when they were already in the middle of their mission. pony express obviously cleared him before he even got on the ship, which is going to show faults in their screening and application processes. there were also only 4 cryopods for a crew of 5, even if that's legal it's going to cause such bad PR that they're going to want to hide it. and there was only enough food and air to get them from port to port with no emergency rations, there was also no automatic SOS system in place that would keep track of the ship and alert the company to an issue. the blood is on pony express' hands, and since it's not clear if they went out of business or if they moved to fully automated shipping, either they or the insurance company responsible for them is going to have to pay up. an event this grizzly is gonna be all over the place, look at how society responded to the chilean miners, uruguayan flight 571, the titanic.

i think they're going to try to deny fault first, but once an investigation is done and the evidence comes out, they're gonna pay out the wazoo to shut curly the fuck up and make this all go away and look like sympathetic good guys taking responsibility.

look at the recent disney scandal, where they tried to get out of the death because the wife had signed up for disney+, then back-tracked when they got bad PR, but tried to say they were allowing it to go to trial because of altruistic reasons.

been thinking a lot today about post-rescue curly

a rescue team is going to want to keep him in cryo until they can figure out not only how to transport him but how to treat him. keeping him in a medically induced coma after that while he goes thru multiple surgeries. what does the medical technology look like in the future? what does his treatment and rehab look like? how easily do his skin grafts take? are his prosthetic neuro-linked and controllable? does he get a cyber eye? or is it long and hard and painful and riddled with infection and rejection and set back like it would be now? will he ever be able to vocally speak again or will he use sign language or an AAC board or other speech generating device?

did the ship's security camera keep running and recording after the crash? during the hearing will curly have to watch everything happen all over again? or did it go out like the radio and curly will have to give detailed testimony over and over and over again?

will he have to face anya and jimmy and swansea and daisuke's families during the hearing or during the settlement process? will they understand? will they hate him? will they blame him? will they comfort him? and if the cameras work and daisukes parents hear that their son was the one who was chosen to survive, but curly got his seat? will curly be able to live with knowing that?

what does his future look like? does he live off the settlement money or does he have to go back to work? does he write a book or sign over movie rights? does he get hounded by media and press wanting to parade him around all over tv and radio and newspapers and magazines? do people pressure him to do a lecture circuit? do true crime people ever leave him alone? how long is it before he's able to just go to the grocery store in peace?

what does a life for him look like?

[mayy-mayy]

Goodbye.

Ei and Scaramouche angst, no comfort sadly

TW: major character death

Who would’ve thought in that moment, where he was being held by her as if he was her son could turn into such a horrific relationship. He only felt anger but she felt guilt. Pure, genuine guilt. for abandoning him? yes but not only that, she manipulated her own creation.

Scaramouches first betrayal was the worst one. His own creator. 

He never imagined that one day he would finally stand in front of her again, this time looking at her purple, shiny eyes with a different feeling. not love anymore, It was hate. hate for what she did, she made a fool out of him and ruined his life.

He grabbed his sword firmly, no fear in his steps towards the woman who watched him with hurt eyes. The difference between them was the way they stood, while the creation looked determined and had no hesitation, the creator looked worried and didn’t dare to move closer to him.

“So we meet again, Ei.” he said with a spark of excitement. He was either winning this, or dying. Of course, winning was his goal,it meant finally getting revenge.

“Kunikuzushi..” she sighed, getting sadder with every step he took. she didn’t want this to happen. Miko warned her so many times, she had to dispose of him a long time ago, but she refused. How would she do that? his eyes used to be loving ones, she was hoping he forgave her, but with every second she was slowly realizing the purpose of his visit.

“The balladeer, for you.” He never sounded so cold, now preparing to fight and strike first. his eyes shining the same purple as hers, showing their old connection. At the end of the day, they used to be close and still have similar qualities, no matter how hard the harbinger tried to completely delete her of his reflection.

The archon moved fast, taking her polearm out. If this was what he wanted, then she was not going to stop him.

She did not try to strike once. For her, he was still her child. that little guy that liked to hang out with her and play with her hair. It's crazy how time changes people..

“You played me, Beelzebul.” he laughed, sounding hurt. he tried to strike again but Ei dodged it one more time, when she finally got hit, the man looked at her and made eye contact while they both generated electro energy, he did it with his hands and the woman transmitted it to her polearm while her hair shone

Everything went by so fast. The balladeer was now kneeled and wounded in front of the archon, while her eyes threatened to spill tears. 

“oh, dear.. This is not what I wanted” she spoke with a trembling voice while Scaramouche looked up at her with rage and disappointment. 

“I am sorry, kuni” tears rolled down both of their cheeks. she hugged him tighter than ever,even if he wasn’t able to speak anymore. Once she saw his face again, he wasn’t breathing anymore.

She charged her last attack, finally leaving him completely on the ground. She then threw her polearm to the floor and sat next to him, holding him in her arms one last time more. 

She then closed her eyes, violently crying in his lifeless chest.

“Goodbye, Kunikuzushi.”

[marvelmusing]

A Game for Two

A Sokovian Lovers Mafia!AU

Pairing: Helmut Zemo x Fem!Reader x Heike Zemo

Summary: You’ve been working undercover as the mob boss Zemo’s assistant, but tonight you’ve decided to come clean to him.

Warnings [18+]: oral (female receiving), criminal environment, spanking, leather gloves? If there’s anything else let me know

A/N: I was looking through my marvel fics Google doc and I found this finished fic and I thought it would be a shame not to post it even though I’m not actively writing for this pairing anymore, I haven’t proofread this since whenever I finished it so sorry if there’s tons of mistakes or if it’s bad

I don’t even know if my readers for this pairing are still even here but I thought I might as well post it

My Masterlist

»»---------------------►

Eight months. That’s how long you’ve been working for the mob boss Helmut ‘The Baron’ Zemo as his assistant. Eight months that you’ve spent undercover for the FBI. Though your reports have slowly become more and more sparse as you feel increasingly unwilling to betray the trust that Zemo and his wife have extended to you.

Eight months of your guilt steadily creeping up on you. Until you can’t take it. You consider calling your superiors and asking for a transfer. With the reduced quality of your reports, they’d probably be happy to move you elsewhere. But you can’t. You’d be put into witness protection, and never see them again. Zemo and Heike have only ever been honest with you. The least you can do is be honest with them, even if the consequences are horrific for you.

So you come clean with Zemo. One night, when he’s visiting one of his clubs, you ask to speak to him. The VIP lounge feels private despite being in the centre of the club. Heike is sitting at the bar, and you can’t help but glance over at her as Zemo invites you to sit on the couch in front of him. You take a deep breath, before explaining everything to him. His face is serious. You recognise his expression. It’s the face he always uses during meetings, not the stern face he uses on you that has a soft twinkle in his eyes.

»»---------------------►

“On the instances where you’ve proved your loyalty to me, were they genuine?” You know what he’s talking about. The night you saved their lives. The night you took a bullet for him. It wasn’t deep, or too serious, but that was what solidified his trust in you. The trust you had just broken. The trust that you never deserved. You nod weakly, your voice quivering,

“I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. Either of you.” He leans back in his chair casually as he continues to consider you.

“Once you leave here, will you return to your colleagues in law enforcement?” You’re rather thrown by this question. He said when you leave here? Is this a trick question? Or is he letting you go? You shake your head,

“No, I won’t go back there.”

“So, through telling me the truth, you’ve put both your position here and at the authorities at risk?” He asks, fully knowing the answer. You nod. “I think such a sacrifice deserves a reward, don’t you?” You shake your head hurriedly, not liking where this is going.

“Oh, I really don’t need anything sir. It’s absolutely fine.” You stammer.

“You’ve been eyeing my wife ever since you sat down.”

“Sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’d never-“

“She wants you too.”

“She- what?” He nods,

“As her husband I vowed to always give her what she wants. I mean, look at her. Could you deny her anything?” He gestures in her direction with his drink, and you follow the action.

“No, I couldn’t.” You admit, as you watch her laugh with the bartender.

“Then we’re on the same page.” You turn your gaze back to him. “Go over there and show her a good time.”

“A good time?” You echo. He nods,

“You have permission to do anything she’s comfortable with.”

“Sir, I don’t think I can. I mean, are you sure?” Your eyes frantically bounce around the room before landing back on him, he returns your gaze with a hard stare.

“Not everyone would have the courage to admit who they are to me. For that, I respect your honesty. However, should you displease my wife in any way, I will show you exactly what I do to spies. And I assure you, you won’t enjoy it. Is that understood?” You swallow hard,

“Yes sir.”

“Good. You’re dismissed.” You would feel a little lighter - having finally confessed - though all you can feel is on edge as you head towards the bar. You order a drink in an attempt to settle your nerves. You take a sip of your drink and think things over. Having seen them do this before, you know this is a trick. That no matter what you do, you’ll be in the wrong. If you don’t please his wife, he’ll punish you for disobeying an order. If you do, he’ll probably punish you for touching her. You’ll need to be smart to pull this off. You make your way over to her, engaging in a little conversation but she knows what you’re there to do. Zemo must have given her some sort of non-verbal instruction. She allows you to buy her a drink, and she makes several excuses to touch you. You can feel Zemo’s eyes on you, and he’s not the only one. The entire club seems to be keeping their attention on you, knowing that you’re in for the beating of your life if you get too friendly with her. Unfortunately for you that’s exactly what the Baron told you to do. You take her hand and pull her to the dance floor, where it’s a little more crowded and the people are mostly distracted. You keep her body close to yours, though she’s the one who grinds her hips against you. You slip your arms around her, a hand pressing against the small of her back as you move your leg between her thighs. Even with the noise of the club, you can hear her sharp inhale.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You purr against her ear. “Grinding against me on the dance floor like a horny teenager.” She’s already whimpering, her nails digging into your biceps. You look across the room, eyes meeting Zemo’s as he watches the two of you. The look he’s giving you nearly has your fight or flight kicking in. You’re almost running out of the club and fleeing the country. Then Heike’s nails run down your arms and you shudder, bringing you back to the beauty in your arms. You keep your eyes fixed on Zemo’s as you nibble on her earlobe. “What would your husband say about this?” You move both of your hands down to grasp at the soft flesh of her cheeks. She gasps as you slowly knead your hands against her skin, her body now flush against yours. “He’s rough with you isn’t he, sweetheart?” You murmur against her neck, pressing gentle kisses to the possessive hickies already adorning her skin. “Although I bet you like that, don’t you?” She nods hurriedly. “Well too bad,” you breathe out a laugh. “Because I am going to take you apart inch by inch.” She whines at your confession. “And I am going to take my sweet time doing it.” You pause, before leaning close to her ear and whispering, “And he’s going to watch every second.” Her eyes fly open and you grin as you take her hand and pull her through the crowd. If you’re doing this, you might as well go all out. With a gentle push from you, she sits down on the sofa opposite her husband. Zemo’s eyebrow lifts momentarily, and you’ve evidently gained his interest. You lean over her body, capturing her lips in yours as your fingers brush along the hem of her dress. When you pull away she attempts to chase your lips despite how breathless she’s become. You take a hold of the fabric of her dress before looking up at her.

“May I?” She makes eye contact with Zemo over your shoulder and he must have given her some sort of confirmation as she nods at you.

“Yes please.” You press another kiss to her lips with a smirk,

“So well mannered.” You purr against her ear as you slide your hands up her thighs to push the dress to her waist. Once that’s done you kneel between her legs, your face level with her knees which you take in each hand and part them to reveal the glistening heat between her legs. You nuzzle your face against one of her thighs, before trailing your lips down to press a soft kiss next to her inner knee. She whimpers when your teeth scrape over the skin there and you grin up at her. “So sensitive.” You muse as you make your way up her thigh. As promised, you take your time, tracing patterns into her skin with your mouth. The marks you leave are small, you don’t want Zemo to get jealous. She whines when you reach the apex of her thighs, as if she’s expecting you to pull away. Her husband is most definitely a tease. Your theory is proven when she gasps at the swipe of your tongue between her folds, her hips jerk towards your mouth, and you press your hands down on her thighs to hold her in place. You trace over her with your tongue, taking your time to both her pleasure and frustration. Squeezing her thighs as they twitch, you ensure she stays wide open as you find the spot that makes her cry out, before doubling your efforts. All you can hear is her ragged breathing and broken moans. Then she’s crying out your name, begging and pleading for you not to stop. Zemo’s right, you couldn’t deny her anything, and she’s soon shuddering under your hold. You spend some time cleaning her up with your tongue, being careful not to push her too far. Then there’s a hand in your hair, pulling you back sharply. You glance around, as the sudden silence dawns on you. The club is empty. Zemo tightens his hold on your hair.

“You know, I usually kill the people who dare to touch my wife.” You swallow hard as he releases you. He sits back on the sofa, leaning back casually. You nod, before lifting your gaze to meet his eyes,

“I figured.” A minute smile traces his lips as he considers the sight before him, you on your knees waiting for his verdict. You had read Heike so well. None of the others had cared so much about her pleasure over their own. And you respected him. Even when he was threatening your life. That was such a rarity in his line of business. He gestures between Heike and you,

“That was your reward for telling me the truth.” You eye him nervously, a spark of curiosity lingering in your eyes. “Now for your punishment.” He looks across at Heike. “Darling?” She moves to sit next to him before leaning to whisper in his ear. He seems to agree with whatever she says, then he turns back to you, “Come here.” He pats the space next to him and you sit there feeling on edge. Heike hands him a pair of black leather gloves which he begins to pull on. “As this is a punishment, I would like you to last as long as I deem appropriate. However, should you want this to stop, you need only ask. Yes?” You nod. A small frown of confusion crinkles your brow but as he drapes you over his lap you begin to understand what is about to happen. Heike sits facing you, as your head settles on her thighs. She takes your hands and places them above your head to rest beside her hips. Zemo begins to undo your trousers and you lift your hips to help him pull them off. His fingers trace the waistband of your panties, the cold leather of his gloves making you shiver. “Would you like these on or off?” You swallow hard,

“Off please.” He hums approvingly, slipping the fabric down your legs. He smooths his hand over the skin he’s just revealed. The first blow catches you off guard, drawing a cry that’s muffled against Heike’s thighs. Your fingers grip onto her hips as you try to find something to keep you grounded.

“Count for me, Draga.” He tells you. You nod, squeezing your eyes shut. Your voice shakes a little when you speak,

“One.” He brings his hand down on you again, and your nails dig into Heike’s skin. She doesn’t react to it, simply petting your hair as you squirm on her husband’s lap. “Two.” You gasp out. After the third slap, the tears are streaming down your face. He certainly isn’t gentle, and the leather stings against your bare skin. Your voice breaks as you choke out, “Three.” He seems to keep to a pattern, allowing you a moment to breathe and cry out the number between each smack. Some subconscious part of you relaxes into the repetition, despite the pain. “Four.” Your grip on Heike doesn’t loosen the entire duration of your punishment and her skin is damp from your tears. “F- five.” You breathe out.

“You’ll have to be a little louder next time, darling.” Heike encourages, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. You nod hurriedly. The strength of his blows is unchanging, and you cry out a broken, “Six.”

“Good girl.” Heike coos and you whimper at her praise, a sharp contrast from her husband’s actions. Ten strikes is the limit on what Zemo is willing to push you to tonight. Heike guides you into her arms and you cling onto her, your hands shaking as she smooths over your arms soothingly. “You’re done darling. All done.” She presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, pulling you closer to her. “You did so well.” You bury your face against her chest, before risking a glance at Zemo. He’s pulled the gloves off and he extends his hands towards you slowly.

“Can I touch you?” He asks you. His care makes the tears well up again in your eyes again, and you nod. He cups your face gently, his eyes meeting yours. “She’s right, you were so good for us.” His thumbs brush against your cheeks, wiping the tears away. “All’s forgiven now.” He kisses you softly on the forehead. “You understand why I punished you, don’t you?” You nod,

“Because I lied to you.” He nods,

“Not only that, but you put yourself in danger because of that lie.” You nod in agreement. “And have you learnt your lesson?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good girl.” He pulls you into his arms, smoothing a hand over your hair. “We’re going to take care of you now Draga.”

[multi-lefaiye]

i have kept this question in for far too long and now i must ask: who is Spencer Fucking Middleton

hello thank you for asking, but also i am so sorry because you have unlocked the part of me that Will Not Shut Up About Fictional Gas Station People

short answer: spencer middleton is one of my favorite characters from the Tales From the Gas Station series

long answer: okay so Spencer Fucking Middleton. he is one of the main/recurring antagonists of one of my all-time favorite horror/comedy series, Tales From the Gas Station. he's mean, nasty, stinky evil man who kills a Lot of people and does the dirty work for various evil entities and gods. and i love him so much it's fucking unreal.

my blog title is kind of like. poking light fun at myself b/c part of me used to be paranoid of someone accusing me of being a spencer middleton apologist and trying to excuse the horrific evil shit he does in canon, so i just decided to go ahead and own that. yeah i think spencer did a lot wrong but he should do more things wrong actually. (just kidding i don't, i think he should see a therapist and calm down a bit)

i still need to finish reading the series in its entirety but spencer like. i used to hate him so much but he's grown on me so much!!!! like. i do think i'm reading into him probably more than the author intended, but there's just something about him that makes me really like him.

(by the 'reading into him too much' part i think that like... the author did not intend for spencer to have redeeming qualities, but i genuinely think if spencer had actually gotten support and probably some therapy instead of being treated like a monster his whole life and ostracized from everyone, he probably wouldn't have started hurting people. can't be sure, and i don't think that excuses his actions on any level b/c he made his own choices, but still.)

like. ok i'm gonna describe some of my favorite Spencer Moments below the cut to try and explain what i mean. under the cut b/c because some of them are violent and i wanna be careful. i won't go into detail about it but uhh content warning there's gonna be mentions of murder/death and general Violence™

SO ONE OF MY ALL-TIME FAVORITE SPENCER MOMENTS IS IN BOOK TWO. oops caps

but anyway like... okay so the main characters found spencer bloody and bruised and unconscious, and they tied him to a chair just in case he'd try to attack them once he gets up again. and when he wakes up he starts IMMEDIATELY going full Gaslight Gatekeep Girlboss.

like... gosh ok this requires context- the tl;dr of the context is that in the first book, jack (the main character and the lil guy in my icon) accidentally killed someone spencer was working with, kieffer. WELL thing is most people don't know that happened, but spencer does, and he immediately used that to start slowly turning people against jack and regain control of the situation. i don't have the book with me right now so i will retype the dialogue from memory:

spencer: let me guess, jack told you i kill people.

rosa: he said you're dangerous.

spencer: dangerous? no, you've got it all wrong! i came out here to keep an eye on him, to make sure HE doesn't hurt anyone! how do you know you can trust him?

jack: hey, asshole, do you know how much it sucks to live with what you did to my leg?

spencer: awww well i bet it doesn't suck as much as what you did to those people you killed. why don't we ask kieffer? or my old boss?

jack: hey, i didn't kill your old boss!

rosa: ... what about kieffer?

spencer: [shit-eating grin]

--

okay i'm sorry this is so long i just love that scene??? like. something about a character who is in a situation where they have no control IMMEDIATELY finding a way to regain control just by being a manipulative piece of shit. i love that.

my other favorite spencer moment is the one a few scenes later where he's in a fight with a shapeshifter that looks exactly like him, and this MOTHERFUCKER really pauses to remark about how hot he is. i love him. i hate him. i love him.

--

anyway ok last thing. i promise. i'm so sorry for how long this is. i just want to share a tupperbot joke i made with spencer that still makes me laugh.

[Image Description: A screenshot of a discord message creating using tupperbot. The message is from the character Spencer Middleton, and it reads: "I came out here to attack people and I'm honestly having such a good time right now." End ID.]

[monstersdownthepath]

The Book of Unremitting Horror is the bestiary for the TTRPGs The Esoterrorists and/or Fear Itself, themselves early-2000s detective-style games (the ruleset is even named "GUMSHOE") where the players are essentially occult investigators tracking down dangerous mystics and the powers they invite into the world.

I picked the book up 2~3 years ago after coming across it by complete accident as I was searching for horror inspiration by wiki-walking across TVtropes. I fell in love more or less immediately with its contents and its concepts, especially the delightfully ghoulish artstyle, examples of which I will be putting under a cut because most of them are gnarly. I've leafed through it once or twice, but only just recently have I sat down and actually read it, which is threatening to make me stat some of them up as PF monsters.

I do warn, if anyone wants to look into it, that it deals with some fairly heavy topics; half of the game involves examining the scenes of horrific crimes to try and piece together what happened and what the party may be up against, which means a lot of the written descriptions (and the monsters themselves) get gruesome in a way I, personally, find entertaining, but which might not be everyone's cup of tea.

While it handles most of its subject matter with a refreshing maturity when compared to, say, early Vampire the Masquerade or the 'darker, more mature' attempts by D&D, it IS an early 2000s "Dark" TTRPG and still has that feel across all its pages. Again, I find most of the Darkness And Edginess entertaining, but YMMV... and there IS one breed of monster (the Feral Drowner) which is directly noted to do a specific brand of violence to their victims which I will not discuss on this blog. There's also a creature called the "Snuff Golem" which cobbles itself together from the set of a snuff film and is decidedly not a mindless construct; the description of the aftermath of one of its 'shoots' is quite graphic, and the example golem itself is visibly made from the body of at least one dismembered woman. Read with caution.

wow this got rambly, sorry. You can tell how much I like something by how much I'll regurgitate about it unprompted, though. Anyway, click to see some of the illustrations from the BoUH; I picked some of the least body-horror-ridden images:

Click for better quality

Left to right: a Dream Tearer, the Empty One, the Kooks, and an Organ Grinder.

The latter two I'm going to attempt to give Pathfinder statblocks to.

Reading through the Book of Unremitting Horror thoroughly might be what pushes me to actually start and finish a homebrew stat block, if only to convert some of these little freaks to PF

[foli-vora]

all i need

A/N: lmao a brief depressive episode gave way to a relentless hunger to fuck a cowboy so... enjoy. ❤️

Pairing: Jack Daniels/Agent Whiskey x f!reader

Word count: almost 2.2k

Warnings: THIS IS 18+ ONLY! swearing, oral (f receiving), fingering, praise kink, body worship, unprotected p in v (wrap before you tap), clit slaps, choking, a good ol’ creampie and a tiny miniscule slice of cum eating (if I’ve forgotten anything, please let me know!)

+

“No, no, no! Shit! Fucking shit, fuck –”

The casserole dish clatters to the counter and you try to wave the sting of a burn from your hands, frowning at the now blackened potatoes, smoke curling towards the ceiling and hanging heavy in your nose. No saving those. The potatoes join the rest of the burnt food crowding the counter and you feel the burn of tears build behind your lids.

It was your and Jack’s anniversary – your third to be exact, your first as an engaged couple. You had spent hours going through Pinterest, browsing some fancy recipes and saving anything you think Jack would like, deciding to make him a big fancy home cooked meal for him to come home to as an anniversary surprise. Suffice to say, it was not going well.

Well, there was still time – maybe you could order something in before he got home. You both were at your apartment in Manhattan as Jack had been working at the New York Statesmen offices, so you had plenty of options to pick from. You sigh when you hear the front door open, a set of keys being thrown in the bowl by the door and heavy footsteps leading through the apartment.

“Sweetheart? Where are y–” Jack stops dead when he enters the kitchen, a magnificent bouquet of red roses in one hand, dark eyes quickly taking in the cluttered counters of horrifically burnt food and then landing on you, hands braced on your hips and tears building in your eyes as you glared at the burnt dishes. “What’s all this?”

“It was meant to be a surprise,” you mutter, shoulders falling in defeat, “for our anniversary… but I ruined it.”

“Hey now,” he moves forward instantly, arms looping around your waist and free hand falling to the back of your head as he cradles you to him. “It looks… uh… it looks like you’ve put a lot of work into everything.”

You scoff, pulling back and smiling softly as he presents you with the flowers. The sweet perfume hits your senses, ridding your nose of the smoke smell and you sigh, kissing his cheek softly. “They’re stunning, Jack. Thank you.”

“Happy anniversary, sweetheart.” He murmurs against your forehead, nose scrunching slightly as smoke permeates his nose. “Let’s just –” he momentarily leaves you to open the kitchen windows before taking the roses from you and sitting them on the counter in the one small bit of space not taken up by burnt food, and then leads you into the less-smoky dining area.

“I’m sorry I screwed dinner up.” You’re sullen as you speak, disappointed in yourself and what you thought were decent cooking skills.

“Don’t be silly. My future wife,” he coos, large hands cradling your face softly as he presses his lips from one cheek to the other, curved nose brushing against yours softly, “always thinking of me – spoiling me. You’re incredible, baby.”

“But I –”

“No. You are incredible. You spent your day working away in here, all for me. Now, did it end up how you wanted? No – but does that take away from the time and effort you spent doing so? No. You’re always looking after me, sweetheart… and now, it’s my turn.”

Your hands fly to his shoulders with a cry of surprise as he bends slightly, grabbing you just below your ass and sitting you on the edge of the dining table. He hands pull at his jacket as he drops to his knees, throwing it aside and not caring when it drops to a crumpled heap a few steps away.

You blink down at him, “What are you doing?”

“Having myself a top-quality anniversary meal, courtesy of my lovely fiancé.” He answers with a grin curling at his lips, warm hands rubbing along the smooth skin above your ankles. “Lay back for me, baby, let me see you.”

Your eyes don’t leave his as you slowly recline, resting on your elbows on the cool timber surface, his hands brushing up your legs and along your thighs and slowly pushing up the cute floral sundress you had bought for the occasion. Red lace greets him once the dress moves under his persistence, and his fingers trace the edges of the delicate fabric in admiration.

“You dress up all pretty for me, sweetheart?”

“Mhm.”

Lips repetitively press against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, slowly working their way up to your clothed core, and you squirm on the table, hips bucking slightly in anticipation. Searing heat engulfs your clit through the fabric, and the breath leaves your lungs as Jack moves his lips, biting gently at your clit and dragging the lace back with his teeth before letting it snap back into place. Dark eyes flick up to meet yours and then he’s smirking, fingers hooking into the waistband and jerking his head up to signal you to raise your hips and removing your underwear.

You watch him through hooded eyes, his large warm hands running back up your legs, and then he pushing at your thighs, spreading your legs and groaning lowly when his eyes land on your pussy.

“Prettiest fuckin’ thing.”

And then he moves, mouth greedily engulfing your clit and running his tongue over the sensitive nerve, fingers digging into your thighs as you moan quietly, hand flying to wind in his hair. He groans into your flesh, eyes closing and brows furrowing in concentration as he focuses all of his attention doing that fucking magical thing with his tongue that makes your eyes roll back into your head. You whine when he moves away from your clit, tongue diving into your pussy to taste the arousal gathering there, nose and moustache bumping against your clit as he eagerly buries his face against your folds.

“Fuck Jack,” your hands tug at his curls, hips shifting slightly against his mouth and head dropping back as he hums appreciatively against you, the sweet tang of you like honey on his tongue.

He breaks away with a quiet pant, diving right back to latch onto your clit, lips wrapping around it while his tongue rapidly rubs back and forth. Your thighs jump in his palms, and he winds his arms under your legs, sitting them softly on his shoulders and palms flattening against your hips, keeping you steady and anchored to his relentless mouth. Fire ignites in your stomach, toes curling in the high heels digging into his back. He doesn’t seem to notice, and if he does, he doesn’t seem to mind as he moves his head from side to side. You whine up to the ceiling, fist tightening around the tufts of soft hair wound between your fingers, pulling him impossibly closer to you, a low drawn out moan falling from your lips when he lets you buck against his mouth.

“Take what you want, baby.” He murmurs, dark hungry eyes finding yours.

The death grip on your legs eases up, and you start to move against his tongue with little grinds of your hips, keeping his head where you want it with the hand buried in his hair, heart fluttering wildly in your chest as he watches you closely from between your legs, watching the slight crease between your brows deepen, your mouth falling open in a silent cry. You bask in the heat quickly spreading over your body, muscles winding tighter and tighter with every delicious roll against his mouth. Your pussy clenches around nothing, desperate for something, anything, to fill it and help you over the edge.

“J-Jack – fuck… fingers –”

Two fingers immediately swirl around the entrance to your pussy, sliding in with zero resistance and curling deeply within you, moving in time with your hips and hitting that heavenly spot within you that has you seeing stars. Fucking Jesus, so good… so, so good –

He feels you on the edge, hears your breathing start to hitch and groans, eyes slipping closed as you work yourself faster and harder against his mouth, free hand unconsciously falling to rub at his clothed cock, rock hard and throbbing from the second he buried his tongue in your pussy.

“Yes, oh my g– Jack… fuck –” your chest heaves, the heat in your belly coming to an all time high and then you’re suspended in space for a brief second in time, floating and weightless, until you come crashing down, electric flooding your body and back arching against the table, coming with a loud cry. He feels your pussy clench down around his fingers, a flood of wetness catching his chin, and he can’t help the low groan he lets out against you. Your body jolts, spasming wildly as he greedily locks his lips around your clit and sucks until you’re pulling at his hair and begging for relief.

He pulls away, mouth and chin shining with your slick, and you watch through hazy eyes as he brings his soaked fingers to his mouth and sucks, eyes closing in bliss at the taste of your cum before opening and locking heatedly with yours. He stands, fingers tugging at the tie around his neck and ripping open the top buttons of his shirt, before he’s stepping closer, dragging the weeping head of his cock along through your folds and slapping it sharply against your clit. You cry out at the sting of overstimulation, cry turning into a moan when he does it again, and again, before he lines up with your entrance and buries himself in your pussy with one solid thrust.

“Fuck baby, you always take me so well.” He groans, head rolling on his shoulders as your walls flutter around him.

“Please –”

He stays still, eyes opening and gazing down at you, breathless and spaced out below him. “Please what? What do you want?”

“Move. Please, Jack – please… please fuck me –”

Fingers grip your chin, your pussy clenching in response, and he turns your head towards him.

“Look at my pretty girl,” he coos deeply, “asking so nicely. You want me to fuck you, baby?”

You nod pathetically, hands grabbing at whatever they could find, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and tugging him down towards you. He melts over you, wet lips meeting yours in a slow kiss, your mouth falling open the second his tongue probes softly at your lips. You moan at the taste of him, mixed with the tangy taste of your cum still hanging on his tongue. The fingers gripping your chin move, wrapping around the delicate skin of your throat and squeezing softly, his raspy chuckle filling your ears when he feels your pussy flutter around him again.

“You want it?”

“Please –” you choke out as he pulls halfway out before pushing back in languidly, eyes fixed to your face and the small twitch of your muscles as he lazily thrusts, slowly dragging his cock against your walls. “Jack,” you whine, frowning at the slow pace.

“I hear you, baby.”

And then he’s moving. Really moving.

His thrusts become faster, harder, hitting somewhere deep inside you that has your clawing at the table. You’re talking, incoherent words falling from your lips in a relentless wave as he pounds into you, the grip around your throat tightening as he curses quietly.

“God, you were made for me, darlin’. Your pussy’s so fuckin’ perfect, Christ –” his hips stutter and he mashes his teeth together, fighting the itch of release and quickening his thrusts, free hand moving to press down on your lower stomach to pin you in place. “Come on, baby. Give me one more, I know you can do it –” His thumb moves slightly lower, brushing over your clit in soft circles and setting fire to your nerves all over again. “Can you do that for me, baby? Can you give me one more?”

Whining softly, you nod hurriedly, brows furrowing as the coil winds tighter and tighter in your stomach. In a blinding flash, another wave of heat rushes over you and his hips stutter as you cum hard around him, hand moving from your throat to the tabletop next to your head to brace himself.

“Good girl, baby, you’re so good for me, so fuckin’ good, Jesus fuck –”

You feel the flood of heat as he comes, his cock shoved so deep you arch off the table with a whimper as he brushes your tender cervix. He collapses on top of you, the weight of his body comforting as you lift your heavy arms to wrap around him. You both lay boneless, panting and sweat running along your bodies. Jack lifts his head once he catches his breath, pressing a tender kiss to your lips which you try to return as sweetly as possible while being completely fucked out of your senses, and then he stands and gently drags his soft cock from your wrecked pussy. He watches his cum leak out of you, fingers swiping through the mess before bringing them to his mouth and sucking the cum from his skin with a low hum.

He grins, “Dinner was amazing – thank you, sweetheart.”

+

Tags: @anu-simps​ @seasonschange-butpeopledont​ @withasideofmeg​ @you-got-me-starry-eyed​

[astro-rain]

delicate; b.barnes

chapter one - “to wakanda”

delicate masterlist

word count: 1.5k

synopsis: reader works for what used to be shield as a highly skilled neuropsychologist. after the events in vienna involving the sokovia accords and a bombing, she gets an interesting request from friend and coworker sharon carter...a request involving none other than steve rogers and james barnes.

warnings: brief and indirect mentions of abuse/trauma

pairings: bucky x fem!reader

"I don't know Sharon. Are you sure I'm really the right person for this? I'm not, like, an Avengers level tech. Are you sure they don't want a genius or someone like Stark to do it?"

"Well, Stark is pretty busy right now, and honestly, no one knows psych like you. Not who I've met anyway."

"That is so not true. I'm willing to bet there's tons of other people you guys got somewhere who are ten times what I am."

"Agent (Y/L/N), in case you missed it, SHIELD isn't what it used to be. Sure we have old agents who aren't formally 'SHIELD agents,' anymore, but we don't have the expendability we used to. You're our best bet at the moment."

"Damn. I'm your best bet. I'm sorry," she almost chuckled, but then she thought for a brief moment. "Are you sure this is completely necessary? I mean, I saw the photo on the news. The quality's poor at best, and..."

She leaned in, discretely, and whispered.

"...not to seem like a conspiracy theorist commie or anything, but it kinda seems like people are jumping to conclusions here. Are we even sure it was Barnes who set off the bomb?"

Sharon looked around them, cautiously. No one seemed to be listening, but she scanned the room like her life as she knew it was hanging in the balance. She weighed her words in her head, making sure she picked the right ones, then formulated a response appropriate.

"Regardless of if it was him or not, Barnes still escaped. and before that, Ste-we'd been looking for him for almost two years. This analysis is necessary," Sharon brought her voice down even lower. "At least that's what I keep being told. Of course I'd like there to be more solid proof, but I'm not in charge here. He's gone, and they want to be able to find him and 'sort things out.'"

"'Sort things out,'" (Y/N) repeated, questioning the genuineness of whomever told Sharon that. "Unless they have hard evidence that it was him who set off the bomb in Vienna, shouldn't they leave that to uh...Captain America?"

She wondered how Barnes was able to escape in the first place. She saw the containment module he was in; there's no way he could've gotten out without a fight. ...But maybe it wasn't a fight. Perhaps it was a trigger word induced rage. (Y/N) understood a basic layout of the "Winter Soldier." SHIELD would've kept any information they had classified. However, after the fiasco in Washington, d.c. with Hydra and the whole releasing of all files predicament, she was able, with Sharon's help, to put together a simple outline. With that being said, he couldn't have broken out without going Winter Soldier mode. But doesn't someone need the trigger words for that?

“That's what a reasonable person would think, but once again, I'm not in charge," Sharon shrugged. "Things would probably be going a lot smoother if I was, but you can't have everything."

(Y/N) cracked a smile. Sharon was a friend, and a good one too. They'd known each other since before SHIELD was shattered in 2014. In fact, Sharon helped train her.

The only thing was: Sharon was a higher ranking agent and often withheld certain information from (Y/N). It frustrated her. This was where their personal boundaries got in the way of their professional ones.

She could tell there was something Sharon wasn't telling her, but she wasn't about to compromise either of their positions by pushing for information she wasn't supposed to know. Hell, maybe even Sharon knows something she isn't supposed to. Or maybe she knows something that Everett Ross wouldn't like. What if she was keeping something from him? Defying him? What if she was working with Steve Rogers? Now that would be interesting.

(Y/N) was used to secrets around her all the time. She knew Sharon had her fair share, and trying to figure them out wouldn't really get her anywhere.

"Right. Okay. Well, I'll get on this then. Thanks, Agent Carter," she teased in late response to Sharon's 'Agent (Y/N).’

Sharon offered a quick smile before walking off to attend to other business.

- - -

Pain. That was all it was. In every sense of the word. As she strenously made her way through the densely packed file of one James Buchanan Barnes, pain was all she could see. All she could read. It leaked out of the page and seeped into her skin like poison.

It was horrific what they did to him. She knew he had his memory wiped, had someone pull him out and stick someone else in. But it was more than just that. They took his past, his memories, his thoughts; and they ripped them from his mind, leaving an empty space to mold into their own. It was after this when Hydra, in every way they could, dehumanized him, made him less than. He was striped of his freedom, his control, his choice, his humanity, of everything that made him him. They beat and bruised and broke it out this empty human shell until he was nothing but a shadow of faded morality and consciousness.

But hell, she couldn't look away. She was glued to the aftershock of this horrible wreckage. All the years of studying Psychology and Neuroscience couldn't have possibly prepared her for the absolute horror that was his past, his abuse, his torture. It was heinous. Frankly, she questioned how he was still alive. How he still had the will and the drive to be alive. How do you live after that?

"Fuck," she breathed after eons of silence.

She seemed to lose her sense of time whilst she was immersed in the harrowing nightmare of Hydra's cruelty. 'Cruelty' doesn't even come close to doing it justice. When she came to, her desk looked like a bomb went off. Papers were bursting out of manilla folders, littering the linoleum surface with classified files and secret information. She leaned back in her chair, and gave herself a minute to debrief.

(Y/N) almost felt guilty, like she things she looked at were so vile, so violating that she didn't have the right to see them. Sure, she had read and analyzed all sorts of trauma and psychological profiles. But he was different. Something about James Barnes was different. It tangled her mind the fact that a person could endure all that. She could only imagine the effect that would have on the human brain. The possibilities are endless. Suddenly bombing the UN didn't seem so far fetched.

- - -

"Jesus Christ," (Y/N) murmured, staring at her office floor as Sharon finished explaining to her what happened at the Leipzig Halle Airport.

She sat mostly in silence as she pondered over the information just fed to her. Apparently Tony Stark gathered a 'team' to try and intercept Captain America - sorry - Steve Rogers and his (supposed) fugitive friend. It was chaos.

"What is this? Fuckin' Avengers Fight Night?" she wondered aloud. "How many people did you say were there?"

"Twelve total," Sharon clarified. "Five with Stark and five with Steve."

The psychologist shook her head, dumbfounded. "How did it end?"

"Steve and Barnes got out, but everyone else with them were captured and sent to the Raft."

"The Raft?!" (Y/N) exclaimed. "That's for, like, super humans! Not people like Sam Wilson or Clint Barton!"

"You're telling me."

Sharon seemed in agreement with everything she was saying. However, there was something she couldn't quite place. Like she was holding back. But holding back what?

"So what of Rogers and Barnes?" (Y/N) pushed.

Sharon got up and closed the office door before returning to her seat, leaning in, and lowering her voice. This secretive woman, god damn it.

"Well... That's what I came to talk to you about."

Oh boy. She didn't have a semblance of a single idea of what to expect. Apparently Sharon noticed.

"We're the only ones that know this. They're fine..." the agent trailed off, "They're in Wakanda, but they need a little help."

"Are you leaving?!" (Y/N) all but yelled before quickly slapping a hand over her mouth and uncovering it only to whisper, "Do you and Rogers have a thing or something? Cause' I don't know how else you would know all of this when I'm sure that no one else does considering he's now an enemy of several governments!"

"My relations with Steve Rogers are not the focus here." She could've sworn Sharon flushed. "But we have been in contact; I'm one of the few people he can trust right now, and I don't plan on letting him down anytime soon."

They totally have a thing.

"Noted," said (Y/N) with a nod, "but why are you telling me this? Does he want the profile analysis or something? I don't see how he would need it if he's known Barnes for however long."

"Not exactly..." Sharon fidgeted with her hands. "We need you to go to Wakanda.”

-

[A/N:] this is a repost of chapter 1 because my masterlist is being fucky

[darkorderaf]

Can I request general prompt 134 with Tommy end? I love horror movies but I’m still such a wimp so he’d definitely make fun of me a little (but in a playful way-)

I love the idea of Tommy End/Malakai Black doing completely normal things like watching horror movies. This is very cute; thank you for requesting!

Pairing: Tommy End/Malakai Black x OFC. Prompts: “Are you scared…Then why won’t you look at the screen?” Rating: G. Warnings/Content: None; just humor and fluff! Word Count: 707.

(I don’t own gif; credit to lancearchers!)

She didn’t know why it never occurred to her that Tommy, Malakai, might like movies. He had nearly scared the soul out of her backstage once, those intense eyes locked on her as she wound up cables. Unsure of what to do with her hands, she simply dropped her cables. Great going, genius.

“Hi,” she said. “Sorry, you…” She didn’t want to admit that he had scared her. That was decidedly uncool and she needed to be cool in front of him. “Startled me. Did you need something?”

“That’s a very good film,” he rasped. It wasn’t at all what she thought he might have said and she stared at him. Very uncool. He gestured at her shirt. “The one on your shirt. Do you like the classics?”

A minute passed before it finally clicked for her and those nerves of hers were wiped away as she glanced down at her shirt. Great, she had to check what shirt he was wearing. He was an interesting person. An interesting and intimidating person that she didn’t quite know how to act around. She found solace in her Nosferatu shirt and latched onto it like a safety raft. Movies, she could talk about movies.

“Yes,” she said, her face lighting up. “I do! I watched a bunch of them when I was younger. You know, your staples, all the Universal Monster movies and the Hammer movies? Those could get so weird but in a good way and I just couldn’t get enough of them. And then really spooky and horrific stuff like Giallo films...”

As she talked, she didn’t notice that he had wound her cables up and stood patiently to hand them to her. She trailed off on her speech and slowly took them away from him. If she embarrassed herself any further, she might actually burst into flames.

“Have you seen Don’t Look Now?”

She shook her head.

“I’m watching it tonight,” he said as he slid his hands into his suit pockets. “Would you like to watch it with me?”

“You want to watch it with me?”

“Yes,” he said with a single nod. “I would love to get your thoughts on it. I will be here.”

He handed her a slip of paper with his room number and before she could say anything else, he was gone like a shadow. She eyed the number for the room on the sixth floor of the hotel. It was just a movie.

---

Her thoughts on the movie? It was creepy as shit. As soon as the ball found its way down the stairs again, her eyes were hardly on the screen. Tommy watched her and she swore, she saw an honest to god smile there. Which meant that she was looking at him instead of the movie.

“Are you scared?”

His voice came just as a scare happened and she swore, her hands in front of her eyes.

“No,” she said tersely. “I am not absolutely not scared.”

She heard that low, raspy laugh of his that shouldn’t have come from a man as potentially terrifying as him and she glanced at him quickly.

“Then why won’t you look at the screen?”

He had her there and she frowned at him. Even though he teased her, the tension in her shoulders softened some. He seemed curiously human like this. Not that he wasn’t human but there were times where he had an otherworldly quality to him. That wasn’t the case here. He looked just as comfortable as she did. Or well, she would have, if she wasn’t thoroughly spooked.

“You sat through all of Nosferatu, witnessed Count Orlok, but a rubber ball made you scared? Perhaps I will bring one with me to the ring next week. What a fearsome sight that would be.”

His one pale eye looked at her, that grin of his plain as day on his face.

“Very funny,” she huffed as she lowered her hands, attempting to be brave. “I’m not scared. It just took me by surprise.”

“Like I did before I’m assuming?”

Initially, she frowned. Then a small smile lit up her face and she looked ahead at the screen again. He...was okay. She liked this.

“Yeah, something like that.”

[multiversal-pudding]

Actually- you know what I am going to make this a reblog (ignore how the comments say its from someone else, that’s my alt)

Like. If you’re interested in Murder Drones, it’s a genuinely good so far story that can be summed up as “Vampire Story in a Robot Post-Apocalyptic Exoplanet/sinister interstellar corporation type setting that’s (especially here towards ep. 3) is really starting to develop a fascinating plot with elements of the setting mixing in creative, intriguing ways, with a kinda goofy but fun cast-

like. To put it one way. one of the MCs is named Uzi which at first sounds so over the top it doesn’t sound like a name, more like an overdramatic edgy teenager naming an OC- then you get to know her and. Yeah. It is. But it’s actually kinda perfect because she’s the exact kind of edgy dork who’d think that name was cool- She keeps yelling “Bite Me!!” At everyone in a vampire story, her inciting incident is wanting to build a really big gun to kill the vampires only to end up getting a chance to talk to one long enough for him to realize “hey wait the corporation that sent us views us as being just as disposable as these guys- literally we’re built to die once there’s no more of them to kill” (also N’s kinda the “Filbo Fiddlepie” of murderous robot-vampires if you know Bugsnax), it’s kinda great?

I will say it gets gory for a show about robots (oil is blood, lots of it is spilled), and it’s definitely a “don’t worry, it gets better” in some regards (GOOD LORD THE IRONY POISONING IN PILOT-), but like. Again, You can see the quality getting better in every episode, it’s stylized and horrific and fun and the underlying mystery is genuinely engaging- like, just stick with it to ep.3, I promise it’s worth it (well, if it’s your type- as with all things, it might not be, but like. In general It Gets Good)

[[backup- Alt Text for the comments in case it doesn’t work for some reason: *Yeeaaaahhh* I will say the “self-aware/lampshade to sound cool that just makes it sound dumb and irony poisoned” is at near lethal levels, especially in the earlier episodes (*good lord some parts of pilot-*)

They do seem to be slowly improving on it though/the rest of the show is getting so good you don’t care as much (like. The fact that it means even the intimidating villains like “Was-J”/AS and error screens talk like sarcastic teenagers is kinda charming in its own way with how hard they play into it at times + Uzi screaming “I HATE IT HERE!!” after Doll had that ominous “I’m.. sorry for you- I’ll help you too if I can” *teleports away without explaining anything* moment was genuinely great-)

Plus it does create a unique tone like with how it lets N *get away with a crayon I’m sorry note for mass-murdering the people in the bunker and it feels appropriate*

Honestly- if it fully took itself seriously it’d be a really different story- Like. Sometimes it’s grating, but especially later on you can see the heart and love that went into everything so much, the progress visible from episode to episode- there’s a lot to love here!]]

I finally watched Murder Drones...and...god almighty the dialogue is terrible. They legitimately did not even try. Everything else about it is phenomenal and more than makes up for it though

[spencersawkward]

switchblade faith//spencer reid - chapter 9

summary: one month after joining the BAU, Clea is still settling in. between solving murders and getting acclimated to DC, the only comfortable thing in her life is her new friendship with Dr. Spencer Reid. (Baby Spence)

pairing: Fem!OC x Spencer

word count: 4.1k

content warnings: tattooing/tattoo aftercare, mostly fluffy!

A/N: hi! it's been a while since i updated this series, but i love it too much to leave it behind and i'm also always going to be obsessed with sub!spence. anyway, all my tattoos are stick and pokes atm so if some of the tattoo stuff if a little off, i'm sorry!

masterlist

it's really a matter of principle that keeps me bound to the promise. if I were a weaker woman, I would back down from the chair, would have shaken my head and told JJ that no, actually, I will not be getting something permanently inked on my body purely for the fulfillment of a bet.

but with most of the team around me and a couple flutes of champagne flowing through my veins, I give in. it's going to be small, even though I'm not going to see it until it's done. Penelope and Morgan being in charge of the design scares me, though. I start to get nervous that I'm going to end up with a unicorn tramp stamp.

"where are you gonna get it?" Garcia nudges my shoulder once we get inside the tattoo parlor. her eyes are traveling over all the intense artwork, which I can already tell is very much not her style. the walls are covered in intricate prints from past customers.

I think to myself for a moment. if I'm being completely honest, there's one place I've been meaning to get a tattoo, but never have. it's easy to hide, which is good. as long as the design they choose isn't horrifically embarrassing, I'll do it.

"I'm thinking..." I pull the waistband of my jeans down a little until it's right below my hip bone. "there."

"sexy." she says suggestively. I laugh.

"depending on what you guys have decided to give me, yeah." I angle for a hint, but Penny isn't caving.

"are you ready?" Morgan asks, having returned from the front desk area, where he's been talking to the artist. I take a deep breath, peer around at the rest of the team. we look like an odd bunch in here, an assortment of ages all gathered in a dark tattoo parlor.

Spencer's watching me with a concerned expression and I realize that I've been staring around for a decent amount of time. he doesn't say anything, although I've noticed that he's got a certain face he makes right before he does-- and he's making it.

"Clea, are you sure you wanna do this? you don't have to." JJ touches my shoulder suddenly. I realize that they think I'm genuinely worried and I let out a laugh.

"yeah, I'm fine," I turn to Morgan. "lead the way, handsome."

the tattoo artist has me lie down while he preps all his tools, snaps on his gloves. everyone sees me on my stomach and Emily gasps.

"are you getting a tramp stamp?"

"what? no," I giggle. "I'm gonna get it here." I show them the spot I just showed Penelope, and Spencer raises his eyebrows. Prentiss whispers something in Morgan's ear and the suave agent smirks.

"you're gonna like this." Penny grins. I glance at the tattoo artist to see how he reacts to that statement, but he's got a good poker face, unfortunately.

"are you being serious or are am I gonna hate all of you?" I ask.

"maybe a bit of both?" Spencer says in a slightly higher pitch, looking pleased to be in on the joke. I stare at him in disbelief.

"he knows what I'm getting, too?" I point disdainfully. Morgan laughs at the attitude.

"I told him on the way here."

I shake my head slowly and turn my attention to the boy genius, who is hiding a proud smile. there's a boyish quality to it that makes me feel a little better. I have to pull the side of my pants down as I turn on my side for the artist, and a peek of my black underwear makes Prentiss let out a whistling noise. my cheeks turn pink.

"shut up."

"are you ready?" the tattoo guy asks me. it's only then that I notice we're close to actually getting this done. I have no idea what's going on my body-- but there's no time like the present, right?

"sure."

it's the buzzing of the machine when he finally touches the needle to my skin that surprises me more than the pain itself. I feel myself resist the urge to move away, but I'm still enough for him to keep working.

"how's it feel?" Emily asks.

"like getting a tattoo." I wince. Penelope softens, looking between her coworkers guiltily.

"oh no," she complains, then comes over to me and grabs my hand in hers. "is this better?"

I squeeze tightly at the stinging sensation across my thigh, but she doesn't pull away at all.

"yeah." I smile. everyone is watching me intently, so much so that it puts me off a bit. "can we talk about something, maybe? it doesn't help when you're all staring."

"sure," JJ grins. "so..."

the pressure to start a conversation kills any potential for one, and then Spencer clears his throat. "anybody wanna see a cool magic trick?"

I snort and the rest of the team lets out a chuckle as the genius pulls a deck of cards out of his pants pocket. Morgan pats his shoulder. "I hope it works this time."

"it worked last time!" Reid protests, but his cheeks have taken on a slightly rosy hue. I watch him shuffle the mysterious deck and do some fancy tricks that I've never seen before, the corner of his mouth quirking with a sudden air of confidence.

Penelope is still holding my hand, and I can feel the metal of her sparkly rings pressing against my fingers. I choose to focus on the theatrical movements that Spencer is definitely using on purpose instead of the strange, sharp pain.

he fans out the cards and shows them to me, smiling. "pick a card, any card."

"hmm..." I tap my chin thoughtfully and stare at the bright red designs covering the back. I wonder if it's a rigged deck, or if he actually knows tricks. he doesn't seem like the type of person to be into magic. but then again, Spencer is full of surprises. I grab a random one in the middle, pluck it out and memorize it. a red six of spades.

"alright, then..." he grins and slams the deck back into one neat pile, then does some weird shuffling move again and shows the fanned-out deck to Morgan this time. "your turn."

Morgan's gaze flickers between the cards and Reid's face, which is trying to suppress a smile. the dimple on the right side of his cheek twitches once. when Derek taps a card near the end, Spencer nods and does the same thing that he did when I picked one.

except this time, as soon as he's got the whole deck together, he taps them a bit too hard and they go flying. fifty-two-pick-up style, Queens and Kings and Jokers tumbling to the linoleum floor in a defeated descent. my eyes widen and second-hand embarrassment rolls in, followed by the team's stunned silence.

I even feel the tattoo artist falter a bit in his work.

"oh." Spencer says. JJ puts her hand on his shoulder.

"Spence, it's fine."

"no, no, it's not-- I practiced this, like, fifty times last night--" his face is bright red as he drops to his knees. Penelope glances once at you and you return her stare with a pitying expression. Emily goes to help him, then Morgan and JJ.

"let me just..." he gathers up the remaining cards that they hand him, putting them back together into the pile again. I watch as he goes through them, somehow counting at lightning speed before frowning. "we're missing one."

everyone looks around, but it's obvious that there aren't any more stray cards lying about. I feel bad for him, not only because it didn't work but because he practiced it so much. I've been wondering what he does on the weekends-- magic tricks never even crossed my mind.

then Spencer's face lights up.

he comes over to me and gestures to my side, right by the spot where the tattoo artist is working. "may I?"

"uh--" I glance down at where he's pointing, the small patch of bare stomach. "sure?"

his fingertips graze beneath my tummy, between my skin and the smooth leather of the tattoo table, and snatch a card out from under me. it's barely a touch, but my breath hitches in my throat. my fingers tighten just slightly around Penelope's.

he holds up a red six of spades. the enormous grin on his face gives him away. "this wouldn't happen to be your card, would it?"

I gasp and nod, amazement on my face before it's wiped away by the sharp pain of the needle. Spencer displays the red six of spades to the whole team, then basks in their surprised applause.

Emily's smiling in disbelief. "you really had us going for a second."

"wait, wait--" I poke his leg and Spencer turns to me. "how did you do that?"

there's no way he could have hidden it there without me knowing; if he had slipped a card beneath my bare skin, surely I would have felt it. but the magic man just shrugs and shakes his head at me.

"a good magician never shares their secrets, Clea."

this time, the blush spreads over my cheeks. he's cocky right now, and I'd be lying if I said I'm not enjoying it. he's in his element, I realize, even if it is an unexpected one. and as he puts the cards into his back pocket, the group erupts with questions.

he's done magic before in front of them, but they seem to be awestruck by his performance this time. admittedly, I think the whole klutz act really added a nice dramatic element to it.

I'm mostly quiet for the rest of the tattooing process, although everyone else is chattering about the trick and how well the ink is going to turn out. I'm still wracking my brain for ideas of what they chose, but I honestly don't know. I've been banned from peeking.

maybe this was a mistake-- I've only recently joined this team, and already allowed them to decide what's going to be on my body forever. at least it's small. and maybe I'll actually like it; who knows?

when the artist lets out a satisfied sigh and turns the needle off, however, I find myself twisting around and staring frantically at the new design.

"oh my god."

it's a tiny airplane, with two dotted loopty-loops behind it. just small enough to be adorable.

"what do you think?" Garcia asks, eyeing it herself. they all gather around to admire the new design that sits on the outside of my upper thigh. I giggle.

"I love it."

"don't sound so relieved." Emily laughs. I can't help the bubbly excitement in my stomach.

"sorry, I just didn't know what to expect."

Spencer is staring at the ink when he turns to the tattoo artist. "how long until you think it'll be healed?"

the guy stands up to get treatment stuff for it. "I'd say about two weeks, but it varies from person to person." he leaves to grab cling film.

"I thought for sure you'd be the one to know that." I smirk at the genius. he shoves his hands in his pockets, makes sure the artist is out of earshot, and then looks back at you.

"I do know." he scoffs.

"uh huh." I laugh.

"actually, for the record," he lowers his voice. "I'd recommend at least three weeks instead of two. the last thing you want is infected flesh."

"yum, Spencer. thanks for that image." I smile with wide eyes and he shrugs.

...

it's quiet when I shut the door of my apartment shut behind me. I've got a bag full of supplies with me to clean the new art, and I'm feeling lethargic after getting lunch with the team. because Rossi wasn't around to foot the bill, I made the mistake of offering to pay.

we've got the day off after the most recent slew of cases, so I've determined to spend the rest of my day well. I could curl up with a nice documentary, or I could scrub my kitchen and do a little tidying up around here. god knows the film of dust on my bookshelves needs to be wiped away.

oh my god.

am I boring? maybe. possibly.

I shake the thought from my head and bring my things into the kitchen to organize. after spending a few hours cleaning up, I go out grocery shopping, then come home to sit down with a book. my errands take up so much time, I don't even notice the DC sunlight sinking beneath the harsh lines of the city, drenching my apartment in a silky darkness poked through with lit lamps.

it's already 9pm and I kind of want to hang out with someone, but I doubt any of the team wants to spend any more time with me than they did before lunch. or they might have plans with their families.

well, I know one person who definitely doesn't have plans.

I pull out my phone and hit Spencer's contact before I can talk myself out of it, knowing full well that it's not a big deal but still becoming a little nervous. it rings three times before he picks up.

"hello?"

"hey, Spencer."

"Clea. what's-- what's up?" he sounds more confused than anything. probably because I just saw him about an hour ago.

"I know it's late, but do you wanna come over? I'm bored and I feel like you know more about tattoo cleaning than I do." it's a weak excuse.

"why would I know more about tattoo cleaning--"

"you know damn well why, Reid," I laugh. "don't fish for compliments."

there's a slight laugh on the other end of the line before he replies. "I'll be over soon."

I wait patiently, preparing two mugs of coffee in the meantime. I'm sure we'll both want the caffeine, because I have no urge to turn in early tonight. my stomach twists a bit when he calls to tell me he's here, and I go to let him in. I'm not nervous.

except I actually am a little bit nervous when I open the door and there's Spencer with a shy smile and a coat that's a bit too big for him. it hangs off his narrow frame, and I realize that it must have just started raining. his hair is wet and there are dark spots on his clothes where the water has seeped through.

"get inside, my god." I move aside so he can come into the apartment and warm up. he walks in, looks around at my walls. I realize that he's never been here before. "welcome to my humble abode, Dr. Reid."

"it's nice." he compliments without much emotion. I lock the door and turn just in time to see his hand shaking at his side.

"thanks. let me take your coat." I glance out the window, where I now notice the rain pelting the glass.

Spencer shrugs off his jacket and hesitantly lets me hang it on the hook by the door before turning to him with my hands on my hips. "so, how are you?"

"I'm good," he smiles a little and runs a hand through his hair. "I actually read an article on the way here about those psychedelic mushrooms we were discussing the other day."

"is that, like, our thing, now?" I joke and gesture to the couch, where two mugs of hot coffee rest on coasters. he sits down gingerly on the cushions, sitting at the very opposite end of the couch from me.

"I can send it to you, if you'd like." he smiles.

"please do. I've been hoping for some titillating reading, recently." I hand him the mug and he stop before taking a sip.

"how many sugars did you put in this?"

"relax, genius, I'm not out to get you--" I catch his eye. "yet."

he giggles and takes a sip, then another. the smile tugging at my lips is too obvious for my liking; I'm just glad that I got the amount of sugar correct. it would have been funny to ambush him with a sweetness attack, although I think making him come here in the rain was punishment enough.

"have you ever had oat milk?" he asks out of the blue. I frown.

"yeah, why?"

"just wondering. I'm lactose intolerant and was considering trying it."

"you're lactose intolerant?"

"mhmm." he nods enthusiastically.

"I watched you eat three yogurt cups in a row yesterday." I chuckle at the memory of it. he eats so much and remains as skinny as a telephone pole.

"I love dairy." he shrugs it off. I pull my legs up beneath me on the couch and give him a serious expression.

"well, personally, I think oat milk tastes horrendous and it makes me want to vomit, but you should try it."

"noted."

we start to talk about various nondairy alternatives for coffee and it ends up being a surprisingly fun conversation. talking to Spencer has its own charm-- it's not just a conversation, it's a fully immersive experience. from his ambitious vocabulary to the unconscious gestures he makes, all of it keeps me hooked.

I rest my cheek on my palm, elbow leaning against the back of the couch while I nod along to him talking about almond farming. he's got a disdainful expression on his face as he brings up its environmental consequences, punctuating every few sentences with another sip of his coffee.

the rain is still pouring outside. thunder occasionally rolls over the sky and shakes the windows in their panes. my eyes flit from his face to the view when a flash of lightning catches my attention.

"--sorry, we should clean your tattoo." he seems to catch himself mid-thought, realizing that he came here to help me and not just rant about the business of almonds. I smile.

"no worries. this stuff is interesting to me, too."

"there's this documentary out now about it, too, that I've been meaning to watch."

"really?"

"yeah!" his face lights up. "if you want, we can--" he clears his throat. "we can watch it together."

he blushes as he says it, and I can tell that he's worried about how his intentions will come off. he can't take it back, so he runs the pad of his index over his middle finger and fidgets in a subtle way.

"that sounds like fun." I don't want him to feel weird. we've only hung out a few times, and I'm sort of looking forward to it.

"great," he straightens and adjusts his shirt, which has gotten slightly rumpled from his curling up on the couch. his tie is crooked, too. "where are the cleaning supplies?"

"in the kitchen."

"perfect, we should be doing it in there anyway." he stands, pushes a bit of his hair behind his ear while he waits for me to follow-- and I do, albeit with a wince from my tender side. it doesn't hurt as much as I expected.

he follows me into the minuscule kitchen and doesn't hesitate to start going through the things the artist gave me to take home. there's some foam wash and special moisturizer for it, not a lot. it's small enough that the care will be minimal, which is reassuring.

it's only when Spencer's washing his hands that I realize I'll need to unbutton my pants again in order to reach the tattoo. which means this is about to get at least slightly awkward for the both of us.

he turns around just in time to see me unzipping my jeans and his eyes widen.

"how else do you expect to clean it?" I laugh, and he gulps, visibly. his Adam's apple bobs in his throat and he nods in understanding.

"y-yeah, of course." his eyes are everywhere but on me. suddenly, my kitchen walls are incredibly interesting.

I shove down the waistband of my pants until they're just below my upper thigh, then I sit up on the counter and clear my throat. "I can cover some of myself if that makes you more comfortable."

"no, no, that's okay--" he speaks too quickly, then recognizes his mistake. "it's okay. this shouldn't take very long, anyway."

without another word, I shrug and watch him delicately peel away the film. his fingertips are back to barely touching my skin, just like when he pulled that card out from beneath me, and I stop breathing for a moment.

there's also a gel-like substance under the covering, which he tells me is just standard petroleum jelly. Spencer moves with a near surgical (and altogether unnecessary) precision. his eyes are glued to my skin as if forcing them not to stray to my now exposed panties. it doesn't feel sexual at all because it's not, thankfully.

when he uses the foam wash and begins to rub it into my skin, he frowns with concern and looks up at me. "is this okay? you can do it yourself if--"

"it's fine, Reid," I answer too quickly this time. heat rushes to my cheeks. "I honestly thought this was going to be a more complicated process than it really is."

"it's pretty simple, especially for something this small." he shrugs. "obviously, you don't want to get it infected, so I'd just think of it as treating a cut."

silence in our respective positions at the moment makes me nervous, so I change the subject.

"magic tricks, huh?" if anything, I need to distract myself from the way his hand is rubbing over my skin in a totally nonsexual and platonic way.

he relaxes a little, lifting his gaze to mine with a somewhat pleased countenance. "yeah, I love magic."

it's like peeling back a corner of wallpaper and seeing a shade of red beneath; not a lot, but enough to pique my curiosity. "a man of science?"

Spencer shakes his head at the air of faux sophistication I pour into it. "the world needs some wonder."

he says it in an offhand way, although I feel the weight of it from the way he runs a damp paper towel over the last of the cleansing foam. his touch presses into me and his eyes are lowered in a slightly distant way.

"how long have you been into it?" I fight the urge to ask a million questions at once.

"since I was a kid," he jerks back to attention. the grin on his face tells you just how special this is to him. "I used to buy all the books and practice for my mom constantly."

"did you ever do the trick with the never-ending string of handkerchiefs?" I recall one of the only classic moves I know. Reid laughs.

"that one's easy."

"what about the coin behind the ear?" I throw out another one.

Spencer straightens, doesn't even bother to set down the paper towel, before reaching up behind my ear and pulling away with a shiny quarter set between his thumb and forefinger. "you mean this one?"

there it is again, that confidence I saw in the tattoo parlor. he's standing just close enough for me to notice, and I grin as I snatch the metal out of his hand and set it on the counter beside me. "thanks."

"no problem." he laughs.

"you should do that more often."

"the coin trick? I'd go broke." he jokes. I laugh at the rare appearance of Spencer's playful side, hoping to get a bit more of it before we have to go back to being serious at work.

"magic in general, I mean. I think it would brighten up the office a bit."

he thinks about it for a moment, washing his hands again. the sound of the faucet reminds me to put my lotion on my leg. I get to it while he thinks of what to say.

"yeah, maybe you're right."

"I still find it funny that you're into that kind of stuff." I say honestly. of all the things for him to nerd out about, this feels almost comically unexpected. but Reid only gives me a shy smile before replying.

"it always made my mom laugh when I was a kid."

"is she also good at it?"

"tricks? no," he chuckles. there's a washcloth between his long, slender fingers that he's been using to dry them for the past two minutes. at this point, I think he's doing it to keep from fidgeting. "she says it's an old fashioned thing, and that only made me wanna do it more."

"well," I cap the bottle and set it down on the counter, pull my jeans up and lean against the counter with a smile. "I like old fashioned."

Spencer gives a friendly smile. "me too."

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