#as the old saying goes “what do you give a person that has everything at their fingertips?” answer: your time. appreciation. affection. love

[deikshen]

Shen Yuan, who opens his eyes and has just transmigrated into some strange demon deep in the Endless Abyss. Well, GREAT! He's a demon, and while he's not OP, if he behaves and doesn't mess with Binghe's women, maybe they could even be traveling companions. Cool! Incredible!!

It doesn't take long for him to find Luo Binghe in the Abyss some time later. He leaves a trail of carnage... And he's speedrunning!! Ignore the wife and solo plots, just mow down monsters and charge forward! He's awesome!

Shen Yuan tries to avoid the red flags that the stallion protagonist isn't, well, forming a harem. Maybe he would form later, when he had more power!! He's not exactly sure in which narrative arc are.

However, his days of watching Luo Binghe through the shadows are soon over. Luo Binghe catches him!! He has obviously noticed Shen Yuan following him. What does he want? Is he looking for him to kill him?

Shen Yuan ducks out a bit, but ultimately decides to impart his honed Abyss 101 knowledge from months of Wiki editing. He disguises himself as a demon who has been searching for a way out of the Abyss, and he knows that he can only do so with Xin Mo, but he knows he doesn't have enough power to wield it. So, he will tell Luo Binghe where the portal-opening sword is, if he allows him to travel by his side and accompany him when he leaves!!

... It's very easy to become travel companions after that.

Luo Binghe is suspicious (of course he would be!! After all, who wouldn't be?!) but he's nice when he's not on his monster-killing rampage. Shen Yuan kills minor monsters, but in reality, he might be getting into more trouble than he should... spiritual flora, ancient artifacts! Luo Binghe should collect them and become more stronger with them! Shen Yuan rambles a lot: he talks about flora, beasts, monsters, demonic history, he throws out fact after fact of PIDW backstories that never got fleshed out from the old demonic civilizations, banished kingdoms, people literally turned into black jade statues...

Luo Binghe seems to find it irritating that he's talking at first, but actually... It's like he can't stop looking at him afterward. Shen Yuan guesses that he must be considering getting rid of him, sometimes: Luo Binghe looks at him with an expression of dismay and doubt. It's like he's searching for something in him. Like he sees something familiar, but Shen Yuan finds it ridiculous. Bah!! As if there's something familiar about him to some random NPC in the world!

One day, after several weeks of traveling, Luo Binghe asks him: "Little Demon. Do you have a name?" And it's not like Shen Yuan has introduced himself, but he considers saying "Shen Yuan" to him not to be wrong.

After that, Luo Binghe... gets worse? He also becomes a little more talkative, which is good, they can have conversations. Shen Yuan enjoys learning little things about his favorite character: how he likes tea, what he misses most is not water or clean clothes but being able to cook with spices, his favorite food, his mother's favorite recipe, about his life on Qing Jing Peak...

That's when everything goes to hell.

A kind Shen Qingqiu? What the fuck? Luo Binghe speaks about his Shizun with more passion than he has spoken about Ning Yingying or any other person or thing. That he had had this horrible qi deviation, but right after, he had been so kind, giving him medicine, a new cultivation manual, fair training, even letting him live in the bamboo house! For the past few years, Shen Qingqiu had practically spoiled him: the best missions, all the running of the Peak, he was basically the head disciple in all but name.

That Luo Binghe had fallen in love with him. Deeply, devastatingly. And Shen Qingqiu had pushed him into the Abyss when his heritage was revealed. However, Luo Binghe will not doubt! He will leave the Abyss, return to his Shizun, and show him that his heritage does not determine who he is. He will become a righteous cultivator and will have his respect to reach his heart.

OOC! So OOC! What the fuck!? Where was the scum villain!? Why is Luo Binghe gay now!? What weird fanfic did he end up in!? Actually, Shen Yuan supposes, well. That means at least he wouldn't destroy Cang Qiong and all that. Wow. Dramatic but calm ending. A better world!! And worse for him, being a demon. Maybe Could he find a way to disguise himself as a human? He believes he has already won Luo Binghe's friendship and sympathy. Maybe he'll even help him to disguise.

Revelations are a rare thing, but Shen Yuan guesses, it's okay. They continue their travel, collecting flowers along the way (for real, not meimeis) who improve the cultivation, and occasionally fight for their lives. Shen Yuan has defended himself very well with his claws so far, but Luo Binghe teaches him how to use a sword, and it's nice to have one.

Shen Yuan has drawn a map, more or less: it is the path that must be taken to reach Xin Mo. He knows that some of those places will be more difficult than others; he explains to Binghe many times that collecting things to strengthen him is necessary: it's a waste of time for him to meet with his Shizun now, but he'll be grateful! He'll need to get strong fast!

Shen Yuan shamelessly takes advantage of all his knowledge of the plot: he teaches Luo Binghe everything he knows, all the weaknesses of the beasts, all the strengths of certain flowers or roots. However, the more Shen Yuan teaches him over the weeks of their travel together, the more Luo Binghe seems... weirder. If he looked at him too much before, now it's incredibly worse. Sometimes he even asks extremely specific questions and seems frustrated when Shen Yuan doesn't answer exactly as he expects. Once, even, when they are crossing some paths surrounded by magma and the heat is suffocating, Binghe improvises a folded fan of leaves for him, and he seems clearly aggrieved when Shen Yuan's first instinct is to fan Binghe!

Luo Binghe is a frustrating little creature who seems to be testing him. Constantly. Shen Yuan assumes it's normal, but still!! He thought he had the protagonist's confidence!! Something seems to sparkle in his eyes when Shen Yuan stops halfway to explore a forest of giant mushrooms and talks at length about the properties and, above all, about the mole-squirrels who get high off their asses biting mushrooms, and he even seems fucking frustrated when he offers some weird herbal blend similar to a bitter tea and Shen Yuan accepts it just out of politeness because it tastes awful. It's like they're running in circles!!

Still, they continue on their way.

There is still a large stretch of the map to go, which Shen Yuan translates into a few more months of travel, when they are cornered by some beasts. They're horrible, disgusting spider-beetles the size of a fucking elephant; it's an unfair fight, seven against two, and even with their swords the bugs are fast, their legs sharp, and Shen Yuan is too exhausted after hours of only being able to defeat two of them.

Luo Binghe fights majestically, but even so, there is one thing Luo Binghe cannot fight: being outnumbered. And when Shen Yuan sees the giant insect's attack at Binghe, his only instinct is to get in the way.

The insect's leg pierces through him. It doesn't quite touch Binghe, but Shen Yuan isn't even aware of the pain from the way his nerves have been ripped apart. He's stunned, disoriented, and only a moment later Luo Binghe enters that desperate berserk mode that the protagonist only got once every two hundred chapters. The horrible insects fall, and Shen Yuan doesn't even know why he's still alive.

He supposes that dying while Binghe is fighting is a bit anticlimactic. He's in a pool of his own blood and he's sure that not even the blood parasites will be able to regenerate any of it. He's dying, he knows it, and from the way Binghe drops to his knees beside him after defeating the insects and holds him, Binghe knows it too.

"It's okay," Shen Yuan manages to speak, weakly patting Binghe's face, "follow the map, leave the Abyss and meet your Shizun. I bet you'll scare him to death, but hey. You're a great boy. A very good one. Show him there's no one better than you for him."

Luo Binghe holds him. Shen Yuan is aware that there were blood parasites in his food months ago, but oh well. Nothing can be done now. It's too much.

Actually, he wants to say something else, something other than a pathetic goodbye talking about how the ex-stallion protagonist should go after his Shizun's bone, but while he recognizes that he is dying (he already died once, damn it, he recognizes death) a blue screen flashes in his head.

[ Recalculating data... Correcting recipient... Downloading files... Importing... ]

[ Bugs fixed! ]

[ Returning the Host to his main user... ]

At the exact moment Shen Yuan dies, Shen Qingqiu wakes up in Qian Cao with a gasp, suddenly touching his chest where a second ago he had felt a hole that pierced him from side to side. His head hurts, his muscles burn, and someone definitely screams in surprise because a bunch of disciples call out to Mu Qingfang and, damn, it's fucking chaos.

He's apparently been in a coma for the past eighteen long months since the Immortal Alliance Conference. A qi deviation? No one knew. It was as if he were just asleep, but nothing woke him. His vital signs were normal, low, but active. Except for Without-a-cure, there was nothing else in his spiritual veins, and Without-a-cure could not cause his current state.

Now, with a huge headache, Shen Qingqiu remembers. He remembers not only the last year and a half with Binghe in the Abyss, but his last years as Shen Qingqiu. And he remembers that, just after of pushing into the Abyss, the fucking System COLLAPSED! Damn SHITTY AI! And Shen Qingqiu believed that he was really going to deport him back to his body even if he pushed Binghe into the Abyss! ... But he hadn't. Just to a random demon's body until the system repaired itself.

The story he tells to Mu Qingfang about the qi deviation after Binghe was swallowed by the Abyss is as good as any. So, Mu Qingfang finally lets him rest until he recovers, and Shen Qingqiu accepts it.

During the Abyss, he had been... Free, somehow. He had no memory of being Shen Qingqiu, and he hadn't had to pretend to be anyone else. It had been the greatest freedom he had had since he arrived. Fuck, he has a lot to think about. How, above all, what the hell he's going to do now that, damn it, he knows Luo Binghe has somehow fallen in love with him. Fuck.

... Well, at least the other transmigrant on the scene will surely have something to say. Eighteen months in a coma! Ha! Shang Qinghua wouldn't even know what hit him.

[sour-cherryyy]

SNOWED IN. 〜Ni-ki

Pairing: Bf!Ni-ki x Gf!reader Summary: When a snowstorm cuts your date short, Ni-ki ends up spending the night at your apartment. What begins as innocent closeness quickly deepens into something far less innocent. Word count: 3.1k A/n: MDNI!! 18+ Smut & fluff. So nervous while writing this! It literally took everything in me to muster up the courage and post. There's like a whole long ass story before the spicy stuff bc I had to mentally prepare myself lol. But I hope you guys like it. Now playing: UN Village By Beakhyun

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The door clicks shut behind you. You're both breathing hard from the sprint up the stairs with Ni-ki’s laughter still dancing through the warm, quiet hallway as he stamps the snow from his boots. 

“Wow,” he says, brushing melting flakes from his shoulders. “That came out of nowhere.” 

You nod, heart racing from the cold. Your cheeks sting, your fingers are numb, and there’s a giddy kind of buzz in your chest from the sudden change of plans. The storm rolled in quicker than anyone expected, and now, just like that, he’s in your apartment. 

Ni-ki shakes out his jacket and glances around your apartment as he sees it for the first time. “It’s cute,” he says, his lips curving slightly, “Very you.” 

You watch him, still by the door, arms wrapped around yourself like you’re unsure what to do now. You didn’t expect this. The night was supposed to end with a casual goodbye, maybe a second kiss in the car, a text an hour later.  

Instead, he’s standing in your hallway, clearly staying.  

“Oh,” you say, breaking the quiet. “Let me get you some dry clothes.” 

He follows you toward your room, shedding his damp hoodie as he goes. You catch a glimpse of the shirt riding up beneath it a sneak peek of his v-line. You look away too quickly and bump into the dresser. 

He chuckles behind you. “You okay?” 

“I’m fine. Just, uh, didn’t expect the weather to turn into a whole blizzard.” 

Ni-ki steps closer. Not too close, but enough that the space between you sharpens. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’m kind of an unexpected guest now, huh?” 

“No.” you say firmly, trying to hide your nervousness. 

You hand him an old sweatshirt- oversized, worn in- and avoid looking at him as he thanks you and changes right there, like it’s nothing.  

“Why are you acting so shy?” He smiles as if he's done this a million times before. 

He’s really comfortable. And although he hasn’t been in your apartment before,he has been in your orbit long enough to know how to move in your space. 

You’re not used to that. Not used to someone this confident especially when you're dying inside. 

Not looking up from the spot on the wall you’ve been eyeing, you answer. “I’m giving you some privacy.” 

“Well, I'm done.” He tosses the damp clothes on the heater.  

You blink, realizing you’re still in your (now slightly wet) outside clothes. “Right. I should change.” 

Ni-ki catches the glance you throw toward your door and lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, I’ll give you some space.” 

He turns and disappears into the kitchen, leaving the soft sound of cabinets opening and the hum of your heater behind him. You move quickly, peeling off the damp layers and pull on a set of soft shorts and an oversized t-shirt with a faded mickey mouse across the front. Comfortable and somewhat safe. 

Still, you hesitate before stepping out. You know it’s just sleepwear, but it feels different now. This isn’t just a solo night or a casual video call. Ni-ki is here. In person.

When you finally emerge, he’s crouched in front of your pantry, holding up a half-full bag of marshmallows with a hopeful expression. 

He looks up. 

And he freezes for just a second- nothing dramatic, just a blink too long, his eyes flicking down, then right back up to meet yours. His lips part slightly, like he was about to say something and forgot the words. 

Then, with a lazy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, he says, “cute.”, voice lower than usual. 

You tilt your head in confusion. “It’s just pyjamas.” 

“Hot chocolate?” he offers, changing the subject back to the marshmallows he's holding. “Or is this just a snack stash?” 

You laugh, tension easing. “Help yourself. I’ll start the movie.” 

He joins you on the couch a few minutes later, two mismatched mugs in hand and his eyes already scanning your small stack of DVDs. 

“You seriously own It Takes Two on disc? You’re so old.” he says, settling in beside you with a blanket draped over his lap. 

“It’s a classic,” you say defensively, scrolling to the input channel. “Mary-Kate and Ashley carried my childhood.” 

He snorts. “No argument. Just surprised you didn’t go for something darker. Thought you were all ‘psychological thriller’ vibes.” 

“That’s only on weekdays.” 

You press play, and the familiar opening notes start up. The couch is small, and without really talking about it, you both end up under the same blanket, legs stretched out in the same direction. His feet brush yours occasionally, each touch sending a tiny jolt up your spine. You don’t move away. 

The movie plays on- half commentary, half laughter, and full of those quiet glances when the other person isn’t looking.  

At some point, you reach for your phone, curious how long the storm might last. You expect to see a few flurries and mild delays. Instead, your notifications are filled with alerts. 

Heavy snowfall. Whiteout conditions. Road closures. 

You sit up straighter. 

Ni-ki leans over to peek at your phone. “That bad?” 

You scroll again, confirming it. “Yeah. Looks like everything’s shut down for the night. Buses, Ubers... even walking would be dangerous. Were snowed in.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “So, I’m not going anywhere, huh?” 

You shake your head slowly. “Doesn’t look like it.” 

He leans back, arms stretched behind his head, casual. “Well, that’s it then. Guess I’m your problem for the night.” 

You glance over at him, heart doing something you don’t have a name for. The movie still plays in the background, the screen casting soft light across his face. He’s smiling- but it’s softer now. 

And for some reason, you’re not nervous anymore. 

You just smile back. “I’ve had worse problems.” 

He tosses you a cushion in mock offense, but he’s still grinning, “Thanks for letting me crash.” he says, voice lower now, calmer. “I’ll take the couch.” 

You shake your head gently. “You’re taller than the couch.” 

He lifts a brow, half amused. “You think I don’t know how to fold myself in half? I’m very flexible.” 

You have a hard time believing he’ll have a comfortable night your small couch. You can’t even sleep comfortably on your couch.

“Still,” you say, clearing your throat, “I’m not going to make you sleep out here. It's cold. The bed’s big enough.” 

There’s a beat of silence. 

He studies you- not just your face, but the way you say it. Your voice isn’t flirty. Just genuine and trusting. And somehow that makes the room feel warmer than the heater ever could. 

“You sure?” he asks, voice gentler now. 

You nod. 

He smiles- soft, that rare kind of smile you’ve only seen once or twice when the world goes quiet around him. “Alright,” he says. “If you’re okay with it.” 

You don’t make it a big deal. You both pretend it isn’t. He helps you lay out extra blankets, teases your pillow choices (“You really have one shaped like a peach?”), and the air feels lighter with each passing minute. 

When you finally crawl under the covers, it’s both familiar and unfamiliar. You’ve cuddled before- on movie nights at his place, during slow evenings when neither of you wanted to say goodbye- but there’s something different about slipping under the sheets beside him. Just the two of you having nowhere else to be. 

He settles beside you with easy grace, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting lightly across his stomach. You lie on your side, facing him, watching how the soft glow of your lamp casts faint shadows along his jaw. 

He turns to look at you. “You cold?” 

You shake your head. “Not really.” 

He shifts closer anyway, just a little, his arm brushing yours beneath the blanket. “Still feel like I should keep you warm,” he murmurs. 

You don’t shy away. You don’t need to. Being this close feels like the most natural thing in the world. 

“You always do,” you say quietly. 

The corner of his mouth lifts. “That sounds like something someone would say in a movie.” 

“Yeah, well. I’m not very original.” 

He turns toward you fully now, his voice lower, more serious. “No. You’re just honest. That’s better.” 

You lie there in the quiet, heartbeat a steady thrum against the pillow, and you wonder if he can feel it from here. If he knows what it’s like for you- how new this all is.

“You okay?” he asks softly. 

You nod, but then you add, “I’ve never done this before.” 

“Done what?” his eyes are set on yours. 

You shrug, “Shared a bed with a boy.” 

He chuckles and reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips lingering against your cheek. “You don’t have to do anything,” he says. “We’re just sleeping. That’s all.” 

“But what if I want to do something?” you ask, voice steady despite the rush in your chest. 

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. His eyes search yours, thoughtful and kind, and for a moment, you expect him to pull back. 

Instead, he pulls you even closer.  

You slide easily into the space he makes for you. His hand finds the small of your back and the weight of it sends a flutter straight through your chest. 

"Are you sure?" he murmurs, his voice low, like it’s meant only for you. 

You nod, barely. “Yeah.” 

And that’s all it takes. 

He kisses you deeply. There’s a deliberateness to the way he moves, like he’s reading you in real time, learning what makes you lean in and what makes your fingers tug at the fabric of his borrowed sweatshirt. He takes the hint and slips out of it with ease. 

In return, his hand trails up your side, beneath the hem of your own t-shirt, lingering, waiting, asking. You nod, sensing his hesitation and off it comes. 

His lips crash back into yours as his hands roam your figure unapologetically. You exhale into the kiss, pressing in closer until there’s barely any space left between you. His leg shifts, and suddenly you’re straddling one of his thighs, the blanket slipping slightly as the heat between your bodies overtakes the chill from the cold outside.  

You break the kiss with a small gasp, forehead pressed to his, catching your breath. One of his hands stay on your waist as the other travels up to your chest. His thumb proceeding to draw slow, absent circles against your nipple. 

“Is this... okay?” he asks softly.  

“God, yes!” you whisper eagerly. 

You can't help but grind down on his thigh chasing for some sort of friction to ease the acing building at your core. 

You lean in closer, your hands tracing the outline of his Adams apple and the curve of his neck. You press your lips to the spot just beneath his jaw, and he exhales like you’ve undone something in him. 

Something shifts in his expression- like tension unravelling, like desire held back too long now flickering into something deeper.  

“Good.” he says, voice rough. 

And then he kisses you again- this time with a different kind of certainty. His hand leaving your breast and dragging down to trace the hem of your shorts before dipping in past your panties. 

His slender fingers trace a line up your slit slowly feeling how soaked you've become. 

He breathes out a shaky laugh, brushing his lips against your neck. “You’re so wet for me, baby” he says, low and honest. 

He continues, drawing lazy slow circles against your clit, each one sending little waves of pleasure pulsing through your body. He watches your face closely as you close your eyes, as if he’s memorizing your every expression. 

You bury your face in the crook of his neck, gripping the sheets at your side as your body melts into his touch. His other hand grips your thigh tensely, grounding you in the moment, anchoring you to him.  

“Just like that?” he whispers, thumb brushing with barely-there pressure. 

You shake your head, speaking before you can think. “Need. More.” you manage, voice breathless. 

His eyes darken just slightly, not with surprise- but with intention. 

Then, in one smooth movement, he flips you over. Your back meets the mattress with a soft bounce, and he follows you down, bracing himself with an arm beside your head. His face hovers just inches from yours, gaze locked onto yours, searching. 

“You want more?” he asks, voice lower now almost like a growl. 

You don’t answer with words. You just pull him down by the back of his neck and kiss him like you’ve been waiting forever to. 

Its hungry, messy, and filled with desire. You feel his fingers skim over the bare skin of your hips, dragging down slowly like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. 

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts, eyes locked on yours, giving you just a breath of warning before he slides them down in one smooth motion without hesitation. The cool air brushes over your skin, leaving you exposed beneath him.  

But he never looks away, appreciating your perfect body, taking it all in. 

Then without skipping a beat he strips off the rest of his own clothes. Your eyes widen at the sight of him and the size his erect length. 

“Woah,” you breathe, the word slipping out before you can stop it. 

A low, amused smile curves at his lips. He leans in just slightly, his voice dipping into something playful and warm. “Yeah?” 

You nod, still staring down at him, still adjusting to the new reality unfolding between you. 

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Definitely.” 

He looms over you, clearly thrilled at the ego boost you just gave him.

He rubs his tip against your clit, grinding into you, letting you feel him. The anticipation is almost enough to undo you.  

You arch up into him, impatient, wordlessly conveying what you want.  

You hold your breath as he pushes in, slow and careful, watching every change in your expression. It’s a stretch, a fullness that borders on too much, but just when you think it might overwhelm you, he stops. He stills, buried only halfway, breathing heavily against your ear.  

“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice laced with tension, like it’s taking every ounce of control to hold back. 

You exhale, the discomfort already melting away into something far sweeter. “More than okay,” you assure him. “Don’t stop.”  

He groans softly, sounding more like relief than pleasure, then thrusts the rest of the way in. 

You gasp, fingers digging into his back, overwhelmed by the sensation of him fully inside you. It’s something you couldn’t have imagined and yet somehow, it’s exactly what you want, what you need, what you’ve been waiting for.  

He pauses, letting you adjust, letting you catch your breath. “God,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, “you’re so tight.” 

You shift slightly beneath him, testing the limits of what you can take, and he swears under his breath. “Please,” you whimper. 

He draws back, almost all the way out, then thrusts in again. The motion sends a shockwave through you, your body tightening around him instinctively, pulling him even deeper.  

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, and this time he doesn’t stop.  

He finds a rhythm that builds, each thrust more insistent, more certain. His hands grip your waist, fingers pressing into your skin, pulling you closer to meet him. It’s more than you’ve ever felt before, a pleasure so sharp all you can do is hold on and let him take you there.  

The room around you disappears, the storm outside silenced, everything reduced to the sound of your rapid breathing and the steady, relentless slap of his hips against yours. You’re not sure how much longer you can last like this, every thrust tearing you apart and putting you back together, and Ni-ki seems to sense it.  

He presses his face to your neck, teeth grazing lightly against your skin as he drives into you with increasing urgency. “Gonna make you come so hard,” he promises, voice almost desperate.  

Your body is already responding, tension coiling tighter, tighter, until it’s all you can do to gasp his name.  

He snakes a hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with shocking precision, and you’re done for. The coil snaps, the world shatters like glass, and you come so hard you might actually be crying, though you can’t tell for sure.  

He’s right there with you. The sensation of you clenching around him drags him over the edge, a deep groan escaping as he pulses inside you. 

He spills into you with a groan, his body shuddering against yours, warmth flooding you in hot, dizzying waves. He’s beautiful like this, you think dimly, and you cling to the thought as you hold on to him, riding out the last of it together.  

In the aftermath, you both lie there, tangled in a mess of limbs and sheets, struggling to catch your breath. The world comes back into focus slowly- the quiet hum of the heater, the gentle patter of snow against the window, the steady beat of Ni-ki’s heart beating in rhythm with yours. 

“Wow,” you whisper, still half-dazed, still wondering if you dreamed the whole thing. 

He laughs softly, brushing a damp strand of hair off your forehead. “Wow,” he agrees, his fingers trailing lightly down your side, leaving a pleasant shiver in their wake.  

You don’t know how long you stay like this, just holding each other, neither of you quite willing to move yet. Long enough for the sweat to cool on your skin, long enough for your breathing to even out, long enough for the reality of what just happened to sink in. 

He shifts eventually, rolling onto his side, facing you fully. You match his movement, settling into the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulling you into a blissful haze.

“Hey,” he murmurs. 

“Mhm?” 

“Why didn’t you let me watch you change earlier?” 

“Huh?” you ask, recalling your previous interaction. 

“I mean, I was going to see you naked anyways,” he teases.

You poke his side, feeling him squirm just slightly, a breathless chuckle escaping your lips. “Shut up.” 

For some reason, writing about sex is way more nerve wracking than actually having sex. Also, if you haven't watched ‘It Takes Two’ idk what you're doing. pls go watch it rn. Best movie ever, literally. I think I may have watched it more than 20 times since I was 5. Comment and reblog if you enjoyed it. Thanks for making it to the end, -EL (masterlist)

[yes-no-maybe-soo]

The look of almost childlike wonder in his eyes 🥹

See this right here is another major reason why a birthday theme like this is perfect for Sylus. It's literally healing his inner baby dragon, bringing back some of the innocence that was stripped away from him.

[tony-andonuts]

God I wish I didnt get ostrasised by all but like 4 of my peers because holyfucking shit am I overworked and need a hug

[the-judicial-assistants-notebook]

why didn't they just use franziska for literally all of this.

[idiomagic]

Things I Have Learned By Somehow Surviving To 55 Years Old -- It is actually ridiculously easy to say 'I'm sorry'. Doubling down in a panic, trying to prove you're 'right', loses you friends and makes everything worse, every time. -- Life goes by in the blink of an eye. Don't waste your time on stupid bullshit. Discourse, internet arguments, fighting over useless details... are just going to roil you up, make you miserable, and that time can be better spent doing anything else. -- There is no One True Way. If you're convinced that your 'praxis' or whatever is the only correct one, that your view is the only correct one, that your belief is the only correct one, only one thing is guaranteed: you are absolutely wrong. If you find yourself being smug and patting yourself on the back that you are the Only Smart and Correct Person on the internet, you are embarrassingly wrong...and everyone else knows it. -- It is never too late. It's never too late to change careers, go back to school, transition, change your beliefs, change yourself. You don't have to live like this, you don't have to think like this, you don't have to be like this. It's not too late to change. -- Life happens offline. The internet is for fucking around while you're in between real life stuff. The world of the internet is not real, it's not real life, and if your only life is online, you really need to log off, leave your phone behind, and go out into the world. Interact with real people, in real situations, without a keyboard.

-- You learn way more by listening than by talking, and people will respect you more when you do have something to say. -- You need to get out of your online bubbles and talk to people who do not share your beliefs. Tumblr gives you the impression that you are the majority, that everyone believes what you do, thinks like you do, has the same outlook on life that you do. And that is far from the truth. For example: 98% of the country is cis and heterosexual. The vast majority of people do not have fandoms. The majority of humanity cares more about what you do than whether or not you use the 'correct' terminology. -- There is always hope. No matter how bleak the world seems right now, we have made staggering amounts of progress just in my lifetime. But we've done it by showing up, by voting, by acting. Progress happens in meat space, not through discourse. Online activism isn't activism. It's the prelude to activism. If you want change, you have to put down your screens, get out in the world, and make it happen. -- The sexiest thing any human being can do is to learn, to grow, and to be able to say 'I was wrong. I've learned more now, and I'm going to do better.' -- Finding love, in any form, is the barest beginning of what a relationship is. If you want to keep that love, you have to work for it, every day. And every party to that love has to do the work. If your partner/partners/friends don't work to make the relationship strong, it's not love and it will never be healthy. -- The only limit to who you can be and what you can be is you. You can't change your physical limits, but you can always decide that you will learn, that you will change, that you will grow. You can always be more than you are right now, bigger than you are right now. No one and nothing can stop you from that, except you. https://ko-fi.com/idiomagic

[honey-tongued-devil]

[Arcane preference]reacting to their s/o calling them husband/wife for the first time

I’ve finished the first chapter of the long fic about Universe 7 (Anytime it rains). As soon as my second beta reader gives me the okay, I’ll post it. While I wait, I’ve written the first headcanon (out of three I’m definitely planning to write and post in the next few days) and picked up the drawing of Steb I’d left unfinished. I’m slow, as usual, but English isn’t my first language, and I’m juggling a lot of things at once. Enjoy!

socials: | INPRNT | | Tip Jar | | X | | BlueSky | | Ao3 | poster: | Jayce poster | | Silco poster | |Silco +self insert poster 1| | Steb poster | if you want to read the fluff longfic with vander and his happy family + Silco x reader you can find it here! ↠ Masterlist

Jayce:

-This man is planning to put a ring on your finger as soon as possible, okay? -Between the academy, public appearances, and both theoretical and practical studies, there isn’t a single moment when he’s really in the right mindset to bring up the topic -The worst part is that, deep down, he’s terrified of putting pressure on you -That’s why, the first time he hears you refer to him as “my husband” during a gala with noble families, he almost chokes -He has to gather all his strength not to grab the interlocutor by the shoulders and ask if they also heard you say that word -He’ll try to keep his composure, maybe responding to your remark with, “Yes, exactly. Her husband really did say/do/design that.”

Viktor:

-It’s not a thought he’s ever really entertained; it never crossed his mind -Part of it is that science is his priority, and part of it is that marriage doesn’t seem like something meant for people like him, -The first time you call him “your husband”, that thought suddenly becomes real in his head, and he can’t help but lean against a wall and wait for the other person to leave -“So, I’m your husband now, huh? Mmm… I don’t mind, a bit pretentious, though…” he jokes, making you roll your eyes -Now, more than ever, he has no idea what to do. He’ll give you a bronze ring from a machine he’s building -“Until I can get one worthy of you.”

Ekko:

-Yes -That’s it -The end -Okay, seriously. The idea of being certain that something will last forever is probably his greatest wish -The first time you call him your husband, he doesn’t see it coming -“Wait, you’re married?” -“I was talking about you, Ekko.” -The moment you say it, he points to his chest, you see his lip tremble slightly, and his eyes grow shinier -He won’t stop talking about it for a week, and at least once a day, he’ll ask if you still want to marry him, if you’re sure, if you love him -No rings before S2; the promise is made by drawing something for each other on your masks and clothes -After S2, he still can’t afford a ring, but now that life is more stable, he can start thinking about a more traditional gift, like a piece of jewelry

Vander:

-This man is ravenous for any family role you might offer him—fiancé, father, husband. Anything goes -The first time you call him “husband”, he plays it cool but will seize the first opportunity to return the favor by telling a customer you’re married -As soon as he can, he’ll squeeze your hand, even under the counter -The idea of being married and having a complete family is everything he’s ever wanted -He won’t stop calling you “my beautiful wife/husband” from that moment on.

-You said it first; you can’t take it back. Now you have to get married

Silco (old man):

-This man���s only sin is loving too much, but I’ll save that reflection for another post -Having no ties other than his illegitimate daughter doesn’t make him someone who’s particularly keen on formalities -The first time you call him “your husband” is in front of Sevika, and he slowly turns to look at you, while she slowly turns to look at him -“Did I... miss something?” Sevika asks, but he doesn’t reply, still perplexed, before glancing at her and saying, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” -He’s relieved but doesn’t show it. He can’t afford to just yet -As soon as he confirms you were serious, your name will be flamboyantly forgotten—he’ll constantly refer to you as “my wife/husband”

Silco (young):

-The man who survives on love -The first time you call him your husband is in front of Vander, and while Vander bursts out laughing, Silco chokes on his drink -“Are you serious?” He’s so happy that his pale iris are completely swallowed by his dilated pupils -He grabs a pen and draws a ring around your finger -To his credit, he works in a mine, so it’s hard to do better than that, but it becomes the goal that keeps him going -Completely focused on family, the future, and anything that sees the two of you together and happy

Steb:

-The first time you call him your husband is at a dinner among enforcer families, and being mute doesn’t stop him from stealing the spotlight -He whips around, blinking slowly with only his third eyelid in a gesture of confusion -When he’s 100% sure he understood what you said, his eyes widen, the small membranes under his eyes flutter madly, and even the barely visible gills near his jaw gasp for a moment -Someone says, “I didn’t know you were married,” and he immediately nods enthusiastically, not giving you time to take it back -Within 48 hours, he’ll have the ring ready

Jinx:

-The first time you call her “your wife”, she freezes -“What did you just call me?” -She’s used to being a little sister, a big sister, a daughter—she’d never thought she could be a wife. Family ties aren’t chosen, but the idea that someone would want her in their life so much they’d marry her feels incredible -“You want to marry me? Really? Why?” -She bursts into tears, and it’ll take at least 24 hours of cuddling in bed to calm her down -After that, she’ll run to her father to announce that she’s now a married woman

Vi:

-She might not be Silco and/or Vander’s blood daughter, but she’s inherited their deep desire for family -From her family’s tragic fate to Vander’s, she’s always seen family as the ultimate aspiration -When you call her “your wife” for the first time, she doesn’t notice right away, but a full minute later, she whirls around to look at you, as if to ask for confirmation -“Say it again.” -“...You need to buy bread?” -“No, all of it.” -“My wife needs to go buy bread.” -“Again.”

-"My... wife?"

-"Again"

Caitlyn:

-Has she thought about it? Yes -Was she planning to act on it? Not exactly -Caitlyn struggles with emotions and feelings, which is why she hesitates and takes her time -But when you first call her “your wife”, her brain completely shuts off—she just stares at you, unable to hear a single word being said -If you or someone else asks her a question, she’ll snap out of it and respond, -“My wife/husband said everything.” Even if it makes no sense as an answer, making you laugh and leaving the other person baffled

Mel:

-Not a single flicker of surprise—the first time you call her “your wife”, she remains completely composed -“So, I’m your wife?” she asks as soon as you’re in private, approaching you like a feline. You can almost hear the purr in her voice -She’s amused but also intrigued by whatever game you’re playing -The idea of marriage is complicated for her—on one hand, it feels like it would limit her freedom to act, while on the other, unresolved family issues seem to devour her at the mere thought of starting a new cycle -She’ll tell you to go ahead, to get married, but she’ll also ask for time -In the meantime, though, she’ll start using the term “husband/wife” with you—she likes the way it rolls off her tongue

Sevika:

-Between the work she does, the environment she lives in, and all the interesting circumstances of her life, marriage has never been on her radar -Not to mention that in Zaun, it’s not exactly a common practice—people just move in together and build families when they can, without much fuss over formalities or bureaucracy -The first time it happens, she’s playing cards with the other goons, and you casually ask if “your wife is winning” -Her first reaction isn’t even hers—it’s the others’. Dustin, the blond goon with the lazy eye, almost starts crying, embarrassing her -Don’t worry, she’ll make you pay for it at home -She won’t ask to formalize anything, but in true Zaunite fashion, she’ll consider you married, plain and simple

[sourappl3s]

•°. *࿐ Simple yet full tutorial on how to manifest your dream life!

I will mention everything in this post! so if you comment something like “can i still manifest—“ or “how do i—“ it will be ignored! everything in this post goes by MY beliefs, you don’t have to change what you believe in! just understand these are what i’ve grown to believe/know. Enjoy the post! (also i’m not changing my theme i just think these colors go with topic i’m talking about. I WILL be a bit passive aggressive in this post so try not to get butt-hurt! i’m very straightforward with it.

╰┈➤ Step 1: Bury the old you for good. say goodbye to the old you.

are you the person who was, over-consuming information? couldn’t get off of tumblr because you assumed you needed to find more?, are you the person who keeps saying “i’m finally starting this time” just to get consumed by doubts and play the old story ONCE again?. are you the person who sobs in their room bed-rotting reading success stories so it can give you that “motivation”? oh but how you wish that were you? are you the person who keeps falling back into the old cycle?, are you the person who keeps thinking they need to be specific about their desires because you think if you aren’t “specific enough” you won’t fully get what you want? are you the person who keeps dwelling on the 3D for validation when they clearly know thats not what they’re supposed to do but continue it anyway? if you said yes ANY of this which i’m sure you did, then congratulations you made it to the right stop! because i’m here to burn that version of you. from now on you will become a better version of yourself, you WILL change self and you have absolutely no choice but to follow along with that fact. starting TODAY, THIS SECOND, NOW, NOW, NOW, NOW. you are no longer dwelling on the 3D, you are no longer the person who “just can’t do it”, you are no longer the person who “can’t manifest”. you are no longer the person who over-consumes. you are no longer the person who doom scrolls, you are no longer the person who isn’t trusting of themselves. YOU ARE NOW A CHANGED PERSON. you will promise to yourself RIGHT NOW that you will never dig up this old version of you again. you will promise to walk by faith and not by sight, you will promise to trust the unseen, you will promise yourself to win. burn and destroy the shovel that you’ve constantly used to dig your own grave that prevents you from success. you will win in this lifetime and the next and forever. your promise has been sealed, don’t break it.

╰┈➤ Step 2: Make your own rules in your reality.

if you understand, you know law of assumption is basically about making assumptions and you make assumptions EVERY-SINGLE-DAY 24/7. so use the law of assumption to your advantage and don’t feel guilty about it either because this is YOUR reality! nobody has a say in what rules you’re not supposed to have. make it fun for you. for example; You assume everything you do is the right way. then by LAW, BY LAW! everything you do is the right way, wether that be, making assumptions, persisting correctly, living in the end correctly, being in the wish fulfilled correctly. EVERYTHING YOU DO is the right way to do it because thats YOUR rule you decided to have. you wanna assume another rule? okay make it. decide thats your rule and live your life following those rules you make. you are LIMITLESS, don’t punish yourself because you make rules that maybe seen as crazy or too egoistic. this is your personal journey so don’t feel obligated to tell anyone you don’t wanna tell them. you are above everything. nothing exists outside of you.

╰┈➤ Step 3: Decide.

decide, decide, decide, decide, DECIDE. decide you have whatever it is that you want that you have it NOW. thats all you have to do to literally win. there really isn’t much about this topic because you decide every day. to get what you want is to simply decide you have it now. don’t say you don’t know how to decide because thats bs, you know how to decide you’re just scared you’re deciding the “wrong way”. hence to why i said “You assume everything you do is the right way. then by LAW, BY LAW! everything you do is the right way, wether that be, making assumptions, persisting correctly, living in the end correctly, being in the wish fulfilled correctly.” decide you make decisions the right way. and there’s literally no right way to make a decision but some of you are a bit dense (no shade!) but some of you need to have a feeling you’re doing something “right” so you can feel successful. please stop over complicating the simplest things. you’re grown so act like it, we shouldn’t have to keep spoon feeding you.

╰┈➤ Step 4: For the last final time surrender to imagination.

imagination is the only reality, it’s literally everything, the inner world (4D) is everything the outer world (3D) is just a reflection. in imagination you can be EVERYTHING if you wanna be the girl/guy who’s better than everyone at everything then you can be that in imagination, wanna be richer than elon? then you are in imagination, wanna have elsa’s powers? then you have it in imagination, wanna be a vampire? then you are in imagination, wanna switch lives with someone? then you’ve switched lives with someone in imagination. once you experience it in imagination then IT IS DONE. ITS MATERIALIZED, you’re not waiting for anything anymore because it already happened. all your focus goes to the 4D (imagination). i didn’t say ignore the 3D keep taking care of yourself but i just want you to understand your success is inevitable! once experienced in the inner world the OUTER WORLD, is automatically doing its job to reflect that for you. so why are you constantly getting mad at the 3D for doing its job? it reflects what you consistently put your awareness on it reflects what you claim to have in imagination, it reflects everything you make natural to yourself. a’lot of you are hellbent on trying to get results in the 3D. you have results already in the goddamn 4D. stop waiting for something you already have. its not coming. it’s already THERE. you HAVE it. creation is finished. so surrender to the 4D, fall in love with imagination. if you have it in imagination you have it now, nothing can take that away from yourself unless YOU say you don’t have it anymore. quit giving yourself mixed signals. this isn’t one of your situationships. this is YOU we’re talking about. don’t be a loser in your own reality.

╰┈➤ Summary.

this is your final push. you can manifest absolutely anything, you are not limited to anything, circumstances do not matter, THEY NEVER DID, always pay attention to what you tell yourself, you’re in control of everything. don’t withhold yourself from success, because if you won’t do in this reality you will never win. besides in that other reality you’re the worlds most handsome/beautiful person ever. you’re also on your 3rd world tour rn! and jeez are you rich, you made poor elon musk cry! must be nice being you in that other reality! identify with it. ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

[itsrlymine]

Ignoring Reality Makes No Sense When You Are Reality

Pay attention to the 3d because what you say about it tells you where you are in consciousness. If you know the outer world is based on your inner world, you don’t need to ignore it. If anything you should laugh bc Mrs. 3D really thought she was doing something like girl bye. 

This notion that you need to "ignore reality" in order to get what you want is wack asf and it pisses me off honestly. Why would you ignore reality when you are reality itself? When somebody calls you by your favorite nickname, are you gonna ignore them because you like that name or will you answer since it’s your name???? 

The 3d is a reflection of old and present thoughts and your state of awareness. How you respond internally is what determines what is happening externally. Change the meaning to what you “see” with your physical eyes and see with your mind’s eye that which you are now choosing to experience. Are you gonna ignore your sp, new money, house or car now bc they are in your 3d???

Your reality/3d only becomes real when you are getting what you want? Are you serious? Who told you that? You need to stop listening to that person. The 3d is you. So if reality isn't real, that means you aren't either boo. How can you be reading this post right now if the 3d isn't real?? Are you dreaming right now or something? Don't take people's advice just because they might be popular or get a lot of attention. Listen to what they say and actually see if it makes sense. Most of the times it doesn't. If you want to ignore reality, go ahead and ignore yourself for a week and see how that goes.

There were times people would tell me I couldn’t have something or do something because it’s too expensive or whatever and every time I’d respond back in my mind like “no wtf. It’s cheap asf actually.” I used this to lower my rent (somebody pays it for me now) and medications costs and ofc flights. Literally anything I want because I have come to understand that it’s just me. 

Similarly, it’s just you in your reality. The 3d is you and you shouldn’t fear it. Let it remind you of who you now are— the creator that has everything they want. Giving her power and trying to act like she isn’t there makes zero sense. Now that you have all your desires, are you gonna act like they are not real because you can “see” them in the 3d? No. That would be stupid and nonsensical.

[topherwrites]

𝘈 𝘍𝘖𝘙𝘌𝘚𝘛 𝘍𝘐𝘙𝘌

jack abbot x fem!reader — you have a shared understanding of each other, it's the worst sort of relation. warnings: mutual pining, angst, burn out, grief, terminal illness of parent, attending x resident, hr hates to see them coming. a/n: wrote this while sick and sleep deprived, so it's in third person for some reason. let me know if ya'll like this!

Jack has seen burnout, the way this job chips away at even the soundest of doctors. He’s used to tired eyes and cracked hands and sore backs. But this is different. It’s like watching a ghost move through the hospital.

She's crumbling under the weight of grief. She’s always clocked in; there’s no escape from it. No air to come up for. There’s just a void, deep and dark, that she pulls with her through every day.

And she doesn't sleep well anymore—or at all—terrified every time she closes her eyes that she won't be there when it—the horrible thing rapidly approaching—finally happens, that her mother will be alone. That she’ll have failed in the simplest of tasks.

She doesn’t feel human now, not really. She’s a candle burning at both ends—wick nearly gone. 

He sees it, the barely hidden exhaustion, the forced smiles, the vacant stare when she doesn't know anyone’s looking. But he is—always, watching her for a reason he can’t face, knows is wrong.

And so he’s there to witness her collapse, a full breakaway. They lose a patient—young. Stupid young. One of those ones who should’ve made it. Who would’ve made it, if the universe cared for things like fairness.

His eyes stay on her as he calls it, as she slowly stops compressions, discards her gloves silently, and slips from the room like if she’s quiet enough, she can just disappear. He knows that look. He follows her at a distance, checking in with Dana, the other residents, keeps his eye on her the entire time. A ticking time bomb. He sees the tremble in her hands, the measured way she’s taking in every breath. 

And then she bolts—not truly, but in her professional way, she does. Sets the chart in her hand down and goes straight for the stairwell.

Dana catches him watching her and tells him to go.

He pushes the door open, stands in the doorway as he watches her fold into herself on the cold, concrete stairway floor—knees pulled to her chest, shoulders shaking in that awful, silent way. The dam has broken. 

She sees him then, her breath hitching, and a sob, uncontrollable, leaves her throat—because now there’s a witness to her failure. She’s failing her patients and her mother and him. The door shuts behind him with a click, the sound of her breaking echoing around them. 

He moves, kneeling in front of her, as well as he can, every old part of him protesting all the while. He tries not to crowd, just be there. 

“Hey,” he says, voice firm, “Look at me.”

He knows what she needs, her Type-A constitution: someone to tell her what to do, give her permission to stop brute forcing her way through this.

She tries to swallow her emotions back down, regulate her breathing, get back to it. Her eyes raise from the ground, but she doesn't quite look at him. That's fine.

“You’re off.” She opens her mouth. “Don’t argue.”

“I can’t, I just,” her throat clogs, she imagines going home, to that house that shouldn't be as quiet as it is, just dead air and the sounds of machines. 

He sighs a long breath out of his nose, thumbing it as he offers something up to her. A piece of his own grief. 

Death, the great equalizer. 

He husks out, “If you stop for even a second, it’ll all go to shit, right?” 

He waits to see her eyes. 

He knows some of how she’s feeling, not the same, but close. She was there one day, gone the next. No in between, dead in everything but name. He imagines her version is worse. The long goodbye. The drawn-out cruelty of it.

His hand, large and calloused, cups her knee, thumb rubbing gently at the tendon there, grounding. She swallows down hard. Finally, her focus returns to him, and the look in his eye—understanding—draws her out of her spiral, if only for a moment.

“It won’t," he takes a breath, waits to see if she's really listening, “Not unless you don’t take a moment for yourself.”

She wants to believe him. But the thought of having to go back—to that house, to the hospice nurse, to her mother’s living death—makes her stomach churn. She feels ungrateful, selfish. 

Her mother’s dying, and her daughter’s trying to figure out a way not to go home. 

She finds she keeps having a particular thought, more and more these days, I want to go home. And yet she never seems to find herself there in the quiet of her childhood home. There’s no relief or sense of safety. Just quiet dread. I want to go home. And it’s the cool skin of her mother, paper thin. The occasional brittle sound that works its way out of her throat. 

She thinks, I want to go home. 

But there’s no home anymore. Just a ticking clock.

And she’s trying to let go of something that isn’t even gone yet. 

He keeps his eye on her. He’s sure that his words won’t sink in until later, the truth of them hard to swallow for people like them.

“My shift ends in an hour.” He leans back. Reaches into his pocket. His knuckles prod her closed fist, and something cold is placed into her grasp. Keys. He says, “Wait for me.”

She nods. 

What else is she going to do?

Then he leaves her in the stairwell. 

Eventually, she gathers herself together, eases back up onto her feet, and ambles her way out of the sliding doors. In a haze, she clicks the lock button and locates his car by the responding beep. It’s nice, smells like leather and pine—attending salary, she supposes.

She sinks into the passenger seat, numb; it’s the first time she’s sat still in weeks.

The car is quiet when he slides in beside her.

She doesn't open her eyes, just hears the soft click of the door, the sound of his bag hitting the backseat, the sigh he lets out like he’s been holding it in for hours.

He doesn’t start the engine right away. Just sits with her.

“You hungry?” he asks, like any of this is normal routine. Like this could be a date. 

Her tired mind pauses. Like she isn’t very obviously in the midst of a clinical breakdown.

So, she shrugs halfheartedly. Can’t quite remember the last time she ate, especially the last time she ate without her mom’s nurse forcing her to just sit and chew. She feels reduced to a child, unable to care for herself. 

His fingers tap against the steering wheel.

“Okay.” 

The engine turns over. She sits there with her head against the window, watches the city lights blur past in the dawn. He doesn’t talk, doesn't force conversation onto her. But she can feel his eye occasionally drift over; she can’t think about the beat of her heart when it does.

His place is clean in a lived-in way. Coffee cups in the sink. A stack of foreign medical journals on the kitchen counter. Throw slung over the back of the couch. 

She doesn’t say anything, just stands in the doorway. A tad uncertain and eyeing. 

He toes his shoes off onto a rack. Shrugs his jacket off and hangs it on a hook next to her.

He motions for her to turn around, helps her out of the stiff shell of her scrub top with gentle hands. Careful. Like she might break.

She shivers against the cool air of his apartment, sweat clinging to her skin and tank top. 

His hands purposefully don’t linger. He steps away, through the large sliding barn doors at the back, where she assumes his bedroom is. A moment later, he comes back with a sweatshirt and blankets in hand. 

He presents the sweatshirt to her silently. Their fingers brush as she takes it, slipping it on over her head. Worn cotton. Faded logo. It smells like detergent and him.

Already, she feels a little more alive.

“You can take the bed,” he offers, already walking toward the kitchen, giving her space. “I’ll be on the couch.”

It takes a moment. And then, “What?”

She pads quickly after him, floorboards creaking under her foot. 

He doesn’t answer right away—just opens the fridge, peers down, and makes a vague sound of confirmation—nothing particularly edible left.

“I can’t cook for shit, so…” 

She glances past him, can't help the comment, “And your fridge is sad.”

His eyes narrow and slowly, he straightens up, but there’s the giveaway, a little twitch of his lips. “I invite you in and you go in on my-”

“It’s, like, mostly condiments.” 

And beer, but she doesn’t mention that. She’s pretty sure Harrison, McKay's kid, would call it divorced dad core. He pulls two out, silently tips one toward her in offering. Why not, she figures, reaching out and taking the bottle from him. She cracks it open, takes a sip, and leans on the counter—the taste reminds her of college, probably the last time she can remember relaxing. 

Then, she sighs, returning to the topic, despite his attempt at a detour, “I’m not kicking you out of your bed.” Voice scratchy with fatigue, she adds lamely, “Don’t be stupid.”

He exhales through his nose, sentiment he doesn't know how to word staying firmly in his throat. 

Arms tucked into the sleeves of his sweatshirt, she watches him over the counter. 

There’s something buzzing in her chest. Inappropriately tender. 

“Not a big deal,” he says finally, then drinks, his eyes on her. Not in a waiting-for-her-to-fall-apart way. Just… on her. He’s watching her like she’s a person and not a patient, not a problem to be solved. 

She’s not quite sure what to do with it. At work, at home, she has to keep it together, pretend in equal measure that nothing is wrong, that she has it all together. So now, with the space to just breathe, she falters. She doesn't know how to be anymore. 

“You let strange, frazzled women crash your place often?” she says, trying for levity, settling into a stool across the island.

He seems to ignore her self-deprecation entirely. Doesn’t smile, doesn’t flinch. Not even a pity laugh thrown her way. The quiet that’s left sobers her. Again, he sees her. 

She shifts, realizing how near he is—how inconsequential the island is between them.

“No,” he swallows, looking down at the counter, then up at her, “just you.”

It lands with weight. She wonders what it means, if he even knows. 

She tries to take it casually. But as it rests in the quiet, she’s forced to swallow down her clashing confusion of feelings. 

She wants to say something, anything, to fill the void. Make a joke about him agreeing with her—she is frazzled. More so now. And there’s something dangerous crackling in the quiet. Instead, she sits there, eyes tracing the lines of his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens slightly when he notices her watching him. 

She’s so fucking tired, and her brain is a mess—fogged by grief, adrenaline, the echo of chest compressions, the tremor still in her hands. She could be imagining it all. Probably is.

Just you.

“You need sleep,” he says, firm. “Real sleep. Not just half-hour naps when your body gives out on you.” 

“Look that bad, huh?”

“Little worse for wear,” he starts, a familiar tilt to his mouth, “Still better than most on their best.”

Again, he throws her a fraction off-kilter. 

She takes it better this time. A quick study—as he’s told her before. She’s usually better at volleying, but today she’s an exposed nerve. In the ED, the banter feels harmless, a way to pass the time. Here, in the confines of his place, it feels charged, intentional. Dangerous. 

Jack sighs, more at himself than anything else, and pushes off the counter. Releases himself from looking at her. His fingers flex at his sides, a twitch like muscle memory, like he’s already imagined what it’d be like to touch her. Pull her close. Lay his palm against the back of her neck and give in to the worst of his urges, the ones that have built up in him since he very first saw her.

But he doesn’t.

He won’t.

Because she’s grief-struck and unraveling, and he knows this would be a sort of theft.

He wouldn't be able to take it back. And she rightfully may not forgive him. He might shatter this bit of comfort he’s been able to extend to her. Or perhaps worse, she’ll want him, this, now, but not when the fog dissipates, when a clearer head prevails. 

“I’ll order in,” he says as he turns from her, flicks open a drawer overflowing with takeout menus. Mindlessly, he rifles through them as he takes a breath. He feels her eyes on his back, that prickling awareness at the base of his neck.

She knocks her knuckles on the counter, “Kay. I'm forewarning you, I’m gonna snoop.”

His eyes meet hers over his shoulder, and he nods to the low shelves in the corner, “Records over there.”

He watches her turn, the corners of her lips lifting in response. She unwinds, that last little bit of tension leaving her as she falls back into a familiar rhythm. 

“You're such a hipster piece of shit.”

“No, just old,” he states dryly just to get a smile out of her. He’s rewarded with it, accompanied by a short exhale out of her nose. 

She wanders over to the corner, squatting down as her fingers run over his collection. Taking her time gently sorting through them, she occasionally pulls one from the shelf, eyes scanning the tracklist. He can’t help the interest that’s settled into him: Which ones are to her taste? Which are bands she’s never heard of?

He’s curious about her, always—the briefest glimpses of her leading to more questions.

“You,” she starts, declaring as she pushes to stand, “are a fleetwood mac stan.”

“Of course I am, I'm a self-respecting child of the seventies.”

Her eyes stay on him for a moment before she hums, approving.

It’s that bit of curiosity that’s going to do him in. 

He hasn’t told his therapist about her. Not exactly. Not in a way that counts. The predicament that’s not a predicament. Because he’s kept his head, kept things mostly professional. 

His voice rings in his head, saying what he knows the man would, placid to promote some amount of self-reflection: 'Are you sure that’s a good idea, Jack? '

No. He’s not.

But he’s already in it. Not much farther to fall from here.

She watches as Jack pulls out a diner menu, asks her, “You like pancakes?”

“I'm partial to them.”

They remind her of weekends and summer and her mom. Of giggles and the smell of burnt batter. So yes, she supposed she likes pancakes.

Jack pulls out his phone. Presses it between his ear and shoulder like it’s muscle memory. Always multitasking.

“You a chocolate chip or blueberry kind of gal?”

An hour later, they’re sitting side by side, quietly eating. Forks clink against ceramic. Her elbow brushes his every now and then. Neither moves away. 

He’s taken his leg off. She’s let her hair loose from its bun. Something about it feels telling. 

Too comfortable for what their relationship should be. 

Beer and pancakes. Two things that shouldn't mix.

“Thank you for,” she sighs, “you know.”

The air is still around them. 

He looks over at her, and his eyes are as soft as she’s ever seen them, kind and unguarded in a way that’s a punch to the gut. They quietly roam her face—pinning her. It sits between them—this vast unnamable thing. She wonders what he’s looking for in her face. Perhaps the same thing she’s looking for in his. 

When his gaze lands on her lips—momentary, maybe accidental—it zips down her spine, lands hotly in her stomach.

He doesn’t know how to formulate the devotion on his tongue, say, I’d do anything for you or I’m sorry or Maybe if circumstances were different.

So instead he says, “You’re not a machine. You can’t run on two hours of sleep and caffeine forever.”

She hums in return.

He knows she’ll show up to the next shift the same way—dark circles, thermos in hand, too much tension in her shoulders. Tonight, his words, will probably change very little in the grand scheme of things. Change is difficult at any scale. Especially for people like them. He’s learned that much.

But if she sleeps soundly, lets some of that tension in her shoulders release, even if only for a few hours, then maybe that’s enough.

The rest of their meal is finished over hushed conversation—him digging up the remnants of his past for a good story. A few close calls, some risky maneuvers, the periodic breaking of protocol all teased out to keep her eyes on him. But eventually, time runs out, she stifles a yawn into her fist and her lids grow heavy. 

Quietly, he takes her empty plate and slides it into the dishwasher, urges her up with a hand between her shoulder blades. A gentle push to bed. His grip slides down to her waist as she reaches up onto her toes and thanks him with a press of her lips to his cheek. 

And then she’s gone, the sound of her feet padding down the hallway. She doesn’t say goodnight.

She thinks, in another version of this night, he might have followed her.

But in this version—the only they have—he just stands in the kitchen, eyes on the hallway long after she’s disappeared. He rinses the cups. Wipes down the counter like it matters. Like it keeps him from thinking too hard.

He turns the record player on. Starts an album. Keeps the volume low.

Jack sinks into the couch like it’s an old friend—his hip cracks, his back protests. This isn’t his first stint sleeping in his living room. On certain nights—bad ones—his bed is too big, too empty, too quiet, too full of memory. He’ll grab a blanket and crash out here, maybe catch an hour or two of actual rest before his next shift.

Now, he stares at the ceiling as if it might offer him clarity, like it’s penance.

It doesn’t. It never does.

He remembers how she looked—backlit by his kitchen light, sipping beer like this was any normal Tuesday, like this morning wasn’t a death sentence for his already fragile grip on propriety. It’s not even the presence of her that wrecks him—it’s the ease of it. Like she belongs here. Like it’s natural. Like the universe didn’t put a giant red do not fucking cross this line between their lives and laugh every time he toed it.

She’s asleep in the other room.

And nothing happened.

Nothing will happen.

But still, there’s that buzz in his fingertips. He wanted something to happen. It burns behind his eyelids.

Somewhere, faint through the speakers still murmuring in the background—

Billy Joel starts to hum again.

She steals like a thief, but she's always a woman to me.

Jack sighs, closing his eyes. 

Sun starts to fill the room.

Oh, she takes care of herself; she can wait if she wants. She's ahead of her time.

A/N: Thank you for reading!

[that-student-that-has-homework]

Portgas D. Ace Headcanons 01

Excuse me Oda-sensei, but that 40 year old Ace is simply criminal. Thank you so much for blessing us with him

Anyway! Have some Husband!Ace headcanons For more Ace content please head to my Tumblr MasterList

Ace is, respectfully, a huge simp for his wife

To the extent that the Whitebeard crew straight up jokingly awarded him with a “Biggest Wife Simp” Award

They made it look official and had Whitebeard sign it and everything. There's even a stamp.

Ace has it framed and hung proudly on the wall next to your bachelor’s degree / college diploma / degree in general. 

I feel like despite his own personal insecurities, Ace still manages to be an amazing father

I imagine Ace originally setting out for like one or two kiddos at most (because y'know...what if he's not good enough) and ending up with 3 or 4 kids

Thing is, that’s both your faults.

Ace is tender and goofy with his kids, and he’s so friggin caring: to the extent that…well wouldn’t it be neat to see him with maybe another 2 or 3 kiddos of his own? 

(Your husband is hot okay?)

In his case, he swears you have a unique glow about you when you’re pregnant. But more than that when he sees you with your first born, he suddenly wants a big family with you.

I imagine his kids are an eldest son, then his princess, then the youngest boy who takes after his uncle Luffy.

His kids aren’t parentified. He keeps his issues far, far, away from them. Besides, he’s got you by his side.

He was dedicated to making sure they got as much playtime as possible.

He heard about learning through play, and he is DEDICATED to doing that as much as possible

Ace’s kids are spoiled with affection, but not spoiled brats.

While it’s true he’d give them the world, he’d rather let them go get it themselves. 

For example: when they asked for a tree house, he gave them the greenlight immediately.

But they had to build it themselves.

It was a super fun project lasting a little over two months with the whole family involved.

Oh and the Whitebeard crew helped too.

It took a while to get the design down initially, then the shopping logistics and whatnot (they used a lot of math here - see education via play)

Building the thing took maybe a weekend or two because the Whitebeard Crew and even the Strawhats came over to help

(It was mostly Franky and Usopp doing work, Sanji was cooking with Thatch)

Uncle Luffy was not allowed near the construction zone after an accident.

They almost destroyed the tree house with their partying once

Ace’s kids were not happy and no one was allowed in the backyard for the rest of the night

He makes sure they have proper manners and self-defense skills

You had to help out here, no lie.

He admitted he needed your help, especially after a dinner with Garp where Makino tagged along to see Ace again

He puts all of his kids into martial arts classes

especially his princess - he’s so proud of her when she beats up bullies

He’s not great at discipline though to be honest. He probably goes about it similarly to Garp. 

Ace will not tolerate any of his kids being nasty to their mother. No matter the phase.

You will have to hold him back if you want to let them get their frustration off their chest.

He’ll let them talk, but you’ll have to keep a hand on him somewhere, his arm, his hand, his knee, his shoulder, his back and rub soothing circles

Let’s just say, “talk shit, get hit,” is Ace’s attitude towards anyone being demeaning towards you (more so with adults, not his kids, but that's why they get a scolding)

"Ace my love" (he melts every time you call him that) "the kids’ll start thinking you love me more than them if you do that"

"My kids won’t disrespect their mother though!"

"They’re just venting darling, and when they say or do something that violates my boundaries, I'll be sure to reinforce it. Lead by example right?"

If they ever feel like pissing Ace off for fun they can just say something kinda not nice about you and he'll get mad and they'll flee from him giggling like the little gremlins they are

Ace is veeeeeeeeerry physically affectionate and he isn’t shy about it at all.

At gatherings with the Whitebeard family, he will gladly seat you in his lap, he will happily hug you as you are seated.

His arm is on your waist most of the time.

They tease him to make him tone it down, he does not.

He, in fact, dials it up. Turns up the heat lol.

You have kids? Not in front of them? What do you mean, not in front of the kids? It’s important they know just how much he loves their mama!

So he will continue to be playful with his hugs and kisses and other displays of affection.

It’s nothing too over the top. Just hugs and quick pecks wherever.

Your entire head is fair game for his smooches, your arms (he loves kissing your pulse and then making eye contact, sneaky guy that he is), your shoulders.

Maybe lifting you and spinning you around. Cuddles. Little bites.

He will play-wrestle his kids to “fight” them over getting to cuddle you, and then he’ll just put all his weight on all of you in a group cuddle

Just to let you know, your kids also receive all the warmth and love of his affections.

When his sons are still tiny and adorable, he smooches them all over. The kisses grow less frequent as they grow older, but the hugs do not stop.

Oh no, hugs galore.

Ace still pecks his little princess on her forehead though

When they’re all under ten he’ll wrap them in a hug (after he chased them down and caught them so they’re laughing and screaming) and start smooching their cheeks while they laugh and try to get out of his grasp

Also yes she’s his princess, but that girl has no problem throwing a fully grown man twice her size around, he made sure of it.

I reiterate: Ace is not remotely shy about displays of affection

Like his eldest could have a friend over, and Ace would still launch a full scale hug attack using the rest of his troops (daughter/youngest)

It's complete with screeching, screaming, and a lot of laughter

His kids used to get teased for it, but it didn’t take more than a few conversations for them to instead jeer at the kids that teased them.

"You’re all jealous your parents don’t love you like ours do"

"How sad, your parents don't hug and kiss you"

Their dad, grandpa, uncle - uncles really, are all gremlins - it's in their DNA

The kids are really physically affectionate with each other as a result

Deadass they’ll be kicking the shit out of each other one second and the next they’ll be all cuddled and huddled up playing Mario Kart or something

Ace is his kids’ hero.

His sons aspire to have his level of fitness.

His daughter, when she’s older, uses him as a standard for dating

You're relieved

Ace is touched and a touch nervous, because he is aware of his shortcomings, though he works hard to keep improving

Of course when you look at him, a twinkle in your eyes, and tell him, “I’m so proud of her, I’m so proud of you!” He feels better

When you continue: “if she can find a guy like you, who cherishes her as much as you cherish me, I’d be so happy.”

Ace loves you so much he swears

[oceantornadoo]

ch3 something borrowed something blue (mafia!price x simon's sister!reader)

tw: reader has an anxiety attack. price is a traditional possessive mafia man with strong opinions. comments about body image and eating habits but not from reader, her family just sucks. drunk shenanigans occur.

masterlist | next

-

The week before the wedding flies by. Simon tells you he’s already contacted a planner, which is a phone call you can’t imagine him making. Everything left to do only concerns you personally. Dress fittings, shoe shopping, ring sizing. No one expects you to want to say over decorations or location. No one asks your opinion on bridesmaid dresses or table centerpieces. The fantasy of your wedding, a princess fairytale, is shoved to the back corner of your mind, next to hope for a normal family and a love marriage. 

London has better options than Manchester, so you’re flown out on Tuesday for final fittings and a makeup run-through. Unfortunately, your aunt meets you there. She was your father’s older sister, an absolute hag who tormented your mother. Aunt Riley, a title she demands. You aren’t given the honor of addressing her by her first name. That’s not for children out of wedlock.

“I look like a piece of cake. A fluffy, tulle-shaped piece of cake.”

It turns out that Aunt Riley is the wedding planner. She’s already picked your dress, without your consent. It’s monstrous, with layers and layers of fabric at the skirt and a too-tight corset at the top. Long lace sleeves, like from an old lady’s doilies, squeeze the life out of your arms. It��s at least a size too small everywhere. Your lungs barely have room to expand. Aunt Riley states that it’s all the rage with modern brides, and you think someone must have made this as a joke. It’s a sorry imitation of an actual wedding dress, not something designed for use.

“Well, let’s hope it sweetens up Mr. Price. Heaven knows your backtalk won’t.” She huffs out, circling the platform you stand on like a shark sniffing blood in the water. “Let’s take in the waist a quarter inch. Longer sleeves, hide more of her shoulders. Can’t have the families thinking she’s a bastard and a harlot.” She orders the tailor, who scurries out of sight with her notes. You sigh, inwardly, since you can’t actually breathe right now. At least there’s a room at the Ritz Carlton waiting for you after this. The no-expenses-spared part of the wedding has a singular benefit - a jacuzzi you could get swallowed in. You only saw it in passing once you landed, but it’s been calling your name like a siren.

“And you must remember not to frown at him, it gives you lines. Are you listening?” Her voice goes up an octave, shaking you out of your thoughts. “Sorry, what?” Aunt Riley rolls her eyes, downing the complimentary glass of champagne the tailor handed her before approaching you. “I was telling you how to please your husband. You can start by wiping the frown off your face. This is a very important alliance. Do not ruin it for your brother.” Your brother. The one person in the world you’d put up with Aunt Riley for. He’s sacrificed so much for a Made life, even the freedom to love freely, so you can’t dishonor him by ruining this wedding. Your stomach grows heavy, and whether it’s the corset or her words, dread coils in your belly. You straighten your shoulders, then nod at her advice that you will not be taking. John deserves a cordial marriage, nothing more. You will not be hiding your frowns for him. 

Luckily, the tailor frees you from your prison wedding gown before you faint. Aunt Riley delivers you to the hotel with a snail face mask in one hand and instructions for a seven-day juice cleanse in another. Your bodyguards, silent men assigned by your brother, help you out of the car and then station themselves outside of the hotel. “Do this every night, you must rid yourself of those eyebags by Saturday. Start the cleanse tonight, hopefully, it’ll get you to fit in the dress. I’ll be here at 8 am sharp tomorrow for ring sizing. Child, are you listening?” You nod numbly, snatching the products in her hands before dashing to the lobby and into the elevator. “And practice smiling!” Her words are drowned out by the rushing of blood in your ears.

The elevator operator knows your floor number, a fact you’d find creepy if you weren’t trying to stop an anxiety attack. Ring sizing. The dress fitting was a laugh but this is…real. A ring is a collar around your throat, it’s your name in ink on the dotted line. The reality is sinking in - John Price will be your husband. You open your door, body on auto, dumping your aunt’s products in the trash before entering the bathroom. The thought of a bath is laughable, not when you think you could drown. A look in the mirror reflects a frazzled woman in the mirror, with eyebags and discoloration and acne scars, and is that a pimple? You are not the type of woman to be John Price’s wife. You are a bastard and he cemented that fact and now you’re marrying him. You’re betraying your mother when you think about it. He and his father got you sent away and you’re here ring sizing. The logical part of your brain argues that he was sixteen, that your father acted of his own accord, but you aren’t listening to logic right now.

The bathroom walls start closing in, but you’re faster. Running like your ass is on fire out of your room, taking the stairs instead of the elevator. You’re on the second top-most floor but it doesn’t matter, anything to get you out. Time flies in a blur, your vision only clearing once you reach the lobby. Instead of walking out the front, where your brother’s men are, you find a side door, escaping into a street alley. Outside. Fresh air. Now.

The sun’s set. You forgot your gun in the safe. Ditched your bodyguards. Nothing matters as you jog down a cracked London sidewalk, not stopping until you find a park. If you can call it that. It’s a strip of green grass, tucked between two buildings like someone forgot about it. You find the lone bench, tucked behind a tree, and sit, lungs heaving with effort.

You could leave, right? Abandon the contract, hightail it out of London. Go back to your mother…who will just shake her head and tell you you should have expected nothing less from the mafia families. She’ll let you stay, of course, but Simon’s still got his men following her and you would be right back where you started.

You could find a city. One without mafia, without men who think they’re gods playing fate. Get a job, a fake name. Except…how could you fake certificates without your connections? Where is the mafia not? It seems the tendrils of your captors reach across the whole British island, choking out any who disobey.

Maybe John would let you out. If you begged nicely, on your knees. He’d smirk and say he’s won the whole game, this back-and-forth that’s played out for years. Except he wouldn’t let you, not really. You’re not stupid enough to ignore the political factors involved, the whispers of the Shepherd family encroaching on his territory. He needs your brother's weapons and he won’t give them up just because you ask.

There are no options. You’re trapped, a mouse in a well-laid trap. Your breathing comes out fast and stunted, lungs rasping with overuse. You try to put your head between your legs, arms on your head like Simon taught you. Five things you can see, four things you can feel, three things you can hear…Except you can’t see anything. Tears glazing over your vision and this is the end, it has to be-

“Nice night.” A man is next to you on your bench. You didn’t even notice, too caught up in your thoughts. It’s enough of a distraction to pull you out of your mental spiral, breath still coming out too short. You train your eyes on the ground in front of you, afraid if you turn to the man next to you, you might keel over from anxiety. “Huh?” Very witty, idiot.

“Said it’s a nice night. North Star’s out, look.” You shake your head, lacing your fingers behind your head to keep your gaze down. The alternative is too frightening to consider. There’s no way he’s here, this thorn in your side. “Pick your head up and find it, sweetheart.” Even though your brain fog, you can’t shake off irritation at his demanding tone. You pick your head up, searching the sky until you find a star brighter than the rest, blinking at you like an old friend.

“Good girl. Now look, squirrel’s got ‘imself in a tight spot.” You drop your gaze and sure enough, a squirrel is fighting with a takeaway bag at the edge of the park. It’s silent for a bit, the sound of a paper bag ripping echoes through the air as you watch two foes battle. John doesn’t say a word, content to watch you squirm with the fact that he’s talked you off the ledge. You finally drop your hands from the back of your head, setting them in your lap like a prim lady and not an anxious mess. Your thumbs twiddle, itching to pick at your skin, but you can’t because there’s ring sizing tomorrow. Aunt Riley will surely notice. There’s ring sizing tomorrow…

“This has got t’ be the only spot of green in London.” You snort. He’s not wrong. “How’d you find me?” You whisper. He hands you a handkerchief, embroidered JP in dark blue letters, and you dab at the tears in your eyes. “Got men watchin’ yer door, elevator an’ the lobby. Don’t trust y’r brother’s men. Knew the second ya left without anythin’ on ya. Bloody stupid, if y’ ask me.” Of course, he’s correcting your anxiety attack etiquette. Typical John Price.

“Wasn’t thinking about my weapon, to be honest. I’m surprised you came here yourself since you’ve got all these men watching me. Certainly one of them wanted to visit this lovely park.” You finally chance a look at him and instantly regret it. Starlight is rare in London proper but it somehow frames his face perfectly. Even the streetlamps cater to him, highlighting the cut of his beard and the blue of his eyes. You hand him the used handkerchief and he grabs it lightly, callused fingers brushing yours before pulling away. It’s the first time you’ve ever touched, a fact you’re hyper-aware of.

“Someone tells me my wife can’t breathe, ‘m not sendin’ my men to take care of it.” He tucks the handkerchief into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “Not your wife yet.” He clucks his tongue. “Yet.” Well, you can’t argue with that. “Thanks for checking on me, I guess.” It almost physically pains you to say, especially once he grins and turns his head in your direction. “A thank you? Y’ sure yer feelin’ okay?” You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest like this is a casual conversation. “I was trying to be polite. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten how to insult you.” A corner of his mouth ticks up, almost a smile. He puts his hands on his knees and rises like an old man and not someone nine years your senior.

“It won’t be so bad, I promise.” He holds out a hand for you to take and you do, immediately dropping it and stepping away once you’re up. “What won’t be?” You ask like you don’t know. He gestures between the two of you like it’s a given. “This. The wedding. Marriage. ‘M not yer new jailer, sweetheart, I promise.” In a moment of vulnerability, you swallow and turn away, trying to find the North Star again. The clouds hide it, light pollution preventing you from your search. “You promise?” You whisper, almost to yourself. 

“I do.” He says it with the same conviction you imagine he’ll use at the ceremony. A slight pressure touches your shoulder, the ghost of a reassuring squeeze, and you turn away from the sky, eyes focused on his suit jacket. “Let’s get you back. ‘S nippy out here.” You nod mutely, and that’s that.

-

Friday is your hen-do with your Riley cousins, getting drunk at a Price-owned club called Midnights. They’re a bit catty but you can’t blame them for the environment they grew up in. You’re given a mission of getting absolutely smashed, enough to forget about your impending wedding. Drinks after drinks are put into your hand, and you’re pretty sure every type of clear liquor is now in your belly. The music has seeped into your pores, veins thumping with your last night of freedom. Like you ever had any at all.

“Are you excited for tomorrow night?” A distant third cousin whisper-shouts into your ear, waggling her brows at the insinuation. You roll your eyes, taking a sip of your fifth martini before answering. “Not really.” She groans, tugging her sister into the conversation. “Come on, I heard he’s great in bed.” Her sister nods with blown pupils, almost spilling her drink on your white dress. “He fucks like an animal. My friend Marie fucked him and,” she hiccups, almost losing her train of thought. “She said he made her come like, five times. He never fucks the same woman twice though. Wonder howitllbewithyou…” She slurs the last sentence, trailing off until she perks back up at the DJ’s change in song. “This is my song, we have to dance!” She drops her drink to tug you onto the dancefloor and you go laughing, thoughts of John Price drifting away as you dance like no one’s watching.

Mafia girls get a bad rep. Your cousins are called innocent or shallow, but they’re the best company you’ve had in years. You soak up all the estrogen in the room, knowing you might never have this kind of night again. It’s exhilarating, to have fun while knowing you’re in a place where you can’t get hurt. At least five Riley bodyguards surround the dance floor and no annoying brother is telling you what to do. You even slipped Aunt Riley, telling her you were doing a spa night at the hotel. If this is what being Mrs. Price is like, it might be worth it.

“Come on, bathroom break!” You swim in a sea of pink bridesmaid party dresses, only on solid footing once you’re in the bathroom. There’s no line, thankfully, but a group of three girls are writing on each other in the corner with a…Sharpie?

“Temporary tattoos! Do you want one?” They offer with beaming smiles - the camaraderie of drunk girlhood. Before you can open your mouth, your cousin snatches the marker and turns you to face the mirror. “No peeking.” The back of your dress is low, almost to your ass, something a Made Man would never approve of. Good thing none of them were invited. Sweaty hands hold you in place as the marker scratches over the skin of your back. She finishes by smacking her lips like she’s eaten a good meal. “Ok, go look.” You turn in the mirror and blink once, twice. You might be drunk but not that drunk, right? Because there’s no way she’s drawn you a tramp stamp in the shape of a heart with the initials JP written in loopy handwriting. It reminds you of a certain handkerchief and you shut that thought down before it settles in.

“Wanker!” You squeal. She throws the marker back to the girls before making a run for her life with you hot on her heels. You’re grinning the whole time.

-

John does not have a stag party. He was planning on taking the night for himself, leaving Gaz in charge of overseeing the dozens of clubs he owns and watching for trouble. He’s just sat down with a bottle of scotch, aged ten years, he’s been aching to try when his phone rings.

“Price.” His voice comes out gruff, probably due to lack of sleep. Since the night he found you on that bench, he hasn’t gotten more than a few hours of sleep. Can’t even take a midafternoon kip. Your frightened face haunts his dreams, the knowledge that you had an anxiety attack because you’re marrying him. He didn’t realize how much you hated him. He hopes it’s only dislike, not fear. If you’re scared of him, there’s not much evidence in his favor. He’s got a list of bodies that could fill a village, and there’s blood in the cracks of his palms. Not exactly husband material.

“Sir, we’ve got an…issue.” Gaz doesn’t continue, which is one of Price’s biggest pet peeves. “Spit it out, Garrick.” Gaz sighs on the other end. “Your fiancee is here at Midnights, doin’ her hen do. Bunch of Riley girls swarmin’ the place. They’ve got guards, but I thought you ought t’ know.” Fuck. Midnights is Price’s biggest club, the easiest to get lost in with its three floors and dark hallways. Because of the layout, it’s definitely on the dirtier side of his business. It’s where he takes clients he doesn’t trust. It is not the place for his fiancee. Wife in twenty-four hours.

He abandons the unopened scotch with a sigh, grabs his coat, and calls his driver. It’s one of Nikolai’s men, renowned for their discreet nature and speedy driving. Luckily, he’s staying at a flat near the church, so he’s only a few minutes away from the club.

“Good evening, sir.” John nods his head in acknowledgment, then dials up a contact on his phone he’d rather not talk to. “You didn’t think t’ tell me she was out?” His tone is firm while Ghost murmurs to someone on the other end. Probably Soap if John had to put money on it. The man sounds a bit out of breath. “Whatdya mean she’s out? Ain’t she doin’ her hen do at the hotel?” Fuck, you didn’t even tell your brother. At least you took guards with you. “She’s at one of my clubs with ‘er cousins. She’ll be safe but Jesus Ghost, ya need t’ be on this. Be glad I’m ‘er keeper now.” Simon swears under his breath. “Her aunt’s s’posed t’ be watchin’, guess they gave her the slip. She’s smart, not gonna run. Check in an’ let me know.” Like John’s going to take orders from a man who can’t even keep an eye on his sister. Someone needs to lay down the law.

He’s at the club in minutes, greeting his bouncer before going in. Gaz meets him at the front, guiding him to the second level so they can look over the crowded dance floor. Sure enough, John spots a few bodyguards at every corner, suited men who are firmly not dancing. It takes a second, but the white outfit you’re wearing makes it easier to spot you. You’re surrounded by girls in pink, presumably your cousins. Before Gaz can comment, he heads down the stairs, pushing his way through the crowd. Even on the verge of blacking out, people recognize who he is, stepping back to make a clear path to you.

“The fuck are you doin’ here?” It’s not the smoothest delivery he’s ever had, but the image of you is pissing him off. Smudged lipstick that he’d rather not think about and sweat dripping obscenely into the cleavage of your dress. It’s white with a dip in the front, giving him a generous view of tits that are about to be legally his. You’re so drunk that it takes you a second to recognize him, a fact that irritates him even further.

“Dancing! Ever heard of it?” You smile and that’s how he knows you’re wasted because you’ve never smiled at him like that. All teeth like you’re genuinely greeting him. Fuck it. He grabs you by the waist and you squeal. Unexpectedly, you’re docile in his arms, following him willingly as he pulls you off the dancefloor and into a quieter section. When he removes his hand, which ended up on the small of your back, it’s…black? A closer look reveals that it’s marker ink.

“The fuck’s on y’r back?” You gasp, then turn so he can see. A surge of blood goes straight to his cock, too fast for him to remember this is you, the Riley brat. There’s a heart with his initials above your ass. It’s a little smudged but the insinuation is clear. It’s something he’ll see tomorrow if you’re in his bed. Which he’s not even sure he wants. He thinks.

“My cousin did it, not me I swear. I would not have drawn that, trust me.” You gush, turning back around. You overshoot and almost stumble, but he reaches out just in time with a steadying hand on your waist. You frown, then shrug.

“Ya didn’t tell me where ya were goin’ and you slipped your aunt. That’s not,” you cut him off by swaying your hips, clearly more into the music than his voice. His grip tightens as he gets a better feel of the fat on your waist, a sensation he didn’t know he needed. “That’s not acceptable. Don’t do it again.” You roll your eyes, then pull back out of his grip. There’s a black smudge on your dress now, but you don’t notice. “Yessir.” You even mock salute, smirking. “You gonna end my last night of freedom? Put me in timeout? Thought you weren’t my new jailer, John.” You draw out the syllables of his name to show your irritation. Your sentence references the promise he made, the one he’s already regretting.

He doesn’t even know what he wants by coming here. He’s a Made Man, and can't have his wife running around freely. And he needed to know you’re safe, sure, but then what? This is his club, there are no worries of any enemies. He’s vetted every manager and knows every bouncer and bartender. You should have told him, that’s true, but he’s not going to drag you out and make a scene. You’re owed a last night of freedom. So why does he want to stay and get a drink, watch your hips sway on the dancefloor without a care in the world? It must be something in the air, some drug residue that’s got into his system.

“Just- tell me next time. And from now on, I’ll be assignin’ y’r guards. Y’r goin’ t’ be my wife, need t’ be under my protection.” You snort, then sip your drink. “Sure. Can’t wait to be Mrs. Price as of tomorrow. You done throwing a hissy fit?” In a moment of teenage retaliation, he takes your drink and throws it out in a nearby trash can. An angered gasp escapes you.

“See you tomorrow, sweetheart. Try not to look too hungover.”

-

When you wake up the next morning, it’s to a pounding headache and a stern Aunt Riley. 

“Cheer up, you insolent child. It’s your wedding day!”

You groan and shut your eyes. This has to be a nightmare.

-

did reader and john just have a moment??? or two???? wedding is next :)

-

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[artsninspo]

Penname: Delta Wise [Sinners]

「 ✦ mbj's charcter archive✦ 」

「 ✦ full library & archive ✦ 」

authors note: a quick concept I thought up after seeing the movie.

summary: 'Knotty' James owns an apothecary by day, by night she's a bestselling author who writes supernatural black novels under the name. Delta Wise. It's her deepest secret but secrets don't last for the living.

word-count: 1.9K

Knotty

I spent the first eight summers of my life next to my grandmother's rocking chair. She was the only person that was rooted enough not to leave. There was nowhere else for her to go. I was helping her cook by six and then cooking for the both of us by eight. I watched as my parents and cousins dismissed her stories, warnings and tales for nonsense but they always felt true to me where it counted. I wrote down all her stories of life in Chicago and then recorded the rest when I was old enough to have a tape recorder. I was at the retirement community just as much as I was at school. She spoke life over me and she loved me hard. By the time she died I was fifteen and ready for the world with the wisdom of two lifetimes. I was different and people could tell.

What grandma always told me was that a good woman knew how to keep a secret. I have more than my fare share. What my family doesn’t know is that granny’s stories have made me rich. While they think I’m an oddball apothecary owner with peculiar habits. Truth is I’ll never have to make another sale to survive. The doctors and the lawyers look down on me but pride isn’t safe. Neither is the glory of recognition. Grandma's stories were real, so it’s very likely the monsters in my stories are too. 

I search through my closet for something that won’t make them all look down on me too much. I make sure my figure is on display to give them something to talk about as I set my locks free from their braids. The waves cascade to my mid back. I opt for more discrete protections today slipping on pure silver rings and cuffs. Every major artery is adorned with silver from my head to my toes. I slip on a pair of boots. I pull on a light jacket to cover my back. I look at the sun setting and finish my garlic tea with a colonial silver supplement before grabbing my bag and getting into the car.

I don’t make being out after sunset a habit. But Uncle Larry is sick and it’s imperative we party before he goes. He’s grandma's younger brother from her father’s second wife. A proud man that’s done everything to leave Mississippi behind him. When I arrive at the venue there’s a cascade of cars out front. Luxury vehicles that tell the tale of triumph and resistance. When I enter, Kaya is playing the piano and I instantly feel underdressed.

“Come on Knotty, I got you” Carmen smiles, meeting me at the door. We’re equal outsiders because people don’t quite know what to think of me. They think she’s a whore like our great grandmother Pearl who ran off one evening and never came back. Only I know what a blessing that was to everyone that she went up in flames at sunrise. Grandma said she never forgot the man with the scar who’d come by to tell her daddy Pearl was gone and the fantastic tale.

“So how are sales going at the shop?” She asks.

“Good” I smile as she fusses with my hair.

“Well I have a steady trick I don’t have to do anything for now so if you need anything ask.” She says and I smile.

“Thanks Carmen,” I tell her.

“I swear it’s good money,” she says, misreading my smile.

“I believe you” I nod. I do believe her because I’m the trick. Carmen has always been kind so instead of whispering about the onlyfans link in a group chat like everyone else I made an account. I send her money and bible verses because she’s never taken the money from me otherwise. Because to ‘trick’ like I do I’d need more than apothecary. 

“I think I’m gonna quit soon. I almost have enough saved up to make a record. I’ve been taking lessons and my voice is ready. And I have enough to make a really nice music video.” She says, making me smile.

“You were ready before those lessons but I’m happy to hear and if you need anything don’t hesitate to reach out” I tell her.

“What about you and writing? Haven’t seen you with a dreamy eye gleam in front of a computer in a long time” she says and I smile.

“I wrote a herbology and healing book” I remember.

“No no, knotty. Like the big stories you used to tell when we were kids.” She says starting on my makeup.

“What about them?”

“Remember? It’s singing and you’d dream up these amazing ideas for music videos or backgrounds?” She asks like I could forget.

“I do but the apothecary and my garden takes a lot of time” I remind her and she nods.

“Well I think you should take it seriously. If you were that good then. I can imagine about now” she smiles.

“What are you not saying Carmen?” I ask, sensing there’s more to it. She sighs, taking a kindle from her purse. I see my book cover as the Home Screen.

“When someone spends fifty grand on me in a year I investigate.” She says without saying. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you Knotty you’re incredibly successful and you let everyone look down on you. You pay me a salary and never ask for a thank you” she says, far smarter than the rest of them.

“How do the tips trace back?” I ask.

“They didn't. I read the first book a few years ago and it felt like one of Grandma's stories. This last one. That was confirmation. Who could forget the twins?” She whispers.

“Carmen”

“I won’t tell,” she says, swallowing hard. “I won’t” she repeats showing me a silver necklace from Grandma.  “But they’re as excellent as everyone says they are. The minute you let me brag on you I will.” She says but I shake my head.

“Not while they’re still out there”

“But Grandma said they all died” Carmen says.

“She did but you never know” I nod, keeping the rest of the truth from her. The letter I found dated October 17th 1992. From Sammy Scarface himself stating he saw Stack and he didn’t look a day older than the night he died. That Mary was by his side. Mary who was partially to blame for how that night went. Otherwise they would’ve been inside until sunrise.

“Okay miss mystery, we’ll reconvene this later. Just wear this dress and shoes I got you.” She says and I relent slippering into a silver number that better matches the occasion with matching shoes. My clothes are folded and I follow her out of the room and back into the party room.

I’m showered with compliments about my dress and presentation all thanks to Carmen. I take pictures with uncle Larry. When the party’s over I get to my car when I hear someone call me but I don’t listen. I start my engine and head home. When I do I head in backwards like grandma said I should and run a bath before going to bed.

———

I clean up the apothecary after hours knowing I have extra protections in my veins for a little longer. I head to my car as the sunsets and hear someone calling again.

“Hey now! Did I just see you lock up the apothecary. My granny told me I need to get her some fresh dandelion and camomile.” A man says and I step into a sunstreak before looking back to where he stands under the shade of the shops. Brown skin, minimal facial hair, full lips with a hint of a smirk and sunglasses to cover his eyes. He makes me feel uneasy. But I something in me makes me walk towards him. The protection bag tucked in my chest tugs at me. As my silver feels like it starts to hum. But as I get closer it’s like my aura pushes him back. His chain and rings are gold. I open the door stepping in and he does too. No doubt he’s probably already charmed a member of my staff.

“Chamomile and Dandelion? How much?” I ask.

“Eight ounces each” he says and I grab the bags.

“Who’s your grandmother, I don’t think I’d hear the end of a grandson so handsome. The elders are proud people” I smile, flirting.

“Just passing through, she’s out and has a nightly tea ritual” he lies like they all do.

“That’ll be $100” I tell him and he gets a money clip from his pocket instead of pulling out a phone or credit card to pay. He fails my final test when he can’t place the money in my hand. I close the till and grab my key when a woman enters the doorway. She sashays in glaring at me. 

“What’s taking so long baby?” She asks and I should be shitting myself but I’m not. She’s wearing sunglasses too.

“Nothing. I got the goods for Granny” he says holding up the bags to her.

“Heard her flirting” she says making no effort to conceal the impossible. I pretend not to hear from behind the counter and fasten the crossbow around my arm. My belled sleeves cover it and I move from the counter.

“Thanks for your help.” The man smirks.

“Hope your grandmother enjoys her tea” I respond as they file out. I make it to my car fine but I don’t head home. Instead I head to Momma Meringue and she’s standing on her porch when she sees me. Old habit causes her to head into her home. The door is left open as a test and I walk right in after cutting my car off. Her home is full of skylights.

“I think I met Stack and Mary an hour ago,” I confess.

“You did,” she says, showing me a severely patina’d silver cuff. She raises my sleeve and I see my twin pair look just the same. She removes it from me, dropping it into a jewelry cleaner.

“What do they look like?” She asks. And I tell her until there are two perfect pencil sketches. Momma M blinks in rapid succession.

“An unrequited love spell” she says. “The girl's heart was pure until …” her eyes close and she pauses. “He didn’t come back and she learned her husband's bed couldn’t compare to him. She asked for forever and got her wish - not in any way she would have predicted though” Momma finishes.

“Hmm, she was jealous today,” I share.

“Careful he likes a chase. Love spells don’t change men. He misses his brother but is too much of a survivor to consider anything else”

“Any advice? “

“Close the store for a week. Request a new deed, resign and tell your employee’s not to engage with anyone unless they’re inside the store upon reopening.” She says.

“Here’s some silver lotion for the moonlight” she says and I obey because the elders have never steered me wrong. I wash up and sleep at Mama Meringues house but before I go to bed I commit to writing in my journal like my grandmother would have - continuing her story. Then I take photos uploading the pages to the cloud so they can be with hers.

————

If you like it you know what to do, Reblog, comment and like. The girls are asking for sinners so I thought I’d deliver a quickie.

PT 2

_______

TAGS:

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[calypso-apologist]

hii

Could you do a odysseus nsfw alphabet too? 👉👈 thank u

in one sitting, by the way.

Odysseus NSFW Alphabet ♡

Template by @/the-coldest-goodbye.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

King of Ithaca and Aftercare. He always has everything you might need prepared before he actually suggests having sex and always makes sure he tends to you afterwards.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His? Probably his arms and chest. He likes feeling your body against his as he embraces you tightly.

Yours? First of all, how dare you expect him to pick favorites??? Your eyes. He could just sit there, looking into them for years. Days, even.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Very thick. Usually takes a solid minute or two with each orgasm just to get it all out.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He cannot keep anything that smells like you on him because he will get hard if he smells it one too many times. It was incredibly embarrassing to explain and he will get all red if you tease him about it.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He's experienced with you, if it makes sense. You two have learned everything together. He knows your body perfectly.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Anything that means you're close and he gets to look into your eyes is good in his book, but I think his favorite would just be the good old missionary, honestly.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He's a mix of both in the most loving, affectionate way. He's not completely serious, but not completely goofy, either. It's like the golden middle.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Pretty well groomed, trimmed relatively often to keep it nice and short for you. Much darker than his actual hair, but not dark enough to be considered black.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

All in. Fully. This man is locked in, focused on you entirely. The world could be on fire, but as long as you want him focused on you, he might as well burn alive just to keep making love to you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He (600) strikes me as one of those men who feels guilty about jacking off because he subconsciously thinks about it as cheating, so I'm gonna say he probably doesn't really do that.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Vanilla motherfucker. I see no kinks in this man. His only kink is his love for his partner.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He's a sap. He loves your wedding bed. There's no better place than your bed.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

You exist. That's it. That's all he needs.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Threesomes, cucking, basically anything that involves another person joining. This man is strictly monogamous, you cannot convince him to even consider another person joining you.

Also, anything that means you're in pain or even the slightest bit of discomfort is out. Not ifs or buts, if it can do anything you won't like, he will die before he tries it.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Definitely prefers giving. He's decent with it, not some incredible master of the craft, but he'll keep you very satisfied. He doesn't mind receiving, but he'll always insist on returning the favor.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Slow and sensual all the way. And even when he is fast, it's not so much rough as it is just... him being needy when he gets closer to orgasm.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He's not exactly opposed, but he does prefer regular sex. But if this is the best he can get when you two sneak away for a moment, so be it.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Listen. I'm not saying he would do absolutely anything you asked him to aside from the very few things I mentioned in the N section of the alphabet... But he would do absolutely anything you asked him to aside from the very few things I mentioned in the N section of the alphabet.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Solid three to four rounds on a good day, but he usually settles on one or two slower, more loving rounds. Can he last longer? Yeah, absolutely. But he prefers quality over quantity.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

I dunno, I don't see it. Maybe a blindfold to make you feel everything stronger, but I feel lik even that would be reaching.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He's a service top or a bottom. "I don't tease, I just please" type of guy.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He's not very loud during the act itself, he mostly lets out some low grunts and groans. When he cums, however, he lets out a much louder, slightly high pitched moan. It takes you off guard the first time.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

If he was capable of getting pregnant, Telemachus would have a sibling for each year you two are married. Just because he loves you so damn much and he would love to just make an army of mini-you.

I didn't know what to put here so you get mpreg.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

WHY DO I KEEP DOING THIS TO MYSELF I'M TOO ASEXUAL TO DESCRIBE SO MANY DICKS

Around five and a half inches when hard, relatively thick. Has a mole very close to the tip.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

I mean... The Odyssey says something about how Athena asked Helios to make the night longer for him and Penelope when they re-united, right? So that should answer this one.

... I need to hurry up with my reading list and finally make it through the Odyssey.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Somehow, he's in complete sync with you. The moment you fall asleep, he falls asleep. So it depends on how quickly you fall asleep afterwards.

[astrocafecoffee]

Placements I like the most ~

Venus in Capricorn: Venus in Capricorn is known for taking life seriously, but they also have a fantastic ability to laugh at life's minor failures, particularly their own. If something goes wrong, their reaction is often more, “Well, that was expected,” followed by a chuckle. It’s like they’ve already calculated the odds of success and know that it’s okay to laugh off the imperfections.

Libra moon : When arguments or tension happen, a Libra Moon might not react immediately. They prefer to process their emotions and figure out what everyone else thinks first. By the time they express their thoughts, the conflict might already be over, and they’ll come in with, “Okay, so here’s my analysis of everything… and I think we should compromise.” Their late-but-thoughtful take is often both hilarious and surprisingly insightful.

Virgo sun:Virgo Suns can be surprisingly adventurous with food, even though they come off as practical and "healthy" eaters. They love trying out new food trends.they love recommending obscure restaurants or dishes no one else has heard of. You might not expect a Virgo Sun to be a connoisseur of anything, but food? They know their stuff.

Mercury in 10th house/mercury in Capricorn: They often have a knack for inspiring others, usually in a low-key, almost accidental way. It could be something as simple as giving you the perfect pep talk when you're stressed at work. They’ll calmly explain, “It’s all about managing expectations and breaking down the project into bite-sized pieces.” And suddenly, you feel like you can conquer the world. They don’t try to be a motivational speaker, but their logical, practical advice often has this surprising, uplifting quality. It’s kind of funny how they can turn a simple conversation into a full-on career inspiration session without even realizing they’re doing it.

Uranus in 12th house: They can heal in ways that feel totally unexpected and even a bit unusual. Whether it’s through sudden insights or unconventional methods, Uranus in the 12th house people have the power to help others break free from old patterns or traumas. They may not even realize they’re doing this at first, but they have an innate ability to help others shift their perspective in profound ways,sometimes without ever saying a word. They might just show up with an idea or suggestion that completely changes someone’s outlook on life.

Cancer moon : Cancer Moons are incredibly intuitive about people’s emotional states, but they tend to pick up on subtle, less obvious cues. They might be able to sense if someone’s having a bad day just by the tone of their voice or the way they hold themselves. However, the funny part is that they might not always verbalize their empathy. They might just quietly offer a cup of tea, a hug, or a homemade treat as their way of saying, "I get it." It’s their way of giving comfort without making a big deal out of it.

Aquarius rising/Sun : While Aquarius risings are known to be social, they do it on their own terms. You might catch them hanging out in a crowd of people but also deeply absorbed in a conversation with just one person about an entirely random topic . They can be surprisingly selective about who they connect with, preferring people who stimulate their intellect or share their unconventional interests. They might be socially active but with their own peculiar style, sometimes standing apart from the crowd but still very much part of the scene.

[vaguely-concerned]

huh. you know something I just consciously put together for the first time about caterina and lucanis' relationship is that through the game we get to hear them talk about each other a lot, but we get very few chances to hear them speak with each other at any length at all. contrast it with other companions whose storylines have elements of 'believed lost/long time no see relative returns!' like bellara and davrin, where we get to see both of them have several pretty in-depth conversations with cyrian and eldrin. hell I think even rook talks with varric longer in the regret prison scene than we ever get to see lucanis and caterina interact directly.

(and when we do see them interact, it's mostly one-sided -- it is, perhaps unsurprisingly, caterina who is doing most of the talking and giving all the orders, as he ruefully observes is her wont after murder of crows. including jumpscaring him with 'you're first talon now btw' and the shocked pikachu face in five acts he goes through in response lmao. perhaps it's more accurate to say that she talks at him and he reacts, than that they talk to each other much.)

it has such an interesting effect too, because in deliberately denying us direct insight or experience and only having this mosaic of description from each of them to go on, as well as forcing us to pay attention to the negative space of what is carefully not said, it's evocative along the same principle that you never actually show the monster in a horror film. if you've read the wigmaker job you have a clearer image of the more uh. worrying elements at play here going in, but there is something fascinatingly insidious and naturalistic in the way it's 'hushed up' in the game itself. she has his complete loyalty both as a member of her house and, more importantly, that of an abused child to a parent figure. he readily admits several times that she's a difficult person to live with, an even more difficult person to be loved by ("even for me. and I was her favourite")... but never once does he actively blame her nor truly conceptualize that he has every right to do so (that he can be angry with her and still love her, because whether he should or not he unavoidably does), or that she might have acted differently than she did, that she made a choice every time to hurt him. even affectionately he speaks of her as a force of nature, an act of god -- something that can't be reasoned or pleaded with or resisted, something you can only hope to navigate with as little pain as possible and pray to survive. let yourself get carried away by the riptide, resisting it will only make it worse. you don't compromise with a hurricane, you just try to find the best shelter you can and cross your fingers while you wait for it to pass and be calm again.

love is that hurricane. you do whatever she asks. you earn her continued affection day by day by never letting her down. you only want the things she tells you it's okay to want and cut everything else away preemptively. ("A wyvern tooth dagger?? I loved wyverns as a boy --Caterina would never let me have one of these, though." and as we have all wept and gnashed our teeth over, it never even OCCURS to him that he's a like thirty-five year old adult man who can buy himself any dagger he wants at any time. she said he couldn't have one. so he'll never have one. that's just how it works. and maybe if Illario could just accept that and find his peace with it like I have, this whole thing wouldn't be so difficult. oh lucanis.)

such is the price -- and the cost -- of being loved by her, it's a loan on which the interest will never stop piling up. you have to keep paying it down in perfection every day if you want to keep it. who got the worse deal there: the grandson who has abandoned everything else in life to live up to that and mostly succeeded, until the day he's so burned out and broken it threatens to no longer be an option, or the grandson who can never seem to scrape together enough worth in her eyes no matter how he begs, borrows or steals it, how he hustles and plays dirty?

one of the worst things that can happen to anyone is to be loved by a selfish god. another one of the worst things that can ever happen to anyone is to not be loved by a selfish god. (hope that helps, boys!) even in betraying everything else, Illario can't bring himself to hurt his grandmother, because that would defeat the whole point. who would he defiantly be proving himself worthy to, without her. in love, devotion, submission, hatred, frustration, bitterness, everything is defined in relation to her, you can spot the gravitational force of it through how the dellamorte family move through time and space. she -- her love and regard and attention -- is still the sun both of their worlds orbit around, even as adults. the game might never tell you outright 'she used to beat and starve them growing up. for their own good you see, so they'd be strong (and broken down enough for her to build them up again however she wanted but I'm sure that's incidental)', but if you know even a little bit about how these dynamics can work the writing is on the wall everywhere you look and all the more unsettling for it.

follow lucanis' freeze-logic and fraught interpersonal catch 22 irreconcilable mixed emotions problems back far enough, looong before the ossuary entered the picture, and you start to see caterina's ghost around every fucking corner. she is so proud of him. (well, she would be. she made him. she forged exactly the knife she needed and it rests willingly, devotedly, in her hands, it would return to her every time because it doesn't know love as anything but to be a knife. his tama never taught him how to be anything else. his biggest fear with her is that she won't even want him back, the way he is now.) to the best ability of her soul, whatever parts of it survived a lifetime of crow politics and 'five children, eight grandchildren, only Illario and me left now', I think she really does loves him. he certainly loves her, with all the sincerity and artless desperation of a child, of the little boy he was once. and what she's done to him (and to illario, for all his shitty gremlin scar-ass antics lol) is awful. the harm is real, and the love is real, and trying to find a way for these two truths to exist in the same space is driving all three of them their own individualized forms of insane. you know. the way only family can and so often does lol.

through implications and short glimpses and having to put the pieces together yourself, you can have the feeling that there is very genuine mutual love and attachment in this relationship... and that beneath that there is something so profoundly wrong. and the sneaking '...oh shit it gets worse the longer I think about it' horror of that is more effective for me at least than the stark in-your-face presentation of the facts of the matter could have been. the love is here. the love is here. it only ever makes it worse.