#both the “raised” and “functional” are wrong

[psychological-alchemist]

Hohenheim: you know, I raised two fully functional children

Ed: are the two fully functional children in the room with us?

[isfjmel-phleg]

how, I ask you, am I supposed to get this dang paper written when I am either a) zoning out daydreaming about a hypothetical unrelated other paper that doesn't exist or b) writing paragraphs that just make me want to go yell at fictional parents about how they treat their children

[no1deepspacehater]

When Your Dress Is Too Short (LADS Headcanons)

... And you're late for a party.

☆ Xavier

As soon as you step out the door, Xavier says nothing, but his eyes say A LOT.

“I know, I know, but we’re late! I didn’t think it’d be this short…”

It takes him a little to convince him to get going instead of making you change, but he eventually relents.

He’s standing behind you for the entire function. (Partly for you, and partly to hide the hard-on he’s getting.)

Anybody that dares to take a look is getting death eyes.

He will literally pull your dress down for you during the outing if he sees it’s riding up too much.

Good luck finding that dress afterwards; he’ll get rid of it immediately.

☆ Zayne

“A bold choice.” He points out as soon as you slip into the car.

“Please, Zayne, not now, we’re late!”

“You are correct, and while I’m not complaining, you did just flash me upon entering the car.”

“Zayne!”

Will force you to wear his big ass coat if he has one.

If not, he will also politely stand behind you most of the time and loudly cough if you start to bend down too much.

☆ Rafayel

“What do you think you’re wearing?”

“Rafayel, please, Thomas is going to kill us if we don’t show up to your showcase now!”

Unfortunately, Rafayel would rather drink the whole ocean instead of making you walk out like that.

Literally pulls out some cloth and sewing needle in the car and gets to work.

You’re more comfortable, yes, but Thomas nearly strangled you both since you were 30 minutes late.

Rafayel started getting handsy while modifying your dress, and well, one thing led to another.

☆ Sylus

“Um, Sylus, I think the stylist got my measurements wrong.”

Sylus gives you a look, eyebrows raised. “It’s supposed to look like that.”

“It’s supposed to be this short!? Sylus, if I even so much as tilt, I’ll flash the whole auction.”

“I’d have to outbid everyone for you, after that.” Sylus took a sip of his wine. “Then kill them.”

He’d call the stylist and have them fix it to your liking, although you were an hour and a half late at that point.

Sylus doesn’t mind either way; he likes showing you off, but he also wants you to be comfortable.

[cosycafune]

NO ESCAPE ZONE…

1.7k words. sure, you’re supposed to be taking sylus’ measurements. yet, what happens when you’re sexually drawn away, pushing forward an offer that the two of you can’t refuse? once you’ve made a deal, you have to keep it.

acts: oral (m) receiving, throat fucking, gagging, whimpers, facial, cum-swallowing, crying, sadistic tendencies, massive cock, slight cock warming, almost getting caught and more.

a/n: he’s officially my favourite now. like, he’s the perfect man. argue with the wall if you think I’m wrong. 1/3. pt2 here.

────୨ৎ────

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

PROPPED within such a delicate space, your heart boisterous, you remain before Sylus. A measuring tape embroiders your fingers, leaving you a contorted mess — your fingers situated against his sculpted abs.

“Do you want me to wear the wrong size?” Snarky aloofness mixes into Sylus’ question.

Patronisation stains him while he looks down at you, his crimson eyes slicing into your facade. Wickedly, mischief tints a composed Sylus. It sculpts him into soft grunting at your touch becoming more intense.

Skilful, you clumsily back into Sylus’ chest. His closeness clamps around your mental functions, rendering you breathless. Attempting to scoff, to paint yourself as unbothered, you continue to take in Sylus’ measurements.

“With your cloudy mind, you are going to mess up my outfit,” Informing you, Sylus’ vibrating tone causes your breath to hitch. All the stability within you was beginning to falter.

“Stop complaining,” Stubbornly countering Sylus, you allow your delicate fingers to fall against his v-line.

Blooming with forbidden thoughts, you cast yourself into becoming bolder. Tracing the intricate curves of his abs, you lightly disregard the measuring tape. Unable to revert, you continue — knowing this is a no-escape zone.

“You can do whatever, but we’ll have to strike a deal, sweetie,” Taunting you, Sylus gruffly speaks — observing you drift your hand incredibly lower.

“Mhm, you can do whatever you want to me, Sy’,” Responding to him, you momentarily gather the courage to sensually flutter your eyelashes at him.

“Be careful of what you put on the bargaining table,” Uncaring at Sylus’ warning, you roughly drift your hand lower — casting your palm into resting against his cock outline.

Mesmerised, you plaster yourself into listening to his rapturous heartbeat. Grinning, you develop lustful at Sylus’ stolen groans — pushing you into cruelly squeezing.

“Is gentleness not an attribute of yours?” Grunting, Sylus cloudily questions you.

“Your body begs to differ,” Mocking Sylus, you teasingly trail over the ample outline — listening to his sensitive gasps.

“Damn, s-sweetie,” Stripped of composure, Sylus voices his guarded heart — curling into your fingers prying at his concealed fly.

Riddled with tainted control, you greet Sylus’ fluttering eyes. Naturally, he tries to suppress his anticipation — beads of sweat contrasting his coolness. Happiness festoons you while you silently unbutton his trousers.

Bubbling with ropes of control, you allow his elusive trousers to fall — completely pooling before the both of you.

Smothered with commitment, you glance at Sylus’ thick, girthy, pre-cum, adorned erection. An erection that’s scarcely caged, pointing greedily in your direction.

“Your body always goes against your mental stoicism,” Corrupting Sylus’ sanity, you lowly speak — pushing eagerly closing your plush thighs.

“Is that why… you’re clenching your thighs?” Fixed with a strained expression, Sylus’ territorial inquiry causes you to innocently puff out your cheeks.

“Is there any reason to lie to you?” Raising your brow, you counter Sylus’ point — beginning to disregard his cock-blocking underwear.

“If you were a fool, of course,” Your abdomen curls, refined by butterflies at Sylus’ snarky remark.

It completely aroused you, pushing you into straining the ache that wells within your toned thighs. Pushing with a restrained might, you almost cave at Sylus’ clouded gaze resting upon a lust-trembling you.

Shaping yourself mentally, you lower yourself with every fabric tug — inching painfully nearer to Sylus’ throbbing cock. Shuddering with longing, you admire every vein that greets your smitten eyes. Sheerly his v-line made you almost finish, riddled with your release between your clamped thighs.

Lowered before him, dominance still ravelled around a patient Sylus, you continue to watch as his girth cock eventually releases itself from his briefs. Drool adorns your lips while you admire the thickness of his precum-beaded tip.

Nothing within you could manage yourself as you loudly gulp, allowing his underwear to properly fall. Dutiful, you push yourself into grasping his girth — smearing your fingers against the midst of his large cock.

“You’re so beautiful when you’re on your knees,” Admiring you, Sylus admits his thoughts — glancing down at you with admiration.

“You’re next, Sy’,” Too enamoured by his monstrous cock, you whine with longing — wanting to fill yourself up with his cock.

However, you’re in a reserved place.

“What was that?” Eagerly questioning you, Sylus softly moans at your lips parting — gently kissing upon the tip of his dripping cock.

Before you could consensually glance at him, Sylus releases crimson and raven tentacles from his evol. Satisfyingly humming, he casts himself into smugly glancing at you — consumed by you hungrily greeting his gaze.

“You…heard me,” Replying hazily to him, you reach towards mentally satisfying your sexual trance.

Being swiftly released, you blanket a hand around Sylus’ inhumane cock — relishing the delicate, veiny skin. Focusing your lips, you pepper tender kisses — consumed by the idea of satisfying him.

Filtering your hearing, you pluck out the hefty sounds of Sylus’ needy moans, his breathless pants, his silently voiced eagerness. To you, it was obvious that the heartless man was riddled with an immense amount of pleasure.

Content with how effective your touch is, you widen your warm mouth — burrowing Sylus’ tip between your saliva-tinted lips. Slimming your cheeks, you contently suck down on his tip — innocently flaunting your glimmering eyes.

Unable to stop yourself, you prepare your mouth for more —- flattening your tongue before you push your head further. Completely enticed, you lodge your mouth with Sylus’s cock — rewarded by his subconscious moans.

Flustered, you mellowly watch his cheeks grow blessed with a crimson hue. Pleased at the rare sighting, your curiosity peaks at Sylus’ fingers yearning to burrow into your hair and guide you.

Honoured, you strategically fill more of your mouth with Sylus’ girth. Knowing his heavy cock would be hard to fully put into your mouth, you take a little bit more — filling your mouth so obediently.

“Oh, yes,” Unwilling to quell his moans, Sylus completely releases them. His lips part with his intense gaze glancing down at you, his eyes rolling back effortlessly.

Fond at Sylus’ enjoyment, you softly bob your head — feeling every vein whilst you intensely suck down. The warmth of his cock stains your mouth while saliva drips from your lips, supporting the pace that you set for your mouth.

Contently sucking, Sylus subconsciously bucks his hips into your mouth — his fingers grazing your forehead. Beautifully obeying him, you listen to his every moan — love-stricken by the gushy sounds of your cock-sucking.

“This…is the…best way of shutting you up,” Playfully rolling your eyes at Sylus’ scrambled words, you harshen your pace — watching silence envelop a trembling him.

“Ah! Yes!” Unable to control his breathing, Sylus’ frantic moans continue to spill over you.

As he watches you through strained eyes, Sylus softly bucks his hips into your mouth. Stirred on, Sylus strengthened his pace while you fruitfully gag on his cock. Unwilling to pull back, teary at his pleasurable pace, you grow flustered at the heavy squelching sounds that flee from your lips.

“Such a…good girl,” Sylus contently praises you, throwing his head back.

Testing your limits, Sylus pushes your head against the base of his cock — turned on by your heavy gagging. Lightly pulling back, your face riddled with tears, you grin at him.

“Too much?” Concerned, Sylus’ beams of affection tint his question.

“More,” Wooed by Sylus’ subconscious yearning, you gesture for him to throat fuck you.

Blanketed by your compliance, Sylus casts himself into slamming his cock into your mouth. Your heavy tears falling completely turn him on, leading to him quickening his pace further at the lewd sounds of his cock fucking your throat.

“Close, my…sweet,” An aggressive, focused expression tints Sylus’ face while he watches you, so near to finishing.

Nodding lazily, Sylus’ pace effortlessly creates an impossible momentum. Narrowly struggling to keep up, your eyes flutter at him burying your mouth impossibly with almost every inch of him.

“Hm, take… it,” Smushing your lips against his cock base, Sylus almost hunches over with his energy-consuming statement.

Flushed, Sylus’ worded murmurs completely stain your ears. Ears before he holds your mouth there, hardening effortlessly. Almost rendered breathless, you hold out for him — listening to him moan extremely loudly. His loudness leaves your thudding cunt a pooling mess, in need of being touched upon and coddled.

Grunting so audibly, Sylus relaxes whilst his throbbing cock shoots out thick, warm cum down your throat. It causes him to almost bellow a whimper at the sensitivity, panting harshly whilst his balls are finally empty.

Strained with pleasurable tiredness, Sylus happily pulls back from a used you. A small beam frames his lips while he admires your smudged mascara, your streaming tears, the cum and saliva bubbling around your lips, along with the drops staining your clothes.

“Swallow,” Sylus dominantly instructs you to do so, accidentally bringing himself to finish against your face.

Gasping, you slightly flinch at his thick beads of cum caressing your eyelashes. However, you then hear the sound of a worker stirring nearer to your reserved spot. Panic arises within you, causing you to hyper fixation on the cum staining your face.

You’re far from presentable.

“Sy—”

“—Are you ready for your measurements to be finalised?” A worker so cheerily asks, causing you to stifle your breaths — embarrassed.

“I think I’ve already finalised my measurements,” Smirking, Sylus responds to her — gently placing his cock back into his briefs.

“I’ll be available if you need to finalise for customisation,” As she speaks, you frown at Sylus smoothing out his sexual ruffles — leaving you on your knees.

“Perfect,” Sylus announces, observing you pout — a little annoyed at him simply staring.

“A little help here?” Completely pulverised, you croakily speak. Large specks of cum rest upon your face and within your styled hair.

“Sure, but I’ll be sure to fulfil my half of the deal,” Softly informing you, Sylus gently lifts you, “Once we get back to my home.” Amused by the degrading sexual look you wear, Sylus admires you — mellow.

He wasn’t done with you, yet. 1/3.

do not copy, modify or claim any of my works as your own. all rights reserved; cosycafune. 2024. small banners credit: cafekitsune <3

[gilverrwrites]

If that ask was too long and elaborate, I have another one!

What about a fic with Batman, where the reader finds out she’s pregnant and doesn’t know how to tell Bruce since he already has mature/ teenager kids and she doesn’t know if he wants to raise one from the infant stage to adulthood.

She kinda overthinks about it and distance herself from Bruce. He notice it and when she would confess, to her surprise, Bruce would get super exited!

What I don't understand

AN: I'm back baby! At least partly, my hand is still on and off achy so I won't we posting as activiely as I have previously. I've done so much research on pregnancy that all my adds are now of pregancy tests, fertilitie test, baby stuff, I'm worried my bf might start to suspect that I'm pregnant which would be akward Bruce Wayne/F!Reader, 3.9K words CW: Husband/Wife dynamic, pregnancy, feet (none sexual), mentions of vomit, body dysmorphia, lying/sneaking around, prenatal anxiety/depression, martial problems, swearing. Fluffy ending tho!

Pregnancy brain is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. Or maybe that's insanity, who knows? You ponder the thought as you fidget with the flimsy cardboard packaging of the pregnancy test you're awaiting the results of as if you don't know the answer. You'd already taken countless tests, trialling different brands in the hopes of a different outcome but every single one of them had confirmed your situation with variations on lines and plus signs. They'd never offered you a negative, and yet you keep trying.

There was no denying it, and pretty soon there would be no hiding. You were fast approaching the end of your first trimester at 9 weeks but had only found out about a month ago. The task of informing Bruce while there was still time to act seems to grow bigger and scarier with each passing day. Not to mention; it's becoming increasingly obvious that he already suspected something is wrong.

3 weeks ago:

The cold tile against your aching feet felt like ecstasy. You couldn’t help but close your eyes and lean against the wall, relishing in every second of release as you awaited Jason’s return.

You’d spend hours hiding your pain, precariously balancing in a pair of heels as you kept up appearances during a charity event being held at the manor. Bruce was currently being cornered by a visiting dignitary, and as bad as you felt leaving him alone, it might have been your only chance. You’d slipped away to an off-limits hallway, grasping Jason’s who had drawn the short straw for event appearances along the way. Once out of view to your guests you’d begged him to retrieve a pair of pumps from your bedroom, the petty prospect of keeping it secret from, and thus getting a one-up on his adoptive father being the primary motivator. That and he owed you, a lot, for defusing many situations in which he and your husband had butt heads.

The weight of your discarded shoes hung heavily from your fingers, you hadn’t realised how weighty they were. A shame, because they were so pretty. They were a gift from Bruce, strappy and bedazzled, the perfect colour to match your dress. Another pair for your ever-expanding collection, he’d always favoured gifting you shoes and purses, and you certainly didn’t mind, at least not until your ankles had begun swelling at the mere notion of being used for their primary function.

“Are you okay? You seem off.” Jason’s voice returning to the hall made you jump out of your stupor, and he watched with concern as you tucked your heels behind a curtain and slipped into the flats he’d brought you.

“Fine, fine.” You smile, patting his arm with a reassuring smile. “Just didn’t wear those in properly and now I’m paying the price.”

“Right.” He still seemed dubious and was about to say something else when a door creeks open, redirecting both of your attention.

Bruce stood in the doorway, stern, arms crossed. He glares at the both of you, he and Jason have a very similar glare. His eyes focus in on you, identifying you as the main culprit, his gaze roves across your form, lingering on your feet for an uncomfortably long time before speaking.

“If I have to suffer through this, so do the two of you.” He points behind him. “In.”

Jason’s face is obscured as he takes the lead, but Bruce must not like his expression because his frown seems to deepen.

You followed close behind, careful not to step on the hem of your dress now that you lack the additional six inches the heels had offered but your integration back into the crowd is halted. Bruce traced his hand along your back, cupping the curve of your waist and directing you to a lesser populated spot amongst the outskirts of your visitants.

The stony look on his face was gone, replaced with a polite smile for the crowd and softer eyes for you.

“What happened to your shoes?” His voice was low, in-perceivable to anyone but yourself.

“My feet were sore is all.” It’s not a lie.

“Too sore for dancing?” He asks, voice as slick as silk and you don’t want to agree but yes, they are too sore dancing. Not to mention you’d gotten nauseous from standing up too quickly only hours earlier but damn if you didn’t want to dance with your husband. Want to feel his chest against yours, his hands on your curves, admire the smile on his face. There are few things you enjoy more than any form of intimacy with Bruce.

“Maybe later.” You sighed, “I think I need to sit down for a while.”

2 weeks ago:

‘Breast changes are another very early sign of pregnancy. Your hormone levels rapidly change after the egg is fertilized. Because of these changes, your breasts may become swollen, sore, or tingly.’

You groaned aloud, rereading the entry on WebMD once more. You hadn’t expected your breasts to change so early on, incorrectly assuming any swelling or pain would be a result of breast milk, but you were wrong.

Believing you had the house to yourself, you figure now was as good a time as any to read up on more early pregnancy symptoms, to correct any other misconception you might have. You were midway through reading about progesterone and how it causes constipation when your laptop pinged.

A notification popped up in the corner of the screen, a DM from UserDC27, Bruce’s bat-server codename. You click to open the message and audibly gasp when a screenshot of your browsing history greets you, framed in red with its own ‘suspicious activity’ notification in the corner.

‘Pregnancy trimesters in weeks’ ‘Swollen breasts pregnant’ ‘Early pregnancy symptoms’

Amongst all the suspicious browsing habits of this family, of course yours had flagged up! Fucking ridiculous!

UserDC27: ? UserRI01: For a friend UserRI01: dw UserRI01: Love you x UserDC27: is typing… UserRI01: has signed out.

1 weeks ago:

“Good morning.” A familiar voice greeted you, strong hands slink around your body, brushing against your back and hips before settling on your stomach. What should have been a sweet moment frightened you, disturbing you from your train of thought and causing you to almost spill your morning decaf coffee.

“Woah there.” Bruce laughed, the warmth and proximity of him soothing you quickly. He effortlessly took the mug from your hands and settled it on the kitchen island so he could pull you closer without spillage.

“Sorry.” You mumbled, turning your head to rest it against his chest. The strength of his cologne is always so much stronger in the mornings, the scent of the man you love, of citrus and woodsiness does wonders to comfort your frantic brain no matter the time or place. “Just lost in thought.”

After a second you realise your mistake, you’ve allowed him an opening to ask what you’re thinking about and that exact moment certainly did not feel like the right time, what with Damian in the next room. You should be alone, completely alone.

He surprises you however, always one for keeping everyone on their toes, by spinning you around to face him and telling you, “I don’t think that’s it.”

“What do you think it is?” You tried to keep your voice airy, relaxed, unsuspicious but even you can hear the guilt in your tone.

“I think you’re tired.” He watches you with a playful glint in his eye, but the next words out of his mouth are accusatory no matter how light his tone is. “Where are you sneaking off to in the mornings, oh wife of mine?”

“W-what?” You heard him fine, you were stalling while you calculated a response. You had been sneaking off in the mornings and the fact that he’s asking so playfully, as opposed to interrogating which he is not unknown to do even with you, means he knows more than he’s letting on.

Bruce isn’t exactly an early riser, often too tired from long nights of crime fighting and case filing, but he is a light sleeper. Always on alert. He’d already caught you in a bought of morning sickness once. Roused by the unpleasant noises you’d been making. You’d lied about it, citing an upset tummy from something you’d eaten. You weren’t sure which was worse, the vomiting, the sombre expression he’d given you as he approached to rub your back throughout, or the look of horror on Alfred’s face when Bruce had brought up your supposed food poisoning later that day.

Ever since you’d purposely been rising early and sneaking off to dispel any nausea in one of the many guest bedrooms.

“Nowhere, I’m just becoming more of a morning person I guess.”

He eyed you sceptically, and you thought you might crack under the pressure. His hands reach up to cup your face, preventing you from turning away. His touch is so gentle, so soft for a man of his stature. “You can tell me anything, you know that?”

“Of course.”

As if you couldn’t feel worse he adds; “I miss waking up to you beside me.”

“Oh Brucie-“

You’re already on your tip toes, ready to concede, to apologise, to shower your sullen husband with kisses when you’re saved by the signal. Literally, a call from Duke 'The Signal' Thomas, with a reminder of your apprehension; an active situation that needed Batman’s participation.

Your relationship, and now marriage to Bruce had always hinged on an unspoken understanding that Gotham comes first. Even with Tim taking over most of his responsibilities at Wayne Tech, Bruce simply does not have enough time to raise a baby. You can't expect him to take turns with the nighttime feeds, with the frequent nappy changes, with the constant attention an infant will need.

You’ve no doubt Alfred would delight in assisting you, he's been dropping hints about wanting a baby Brucie since the engagement, and you love him very much but if you’re to raise a baby, you want to do it with your husband, not his butler.

That’s presuming your husband even wants a child. Another child. He already has enough children to populate a small village. Children with lives of their own. Children who in some way or another have followed in his vigilante footsteps. You think of the stress and trauma each of them has faced, and how it has affected them and their father. You think of Steph and her tremulous relationships with Bruce and Arthur. Of Jason’s deaths, plural. Of Dicks ineptitude to form meaningful relationships with anyone outside of the lifestyle. Of all the childhoods so many, but especially Cass and Damian missed out on. Could you be responsible for putting another child through any of that?

Furthermore, if your child wanted to live this life, could you really stop them? Nobody stopped Tim. Nobody stopped Barbara, when Jim had tried it only caused the rift between them to grow bigger.

Could Bruce stop your unborn child? Would he want to?

Speak of the Oracle. The chime of your phone draws you out of your spiral of perinatal anxieties. It’s Barbara, informing the girls-only group chat that she’s running late for lunch. Crap. You’d completely forgotten that you’d promised the girls lunch and shopping. Barbara had some tech on hold, Steph wanted to try the new caramel cookie waffles at Goodilicious, and Cass needed new boots whether she knew it or not.

Hurriedly, you shove the used test into a previously disused makeup bag that is now full of other used tests. It's starting to smell, but you don't have time to figure out how to stealthily throw it out, so you hide it at the back of a cupboard behind a basket of sanitary products before rushing out the door.

Later

Catching up with the girls had been fun, it had really helped you forget about your predicament and just relax for a while, but it had also taken a lot out of you, keeping you out well past dinner. Your body just was not functioning as well as it used to, for obvious reasons.

Upon returning to the mansion you’d made it to the ground floor lounge, feet too sore to even consider the stairs, and collapsed on the closest couch, exerting just enough energy to pry your shoes and sock off of your swollen feet prior to falling asleep. Just a quick nap you tell yourself, to regain some energy, you’ll be right as rain in time for Damian’s bedtime. He’s old enough now to put himself to bed, especially given that he often patrols with his father until the early hours of the morning, but tonight is his night off and you’d always make the effort to wish him sweet dreams when you can.

You’re awoken by the feel of calloused fingers pressing into the arches of your feet. You hadn’t heard him enter, but Bruce is sitting on the arm of the couch, in nothing but sweatpants and slippers. Between his bare chest and cowl hair, he is a welcome sight, bruised chest and freshly cut lip and all.

“What happened to you?” You ask, voice husky from your impromptu nap. You manage to draw your eyes away from Bruce long enough to check the time on an antique wall clock, it’s 4 AM. You’d far exceeded a nap. “Where’s Damian?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle. Damian is asleep. When you didn’t wish him a goodnight he came to look for you, that’s how I knew you were here.” He asserts. He looks at you with a furrowed brow and pinched lips, working his thumb into the arch of your feet with just enough pressure to make you mewl in relief. “Are you punishing me for something?”

The question hits you like a ton of bricks, it’s not without merit. You hadn’t intended to spend the night on the couch, but you can understand how it must look to him, especially in tangent with the ways in which you had intentionally been avoiding him; sneaking out in the mornings, not allowing him to see your naked body for fear that he’ll notice your swollen breasts, and growing belly. You hadn’t had sex in at least three weeks.

All at once you are overcome with remorse. You’d been so consumed with the pregnancy and how best to approach the subject with Bruce that you hadn’t stopped to think how your actions would weigh on him. He’s so strong, your anchor, an unchanging presence for the whole family. He locks himself and his emotions behind the big bad bat or billionaire Brucie so well that sometimes he forgets he has them. Sometimes you forget. Even now, clearly hurting and concerned for his marriage, he’s rubbing your feet.

“No of course not Bruce, I’m sorry…” your mind starts to form the end of your apology ‘I was just so tired’ or ‘it’s been a long day’ and they wouldn’t be lies but they’re not the right thing to say. You can’t keep postponing for the ‘right moment’ that will never come, can’t keep chickening out. He needs to know the truth. “I’m- I’m pregnant.”

You’re not sure how you’d expected him to respond really. You’d feared anger, hoped for joy but instead, he continues to stare at you, his brows raising in a way that implied he needed more information. He swaps your left foot for your right as he awaits your resumption. When you don’t speak he nods and states; “I know.”

“You know?” As though possessed your tired body launches into an upright seated position. “How could you know?”

Bruce smiles in response, an amused, tight-lipped ‘Are you kidding?’ smile.

“Well, to name a few things;” he counts off each observation on his fingers. “You’ve stopped wearing heels because your ankles are constantly swollen, your breasts are also noticeably swollen even under your clothes, you now only drink decaf, you seemingly have ‘food poisoning’ every morning and at no other time of day, a massive increase in urination, and my personal favourite, the bag full of positive pregnancy tests behind a crate-full of menstrual products that haven’t been used in almost three months.”

He’s trying to hide it, but he’s smug about his own detective skills. His mouth might be straight but there’s a fire in his eyes that has you drawing your legs away from him with a huff, abruptly ending the massage you had been enjoying. “How long have you known?”

“I’d had my suspicions for about 6 weeks, but I wasn’t certain until I found your stash last week.” Typical of Bruce to have figured out you were pregnant before you’d known yourself. “What I don’t understand, is why you didn’t tell me. Why you’ve been lying.”

“I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have kept this from you. I was going to but…” You trail off,  straightening your thoughts as best you can and finding your composure, preparing to begin monologuing about your concerns. “I didn’t know how you’d feel about it, what with you know, already having so many kids. Everyone but Damian has flown the nest, Dick and Babs are married! They’re all so grown up, do you really want to start again? And then…”

Conscious of your rambling you cut yourself off, looking to Bruce for reassurance that you’re not talking too much, that he’s not offended by your worries. He consoles you by coming closer, sitting on the cushion beside you and easily coaxing your legs over his. His firm hands are gentle as they grasp your knee.

“And what?” He questions.

“I wasn’t sure how I feel, I wanted to figure that out before talking to you.”

“What do you think you feel about it?”

“I think I want to have your baby Bruce, our baby.” So caught up in your thoughts, you hadn’t noticed your husband’s hands creeping higher and higher up your body until a hand settles on your stomach, his thumb stroking you through the fabric of your shirt. You’d been so self-conscious of its growth but as you look at it now, under Bruce’s sturdy fingers, you realise it isn’t much bigger than it had been pre-pregnancy. How tedious your problems seemed when voiced and put into perspective, except maybe one. “I’m just not sure about how… well I guess I never thought about raising a child within your lifestyle.”

“I understand.” He nods, confirming his statement. He’s done well to keep his face soft but neutral throughout, a staple of his Batman facade but also a careful way not to let his own emotions interfere with yours.

“What do you think?” He looks down at your abdomen as he considers his words. You follow his gaze, watching as his fingers lift your top, exposing your skin to him. Without warning he lowers himself to pepper your belly with gentle kisses, the ticklish motion causes you to giggle and writhe beneath him.

When he looks up at you again he’s smiling, the motion causing the scab on his lip to split and bleed. Without thought you pull yourself closer to him, using his broad shoulders as leverage. Once close enough you dab at the minor wound with your thumb soaking up the fluid as best you can and examining the cut to ensure no further damage.

Bruce watches you intently the whole time, cupping your face in his hand when you appear satisfied. The adoration in his eyes makes you feel sheepish even after everything you’ve been through together.

“I think,” his voice is low, sincere. “I couldn’t be happier to be growing our family together. I think this child, like all our children, will be lucky to have you as a mother, whatever life they choose to lead.”

The amount of pent-up tension in your body had not been apparent to you until now. Until your body noticeably lightens in response to his words. The relief of no longer sneaking around, no more fretting over how he might react has you wishing you’d done this a long time ago.

“Bruce?” You sag into his chest, breathing him in. His arms unconsciously wrap around you in response, pulling you in for a tighter embrace. “We’re having a baby.”

“Were are having a baby.” He confirms, pressing more, tender kisses to your neck, the curve of a smile apparent as his lips press to your exposed skin. "I've been waiting for this moment since the day we me. But, I think it’s time we got to bed, it’s late.”

Swift and practiced, Bruce lifts you from the couch, cradling you in the bridal position. You stretch to check the clock, 4:34 AM.

“Technically it’s early.” You jest, expecting him to punish your cheek by jolting you in the air or throwing you over his shoulder as he normally does, but instead, he chides you with an amused glare, clearly too concerned about the baby for play fighting.

“Neither of us has been to bed, it’s late.” His grip tightens on your body as he makes his way up the stairs, one steady step at a time. “And I expect my wife to be in our bed when I wake up.”

“Hmmm.” Your morning sickness has eased in the last few days, you’d only persisted in sneaking out to be safe, but he doesn’t need to know that just yet. “I’ll try, but I might be in our bathroom.”

“I can cope with that. At least then I can care for you. And we can throw out your hoard.” You don’t fuss over the likelihood of him having to rush off to save the day or for an urgent board meeting, you just throw your head back, laughing at yourself for trying to hide anything from Bruce.

When you reach the bedroom he lays you in the bed and climbs over your form. He’s in full caretaker mode, a manner you could get used to. He carefully removes your clothes, offers to redress you in your sleepwear and to bring you your lotions, or anything you should need from the bathroom.

Dawn is breaking behind your blackout curtains by the time you’re both settled in bed, entangled in each other’s arms. Sleep has nearly taken you again when Bruce whispers; “I do have one other thought.”

“Oh?" You peer at him curiously over your shoulder. "Yes dear?”

“I think you should be the one to tell Damian.”

His request hangs heavy in the air as you consider the implication. “Tell Damian that he will no longer be your only blood child?”

The room remains silent, he doesn’t expand because you know what he’s getting at. Damian probably won’t mind, because he’ll still be the oldest, the first in line and you’re certain he’ll be a wonderful older brother, he’s great with animals, so why not babies? Right?

“… That's not fair.”

“Think of it as penance for lying to me all month.” There’s an air of humour in his voice as he pulls you closer still, squeezing himself into your back and planting sleepy kisses against your neck. “Besides, he’ll probably take it better from you. I think he likes you more.”

[loveisanimaginarydagger3000]

Kinkmas (10)- Let It Snow

Natasha X Reader 18+

Summary: When a mission on Christmas Eve goes wrong and leaves you and Natasha stranded in a random cabin in the woods, you can’t help but be disappointed at the way you were going to spend your first Christmas together. Natasha, however, shows you that it’s not so bad being stuck together.

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings/Tags: Mentions of Missions, Brief Angst(?), Fluff, Teasing, Smut, Dom Reader/Sub Natasha, Soft Smut, Fingering, Oral Sex, Begging

Kinkmas Masterlist

Your gaze was firmly locked on the fire that crackled in front of you, eyes taking in every little flame that flickered and wavered, the orange hue illuminating the abandoned cabin the two of you had found, the warmth desperately needed.

Your body was pressed up against the redhead’s, front flush against her back in an attempt to keep her warm, your clothes draped over old furniture near the fireplace in hopes of drying it off, the fabric soaked as you trudged through the blizzard that occurred outside as you seeked refuge in the abandoned cabin. The two of you immediately searched for sheets to wrap up in, needing to take off the wet clothing and make a fire to prevent hypothermia, the two of you luckily trained to adapt in these situations.

So here you were, the two of you locked in an embrace in front of a fire, bodies wrapped up in old cotton sheets as your arms snaked around her middle, head resting atop of hers as you felt her shiver slightly, your eyes still transfixed on the fire in front of you both, lost in thought.

“Detka?” Natasha hummed softly, trying her best to read your body language and lack of communication as you sat silently behind her, your arms a little tense around her waist, legs seemingly unable to remain still as you bounced one of them slightly, nerves and discomfort evident in your features. She tilts her head back slightly, causing yours to move from her silky locks, eyes blinking as you look away from the fire to her mesmerising green, snapping yourself back to reality.

“Are you alright?” you ask as she looks at you curiously, gaze wandering over your features as she takes in your slightly red cheeks, the tip of your nose also red from the cold weather you’d previously endured, gaze lifting to the subtle way you scrunch your eyebrows, worry and confusion creeping onto your face.

“I’m fine,” she whispers back, honesty lacing her tone making your brows furrow a little more, confused as to why she was looking at you in that way, her fingers trailing down your forearms and down to your fingers, interlocking them softly, intimately, as she made sure you were alright, not used to seeing you like this after a mission. “Are you alright?” she asked cautiously, not quite sure as to what had caused this unusual mood from you, your gaze flickering away from hers nervously, the action not being missed by the spy. Something was definitely wrong.

“I’m fine, love,” you murmur back, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head, listening to the whistling wind outside and for anything or anyone else, your body still on edge from the mission, adrenaline still flowing throughout your body as you tried to remain calm and collected, pushing your slight paranoia to the side.

“You’re an awful liar, Detka,” she teases softly to lighten the mood, turning around in your arms and prompting you to let her hands go, your eyes naturally drifting down to the exposed skin that you could see before snapping back up to her eyes, the small smirk toying at the corner of her lips indicating she saw your gaze, cheeks tinting a darker shade. “What’s wrong?” she asks, fingers moving to play with the baby strands at the back of your neck as she straddled your lap, your mind trying to remember how to function with her sat on top of you like that, the dark spiral of thoughts about the mission seeming to fade from your mind.

“I…” you start but the raise of her brow and the look in her eyes has you pausing in your lie, a sigh of defeat leaving you as you snake your arms around her once again, wanting to pull her impossibly closer. “I don’t want to be here,” you mutter as your head rests against her shoulder, her fingers sliding up into your hair and scratching at your scalp, lulling you into a more relaxed state, body still a little tense though.

“Surely I’m not that bad as company,” she whispers once again with a slight teasing tone, your lips naturally pulling into a smile at her actions and words, her ability to calm you something you’ve always appreciated. “Why don’t you want to be here?” she asks, her tone soft and curious, waiting for you to answer and help her solve the mystery of your current mood.

“Because it’s Christmas Eve Nat,” you say, a little annoyance in your tone that wasn’t directed at her, more the Hydra agents that ruined your mission and made you miss your ticket out of the snowy terrain. Her green softened at your tone, her mouth parting a little, having thought you didn’t want to do anything special for Christmas. “I just- I just want to be home, with the team, with you,” you explain, feeling rather stupid for ranting, the secret plans you had going to waste, “Instead, I’m here, in this freezing cabin not knowing when we’re going to leave, if we’re safe. What if one of the Hydra agents followed us? What if-”

“Hey,” she says, cold fingertips cupping your cheeks and guiding you to look up into her green, her fingers brushing over your warm skin softly. “Don’t go down the spiral of what ifs,” she murmurs gently, knowing it was the worst thing to do after a mission, your eyes trained on hers, letting the emerald soothe you. “We’re safe and we’re together, just focus on that for the moment Detka,” her voice was wrapped in a comforting tone, your lips forming a small smile at the tender one she offers you, lips titling to briefly meet hers.

“I know but,” you trail off, a hint of doubt still gnawing at the back of your mind, “I think I’m going to check outside once more,” you say, letting out a heavy sigh as you go to move, her body on top of yours preventing you, her hands moving to your shoulders, firmly keeping you still.

“You’re not going outside to check Detka, we’re safe, I promise you,” her words are slow and laced with confidence and care, trying to emphasise to you her point, wanting you to stop worrying. “Plus, the weather outside is frightful, and the fire is so delightful,” she sings softly, a huff of laughter escaping you as you cast your gaze back up into her alluring green, unable to stop the small smile creeping onto your lips as you shake your head at her antics.

“Nat,” you whined a little, her simply chuckling softly, fingers trailing along your bare shoulders, dipping lower behind your back to lift the sheet back over you.

“You’re the one who mentioned Christmas,” she teases, lips pecking yours intimately as you melt against her body, arms wrapping back around her body and caressing her perfectly sculpted curves. “Promise me you’ll stop worrying, Detka,” she whispers as her forehead leans against yours, your eyes fluttering shut as you try your best to forget about the haunting mission, your mind focussing on her and only her.

“Ok,” you murmur back, tilting your head to catch her lips, claiming them briefly and further allowing you to delve into the thoughts about her.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you wanted Christmas to be special,” she murmurs after a comfortable silence, your head pulling back from hers to look into her apologetic green, noticing each and every swirl of emerald overflowing with love. The two of you had never mentioned anything about the festive season so Natasha naturally assumed you weren’t a massive fan of it, your immediate response to shut anything down about it her biggest indicator.

“It’s ok,” you mumble but Natasha gathers that you don’t truly mean it, “It just means my surprise plan can’t fail because it can’t happen,” you joke, trying to make yourself feel a little better as the last few weeks of planning a surprise without her, the infamous Black Widow, figuring it out was difficult and involved a lot of effort on your behalf.

“You planned something?” she asks, her head tilting curiously making you smile sheepishly, an excitement and flood of warmth filling her at your thoughtfulness.

“Maybe,” you mutter, shrugging your shoulders innocently to tease her, knowing you were going to spill everything to her as you’d been waiting ages to see her reaction to it, it just sadly wasn’t going to be the way you wanted it to be.

“Tell me all about it, Detka,” she encourages, fingers returning to the back of your neck, her eyes slowly drifting across your features as you both admire one another, your thoughts successfully straying away from the mission entirely.

“The first step was to bring you breakfast in bed,” you explain, watching how her eyes soften as you continue, “I persuaded Wanda into helping me learn how to make syrniki,” the dish a traditional Russian cheese pancake you overheard Nat talking about once, saying how she hadn’t had them for years and craved them. Natasha’s heart was unable to process the overwhelming feeling of love bubbling in her chest, warmth enveloping her entirely as she can’t help but gaze at your wide smile, excitement replacing the worry in your eyes.

“Syrniki,” she corrects softly, your pronunciation a little off making you blush a little, remembering Wanda’s teasing comments on your pronunciation as you somehow kept adding syllables.

“Syrniki,” you try again, her smile growing a little wider as you say it correctly, your fingers trailing higher up on her back and tracing over the various muscles that twitched under your slightly cold fingertips, your mind thinking through rest of the plan, deciding on what to tell her. “I’d bring you those and traditional Russian tea before we go into the living area for a surprise,” your tone growing more excited, her brow raising expectantly at your words.

“Surprise?” She asks amused, a hint of curiosity lacing her tone as your genuine smile makes her ponder what it could be, the spy usually able to figure out what you were hiding. “I assume you’re not going to tell me then,” she whispers, leaning down briefly to let her lips ghost yours as you scrunch your nose cutely at her antics, knowing how she was going to try and trick you into giving her what she wanted.

“Nope,” you say while popping the ‘p’, claiming her lips cheekily as she can’t help but roll her eyes at you playfully, “You can interrogate me all you want, I’m not spoiling this one,” you murmur against her lips as she brushes hers over yours once again, her gentle breath caressing your mouth.

“Even if I use my very specific skill set on you?” she teases, tone dropping an octave as you merely chuckle at her seductive words, not wanting to give in despite the warmth pooling between your thighs.

“Nope,” you repeat, popping the ‘p’ once again to further torment her, her huffing a laugh out against you before melting further against your body, arching her back slightly to press further into your toned and warm body. “And then after the surprise,” you say, exaggerating the word to tease her even more, the surprise being a visit from Yelena as Natasha had struggled to locate her sister after the two of them met to save the Widows from the Red Room, having mentioned it to you multiple times how she wished to see the blonde again. “It’s present time,” you say, grin somehow growing as you think about the domestic scene of the whole team just spending time together, trying to be normal instead of heroes of the world for a moment and relax with one another. After that it was going to be the plan Natasha already knew with Tony and Clint bringing their children around, everyone in charge of helping out with the various bundles of joy and dinner Wanda was in charge of, the redhead excited to spend time with the mini Bartons as always. “Then, later on after dinner and the children have gone to bed, I was hoping to give you another present,” you murmur, a hint of suggestiveness underlying your words as her smile turns into a sultry smirk, her brow raising a little once again as you sit up straighter, letting your lips brush over hers again while your arm wraps around her waist, Natasha welcoming your subtle advances.

“Another present huh?” she sighs out as you lift her off your lap and flip the two of you around, gently laying her down on the old bear rug, the sheet sprawling behind her and accommodating the red locks that cascade down onto the cream material. “What does this present entail?” she softly murmurs as her fingers guide your head down to meet her lips, claiming them softly as her legs wrap around your waist, encouraging you to press your body into hers, one of your hands bracing you above her body and the other cupping her cheek, deepening the soft kiss.

“It involves me showing my girlfriend how much I love her,” you rasp out into a kiss, tongue effortlessly sliding into her mouth, the two of you fighting a little for dominance as the kiss gradually grows more intense and messy, the redhead eventually caving and giving in to your wet and wanting mouth, a small moan leaving her. Your lips tug into a smirk as she lets you take control, your mind fogging with desire as you pull back from the passionate kiss, panting for breath as a string of saliva connects your lips, her tilting her head back up to crash her lips back to yours, a sudden intensity and lust taking over you as your bare bodies press into each other, her nails scratching down your back satisfyingly. “How much I love her beauty,” you husk out, trailing your kisses along her sharp jawline, nipping occasionally to watch the creamy skin tint red momentarily, soft gasps leaving her at every teasing touch, her head lolling back and encouraging you to go lower. “How much I love her moans,” you whisper, mouth at the shell of her ear, a small groan leaving her as your hand drifts lower, nail scratching down her abdomen, feeling her muscles twitch and tense under your sinful touch, the pad of your finger resting at her hip bone, tracing idle patterns to make her head spin with arousal. “The taste of her on my tongue,” your tone sultry as you swipe your finger through her folds teasingly, coating your digit in the arousal that’s pooling between her thighs, Natasha’s heart pounding against her ribcage as arousal has consumed her sane thoughts, her eyes meeting yours and overwhelmed by the sheer amount of love in them, your enamoured gaze going straight to her core.

“Detka,” she sensually sighs out, your lips finding hers once again, pouring all your emotions into it as her back arches off the sheet slightly, giving you the space to slide your hand more comfortably between your bodies, your finger brushing over her clit and earning a soft moan in response, the sound causing a throb between your thighs. You drag your finger through her slick, spreading it around her wet sex as she moans once again, your head spinning with the thought of her as you work her up slowly, your lips a contrast to your steady pace as the two of you refuse to part, a mischievous idea entering your mind, your teeth gently dragging her lower lip down before releasing it, casting your gaze to her eyes, enticing her emerald to stay trained on you.

“It’s just a shame it’s not Christmas yet,” you murmur teasingly against her lips, pulling away from her body as far as you can before her legs instinctively wrap back around your body, her strong thighs effortlessly pulling you back into her.

“It’s Christmas somewhere in the world right now,” she reasons while pulling you by your shoulders back down, a chuckle leaving you as you return your hand to between her thighs, her teeth warningly nipping your lower lip at your playful actions. “Please,” she whispers against your lips and you can’t help but smile smugly at the pleading tone to her voice, her hand wrapping around your wrist and silently requesting you to give her what she desperately wants.

You move your finger back through the abundance of arousal that’s pooled between her thighs, sliding your finger to her clit and slowly circling it to begin with, your mouth claiming her lips once again, addicted to her soft, plump ones while her hands bury themselves into your hair, keeping you as close as possible. As you touch grows more confident and firmer, moans spilling from her lips and her hips rolling against your hand, you sigh into her welcoming mouth, the kiss that was feverish and teasingly full of tongue breaking off as she struggles to reciprocate it, your mouth descending down her jaw and the column of her throat, teeth scraping against the warm skin tauntingly.

You can feel the vibrations of her muffling a moan when you slide your finger down to her entrance, teasingly thrusting it in before sliding it out, coaxing her to chase your finger with her hips as she bucks against you, the redhead able to feel you smirking against her skin.

“I want to hear you,” you mumble against her neck as you continue in your journey down her body, a desperate sigh leaving her as you enjoy watching her give you control, the power going a little to your head. “You’ve got to tell me if you want something,” you tease, lips meeting the burning skin of her shoulder, your touch driving her delirious with desire as you toy with her body in all the right ways, every brief touch sending heat between her thighs, your finger coated in her arousal.

“Detka,” she groans, a little reluctant to beg just yet, your smirk growing wider as her body shows her desperation, your mind savouring this side of her as it was rare she’d let you be so in control of her body. “I…” She trails off as your mouth ghosts over her sensitive chest, tongue flicking over her nipple tauntingly, revelling in how she arches her back into your touch, fingers tightening their grip in your hair.

“You what, love? You need to use your words for me,” your words and dominant tone makes Natasha’s composure crack, an unrestricted moan leaving her lips as she gives in to submission, your lips pressing a gentle kiss to each of her breasts, your finger continuing to tease her entrance, waiting for her to tell you what she wants.

“I need you,” she whimpers out ever so quietly, eyes squeezed shut as she focuses on the way your mouth kisses everywhere but where she wants you at her chest, lips peppering hot, open-mouthed kisses along her soft skin. “Fuck me…Please,” she pleads, your head leaving her chest and claiming her lips passionately, your finger finally sliding into her earning a broken moan, pleasure jolting through her body.

“That’s it,” you praise as she moans into your eager mouth before you part from her mouth once again, letting the room fill with the sinful sounds that spill from her lips and the wet sound of your finger sliding into her dripping core at a torturous pace.

“Please Detka, Fuck,” she groans when you kiss lower down her body, teeth nipping at her hip bone as you slide your finger back in slowly, purposely taking your time with her as you intended to drive her mad with your touch, her eyes fluttering open and casting down to where you were, meeting your enamoured gaze as you curl your digit inside her, the redhead’s mouth parting at the feeling. “Shit, just like that, please do that again,” she practically begged as you thrust your finger back in, hitting her sweet spot perfectly while heat floods through you at the sound of her desperate voice.

“Do you need more, love?” You mumble against her skin as your mouth hovers over her intoxicating core, wanting to hear how desperate she is for you, your finger persisting with your deliberately slow pace, gradually building the pleasure within her as her hips gently rock against your hand, pleasure building at the pit of her stomach.

“Please,” is all she moans back in response, your resolve crumbling, unable to resist her anymore as your mouth licks a stripe up her core, moans escaping you both at the feeling.

Your wet and warm mouth sparks pleasure and delirium within her, her hips bucking up against you as you nuzzle your face closer, desperate to get a better taste of her heavenly arousal on your tongue, intending to show her exactly how much you love her.

The sound of her lewd moans and the taste of her on your tongue makes you lightheaded with the thought of her, addicted and constantly craving more of her as your tongue swipes through her folds, pleasure flooding through her body as you thrust your fingers into her faster, forgoing with anymore teasing as you couldn’t handle anymore, never mind her.

Her fingers tighten once again in your hair, nails scratching your scalp to create a dull pain while your hands wrap around her thighs, pulling her impossibly closer as you get lost within her, lips wrapping around her clit and sucking firmly as you focussed on every little reaction she offered you. You longed to forever remember the desperate moan that was ripped from the back of her throat at the way your finger curled and mouth sucked on her at the same time, the hitch of her breath as your tongue swirled around her clit, the way her body twitched as pleasure took over her, swiftly pushing her towards her release. You needed to remember it all.

Her hips soon started to roll against your mouth, coating your chin in her slick as your tongue lapped at her clit, alternating between sucking firmly and swirling your tongue around her, sinful sounds spilling from her lips as her body started to tremble in your grasp, her moans growing louder at you slide in another finger, stretching her out beautifully.

“Detka, I- Please,” are the only words that she can manage as one of her hands shoot down to grip the sheet beneath her, knuckles bleeding white whilst her other one persists in keeping your head between her thighs, needing you to push her over the edge. “Please don’t stop,” she groans as you curl both of your fingers against her sweet spot, her vision almost blurring at the overwhelming feeling of love and pleasure coursing through her body, your body desperate to watch her fall apart at your touch.

“Look at me,” you rasp out against her core, the vibrations from your words causing her hips to buck against you harder, a whimper leaving her at your tone. When her eyes stay squeezed shut due to the euphoria flooding through her, you ask her again, your tone dropping an octave to gain her attention, “Look at me, Love,” you repeat, lust and desire swirling in your eyes at you peer up at her between her legs, her body waiting for you to let it experience the wave of pleasure. When her emerald caught yours, it was like time froze for a moment, the way each swirl of green that were laced with desperation stared at you had you forgetting about everything else in the world but her. Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, needed you to make her come, to fall apart in your arms. Fuck you don’t think you’d ever be able to get the sight out of your mind.

“Detka,” she moaned and you were gone at her pleading tone, a moan spilling from your lips as you curled your fingers perfectly inside her, tongue still lapping at her clit.

“Come for me,” you murmur against her, keeping your eyes on hers as you watch them roll to the back of her head momentarily, her head lolling back and showing off her defined jawline as her hips stutter against your face, body tensing. A broken moan escapes her at the amount of pleasure that floods through her, her fingers almost tearing through the sheet as she lifts it to her mouth, trying to muffle the small scream of your name as her release crashes through her.

Your lips pepper soft kisses against her inner thighs as she attempts to recover, your fingers tracing random patterns against her skin as you wait for her to look back down at you, your eyes admiring her, in awe of her beauty as she lays beneath you, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

Soft pants spill from her lips as she moves her fingers in your hair, pulling you back up so you were hovering over her body, hand quickly wiping the remnants of her arousal off your lower face before kissing her softly, her arms wrapping around your body, wanting to keep you as close as possible, her red locks tickling your cheek as you press another kiss to her forehead, a soft chuckle leaving her.

“God you’re incredible,” she mutters, speaking her thoughts involuntary making you laugh as you roll onto your side, pulling her naked body into yours, wrapping the sheet back around the two of you as the fire crackles in the background, the warmth a gentle reminder of your situation, not that you minded anymore. You were with her, that’s all that mattered.

Upon feeling you smile smugly against the top of her head she moves so she’s hiding her face at the crook of your neck, rolling her eyes at your antics as she can picture the look on your face right now.

“Don’t even,” she mumbles, your body shaking a little as you try to stifle your laugh, unable to express the amount of joy that you were feeling.

“I won’t,” you whisper back, giving in this once as you didn’t want to ruin the tranquil atmosphere, her fingers travelling up and down your back soothingly, her gentle breath tickling your skin. “Thank you for distracting me earlier,” you murmur, truly grateful for her always being able to care for you, the simple act of asking you about your Christmas plans easing the worry that built inside you. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” you say whilst pressing a kiss to her silky locks, her smile growing at your soft words, a hint of mischief appearing on her face.

“You'd probably still be staring at that fire,” she mutters playfully, another laugh escaping you as your heart melts in your chest, your nose pressing against her hair further and relishing in the smell of her shampoo, losing yourself in the domestic moment with her.

“Shush,” you mutter out in faux annoyance, the redhead smiling against your skin and nuzzling closer to your warmth, a relaxed sigh escaping her. “Merry Christmas Nat,” you murmur after a while, the comfortable silence lulling the both of you to sleep, your arms securely wrapped around her middle, the two of you locked in a tender embrace.

“Merry Christmas Detka,” she murmurs back, kissing your skin softly, unable to comprehend the love she has for you as the snow outside continues to fall gracefully from the sky, showing no signs of stopping. 

[thedensworld]

Location App | C.Hs

Pairing: Vernon x reader

Genre: fluff

Summary: You finally found the right function of the share location apps

Vernon isn’t a man of many words—he’s a man of action. He doesn’t tell you to quit your job at the event organizing company or give up your dreams of becoming a writer. Instead, he quietly hands you an allowance and pays for a writing course, making it clear that he's got your back. He even takes it a step further by personally checking in on your progress almost every day, making sure you're staying on track.

When it comes to food, Vernon doesn’t bother asking about your favorite dishes. He just brings everything you could possibly want to the table. You might crave vanilla ice cream tonight, but he’s already stocked up on both vanilla and chocolate for tomorrow’s cravings, always anticipating your needs before you even voice them. And each time, your heart swells with gratitude for the way he cares for you.

Vernon isn’t one to hang out much, either. Even when he does go out twice a week to catch up with his friends, he never stays long—two hours at most before he's back home. Without missing a beat, he slips into your arms, eager to share everything about his day, all while showering you with the little tokens of affection he picked up for you along the way.

“What’s wrong?” Vernon’s voice breaks through your thoughts, his brows furrowed in concern.

You blink at him, raising your eyebrows in surprise. “Why do you ask?”

“You seem restless. Are you in pain?” he asks, his eyes searching yours.

Every time he instinctively picks up on how you’re feeling or goes out of his way to make your life easier, you find yourself wanting to kiss him right then and there, overwhelmed by how effortlessly amazing he is as a boyfriend.

“What’s this?” you asked Vernon as he showed you an app he had just installed on your phone.

“It’s a shared location app. I’ll always know where you are, and you’ll know my location anytime you open it,” he explained, his tone casual.

Ever since you joined a writing course last year, you’ve started attending small gatherings with fellow authors, usually at libraries or cozy cafes.

“Since you’ve been going out more without me, I just want to make sure I know where you are,” Vernon added, his eyes glancing at yours for a reaction.

“You could always just text me,” you pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

“I know,” he replied, “but sometimes it’s better if you can have your day off without feeling the need to update me constantly. You should have fun and not worry about checking in.”

In the beginning, you found yourself using the app frequently, but after a few months, it slipped your mind. You could barely remember where the app was on your phone. Vernon, on the other hand, kept checking it now and then, making sure you were safe when you weren’t together. He never intruded but would casually ask about your day, subtly referencing the places you’d visited.

“How do you know?!” you exclaimed one afternoon when Vernon asked what you were doing at the flower shop near his work. You hadn’t mentioned anything because you were preparing a surprise for him.

“I saw your location this afternoon. I was surprised to see you so close by,” he admitted with a soft chuckle.

You grinned and pulled out a bouquet of flowers you had arranged just for him. “My friends and I attended a flower arrangement event, and I got these for you!”

His face softened, and he leaned in to kiss you. “Thanks, babe. I was actually planning to drop by and see you, but things got crazy at work. These are beautiful—thank you.”

With a warm smile, he kissed you again, and the simple moment of shared affection made you realize how much thought he put into even the smallest aspects of your relationship.

*

"Hey babe, I see you’re at the convenience store. Can you grab me a tampon and some sweets?" you called him, feeling curious after checking his location and noticing he was near her apartment.

“Yeah, I’m actually about to head over to see you and pick up your monthly essentials,” he replied smoothly.

"Babe, are you near the snack aisle? Could you grab me some chips, too?"

"Alright, love. Anything else?" he asked with a smile in his voice.

"A milkshake, please? Hehe."

"Snacks and a milkshake coming right up," he said, humoring your request.

“Wait, you’re at Kimbap Heaven? Can you swing by the pet shop two doors down? Kiwi hasn’t been eating her regular dry food!” you called after you found out he was out around Hongdae.

"Send me a list of everything you want me to grab, and I’ll get it done," he said, always efficient and patient.

You smiled, feeling so lucky to have someone who knew how to make even the smallest errands feel like an act of love.

As the days went by, you found yourself checking Vernon's location more and more. It became almost a habit. Whenever you craved something or needed him to pick up something, you'd open the app, locate him, and call him with your requests.

One evening, you were lying on the couch when you checked the app and noticed Vernon was at the grocery store. Without hesitation, you grabbed your phone and dialed him.

“Babe, can you pick up some ice cream? And maybe a few packs of those cookies I love?” you asked casually.

“Already got the cookies in the cart, but I’ll grab the ice cream for you now,” he replied, used to your requests by this point.

A few days later, you noticed him at the mall. Your mind immediately went to that cute hoodie you’d been eyeing. You picked up the phone again.

“Hey, babe, I see you’re at the mall. Could you stop by that clothing store and see if they have the hoodie I wanted in stock?”

“Sure, love. I’m already near that area. I’ll check it out.”

It became a little routine—wherever Vernon went, you’d check his location and call him to ask for favors. He never complained, always happy to run the errands or pick up whatever you needed. You loved how he made you feel so taken care of, and he seemed to enjoy it too, never missing a beat.

"Where is he?" you muttered, surprised when you couldn’t find Vernon’s location on the app. His profile was completely offline, leaving only yours visible on the map. You had texted him earlier, letting him know you’d be out with a friend, but that was over three hours ago, and he still hadn’t replied.

You didn’t want to call him. After all, you’d been asking for his help a lot through the location app lately. Maybe he had turned it off intentionally because he was busy, you thought, trying not to overthink it.

Just as you were about to distract yourself, the sound of your door unlocking caught your attention. Kiwi, your cat, sprinted toward the door, her sixth sense alerting her that only one person could be invading her territory—Vernon. Sure enough, he stepped in, holding Kiwi in one arm and a paper bag from your favorite bakery in the other.

You let out a squeal of excitement. "How did you know I wanted this?" you exclaimed, rushing over to grab the bag from his hands.

Vernon smiled warmly. "I saw your Instagram story where you said you missed the cake. I checked around and found a branch that still had some, so I picked one up for you."

Your heart melted on the spot. In a fit of affection, you scooped Kiwi from his arms and said, “Kiwi, listen carefully—Chwe Vernon is your only father. If anyone else claims they’re your dad, they’re lying!”

Vernon burst out laughing at your playful words, but then your mind drifted back to his location being turned off. Your smile faded into a pout as you looked at him.

“I couldn’t see your location today,” you told him, a little hint of disappointment in your voice.

“Ah, yeah, I turned it off,” he replied casually. “Why?”

“If I’d known you were on your way here, I would’ve asked you to grab some tissues,” you said, half-jokingly.

Vernon chuckled. "Tissues? I actually got you some in the car, i accidentally left them. I figured you were running low, so I picked some up yesterday."

Your eyes widened in surprise. “Really? Thank you! You always think of everything.”

He smiled softly, stepping closer. “Honestly, I like surprising you like this, getting what you need or want before you ask. That’s why I turned off my location today. It feels more special.”

You couldn’t help but smile back, feeling even more grateful for his thoughtful nature. He always managed to find ways to care for you in his own quiet, yet deeply meaningful, way.

"You want to get married, babe?" you asked playfully, your voice full of gratitude as you grinned up at Vernon. He let out a laugh, clearly amused by your sudden question.

“You want to marry me because of this?” he asked, his eyebrows raised in disbelief.

“Of course!” you exclaimed, holding up the bakery bag. “This is amazing! You shouldn’t underestimate your thoughtfulness and how considerate you are. It’s everything I could want.”

He chuckled again, shaking his head. “Alright, then,” he said, leaning in closer with a mischievous smile. “Let’s get married.”

Your heart fluttered, and for a moment, you both stood there, the playful banter hanging in the air. But behind the jokes, you couldn’t help but feel the warmth of what he’d just said linger, making the moment even sweeter.

[nereidprinc3ss]

okay i know this is kind of a specific request but can you do something with professor Spence and uni reader where they get into a spat and argue bc she did something stupid and he gets mad and she’s like “noooo pls don’t be mad i hate when you’re mad at me I’m sorry🥺” bc she literally cannot function knowing she let him down (me with everybody) but he’s like super stubborn and goes all closed up and quiet so that he doesn’t like blow up on her until she finally says like “pls talk to me” and he’s all pissed and like “hell na bitch u crazy!🗣️‼️” but then later he’s like “it’s ok i love u but neva do that shit again ho” then they make up and it’s good again 🎀 ok i explained that so poorly (and comedically if i may) but i hope u get it and pls make it SO DRAMATIC bc I live for drama! like she steals test answers or something or does something that could like get her kicked out of school OR him lose his job 🤔 sigh … idk I’m leaving now. Also i LOOPOOOCE ORRKGOOVI love your fics. Luv em

hey girl (gender neutral) this made me laugh bc genuinely sometimes i write spencer so ooc that is what he sounds like. and i'm not sorry! anyway this is potentially a vyvanse fueled nightmare but i wrote it and i'm posting it MY BLOG MY RULES BITCHESSSS!!!! but genuinely read the content warning LMAO this one got a lil kick to it

warnings/tags: ANGST, HURT/COMFORT, fem!reader, spencer and r get into a for real argument like they're mean to each other, spencer is a lil toxic but its resolved, emotionally neglects reader just for a teeensy second but then he's really nice and sweet again, discussion of his past addic+ion, gets fluffy because i'm not EVIL, gets suggestive at the end bc i am secretly evil.......

a/n: i don't know whats happening. this confuses me just as much as it confuses you. its 3 am in the morning. im gonna post nice happy things soon. Gootbye

“I cannot believe you right now. I don’t even—I don’t even know what to say.” 

“Spencer, you don’t have to say anything. It has nothing to do with you, and I’m not looking for your approval.” 

He looks up from where he’d been rubbing his temples, like you’re a headache, eyebrows raised and lips parted in indignant disbelief. 

“Oh! You’re not looking for my approval? Well thank god for that, because if you were one of my students I would recommend expulsion to the board.” 

“Are you fucking kidding me? I just said I don’t care about your opinion on this, much less your hypothetical opinion from some alternate universe where you have any authority over my education whatsoever.” 

“You distributed an answer key to half of your class! Objectively this is the kind of thing that gets people expelled. I don’t understand how someone so smart could do something so fucking stupid.” 

The words bite more than you were prepared for—but what hurts even more is how much he seems to mean them. In arguments past you’d both said things you didn’t mean, and then would immediately melt into I’m so sorry’s and the fight would resolve itself. Spencer’s clenched jaw and inability to make eye contact with you do not lend themselves to tender apologies. They cannot be attributed to miscommunication. 

You take a step closer to where he’s bracing himself against the countertop, arms crossed defensively in front of your chest. 

“Spencer, I’m sorry. I didn’t think it was such a big deal. People cheat in college all the time.” 

Still no reply. His head shakes so minutely you wonder if you’re imagining it. Panic wells in your chest. 

“Please talk to me. I really hate when you ice me out. I’m sorry, okay? Just... please say something.” 

Finally, his eyes slide to you. They lack the fiery anger of moments ago but there’s not much softness there either. His normally warm gaze now feels too abrasive, too cold and sharp on your bare skin. You're exposed, much too soft for that grating look, and it feels like he can see everything that’s wrong with you. 

“Believe me when I tell you this. I am doing us both a favor by not speaking to you right now.” 

And then he’s leaving the kitchen—nothing but a breeze against your cheek and the sound of a door slamming to prove he was ever there. 

The apartment is silent. You stand in the middle of the kitchen, unsure of what to do next. Spencer very, very rarely gets angry at you to the point of neglect, and you know he’s doing his best with what was modelled for him as a child and his tendency to feel things so deeply it’s nearly disabling; but that doesn’t make it hurt much less. It doesn’t make you feel less abandoned or alone.  

You’re sad, and you’re still pissed, and maybe you’re in just a bit of shock as you robotically move back to your nest of blankets on the couch and resume your schoolwork. What else is there to do? Unless Spencer is right—unless you really are about to get expelled after getting the answer key for an upcoming test from a friend, who then gave it to another friend, and so on. But is that really your fault?  

It’s a struggle to stay focused as your mind keeps drifting back to Spencer in the other room, those cruel words and that cold steely look in his eye that isn’t supposed to ever be aimed at you. It’s not a secret that side of him exists, but it doesn’t belong in this apartment. It’s not something he needs to use against you. He’s supposed to be on your side. But instead, he’d said you should be expelled and essentially called you stupid. And now you’re doing homework for a class at a school you may not even be a student of come Monday. 

---------------------------------------------------

The sound of the office door opening forty-five minutes later spikes your blood pressure and simultaneously makes your heart flutter, because no matter how mad at him you might be, Spencer is still Spencer.  

He comes to stand behind the couch quietly, but you don’t acknowledge him. Maybe your typing gets a bit more aggressive, but aside from that you flat out reject his presence. 

“Can we talk?” 

You let him sweat for a minute as you finish your paragraph. 

“I don’t know, Spencer. Can we? Or are you not done with your temper tantrum?” 

“That is... well deserved,” he sighs, rounding the couch and tapping the bottom of your foot, signaling that he wants you to move your legs. You despise how automatically you comply, pulling your knees to your chest to avoid touching him as he sits next to you. There’s a long moment of silence, in which you resume typing. Spencer scoffs, leaning in slightly to peer at your screen. “Are you doing homework right now? I’m a complete asshole to you and you just... do your homework?"

“What the fuck else was I supposed to do?” you almost-yell, slamming your laptop shut and blinking away potential tears. “The only person I wanted to talk to called me stupid and fucking left!” 

The tears realize their potential once you admit the blunt truth. 

Spencer carefully moves your laptop and pulls you into his arms—and you just let him. There’s not much fight left in you. There wasn’t a lot to begin with. 

“I am so sorry, angel. You’re right, I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have yelled, I shouldn’t have said what I said, I shouldn’t have walked away. I overreacted.” 

“Yeah, you really did,” you cry, allowing him to run his hand over your hair. “Why did you do that? Why were you so fucking mean?” 

His voice shakes slightly as he responds, betraying his own anxieties, and a new, unwelcome sense of trepidation slithers through your veins. 

“I was wondering that, too. Even as I was saying it, I knew—I knew it wasn’t what I wanted to be saying. And then I was in the other room and I wanted to be out here, and I couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t. But I think I was just scared. Which—I know, doesn’t really make sense, but... I think about when Ethan dropped out of the academy, and ended up doing heroin in New Orleans for three years, and I think about when I almost left the BAU because I was so convinced I’d never get clean that I didn’t even want to anymore, and—and the idea of you losing your education and your direction like that terrified me, probably unreasonably, and I took it out on you. And I’m sorry.” 

“But I’m not like you or Ethan. You don’t have to worry about that. Even if I... even I do get in some sort of disciplinary trouble. That’s a road you don’t have to worry about me going down, ever.” 

He fixes some unseen wrinkle on your shirt.  

“Yeah, but, remember... I used to not be like me or Ethan either. Do you think twelve-year-old Spencer would have ever even considered that of the infinite realities and universes which exist, he was living in one where someday he’d be shooting up in the bathroom at work?” 

“Mm-mm,” you hum, shaking your head and burying your face in Spencer’s shoulder. The sound is more of a plea for him to be less descriptive than an answer to his rhetorical question. It’s still much easier for him to talk about that part of his life than it is for you to have to actually imagine it. You didn’t know him then, but you’ve seen pictures, and you know Spencer now, and it’s... it’s just too much. Too sad. 

“Okay,” he agrees soothingly, still playing with your hair. “I digress. My point is that literally anything is possible, and while it’s not necessarily likely, I more than anyone know that anxiety even over the most improbable of things is never completely unfounded.”  

You sniffle in response, too emotionally and physically exhausted to contribute much to the conversation by this point. Thankfully, Spencer can talk for two. An idiosyncrasy which you love and comes in handy every once in a while. He can play his own devil’s advocate; in this case, you. 

“But that doesn’t mean I get to take it out on you. Ever. I truly, truly, sincerely apologize for that. I never want to hurt you.” 

You let the apology sink into your skin like a salve, soothing every abrasion those earlier words had left in their violent wake. 

After a few minutes, you find the energy to ask a question that might best remain unanswered. 

“Are you still mad at me?” 

He’s quiet for a beat, seemingly contemplative as his fingers trace abstract patterns in a language all his own on your arm. 

“I’m not thrilled. But you were right earlier. It’s not my place to be mad at you for something like that.” 

“Mm... it’s a little bit your place. You’re an actual professor.” 

He chuckles. 

“At an entirely different university.” 

“Thank god,” you laugh. “You and me at the same school would be such an HR clusterfuck.”

While it’s almost a serious matter, the smile in his voice is evident. 

“Yeah... I, uh... try not to think about it.” 

“Okay, but seriously. In your professional opinion. Am I fucked? Like, do I need to prepare an appeal and character witnesses or whatever?” 

Spencer sighs. 

“It was incredibly reckless and irresponsible. You should be ready for disciplinary pushback from the schoolboard if you get caught. That being said... because over sixty of you got a hold of the answer key, I doubt anyone is getting expelled, and even if they did, it would likely only be the TA and the student he gave the key to. It’s my tentative, professional opinion that you’ll probably be fine.” 

You relax slightly, allowing a tension you didn’t realize was there to shed like an old skin. 

“I’m not gonna cheat again,” you promise on an exhale. It’s simply too much risk for too little reward.

Spencer’s response is quiet, and comes much faster than you’d expected. 

“Oh, I know you aren’t. Because if you do, you’re going to have to worry about disciplinary action from me. And I’m not nearly as nice as the dean of your school, darling girl.” 

But something about the way he says it—a thinly veiled threat/promise contrasted by a sweet kiss to your forehead—doesn’t exactly make academic honesty look all that exciting.

[nekropsii]

ALPHA TROLLS RANKED BY HOW WRONG THE FANDOM AT LARGE IS ABOUT THEM:

This is a personal challenge, based entirely on my own experience and perspective, and also ranked from Most to Least Correct. I was bored, and thought this might be fun.

Putting this under a cut, because it's long as hell.

MEULIN LEIJON

People get her mostly correct, from what I’ve seen… Most of the time, fan content of Meulin is absolutely recognizable as Meulin, but her pride in her deafness + joy of learning new ways to interact with the world through/due to her disability is always removed, and I do not often see people tackle the Toxic Positivity aspect of her character. That seems less like character assassination, though, and more like a combination of people not actually playing through the Openbounds, people not being able to fathom disabled people (especially those who gained a disability later in life rather than being born disabled) being happy, and general fandom distaste for the idea of touching anything uncomfortable, especially when that uncomfortable topic is highly mundane, normalized, and potentially applicable to them or their loved ones. Meulin’s toxic positivity was, of course, commentary on Tumblr’s ecosystem at the time, so… It was much harder to touch back then.

ARANEA SERKET

People tend to get her general, broad strokes personality right, but unfortunately she gets treated pretty roughly for the crime of Being A Serket. People refuse to understand her motivations, and she often gets demonized for what she was doing around/during [S] Game Over, even though that was something she’d gotten pushed to and also was cool as fuck to watch. God forbid a woman do anything.

DAMARA MEGIDO

People are right about the racism, 100%. It is completely despicable, hard to look at, and extremely blatant. She does, however, have character outside of that. No, it isn’t “whore”, it’s more like “angry, dysfunctional abuse victim”, and she’s genuinely a very interesting and tragic character. But, again, people are right about the racism, so she gets to be placed way up here.

MEENAH PEIXES

She is such a chaotic little bastard. I love her. I really do. Please understand that she genuinely does not understand the concept of consequences. This girl didn’t have a Lusus, she didn’t have parents, it was functionally illegal to tell her “No, you can’t do that.” That would fuck up literally anyone’s moral compass. That’s not me hand waving away all the fucked up and bad shit she’s done, we all know what she did, but people tend to forget this aspect of her character and it pains me deeply, because it is a very genuinely interesting concept that I want to see more of. She’s capable of regret, we’ve seen her feel it, I just don’t think foresight is her forte. No one raised her to consider consequences, or help her experience them in a healthy way, because nobody raised her period.

Also, her ass is not butch, she is the girliest girl in the entire comic. She is about hot pink and glitter and kiss marks and unicorns and cute little puns and you will respect that. She is not masculine. Her ass is not masculine nor is she butch. Let her be her hyper-feminine self.

LATULA PYROPE

Please for the love of god there is more to her character than “Gamer Girl” and “Mituna’s Girlfriend”. You are falling for her fucking ruse. Please. Please. Please recognize that her entire character is about internalized misogyny, and being forced to overcompensate for misogyny in gaming circles as a gamer who happens to be a woman. Please. I’m begging.

KURLOZ MAKARA

His character is not that deep, it’s mostly just a string of events he is mysteriously, inexplicably involved with. The Makaras are extremely Function Over Form- their characters practically do not exist, they're mostly just plot devices that exist to push the story along. I'm sorry to Makara fans. You just invented a guy in your mind and decided he was real. He is also not that soft, though, and his relationships with both Meulin AND Mituna are not healthy. Hard to stop people from ascribing cutesy squishy lovey dynamics to random men who happened to have looked at each other once, though. Some people truly haven't graduated from 2012.

HORUSS ZAHHAK

I am begging people to consider that maybe the biggest issue here is not that he is “Bad Otherkin/Therian Representation” and is in fact maybe the fact that Hussie was actually making fun of Systems when he was writing Horuss. Because Horuss is canonically a system. He uses the word system. He uses the word switching. He uses the word host. He literally talks about his Plurality at length in extremely upfront, plain terms. I don’t know how him being “Bad Otherkin Representation” was and still is the main discourse about him. It makes me insane. That is a commentary that truly writes itself. Talk about having your priorities out of wack, honestly...

PORRIM MARYAM

No, she is not a MRA, she’s just a regular feminist who happens to live on a different planet with different politics and social hierarchies from Our Real World Earth’s USA. Whatever argument you’re about to pull out of your ass to say that she sucks is bad. She already explained what she meant by that, in more detail, very clearly, and she was right. Half the time she’s literally just giving you factual information about what Beforus was like, and literal plot synopses. She isn’t saying anything insane. She’s literally normal. I don’t know why people cannot handle or process this. Porrim has not ever said anything controversial. If you disagree with this you’re either misconstruing her on purpose or you fell for Kankri’s bait, and that’s just fucking sad at that point.

Also, she’s more than a sex object, and her tits are not huge. Honestly, half the shit she was saying was just “I am more than my sex life”, and so many people took that and made her main character trait her sex life. Just pathetic.

RUFIOH NITRAM

This man is a fucking war criminal and I will stop at nothing until he is behind bars for his crimes against Damara. Raging misogynist. Total fucking cunt. Just the worst. If I talk any more about this, this part will be 1,000 paragraphs long. But also, I’m begging people to recognize his relationship with disability, too. He was similar to Meulin in the sense that he didn’t mind his disability, and his biggest gripe with it was the way that Horuss tried to “fix” it… Which is an interesting way to expand upon how Beforus’s culling system is not only very explicitly ableist, but mimicking real world systemic ableism. I also want people to recognize that Hussie is actively having a conversation about the reclamation of slurs with Rufioh’s character, and how not letting people reclaim such language is doing nothing but giving the word power against them while stripping away their own personal agency. Rufioh’s a complicated guy, and he’s interesting and also the worst, and I am really tired of how he gets watered down to nothing but “Pretty Boy Victim Of His Inexplicably Psycho Ex”.

MITUNA CAPTOR

Holy Fucking Shit, You Guys Are Ableist.

KANKRI VANTAS

To this day I see people saying he was just Hussie making fun of SJWs. To this day. To this day people think Hussie was trying to make Every Tumblr Leftist look bad, and that he hates them Because They Are Leftists. When will people recognize him as a bootlicker to the oppressive class and the violently bigoted. When will people recognize that. When will people recognize that this is more of a commentary on the legitimate real flaws of Tumblr’s politics at the time. When. When.

When will people stop portraying him as a lovey-dovey Catholic Whore. I’m going to stab my fucking eyes out and then kill everyone in this building. Me when it's based and cool to ship an aroace character with a sexual predator. I GUESS.

CRONUS AMPORA

I say this with every ounce of sincerity I can possibly muster as a person: What the literal actual fuck.

[spriteofmushrooms]

The first time Jin Guangyao held Jin Ling did not go as he'd expected. Jiang Wanyin, half-mad and barely functional, for some reason had been allowed into the nursery by Jin-furen. The moment whispers of this reached Jin Guangyao, of course he went to intercede; and it was fortunate he had. He could hear wailing halfway down the corridor.

"Why is he crying?" Jiang Wanyin demanded of the wetnurse as he held the baby incorrectly.

"This one is sure Sandu Shengshou knows better than her," she replied, eyes wide. Jin Guangyao made note of this, but he had few hopes of improvement. Jin servants knew to be meek.

"Obviously, I don't," Jiang Wanyin snapped, brows furrowed as he stared down at Jin Ling. Jin Guangyao purposefully brushed the silk of his robe, and like a dog Jiang Wanyin raised his head at the sound. "Lianfang-zun, what am I doing wrong?"

With a smile, Jin Guangyao moved between the shaking wetnurse and the mad dog of Lotus Pier. "Jiang-zongzhu, babies require support. Adjust your hand--yes, ah, slightly to the side--"

"Please just show me," Jiang Wanyin said, sounding tired as he held out Jin Ling.

The moment stilled. If his cultivation were better, Jin Guangyao believed he would hear the wetnurse's breath stop. She was, after all, expressly forbidden from allowing his whoreson hands to touch his nephew; yet neither of them could deny a sect leader.

A-Ling was warm and soft, sweetly heavy as all babies should be. His embroidered, daffodil-colored swaddling still burned with the heat of Jiang-zongzhu's high cultivation. Automatically, Jin Guangyao checked the boy for a fever; but of course no illness was allowed to fester in this child.

His chubby cheeks were red from crying, but as Jin Guangyao settled him in his arms, Jin Ling slowly quieted.

"As expected of Lianfang-zun," Jiang Wanyin said, slightly mocking.

When Jin Guangyao gauged his expression from under his eyelashes, however, Jiang Wanyin seemed wistful. He looked as young as he was.

(For a moment, Wen Ruohan's laughter filled his mind. "Xiao-zongzhu" had been a common target of derision, in the beginning. Wen Chao's account of the rape of Lotus Pier had been unusually thorough, and its contents were well-known amongst Wen Ruohan's inner circle. Jin Guangyao had not included the details in his reports to either his father or Lan Xichen. He doubted that this discretion would matter at all to Jiang Wanyin, who had tortured Wen Chao at the side of Wei Wuxian. What would he do to Jin Guangyao for being the last to know?)

Choosing to ignore the self-deprecation and memories both, Jin Guangyao instructed Zidian's master on the handling of human children. Jiang Wanyin made an attentive student, but he did not reach to take Jin Ling even once Jin Guangyao finished. "Would you like to hold him?"

Frowning with concentration, Jiang Wanyin nodded and sidled closer. He held his arms as Jin Guangyao had shown him, and then he checked Jin Guangyao's face, seeking approval.

"Good," Jin Guangyao said. Jiang Wanyin didn't smile, but some tension eased. Careful not to touch hands, Jin Guangyao returned Jin Ling to his jiujiu.

The wetnurse's gentle "oh" described the scene well.

Against the black and violet, Jin Ling looked like a ray of sunshine piercing clouds. Jiang Wanyin's face cleared until he looked as delicately beautiful as gossip painted him to be; while Jin Guangyao generally considered him fragile, it was more in the sense of an arrow point designed to break once it pierced flesh. Now, though, he could understand why Jiang Wanyin was so often painted as a mourning lover spurned by the Yiling Laozu.

Then Jin Ling fell asleep, and Jiang Wanyin's eyes watered. He slowly settled onto the couch, careful not to jostle their nephew.

"How long can I stay?"

Ideally, half an incense stick. Jin Guangyao turned to the wetnurse. "Could you please ask Jin-furen to advise us?"

She bowed her head and left.

After a few moments, Jiang Wanyin said, "She needs guards in the room with her. If she can't even tell me I've fucked up, how will she fare against assassins?"

"Gold Scale Tower has many guards," Jin Guangyao began, but Jiang Wanyin snorted.

"Where do you think we are? If some pompous Jin cousin demands Jin Ling, would she say no? Much less someone with weapons drawn."

"As a servant--"

"Jiang servants can and would."

Jin Guangyao smiled. "Is it not true that Jiang servants are entirely comprised of disciples, disciple candidates, and those who failed to cultivate but chose to stay?"

"It's a sect," Jiang Wanyin answered. "Typically, they are operated like sects, yes."

"Gold Scale Tower must run in accordance with its scale," Jin Guangyao said. "The servants are often merely servants."

Jiang Wanyin, whose face displayed his opinion of that, said nothing for a moment, allowing Jin Guangyao to notice his headache. "She needs guards for herself, not just outside of the room," he repeated.

"Perhaps this is something you can address with Jin-furen?"

Looking up from Jin Ling, Jiang Wanyin studied him. "Alright. Is there anything else you want me to say?"

Jin Guangyao's fingers twitched with the desire to straighten his gold robes. "Between Jin-furen and Jiang-zongzhu, I am sure that all concerns have been considered."

"Please, you notice everything and didn't accept one single item I suggested for a-jie's wedding," Jiang Wanyin said. "Do you expect me to believe you don't have opinions on Jin Ling?"

Jin Guangyao inclined his head, and then he tentatively offered an observation and a suggestion. When Jiang Wanyin merely looked thoughtful, Jin Guangyao continued; while Jiang Wanyin occasionally asked clarifying questions, he never reacted emotionally.

It was... strange, to be in a room with this man, discussing the care of a child he wasn't allowed to do anything for. He wondered what he must look like to Jiang Wanyin to be accepted so easily as an expert on Jin Ling, on anything. Unsettling.

Yet unlike Nie Mingjue, being seen didn't seem dangerous; unlike Wen Ruohan, being noticed didn't accompany invitations to violence.

No, Jiang Wanyin observed him, and his conclusion was that Jin Guangyao could teach him how to hold his one treasure.

For the first time, it seemed like sharing a nephew with this man might be interesting, not simply alarming. Jin Guangyao looked forward to observing him further.

[after-witch]

Biological Function [Yandere Knives x Reader]

Title: Biological Function [Yandere Knives x Reader]

Synopsis: You get your period. At least it means you're getting enough to get. Trigun Maximum-verse.

Word count: 2082

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, reader gets their period, mentions of starvation and murder

The red smear on your underwear that greets you in the morning, a wisp of deep red against the simple white linen, is not entirely an unwelcome sight.

After all, on Gunsmoke, menstruation means that you’re actually getting enough food to eat. It wasn’t uncommon for women to skip periods or see them come and go so half-heartedly that they might as well have never been there. Deprivation does awful things to the body, and you--like most--had your fair share of it. 

Yet here it was now, in all its horrible glory. A sign that you were healthy enough to bleed, a sign that your body was functioning, a sign that you were functioning. 

Physically, at least. It seems your body did not account for the fact that you were only getting enough food to eat because of the inhuman being keeping you captive.

Being, yes, that’s what he was. Not a man, not a human; and if you ever said so, he might just kill you for it.

Should you tell him about this? The thought made you feel sick, on top of the low cramps aching in your guts. You didn’t tell him anything unless he asked--he rarely did--and even then, it wasn’t like you told him anything important. Anything personal. 

The redness in your underwear was definitely personal. It was your body, wasn’t it? You should be allowed to keep something to yourself, if you couldn’t have your freedom. 

The thought comes, unbidden: did your mother ever tell your father about her monthlies?

Perhaps he knew when she withdrew from him in bed. Your memories of them both are fuzzy, vague; he drank himself sick one night and never came home from the bar (a fight, your mother said, that ended with a gunshot) and she wasted away some years later from a disease no one bothered to diagnose.

You couldn’t afford a proper doctor, even if one might have helped, and the local woman called upon when people had fevers simply tsked and gave her something to sleep away the pain. 

But on the subject of periods, your mother hadn’t spoken much outside of that first frenzied conversation when you’d told her that something was wrong with you, you were bleeding, you were dying, you were--

And her eyebrows had raised and then a slow, dimpled smile had crossed her lips, and she pulled you aside for a conversation about how you were a woman now and what to do and how to ease the pain and how you must never ever let a man touch you unless he was your husband.

She didn’t say if that husband would share in the knowledge of this red secret between your thighs.

Not that Knives was your husband. Perish the thought. Or that he’d ever touched you like one, or touched you at all. Except when you were thrown over his shoulder like a sack of coveted flour or on the rare occasions that he gripped your wrist with an unrelenting strength and dragged you somewhere. 

He would probably find menstruation disgusting. He found anything human disgusting. It would be a sign of your base nature, or something as ridiculous as that. The thought of dealing with more insults made you want to curl up--perhaps that was the cramps, too--and so, yes. You would keep it a secret from him, then. For as long as you could, however you could. 

But you didn’t have much privacy, here or anywhere that he took you. The airships, the bases, the abandoned houses. Sometimes, they had to be emptied of any occupants first--it was worse, when they had to be emptied. 

Mornings are the exception, which is why it is an unwelcome surprise when Knives saunters into the sparse space serving as your bedroom, eyebrows furrowed, no doubt some command on his lips--

Only to spot you staring down at your underwear, nightgown hawked up above your thighs. Your eyes meet for a fraction before you yank the underwear up and shove your gown down, but it’s too late. He’s seen you--he’s seen the red mess--and something awful and static seems to hover between you.

A moment or two or three. Your fingers clench into the fabric of your night dress. Humiliation burns but dread burns hotter, and it’s dread that makes you tremble. 

“Clean yourself up,” he says, finally, with an air of quiet, low disdain.

He pivots, whatever he had come to say earlier forgotten or unimportant, and leaves the room.

The cramps in your stomach feel hollow. It could have gone worse. It could have gone better--if he hadn’t come in at all--but there’s no fixing it now.

Clean yourself up.

A command to be obeyed, but how? 

Easy enough to head into the bathroom and wash up for the moment. (Access to clean running water, to hot showers and baths, is another benefit of your captive life.) But afterwards? 

You don’t suppose he has any sanitary napkins on hand--or one of those complicated contraptions your mother wore now and then, with a belt to hold everything in place. It’s not something you’ll be asking him about. If you must--if the bleeding continues every month, well-fed captive that you are--you’ll ask the doctor that Knives has at his beck and call.  

For now, you’ll have to settle for finding some rags to stuff into your underwear and hope for the best.

--

Knives does not typically sit down for meals. Certainly not with you, although you sometimes wonder if he and the doctor drink wine and discuss the doctor’s findings together.

Yet here he is, sitting at the table in this abandoned house, drinking a glass of water and actually eating the simple meal the doctor prepared that afternoon. Some kind of meat, vegetables, grains, all mixed together for a fortifying meal that you might have eaten up heartily yesterday. 

But today it makes you feel sick. The smell, maybe, or just the fact that your insides felt like they were rearranging themselves in the most awful way.

Nausea claws its way up your throat, and you set the fork down. Another bite would be impossible.

“Finish your meal.” Knives speaks to you for the first time since this morning. It is no more pleasant than his earlier clipped command, and no less authoritative. 

Your hands instinctively pick up the fork--obedience has been drilled into you--but your stomach rebels. 

“I can’t,” you say, clearing your throat. “My stomach hurts.” 

No flicker of sympathy or understanding in his face, but it doesn’t surprise you. He had no sympathy for the countless people he’s killed, or had killed with a simple word, so why should something as miniscule as your stomach pains bother him? 

"Be grateful,” he says, low, “that you have something to eat at all.” 

“I am grateful,” you spit, and it’s the truth, however bitterly said. You hate being here, you hate him, but it’s been so long since you’ve been hungry that the memories of half-starvation are simply that--memories. The body appreciates what the mind doesn’t, at least. 

His eyebrows raise a bit at that and you regret speaking at all. A little too much honesty, from your end. You don’t want him to know that your mind sometimes fights over enjoying the comforts of your captivity. Food, water, knowing that bandits won’t come in the night to plunder, knowing you won’t wind up in some shootout at your lunch break at the bar. 

If only it didn’t take being the restricted--pet? Captive? Whatever you are to him--of a plant to get those things. 

But as quick as the moment comes, it’s over, and there’s no insight to be given on how he took your words. His gaze slides away from you, and he gestures his chin at Conrad. “She needs more iron,” he says, simply. “On account of her menstruation.”

You choke on your spit, and Conrad chokes on his meal.

Is it possible to die from embarrassment? 

“Do you have supplements?” Knives asks casually. 

Conrad swallows, clears his throat, and dabs at his mouth with a napkin with a delicate gesture. Before Knives had taken him, he’d been living a comfortable life in some mansion, squirreled away with trinkets and good food. Or so Elendira had told you, and you could never be sure if she was telling you the truth. 

“No,” Conrad says, slowly. “But they aren’t too difficult to come by. We can pick them up in the next city.”

The words come, muttered, without thought.

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

Knives doesn’t acknowledge it, nor does Conrad. Your part in the conversation is done.

"I'd also like you to monitor her menstrual periods," Knives continues, and if there was a way to sink into the floor, you would do it into a heartbeat. "To make sure they're regular."

Stomach rolling back and forth, you pick up a forkful of food and force it down. 

--

“I’ve had to delay my plans for an entire day.”

Curled up on your bed, a pillow shoved against your aching lower body, you don’t respond. You merely squeeze your eyes shut and will the pain--and Knives--away.

Neither leaves. 

“You’re incredibly inconvenient. A nuisance.”

Yes, yes, yes, I know, and I don’t give a damn. It takes every ounce of self-preservation left in your body not to snap these words at him. Your fingers dig hard into the pillow as another wave of cramps rolls through you. 

Dinner had been hastily shoved down to no avail; it was currently resting in the trash can of the bathroom. You had been on the toilet, willing your awful cramps to disappear, when the nausea came again with such force that you had no choice but to heave it all back up into the bin.

Now, the cramps throb and squeeze and you curl up tighter, but it doesn’t help.

Fuck. Were they always this bad?

They’re awful enough that you make a noise, despite Knives hovering next to your bed, admonishing you like a child for daring to be sick. A whimper, pitiful, low, stupid.

You hear him huff. You expect to hear the sound of him turning around, his boots against the hard floor as he leaves you to your mistery.

Instead--

His hand is on your stomach, slightly cool to the touch, and you jerk, eyes wide and afraid as the words stutter out--

“What are you--”

There’s no time to finish the words before a strange feeling surges through you. Something humming and light, almost like a low tickle. It’s--pleasant. A word you had never associated with Knives before, and certainly not a word you ever expected to associate with his touch. 

“I’m making you less of a burden,” he murmurs, and it’s a wonder venom doesn’t actually drip from his lips. “I won’t be delayed again tomorrow.”

If you were stronger, you might argue back. You might tell him that you’ll delay him as much as you want, that he can go fuck himself.

But you’re not any of those things. You’re bleeding and tired and the awful nausea-inducing cramps that were keeping you bedridden are gone, eased away by that blossoming feeling induced by his fingertips.

Is this what plants could do, when they weren’t trapped in those bulbs? Heal? (And hurt--and kill?) 

Knives’ hand is still resting on your stomach, pressing lightly into the flesh. When you glance up at him, he doesn’t match your gaze. Instead, he stares down at his hand, quiet, clearly thinking. But of what? 

It’s hard to care, now that you don’t feel like your body wants to tear itself apart from the inside. You could sleep, now. Rest easily and wake up ready to take on another day of this strange life you’ve been forced into; it’s enough to make you close your eyes, exhausted, fluttering.

Knives’ fingers remove themselves from your stomach slowly. He doesn’t leave yet. He’s still there, and part of you wants to open your eyes and take a guess at what he’s thinking; to see if he’s staring at you, or through you, or if he’s not even bothering to watch you curled up on the bed. The other part of you is terrified of finding out. 

Just when you might actually open your eyes, you hear him scoff. It’s a surprisingly comforting sound. Familiar territory once again. 

“Ungrateful,” he murmurs. “I should kill you to spare myself this annoyance.”

He could kill you. Easily. In a second. Without mercy or compassion or regret, you think, considering how many have fallen under his orders. 

Instead, he lets you fall asleep without another word.

You don’t hear him walk away before sleep takes you.

[halemerry]

On the Bookshop, the Concept of Home, and Going Too Fast

So, weirdly enough, I want to start with a scene that has very little to do with the actual Bookshop: 1967. We get Crowley planning a heist and being interrupted by an angel clutching a thermos full of holy water and promising that someday, maybe, they could let themselves have the life they want together. And we get that line. You know the one. You go too fast for me.

This one line of dialogue went a very long way to cementing the fanon perception of their roles in the relationship as we've largely been shown them - Crowley gently pushes and gives Aziraphale space to slowly feel comfortable setting his own boundaries or adjusting his worldview. And I’m not saying this is wrong - it’s definitely what we're primed to expect in their pattern - but I do think it ignores a fairly common variation of their pattern. See, sometimes, Aziraphale is actually the faster of the two of them - he's just not quite as flashy about it.

Crowley very rarely actually does any pushing without getting some kind of signal from Aziraphale first. Aziraphale, whether consciously or otherwise, quite frequently is the player making the first move on their metaphorical chess board. We see that he's the first to push for them to work together in the story of Job. We see that he's the first to invite Crowley to socialize together in Rome. We see as early as the Globe that Aziraphale has discovered and weaponized how to ask Crowley for things with a simple look and that Crowley has gotten very good at reading those asks. We actually see this dynamic in real time as Aziraphale drops signals to Crowley on how he should form his deception of the angels in the Book of Job. Even the Arrangement itself is something Crowley doesn't push for until he knows explicitly that Aziraphale isn't happy with the terms of his work. In other words, Aziraphale sets a cue, Crowley picks up on it and adapts.

So what does this have to do with the Bookshop?

Well. The Bookshop is a prime example of Aziraphale getting there faster. Because the bookshop, whether he knows it at the time or not, is absolutely a nest.

Nesting is behavior typically associated with birds, but is actually something lots of animals do. Even humans exhibit this behavior to some degree. It’s functionally gathering a bunch of stuff to create a safe, comfortable place, typically constructed for the purpose of raising children or attracting a mate. In other words: the creation of a home.

Because the Bookshop is their home. It is their safe space and sanctuary. It is a space for them to meet and just Exist without worrying about being seen. A home base where they can just Be themselves. It’s a constant in a world ever shifting around them. It’s a place for them to come back to. A place that will always be waiting for them both. And a place that they both have to be able to check in on each other. This is why the Bookshop burning hit as hard as it did. Their home was destroyed in fire and flame. And they both know it. Every expression and shift in tone when they talk about it speaks to the gravity of that loss - even if it was only temporary. And I think it was always intended to be just that on some level from the very start.

So timeline wise the closest scene we know about to Aziraphale starting his plans for the shop is the scene at the Globe. This takes place in 1601 and features the two of them being very conscious of being seen and the potential consequences thereof. They pick going to the Globe expecting it to be busy enough to blend into the crowd and Aziraphale's objection re the Arrangement has shifted onto the idea of Hell destroying Crowley.

It is less than a century later that Aziraphale buys the land that will eventually become the bookshop. In 1630 he purchases the land with his own money. That’s his money. Money that he made mostly the human way. Although this space would eventually become an embassy to Heaven it was made via earthly means. It’s his, not Heaven’s. Less than 30 years after we first see them express concern for how dangerous it would be to be seen Aziraphale starts making a space for them to retreat to.

And he does it slowly. He spends decades slowly buying up the land in the area. In fact, it’s nearly 200 years before the Bookshop will be ready to open. By the time we hit the Bastille, he’s clearly decided on a bookshop and has clearly told Crowley all about it. They’re comfortable with each other and already trust each other to a frankly absurd degree. Aziraphale risks discorporation on the sure thing that Crowley will know he’s in danger and come save him just because he wants to see him. In other words, by the time they’re at the point where they’re making elaborate excuses to see each other, Aziraphale is less than a decade away from naming the home he has been carefully making for himself A.Z. Fell and Co.

The and Co is important here for obvious reasons. We all know there’s only one person that it could be referring to. Even as Aziraphale is still denying that they are friends, he is plastering the idea that they are a unit all over the front door of his home long before even he realizes that what he is feeling for Crowley is love.

This is part of why the conversation about ‘our car, our bookshop’ comes much easier to Aziraphale. And it is an easier jump for him to make. He's the one that brings it up and he does it quite casually. He's testing the waters a bit, but is confident the conversation will go his way. Of course we have a car. Just as we have a bookshop.

The thing is I don't think Crowley ever really got that memo on a conscious level. We can see his relationship to the shop shift in the way he moves around the shop shifts over time. The earliest we see him in the shop itself is 1941. It's night time which gives the whole thing a bit of clandestine air, which is fitting for where they're at on the timeline. He stays mostly in one spot in his shots here, sort of hovering about the shop not getting too close to Aziraphale but not drifting out on his own either. He also stays as close to sitting normally as we tend to see Crowley ever sit and his glasses stay on. Which that's not to say he doesn't relax at all. He takes off his hat and make himself comfortable and, most telling, doesn't bother with fixing his glasses when they slip off his nose. He's comfortable and familiar here but it's in a strained sort of distant way. There's trust there, for sure, but he is clearly a visitor in this space.

The next we see of Crowley in the shop is the mid 2000s. It's still night time. His glasses stay on until he's drunk and the he takes them off of his own accord. He moves about the shop, touching various objects and leaning against various pillars and shelves and furniture. He's more comfortable here, but he still he needs a bit of alcohol in his system to get there.

We then see him briefly in the daytime after they realize they have lost the Anti-Christ. The glasses stay on here and alcohol is notably present. And then we do not see him in the shop again until it is burning. All and all most our shots of the bookshop from season one are Aziraphale alone moving about his space. We know Crowley's there enough that his smell lingers in the place, but we don't actually see that much of it beyond those first tom scenes.

Season 2 couldn't be more different in this regard.

Crowley moves in and out of the bookshop as it suits him. At one point he wanders off in the middle of Aziraphale zoning out in a memory without bothering to shake Aziraphale out of it. We even get him doing what is functionally a bird courtship dance right here in the middle of the shop. Aziraphale in turn takes active steps to get Crowley into the shop whether it's leaving him to watch it while he's gone or suggesting that Crowley likes waiting in the shop for him - a thing Crowley does not outright deny beyond objecting to Gabriel's presence there.

And we get a lot of Crowley in the shop this season- both with and without Aziraphale. And regardless of Aziraphale's presence, Crowley's behavior doesn't really shift too much. He's moving around the shop far more that we've ever seen him historically and he spends half that time sprawling on the furniture like it's his.

And, of course, nearly every time we see him enter the Bookshop to engage with Aziraphale, the glasses come off.

He lets his face stay exposed in the shop, even eventually in front of Gabriel. The only other place we've ever seen him take his sunglasses off by his own choice are in his own flat or when he's trying to make a point about his own nature. Even when he's engaging with Hell, so long as he's not grabbed unexpectedly, he has them on. Crowley wears them around people well before sunglasses had technically even been invented. But not here. Not anymore. Not in this story that is framing the bookshop as a literal safe haven.

Even the palette for the Bookshop this season speaks volumes. Now Season 1 in general is a little grayer than Season 2 (this is in part because of the general aesthetics of when they were made and in part because of the difference in tone between the two seasons) and it's very very noticeable in the shop itself. Here's some side by sides of similar areas of the shops between two seasons, I bet you could guess which was which based on the colors themselves.

The palette season 1 suits Aziraphale just fine. It's more neutral tones like he tends to favor on himself. It's still cozy but in a dusty sort of way. The palette of season 2 is warmer. Less white and more orange to the point where even the pillars holding up the bookshop are more vibrant. There's more natural light and we see it more often during the day. It's a warm, shared, space now. They both get plenty of use out of it.

And Crowley now looks like he fits there too. The shift in his palette makes him feel in conversation with the bookshop in a way his season 1 red can't quite mesh with the more washed out palette. I won't repost all these images I was going feral over last night but you can find a lot of shots of him in the shop windows here that really show the ways he works with the colors of the shop.

So why hasn't Crowley moved in officially if he's practically done so already?

Because this is their whole problem in a nutshell. It's a prime example of the way their pattern doesn't work anymore. It's not built for a world like this. Its built for a world where they have to hide and make excuses. And while being free of that is objectively good it also means they have none of that to hide behind anymore. Subtext doesn't have to be subtext anymore and that can be as scary as it can be exciting. Freedom from things like Heaven and Hell can be hard when that's all you've ever known. This is all new territory for them. The meaning of what home can be to them shifts a lot in a space where they can more or less do as they like.

Aziraphale doesn't need to be indirect about what he wants anymore but can't quite figure out how to be more direct in the asking. He's ready but can't quite parse how to say that out loud. Or why he would even need to when he's been saying it quietly for more than a century. He built a shop full of human knowledge into a safe haven for the demon that fell for asking questions. He invited Crowley into the shop on day one, just like everything else he loves. He's already left the door open for Crowley to come and go as he pleases and as far as he's concerned Crowley has already half moved in anyway. From his perspective he's already set a large blinking neon sign up that says 'this is your home too'.

Crowley, for his part, can't read this cue. Not without thinking about going to fast or starting a battle with his own sense of self worth. He's been in keep them alive mode for so long I'm not even sure he really knows how to let himself have needs outside of that on any conscious sort of level. There's nowhere to push if you don't have an endgame. And even if he did have one the last explicit boundary he had established by Aziraphale was telling him to slow down.

But I do think they both realize this. Crowley grumbles about what's the point from the start of his first scene and of course eventually does take a shot at expressing his wants. Aziraphale's fixation on the Ball comes into play here too. He says they allow humans to realize they have misunderstood each other and that they're actually in love. Which is just flat out their whole problem summarized for us nice and neatly.

They're not understanding each other. They haven't had the conversations they need to have. But they are trying. They still trying, even if they don't understand the ways each other is doing so. And at the end of this season even as they are separated again, the nest still stands. And, maybe the next time we get to see them, they'll decide it's in good hands right now and start building another nest together in in South Downs, but, no matter what, the shop is still home. And even if it is a place they have lost each other twice, there is no doubt in my mind that it is a place they will find each other again.

[leoruby-draws]

Back to back to back comics, last time I swear lol!

The Batfam and their relationship to money (or more specifically Bruce's money). Or at least a more goofy, parody interpretation of it. Bruce is more lenient (wimpy almost I feel) here, in this au, bit more likely to spoil the kids for comedic effect. His money seems endless and he's never been afraid to spend money to help whoever needs it. Well the kids need it!! For roblox and cool bikes!!

For Dick tho, he tries not to relies on Bruce for money and strives to be independent. I based his attitude on his outsiders appearance, where he got pissed that Bruce was funding his team without his knowledge. I do understand Dick's position on this, since Bruce can be a control freak despite how generous he can be.

Barbara has always been more independent from Bruce, and I think in the new52 she even has her own company to fund herself? (Correct me if I'm wrong, didn't read her new52 book). She has no interest in money from Bruce at all. She's smart and resourceful enough to become a millionaire herself honestly.

Cass being 'raised' outside society, doesn't seem to care whether or not she has money. She'll grab a club sandwich outta a dumpster then eat all of Bruce's most expensive caviar's and truffles. At the same time, no concern whatsoever. Bruce likes to spoil her regardless.

Jason being from a very poor background is absolutely ecstatic to have a billionaire for a dad and will spend to his hearts content. Bruce is happy to make Jason happy, but wishes Jason would stop buying expensive bikes (and crashing them). Interestingly I noticed in the comics, Jason himself likes to hand out money to friends in need as well. Like father like son.

Steph has a better relationship to Bruce than in canon, so here she likes to scam some cash from Bruce whenever she can, cuz why not? Bruce doesn't mind helping her and her mom out, its harmless really. Tim is rich himself, and a bit oblivious to Steph's lower class problems. Perhaps she'll try scamming Tim next lol.

Damian has a rich parents on both sides of the family, both Bruce and Talia have a bit of a competition on spoiling him. Can't blame them, he's just too much of a cutie-pie. Tho they're working on trying not to over do it. Talia likes to spoil Jason as well, they have a pretty friendly relationship in this au.

Didn't have enough room for Duke, so he gets a half-page to himself. The fully functional mini-batmobile is from this drawing from way back. Looks like Duke is learning to get as much outta Bruce as he can, seems Bruce is more generous the younger his sidekicks are. Case in point here:

Jason and Cass should be older here, as Robin and Batgirl, since Dick is Nightwing here (as per my personal timeline). But this gag works better when they're little and cute. Bruce just can't resist their cuteness here.

That was a lot, hope you like this!

[justauthoring]

stubborn.

request(s) -> Hii! I love your Gray Fullbuster x reader fics. They are so great!! Could I request then something like female reader goes on a mission and comes back being hurt and tries to hide it, but Gray saw through her and he is so worried about her, because they like each other so he corners her and help her. With a fluff, maybe even a kiss? Thank you in advance!! <3 + can you write a childhood bsf to lovers story for gray or sting from fairy tail? Nothing too specific, but also wanted to say I love your stories <3 😖

requested by -> @shogun0wa

pairing: gray fullbuster x f!reader

gray could tell something was wrong, even if you were desperately trying to pretend otherwise.

frankly, he didn't even see why you bothered—stubborness perhaps? he'd known you long enough, since the both of you were children, to see that the smile on your lips was forced and feigned. years spent attached at the hip gave him the insight others wouldn't notice.

so, yeah, he guessed - stubborness it definitely was.

chin resting in the palm of his hand, gray's eyes watch you closely as you talk with erza and lucy. you're less animated than usual, letting the two other girls do most of the talking for you as you simply listen and nod. if either lucy or erza noticed something was wrong, it was easy to tell you'd brushed their concern off with a simple excuse of being tired.

the same excuse you've used with gray since you'd returned from your solo mission and he'd noticed something was off.

anytime he'd confronted you, you'd been skillfully adept at avoiding him. gray would barely get a word out edgewise before you'd slip off from with some excuse or another of mira needing you, or lucy wanting your help with something.

things of the sort.

gray's patience was waring thin and with it, his concern was overwhelming him to the point he could barely function normally. he could see the paleness to your skin, all colour leaving your cheeks and the way your eyes would narrow and your lips would purse when you thought no one was looking.

it was clear you were in pain.

gray couldn't understand why you were trying to convince otherwise.

"i'll talk to you both later, okay?"

pulled from his thoughts, gray straightens when he sees you standing from the table, offering a small wave erza and lucy's way. the smile at you in response, each wishing you goodbye but gray's only zone in on the way your face, for the splittest second, twists in agony before you school your expression.

that was it. gray was going to get to the bottom of this.

standing up himself, gray is careful to be quiet, hanging back a minute after you move towards the guild doors before following you. he exits a moment after you do, you still blissfully unaware, and with an eased movement, gray's hand locks around your wrists and tugs you gently towards the alley beside the guild.

you stumble after him, a whimper leaving your lips — gray does feel guilty for causing you pain, but he figures this'll help prove his point.

"gray! what are you—"

"where?"

he doesn't bother letting you finish your accusation — he was tired of your pointless stubbornness. all he wanted to do was help you.

huffing, you glare up at gray; "where, what?"

"where does it hurt?"

your face falls at that, glare dissipating in seconds as you stare blankly up at gray. you shift against the wall he's cornered you against, gray's body trapping you with no escape as you squirm uncomfortably.

gray's eyes, however, zone in on the way your hand clutches at your side.

"there?" he asks, raising a brow as he reaches for your hand. "that's where it hurts?"

"gray—"

"enough." he cuts in once more, voice sharper. his eyes fall shut in frustration before turning to meet your own, gaze unwavering. gray's patience is gone at this point and perhaps he'll regret being so sharp with you later, but for now it's necessary to get the truth out of you.

like he said, you were too damn stubborn.

"i don't know why you're trying to pretend you're not in pain, but i can tell, okay?" he huffs, exasperated. "i know you."

you blink up at him, face easing.

"i... it's really not that bad."

gray just shakes his head; "let me see."

you warm faintly at that, but knowing gray won't back down, especially not now, you oblidge to his request. slowly, your hands move to the hem of your tank, slowly pulling it upwards until your stomach is bare. you tuck your shirt just under your breasts, feeling vulnerable in an entirely new way as you avoid gray's gaze.

in another light, gray would be just as embarrassed. there's no room for that, however, when he see's the large bruise across your ribs; your skin is discoloured with a terrible yellowish-purple.

honestly, gray's surprised you've been able to walk at all with a injury that size.

"why didn't you get wendy to heal you?" gray hisses, concerned, as he reaches for you. you tense as his cold but familiar touch falls on usually untouched skin, biting your lip as he gently prods to bruise, wincing slightly in pain. "y/n, this is bad."

"it's not that bad," you force out, huffing.

"yes, it is," gray argues, sharp eyes falling back on your own. "it looks like you could even have a broken rib given how bruised it is."

you just frown.

"why?" gray sighs, finally pulling away as you slowly let your shirt fall back down. "why hide it?"

it takes you a moment to reply, looking down at your own feet and desperately avoiding gray's piercing gaze. gray almost thinks you won't speak and goes to ask again, until he hears your soft and mumbled voice. "i didn't want to be a bother."

"...what?"

"i didn't want to be a bother!" you repeat, this time louder; your voice cracks in desperation as you turn to gray with a tear-filled gaze. he stares blankly back at you, stunned. "i'm always getting hurt on missions and everyone is always having to help me... you most of all! so i took this mission by myself to prove i'm strong, only i got hurt like i always do!"

you finish with a gasp, hands pressing against your wound as you twist yourself uncomfortably.

gray doesn't say anything at first. he frowns, shoulders falling and watches as you desperately try to hold back the tears that threaten to slip past your eyes, he thinks about the fact that you think so lowly of yourself.

do you really think that's what the others think? what he thinks?

spurned on by the guilt of ever letting you think that way about yourself and desperate to rectify his own foolish mistake, gray ignores the nerves bundling in his chest and leans forward with a burst of desperate confidence. he grabs your chin, tugging you towards him gently as he lets his eyes flutter shut and presses his lips against your own.

you tense at the action and gray fears the worst, moving to pull away, but then a second later you're easing, hands slowly moving to shift around his own as you lean into the kiss.

he pulls back a second later, blinking down at you.

you stare up at him; "what was that for?"

"to prove to you," he whispers.

"prove to me what?"

"that none of what you said is true," he urges, cupping your cheeks. "your strength is your strength, and you are a vital member to both fairy tail and the team. if anyone says you aren't, i'll personally show them otherwise."

gray watches as your lips part and your eyes soften with something warm.

"gray..."

"it doesn't matter how much you get hurt, i will always be there to help you." he continues, letting the truth pour out of him with vulnerabilty he's unused to. "all that matters to me is that you're okay. i need you, y/n. so please don't ever hide something like this from me again, okay? please?"

slowly, you nod.

"okay," he nods, some of that blind confidence wavering as he feels his cheeks burn with the reality of his confession. "n-now, can we please take you to see wendy?"

you nod once more, but the small smile that curls onto your lips is undeniable. then, you slowly lower his hands from your cheeks, holding tight to his right one as you thread your fingers through it, squeezing.

gray eases at your assurance, a grin curling onto his lips.

he guesses, when he truly thought about it, he was just a stubborn — it's why the two of you got along so well.

[opal-owl-flight]

can I ask about the poster "agent 3" kids story?

Yes you can and here it all is!! Presenting…

tldr: She comes from a family of big name actors in the industry, and shes been raised from hatching to continue their legacy. Its…a lot of pressure to put on a kid, especially one who just wants to make her (impossible to satisfy) family proud. Despite being surrounded by impossible standards, the fakest friends chosen for her, being given everything she can ever want (except what she really needs), and putting on a hundred masks for everyone in her life for survival’s sake in a cutthroat industry, she chooses to be kind.

more details under the cut!!

Her name is Sariwa, which means “fresh” . Named for her spring green tentacles and as a blessing from her parents that shed stay youthful, beautiful. a hope that she would be seen and be adored (as freshness implies coolness/popularity in sploonworld).

Shes hatched into the acting industry, with both parents being big in the industry. From hatching she was expected, trained to be an actor like her mother is. The media adores them, this “sweet little family”, but no one knows how nefarious everything is when the cameras are off.

The dad is neglectful, disappearing into meetings most of the time. The mom is a helicopter parent to make up for it. Pointing out every flaw that Sariwa apparently has in either performance or appearance. Never giving praise. Except when she performs “well enough” on stage. This instills in the child this need to make them proud. to…to make everyone happy. She becomes someone whose dependent on other peoples’ praise to function.

Shes given everything else, dont get me wrong. Every material thing she’ll ever need. all the big popular “friends” chosen for her. But…shes not allowed to turf. yknow. biggest event in an inkling’s life here in Inkopolis. and shes not allowed to go to school either. shes too busy memorizing lines for adverts or-

The second she turned 14, she was chosen as the lead role for Cuttlegear’s brand new show abt Agent 3. She looked exactly like the legendary hero, according to the sources. All her time went into this project. Thankfully, unlike at home…her co-actors were very kind. Her parents didnt choose for her this time. She was meeting actual people who dont put on masks beyond their job. the actor they got for Cuttlefish, in particular, is a very kind soul, defending her when the directors get too pissy with her performance. (Those are the only people she fears, tbh shes fearful of most authority figures.)

*Cuttlefish is also depicted as kind and supportive in the show. and in most games. Unlike the real Cuttlefish, which is kind of a loony old man who pushes ideas on young inklings. He still gives more support and kindness that 3s dad ever gave, but thats only RELATIVE to how little he gave in the first place. One can only imagine the longing this inspires in the real 3.

Sariwa…since shes hatched shes had to put on an act. Be the perfect little doll for her parents. For the world. But her friends here, they inspired her to…have fun with what shes doing again. To take off the mask (mostly beyond the clock). Breathe life in the character when she can. (But lets be real…shes getting 3 spot on with how many parallels they have with each others lives.)

But what is she beyond the mask, her role? She wasnt allowed to do anything beyond this. She was forced to depend on her abusive parents and their associates. She cant live alone beyond them. Not allowed to turf bc shes “a prim and proper young lady; above such violent drivel that only delinquents participate in”. They gesture to 3, whos one of the faces Squidforce uses in their promotions, and say (ironically.) that she must not become that. Face ripped to shreds and eye mangled.

No one knows they got that from the real war that Sariwa is pretending to show.

The show does its best to be an accurate telling. Child friendly, to a point. Horrifying things still get kept in somewhat. Things that will horrify a child on stage.

If Sariwa is terrified of the props, can you imagine how it was for 3?

————————

And once she realizes all of this. Once she gets out of this situation thanks to Callie, Marie, and 3 themself. Does she feel guilt? Guilt for depicting the horrors in a way that glorifies it instead? A part of a project that aims to make people complacent to the real horrors that churned below?

There is one thing Sariwa feels about 3, that I am aware of rn.

“Im glad, that out of every story I couldve told, Im glad it was yours.”

Just like 8, she sung this tale in her hearts. Just like 8, she used this to break out of this terrible situation, answering the call of the ones who promised her safety. A better life. Like the way she stage broke through that prop in the choreographed Octavio fight, she broke through the influence of those around her.

*She actually went off-script a bit in that scene. After she beat down Octavio, she held out her hand. Mostly to help the actor up. But then, without realizing, she spoke, she spoke of making things better between the nations. That maybe he doesnt have to steal the zapfish anymore.

Her time with the octoling actors, and hearing the stories from the ex-octarians, made her aware and know the fact that theyre people too. The directors kept it in. They knew that if they released this as they have planned it, there will be fuckign riots from the ex-octarians or the Inkling “sympathizers”.

She saw the value this story held, despite the subliminal messaging that she wished wasnt implemented. That she wished she wasnt a part of. She saw that its a tale of hope. A tale that inspires one to become the hero of their own life. A tale that inspires one to make the world a better place.

————————

So she was hatched and raised to make people smile, singing her songs and dancing their dances. Much like the clan singer that was 4, except the tradition is much more healthy compared to industry standard. And she didnt become as mean as the people around her, at least not internally. She put on a mean mask but she felt the void within. When she was given kindness for a long enough time, she put her walls down.

And just like the real 3, she underwent through the horrors of expectations she had to hold up, and trying to make uninterested parents proud. They dont see her as their daughter, shes just a means to an end. She had to wear a hundred masks to survive and it made her lose her sense of identity. She had to be mature, she had to take the shitty behavior of adults who expect her to be like one too. It made her lose grip of who she is beyond this role. Hell, they made her so dependent on their handouts that shes not sure she can exist beyond this hell. Much like how 3 struggles to know a life beyond their duty.

And much like 8, she used the story she was telling to break out and get herself in a better situation. She met with the real Agents 1 and 2 (without her knowledge) and asked. Begged. for help, after her show ended. (3 also kind of pointed the two in her direction. Bc cod knows how horrifying this industry is. Shes lucky she didnt get any of the grosser horrors ~~its bc I didnt feel comfortable writing such topics~~)

And then shes faced with the same problem all the real legends faced. What comes after the end? When the dust clears, what happens next? She wasnt given a damn choice, she wasnt allowed to try to learn things beyond this role. to be beyond an imagined agent 3. a soldier for the screen. who is she now, that shes out of that battlefield?

little does she realize that the real 3s asking the same question for themself.

[madamechrissy]

SATORU/READER (NSFW)

MDNI-Br3eding kink

"My little slut.” You didn’t deny it, simply sinking back down on his cock.

“Yes, yours…” You mumble incoherently, his nostrils flare at your words, their intent clear as you keep his gaze, rolling your hips on him, pressing him so deep it ached.

“That's it.” He caressed your breasts, before taking your tied hands and leaning them on his chest, pushing you forward more. “Yes, sit down on this cock. Mmm. Just like that.”

His words pushed you further every time he spoke.

“Mnh! So good I-fuck!” Gojo hit some spot deep, and you started to feel your climax hitting again, as he slid a hand down to your clit, making you come then and there. It pulsed through you, your entire body reacting, pussy tightening around him again, making you weak.

“You're taking me so well.” His voice was quiet, words so calm, sucking in a breath as your pussy soaked his stomach as wetness seeped out, cunt pressed so tight around him.

“Love…” Don’t do it. Too soon. “Love… this. Love your cock. Feels so good, so so good.” Your words ran together, slurring like you were drunk damn near, the ecstacy shut your brain function down.

Satoru raised a brow with a half smile. As if he fucking knew what you meant. “I love this little pussy, too. Fucking goddess riding my dick.”

You struggle at his words, knowing he literally looks like a god, you were merely a mess barely able to hold it together.

Gojo's dick is stretching you further beyond your means, and your orgasm rocks you so hard again you can't move anymore, trembling, gasping for breath. His dick is against your walls, impossibly harder, and he's fucking into you now, tearing you apart, slick sweat forming between your bodies.

He shoves up into you hard, tensing then, pretty white teeth biting his lower lip, those dilated eyes narrowed, thin brows low. “Do you want this cum inside you?”

You nod fervently, hanging on to him as best you could, but then he flips you on your back, tied arms up above your head now, shoving your legs up against your chest, cock going in impossibly deep. You cry out in pain as it fills you too much, too much. He grabs your face as his arms press your thighs flush, pussy open to him fully.

“You'd be so pretty with my fucking baby in you.” He whispered, and it made you wetter, more sensitive, pussy throbbing for his cum to fill you, for more of his words that did nearly as much as his touch.

“Put one in me, please, Satoru. I promise, I can take all of it, all your cum… Oh please.” You’re begging him, without any of his prompting, and watch the madness fill his gaze as your body bumps up and down with each powerful stroke.

“Take it all then.” He bit out the words, and then shoved all the way, bottoming out nearly, you scream, wiggling, and his cock pumps his hot cum in you, pulling just a bit back to shove it in more. Satoru groans, his own body shaking, kissing you. You drink his soft moans as he and you both lay there, cum starting to fall out now.

“Satoru…” He eased out of you gently, untying your wrists with deft hands, and began rubbing life back into them. They'd gone numb.

“You like wasting my cum, little brat.” He made you tense, then his fingers shoved it back in you. Again. Again. Again.

“Ah! Fuck…” You’re sobbing now and he's cooing above you.

“What's wrong, little slut?”

“N-nothing. I can take it.” He smiles, clearly pleased, long fingers easing out. He shoved them in your mouth, so deep, gagging and choking you, making hot tears start falling.

“My pretty girl is crying?” You nod, gasping, pussy still throbbing from your orgasms, struggling to come down to Earth. “Clean all this mess you made.”

Gojo kneels before you, and you get on your hands and knees, ready to do whatever he asks, but your body is weak. Mind weak. Gojo put his cock in your mouth, still massive after cumming, big hand grabbing your messy hair and wrapping it around his fist.

You eagerly lick and suck tasting a mix of tanginess and sweetness. You'd do anything for him, to please him, it was pathetic what he made you into. You're sucking off both of your cum, his trembling hand the only sign he wasn't in total control, shoving deep in your throat, and you took him as much as you could. He tilts your chin up, looking down at you, wiping your sticky tears and pulling away.

“You're so beautiful.” He whispered, brushing your hair back. “You did such a good job.”

From ch 10 of my Gojo fic 💖

Masterlist on tumblr

https://archiveofourown.org/works/55424137/chapters/140629990