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fullybooked · 1 month

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What Are My Other Options?

Title: What are my other options? Pairing: Insomniac!PeterParker x Reader Word count: 9.6k Warnings: mentions of cheating (but Peter would never) Notes: F/T = favorite topping Summary: The reader has come to the conclusion that Peter is cheating on them. What else are they supposed to think when he’s always running off and constantly canceling their plans? That he’s Spider-Man?

It wasn’t often that you got a chance to dress up anymore. As a grad student, there was very little spare time to spend on your appearance, and when that kind of rare opportunity arose, you jumped at it. So you didn’t feel bad about spending the last hour in front of a mirror, tossing around outfits, and destroying the closet in the process.

The occasion? The New York Times Gala. You’d been working for the biggest news outlet in the state for your graduate program for investigative journalism, a spot you had fought tooth and nail for. Every News Outlet and invited celebrity would be there, the Daily Bugle, The Wallstreet Journal, USA Today, and you’d heard whispers of Tony Stark attending. You hadn’t even learned until last week that you would be allowed the attend as well. As nothing more than an intern, you hadn’t seen there being a reason.

But your boss had given you the news last Friday, and you’d practically skipped home to tell your boyfriend, Peter, about it. And that you had a plus one. He’d been almost as excited as you.

Which is why you were finding it hard to believe that he wasn’t home right now. He wasn’t getting ready with you, he wasn’t even answering your calls or texts. So while you were excited, there was a bubble of worry hiding underneath.

“Where is he?” You’re muttering to no one but yourself. The last touches of your outfit were going on, and the last train you could take would be at the station in 20 minutes. Your window was closing.

Looking down at your phone while adjusting your choice of red accessories, you start to wonder if something bad had happened to him. After all, New York was crawling with supervillains and regular villains alike. And Peter was equipped for any kind of fight he might’ve run into. Ever since you met him in your first year of college, he had been one of the most peaceful people you’d ever met.

Your red shoes rest by the door, and while pacing your living room, you decide to call his Aunt May. She would surely know if anything, bad or good, had stopped Peter from coming home on such an important night. You click on her contact, resisting the urge to bite your nails from nerves.

It’s only two rings before she answers, “(Y/N)!” she answers happily, “I’m a little shocked to be hearing from you so late, is everything alright? Isn’t tonight your Gala for work?”

Aunt May was nothing short of a saint. Kind and caring, traits she’d taught Peter as she raised him. You adored her, the two of you always got along great when you and Peter volunteered at FEAST or went over for dinner. You weren’t sure if the lack of concern in her voice should make you more worried or not.

“It is,” you tell her as you watch the clock tick on, “but I haven’t been able to get ahold of Peter all night. I’m starting to worry. Have you heard from him?”

There’s a hum of confusion on her end, “I’m afraid not, dear,” she says, “but I wouldn't start worrying just you. We both know how bad he is at keeping time.”

It was true. Peter was chronically late. Normally, it was funny, except for the few times he was an hour late to your date nights. But this was different. He knew how important this night was for you and your career as an investigative journalist.

“I know…” you agree with May, “It’s just…I can’t be late for this, and the last train is leaving in 15 minutes.”

Your phone buzzes in your hand as you speak to her, and you bring it away from your ear to glance at the screen. A photo of you and Peter in front of the Ferris wheel at Coney Island is on screen, his name appearing with heart emojis next to it. Relief floods your system.

“Oh!” you gasp and return to speaking with May, “that’s him! I’m so sorry for bugging you May!”

She chuckles, “don’t be, dear. You two have a good time!”

You hang up, immediately answering Peter’s call, “Pete! Where are you!? I’ve been calling you all night!”

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry,” his voice sounds winded and tired, like he was running, “I just…got wrapped up in something at work, me and Doc were talking about his lab and…I’m really sorry!”

“Well, where are you?” You ask. There was no point in telling him it was okay, because it didn’t feel okay, “the last train is about to leave and we can’t be late–”

“(Y/N), I don’t think I’ll be able to make it,” his voice cuts you off before you can continue your nervous ramble, “Me and Doc are still wrapped up in this lab project and I won’t be able to make it back in time for the gala. I know how important this was to you and I promise I will make up for this tenfold for the next 20 years–”

You could hear the rushing wind of New York behind the phone as he continued on an apology that you didn’t feel in your chest. He sounded sorry, sure, but you could only feel disappointment in his words. Your shoes are on your feet, and you’re looking at the clock hanging next to a vacation photo of the two of you on the beach. Your lack of response is response enough to him, but you’re too busy deciding if you should be angry or not.

“(Y/N),” he says your name, “I can’t say I’m sorry enough, but you’ll do fantastic even if I’m not there.”

“Seriously?! Of all nights, Peter, you have to pick tonight to flake out on me? You know how important this is and you can’t even look at a clock for two hours?!”

You had 10 minutes to get to the train station from your apartment, a task that would surely try and ruin your hour of work on how you looked.

“I know, babe, I’m so–”

You click the end call button before he can finish. Fumbling with your keys, can feel your cheeks warming up in a rush of emotions. First, embarrassment. A couple of people in your office had been excited to meet Peter, and now you would show up alone. Stood up by your boyfriend of 4 years. The gala would go on without him, and you would have to put on a pretty smile to go along with it.

Which is exactly what you did, barely making it on time to walk with your boss into the decorated hall. Telling your coworkers that your boyfriend had eaten some bad takeout for dinner and was at home nursing himself back to health. Hoping nobody saw how your eye twitched whenever Peter texted you before turning your phone on do not disturb.

That night, you locked the bedroom door and left a pillow and blanket on the couch.

★★★★★★

Something you and Peter had in common was your love of pizza. Both of you had differing opinions on the best pizza place in New York, but you did agree that any pizza was better than no pizza. So when you two moved in together, it was an unspoken rule that at least one night a week, you scaped whatever money you had together and ordered a large pizza.

“It’s my week to pick,” you remind him as you sit cross-legged on the couch in your studio apartment, holding the phone of power in your hand, “and I say Benny’s.”

Peter is standing in the kitchen, pulling a can of soda from the fridge, “aw man,” he says, “but they don’t have the good pepperoni.”

“But they have the Italian sausage,” you remind him, already pulling up Doordash on your phone, “and it’s my night.”

Peter looks over his shoulder, a smile on his face that always makes you blush and look away like a teenager, “you’re lucky I love you,” he says, “and I’m willing to part with the good pepperoni.”

You giggle back, “Aren’t I the luckiest? So half sausage half (F/T)?”

“It’s your world, babe,” he says as he walks around the couch to sit beside you, “I’m just living in it.”

“That’s the answer I was looking for,” you look over at him with a grin.

These nights were the ones you loved the most. The two of you in pajamas, ordering your favorite food, waiting for the newest episode of Game of Thrones to air, in the quiet of the apartment. Where the noise and air of New York felt like it was miles away, and your little bubble couldn’t be disturbed.

Peter leans down, his eyes soft when he looks at you, and he kisses you slowly. Every kiss with him, deep or small, left you with fire in your veins. Whether it was innocent or lewd, at home or in the park, an apology kiss or a hello kiss, you always felt like you were walking on the hot air of a volcanic eruption. He pulls away, smiling like he was looking at the sun for the first time.

“Hm,” you gaze back at him, “I don’t care how much you kiss me, I won’t be swayed into Lenny’s.”

He gives a dramatically fake sigh, “There went the plan of seducing you into mushroom on half.”

“Well, I didn’t say that…” you roll your eyes, still smiling. You were always smiling with Peter. Or, most of the time you were.

His phone dings on the coffee table in front of you, the screen face down but illuminating the light-colored wood around it. It caught you off guard for a moment, that his screen is face down. And that he picked it up immediately. But you didn’t let it bother you for long, deciding to order the pizza while he checked whatever notification he had.

Just as you hit delivery, Peter stands up from the couch in too quick of a motion to be reassuring. You jump slightly at his speed, looking back at him in confusion. Tilting your head, you look as he shoves his phone into his back pocket.

“Pete?” you say in an unsure voice, “is everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s great,” he says. The slight rise at the end of his sentence makes you narrow your eyes, “It’s just uh…Doc texted me and uh he says he’s had a breakthrough on this project, but he needs my help with it..”

You can’t hide the disappointment in your expression as he makes a reach for his keys hanging by the door, and for his bag by the couch.

“Oh…” you say, trying to mask the sound of defeat in your voice, “right now? It’s almost nine pm.”

“Yeah, it’s just…a really important project,” he insists as he pulls his shoes on hurriedly. You would think he’d just gotten a call from the police with how quickly he was moving, “and you know Doc, he’s always rushing through the numbers, so I should just make sure he’s got them all right before moving on.”

He was rambling. His voice was rising and falling. Every tell he had that he was lying, but you didn’t want to jump to that conclusion. What was there for him to lie about? What would have him running from the apartment so late? He did care a lot about the projects he and Doc had going at the lab, he was always doing some kind of numbers crunch for his boss.

Peter slows his pace when he takes note of your expression, avoiding his eyes, “I swear I’ll be right back,” he says as he walks back towards the couch where you sat, “30 minutes tops, I’ll be here before the pizza guy, I promise.”

So it wouldn’t be a long late night call by Doc, then. That makes you feel the tiniest bit better, and you give him a small half-hearted smile. What were you supposed to say? No, don’t go to your job that you’re so crazy passionate about? Don’t go help your boss on a project that could potentially change lives? You make no move to stop him.

“I promise,” Peter repeats when he doesn’t see a lift in your spirits. He leans down, pressing his lips to yours again, lighting you on fire from the inside, “don’t start the episode without me!”

You tried to take that as a sign that he meant it. Half an hour and he would be back with the pizza still hot in the box. So you kissed him goodbye and sat on the couch by yourself in the apartment. As soon as the episode started, you hit pause and texted Peter that you had done so, letting him know that every second you were away from Jon Snow would be counted towards your next pizza night.

20 minutes passed, and the pizza showed up with steam rising from the box. His half with sausage and mushroom was untouched as you grabbed a slice from your side. Just because he said to wait on the show didn’t mean you had to wait for dinner.

30 minutes, and you figured he was fighting the night rush on the train. He didn’t answer your text message, but he probably needed all of his attention on his work right now. You don’t make a fuss, keeping the show paused.

After an hour of no response, you get fed up of sitting with just your phone and decide to unpause the show. If he came in and mentioned it, you would tell him to watch it tomorrow night while you were at work. But he doesn’t come back. Even when the episode is over, you haven’t heard the jingle of the keys in the lock.

Two hours late, as you decide to pack it up for bed, your phone buzzes on the coffee table. From the kitchen, putting the box of pizza in the fridge, you heavily roll your eyes. Your disappointment was riddled with hints of anger, but there was also confusion. Peter had always been flakey, he’d always been late, he’d always been absent-minded and forgetful, but you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d put his phone face time when around you lately.

It could mean nothing. In fact, it probably did mean nothing, but there was a sense of dread in your gut. You weren’t sure you wanted to face the idea that was forming in the back of your head. Because you loved Peter, you loved him so much you weren’t sure what life had been like before you started loving him. He made you feel safe and seen and understood, he made you feel like someone important in a city where nobody mattered unless they were on the front page of a magazine.

And if there was one thing you were sure of anymore, it was that Peter Parker loved you too. Nothing had shaken that fact over the last four years, and you weren’t sure anything ever would.

But you could still be upset with him when he did things like this. Like bailing on your traditional date night, like standing you up on one of the most important nights of your rising career. You picked up your phone, reading the text from Peter that had come in two minutes ago. All the lights in the apartment were off, and you were ready to tuck yourself into bed.

His message read, “Baby I’m so sorry. I’m gonna be a little while still, please don’t be too mad at me.”

The words “I’m so sorry” were starting to grow old to you. You lock your phone and leave it in the living room with the screen facing up, no response, and your chest getting heavier and heavier as you sit in the empty apartment by yourself.

★★★★★★

He’s just late, you tell yourself, like always. He’s always late.

You couldn’t even tell yourself that he’d never been two hours late befor because he had. Sitting in the corner booth of Leo’s pizza, more dressed up than you should be for a place like this, you try to convince yourself that Peter was late for a good reason.

The train broke down, he’d had his phone stolen, sandman was on the loose again and he had to take the long way here.

But the news was mostly quiet, with no attacks, and he hadn’t even texted you. Again.

You stir the straw in your soda, watching the melting ice bump into the sides of the glass as your mind runs rampant. After Peter had bailed on your pizza and Game of Thrones night, you had been angry and hurt and unable to hide that from him. His apology? Take you out to Leo’s for dinner, your favorite pizza place of all time.

There was no way Peter would stand you up for your apology date. Not even he was the absent-minded, you were sure. You’d been talking about it just this morning over breakfast in the kitchen. He’d given you free rein of the toppings, and he would meet you here after work.

Looking at the clock, two hours had become three, and Leo’s would close in one more. Sitting back in your booth seat, you swallow the lump of emotions that wanted to burst out.

“That boy still not here?” Leo, the man behind the counter, asks you.

The burly Italian man had been witness to your guys’ relationship grow. From your first date to your anniversary dates to your celebration dates. He’d seen it all from behind the counter, and you were sure he would be witness to every other milestone. At least, you had been.

Sitting in the booth alone, you were beginning to wonder if there was anything beyond these four years with Pete.

“I wish I knew, Leo,” you admit and look down at your phone.

It buzzes as you’re looking at it. But when you see Pete’s name pop up, you don’t feel any sense of relief or anger or even sadness. Maybe you just didn’t want to feel it all at once in front of poor Leo. He didn’t need to witness that part of your relationship.

Pete had said, “Where are you at? Working late?”

You couldn’t help the scoff, “he forgot about me,” you say more to yourself than anyone else.

“What was that?” Leo asks when he catches a hint of your mumbling.

You look up from the phone, tucking it away into your pocket, and give the man a tight smile, “nothing, Leo. Sorry for wasting your time.”

Pushing yourself out of the booth, you wonder how you would go about this. Peter had been bailing on you more and more these past few months. With date the gala, with date night, and not to mention the countless nights he comes home so late you think he’s an intruder half the time. Had he always been like this and you were only noticing now that you lived together? Or had you just ignored it because of how much you loved him?

“Not a waste of time,” Leo assures you as you walk towards the door, “you and Peter will come back soon, I’m sure.”

He sounded confident. But you couldn’t even bring yourself to politely agree. You thanked him again. You texted Peter back while taking your time walking towards the train station.

“Well, I was at Leo’s,” you reply, “waiting for your amazing apology date.”

Not even a full minute goes by before his caller ID appears on your phone. You answer it out of pure curiosity, too tired to be angry at him anymore or even upset with him. He’s speaking before the phone can even fully reach your ear. Pete’s voice sounds frantic.

“I'm on my way!” He insists, “just give me two minutes and I’ll be there, I swear, (Y/N)!”

“Forget it, Peter,” you hope your voice doesn’t sound as strained as it feels, “I already left. Go back to work.”

“I wasn’t at work, I was…” He doesn’t seem to have a good answer for her, “Just give me two minutes, (Y/N) and I can still make this date happen, I promise!”

“Peter…” You weren’t sure you wanted to go back to the apartment and face the conclusion you were drawing, “all I’ve heard the past month are apologies and promises you don’t keep. It’s exhausting.”

“I know, I know, I’ve been a shit boyfriend but I’ll get it together, I know I will.”

“Even your apologies need apologies,” you sigh, rocks sitting in your chest and making you walk slower, “how many more nights are you going to stand me up this month alone?”

“None!” He insists, “It’s not gonna happen again, ever.”

“Why has it already happened six times then?” You shake your head as you reach the train station, your stomach rumbling as you regret not getting a slice of pizza to go, “and yes, I’ve counted. That’s just this month!”

There’s no immediate response on his end, and the silence makes the rocks in your chest grow to fill your stomach as well. It was like every conversation you had was giving you more reason to believe that suspicion that you wanted to forget about because it made no sense.

In the night air of New York, you can smell pizza and trash trucks littering the street. And somewhere in the distance, the sirens that were always going in this city. You weren’t sure if it was from your end or Peter’s

“(Y/N), when you get home I swear we’ll talk this out,” he finally breaks his stretch of silence, “I’ll be waiting for you, and you can yell at me for however long you need but–”

You close your eyes for a moment and grip the phone, “do not say you need to go.”

“I have to go…dammit,” he mutters the last word to himself, “I’ll meet you at home, (Y/N), I’ll be there and we can work this out.”

You shake your head, watching as a train approaches the boarding area. One that wouldn’t lead you to the apartment but to somewhere else. You step onto the nearly empty car, watching a few people shuffle out and pay you no mind.

“Don’t bother, Peter,” you say, “I’m staying with my parents tonight, okay? So just go back to whatever work is more important than I am.”

★★★★★★

A very common task given to you at work was getting coffee. Usually, it was the first thing you did in the mornings when your boss handed you a company card and a piece of paper with everyone's order on it. Sometimes throughout the day, you would be sent on other various food and drink runs, but only around meal times.

Sitting at your desk, you were looking over the files on your computer that contained a few of the articles being pitched to your boss that afternoon. Your task was the weed out the “boring” ones by trying to decide what he would deem boring in the first place. You weren’t expecting any kind of task before the meeting, so all of your attention was on the article on your screen.

“(Y/N)!” You jump nearly out of your desk chair when your boss yells your name from across the room, “We need a coffee run before this meeting!”

Your boss was not a man of patience, so you had a few seconds before he got annoyed with your lack of movement. Closing the tab on your computer, you grab a piece of loose paper and a pen and start across the room of office cubicles towards him.

“Your usual, sir?” You ask him in the fake professional voice you’d taken to using with him.

He nods his head and holds up the silver credit card for office expenses, “Yes, and an iced chai for Martha when she gets here, and a vanilla latte with soy for Marcus.”

You scribble down the other orders as you nod your head and take the card, “I’m on it, back in a jiff.”

“(Y/N)!” here it came, “can I get a lavender mocha?!”

Everyone would shout orders at you as you left when they heard a coffee run was being called. Normally, you tried to get out of there as quickly as possible before too many orders piled up. Because no one would offer to come with you to help carry them, and you could only carry so many steaming cups before you were destined to spill them on yourself.

The paper is filled before you’re in the elevator anyway, leaving you with 8 orders of coffee. You liked being at work because you hardly had time to think for yourself. Unless you were doing some kind of food or drink run, and then you had entirely too much time to yourself. And right now, you didn’t want to spend too much time in your head.

For the past three days, you had been staying overnight at your parent's place in Queens. During the day you would be at your apartment, getting ready for work or making your meals, because you knew Peter would be gone at the lab. You hadn’t come face to face with him since the morning he stood you up for his apology date, and it’s because you couldn't bear to look at him. Just the thought of confronting him with the truth made you nauseous. You weren’t sure you wanted him to say it out loud or not.

Your parents hadn’t minded when you showed up, near tears, telling them that you were at least 80% sure that Peter was cheating on you. They’d offered you their guest room and told you to think about things with a clear head. Your mother had been very adamant that you talk to him first.

But you’d been ignoring his calls and texts like the plague. Partly because you wanted him to know what it felt like to be ignored, and partly because you weren’t sure what you wanted to say to him yet. You knew you would talk to him when you were damn well ready, and you weren’t ready. Not this morning when he sent his usual “good morning” message and asked if you wanted to meet for lunch.

Maybe tonight you would talk to him. You would bite the bullet and get the truth, even if you didn’t like what it was.

As you stand and wait for your two coffee carriers, you look down at your phone and all of Peter’s unanswered texts and voicemails. He was persistent, especially when it came to your relationship. You love that about him.

Peter Parker didn’t do anything half-assed. Everything he did from school to work was 100%, and relationships had never been different. At least not until now. He’d loved you as much as you loved him, you had been sure of that until now. You just didn’t understand when that had changed. What had made him back away from you to the point of forgetting about you multiple times a month?

“(Y/N)!” You hear it called from up ahead. You look up from your phone, wondering if your order was done already. But you see a familiar face walking towards you in a grey sweater vest and a head of thinning brown hair with small glasses.

You smile and turn your body to face him, “Doctor Octavius!” You greet, “it’s been a while!”

“It has,” he agrees as he reaches out to shake your hand, “it’s so funny running into you here. I’m here every day for lunch but we’ve never run into each other.”

You shake your head politely, “this is an odd time for a coffee run for me,” you assure him, “so how are you? Things at the lab doing okay? Peter is so excited to be working with you.”

“And I’m happy to have him,” Dr. Octavius says, “he’s passionate about helping people, that boy,” he then waves a hand through the air to laugh, “if only he could be on time for once in his life! But I’m sure you know all about that.”

You give a pained smile, hoping it looked more real than it felt, “You have no idea,” you agree and then try to forget about the sore subject in your relationship, “but I’m sure he’s making up for it with all the late nights, he’s always thinking about your guys’ projects.”

Dr. Octavius laughs while pushing up his glasses, “Oh, I wish we could do late nights,” he tells you, and your heart begins to pound, “I’m afraid I don’t have the funding to keep workers past normal hours. But that’s not an issue for now, I’m glad Peter has some spare time to spend with you. You two remind me so much of me and my wife when were young…”

His word became muffled. No late nights. He didn’t have the funding for late nights. But Peter had been telling you that he was at work, with Dr. Octavius. He’d been telling you that for months. If he wasn’t there…where had he been going? Why had he been lying to you? What was the point of lying to you?

You’d never been the kind of person to tell Peter what he could and couldn’t do. It was his life, his choices, his spare time. Why did he feel the need to tell he was somewhere when he wasn’t? The weight in your chest stretched down to your stomach, and you wondered if anxiety-vomiting was a real thing. It felt like you were about to find out.

“Order for (Y/N)!” Your name breaks your trance as well as the conversation with Dr. Octavius, who was still speaking despite you not hearing it. You look up at the barista counter, where your 8 drinks are waiting for you to grab them.

“Oh, I’ll let you get back to work,” the doctor says as he hears your name as well, “I hope we run into each other again, (Y/N).”

“Me too, Doctor,” you tell him, hoping it sounded scincere, “good luck with your research, I can’t wait to hear about it!”

The doctor smiles, and he’s about to turn away when he looks back at you, “Oh, and (Y/N), great work on that Oscorp piece last week!”

Any other day, you would be ecstatic that someone had read you piece in the back of the paper and at the bottom of the website. Especially after all the work you put into gathering information on Oscorp’s underhanded carbon emissions from half of their facilities. But you didn’t feel that excitement, you hardly felt anything about it. But you thanked Dr. Octavius and grabbed your row of drinks off the counter.

Your brain was in another world entirely as you balanced everything on your hands. Peter had been lying to you for months. Maybe even longer than that. He was bailing on your dates, leaving you alone in the apartment at night to “work.” Still, you tied to put half of your focus on getting back to work in time for the meeting without spilling anything. You only took your eyes off the coffee to check your footing.

But the streets of New York were never kind, not even to those having a month full of bad days. With your eyes on the coffee, you fail to notice an incoming biker barreling down the sidewalk. There’s a ding of a bell that makes you look up, but it was to late to get out of his way without spilling anything.

What’s one more bad day, You think when you realize your situation, on top of all the others?

Still, you yelp as he barely swerves around you, your foot caught under his thin tire. When you jump from pain, your hands instinctually let go of the coffee trays. The smell of lavender and espresso douse your nice work clothes, and hot liquid burning the exposed skin it touches. You jump back from the biker, who was already whizzing past you and disappearing into the city. The edge of the sidewalk was right there, and your heel is already too close to the edge.

“Whoa! Watch out!” You hear someone calling down at you, but what were you supposed to do? You were already slipping into the road and watching as cars didn't bother to slow down.

There’s a burst of air at your side, a hand on your hip, and your feet are barely picked up off the ground before being sat back down a few feet further into the walkway. You saw the red and blue before you could process the entirety of what had just happened. Spider-Man, the walking legend of the New York streets. He was the small time hero whs ometimes got into big-time fights. Your boss absolutely loved him.

You’d never had a personal enounter with the hero before, and you didn’t think you would ever need to. But you’d heard plenty of stories from other people while working. He was a good man, someone who cared about the people of New York, even the small people like you who didn’t have their names on billboards.

“Are you okay?” He aks you.

His voice was a little distorted when you heard it, robitcally. It must be another way for him to protect his identity, you assume. Maybe his suit was more high tech than people realized. You look over at him, wide eyes, coffee all over you, your skin tinted red from the heat, and you say nothing at first. Taking in the situation. Taking in the information Octavius had given you, and the only conclusion you could draw from it.

Spider-Man tilts his head as he lets go of your waist, “Miss…are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Besides the burning coffee your arms an your throbbing foot, you shake your head. But you could feel the emotions you were pushing down starting to bubble over. A month of ignoring signs that the person you loved more than anything was cheating on you, hoping it was all some big misunderstanding. Your job piling more tasks on you because you could take it, with no breaks and hardly time to eat lunch. You just wanted a pizza night with Peter, with your favorite show and your favorite person right next to you. But he was, clearly, with someone else when he was supposed to be with you.

Your eyes start to burn.

“Okay, good,” Spider-Man says with a nod of hs red and blue mask, “that was almost bad. Do you need smeone to uh…walk you back to wherever you’re going?”

Why did he care? You were fine, just getting more upset by the second. Any minute the dams would burst and you didn’t need a superhero seeing you cry over spilled coffee. So you shake your head again, trying to wipe the coffee from your skin.

“That looks like it hurts,” Spider-Man comments when he sees the light burn on your arms, “we should get some ice on that. That coffee shop should have some,” he points to where you had just come from.

You shake your head again, “I’m fine.”

But even to you your voice sounded thick with emotions he woudln’t understand. Hell, you didn’t even fully understand them. What you understand is that Peter wasn’t going to be who you call anymore after a bad day. You wouldn’t go home to him tonight because he would be gone, tell you it was for work, and then turn his phone upside downwhen he got back.

“Alright miss, if you’re sure,” he says, “but some ice water might make it feel better. I’ve had few coffee burns before too.”

You weren’t sure what the final straw was, but you couldn't stop it anymore. The tears fell, and you drop your head into your hands to block it from anyone who walked by. But nobody in New York cared about people who cried in the street, you knew that. You just didn’t want to be the weirdo on this day who broke down in front of a coffee shop. Keeping you cries as internal as possible, you begin to turn towards the coffee shop once more.

“Whoa,” Spider-Man stops you, “Are you okay? What’s wrong? Why are you crying? It’s just a few cups of coffee, we can order more.”

This stranger sounded so much like Peter in his words that it made you cry a little bit harder. Peter was the go to for any kind of comfort. He spoke so calmly when you were loosing it that if made you feel more in control. You hated it right now because you weren’t in control of anything anymore.

Spider-Man places a covered hand on your shoulder that you’re too upset to brush away.

“It’s everything!” You sniffle on the street, people pushing around you without sparing your emotional break a glance, “I’m gonna be late to the meeting because i have to chage clothes, and now I have to get more coffee, and I think my boyfriend is cheating on me!”

Hearing the words out loud, you cries become harder to muffle and tears begin to fall onto your palms. Peter was cheating on you, you were sure of that. There was nothing else that explained his behavior and lies. Normally you wouldn’t wail about your problem to a stranger, but what could it hurt? It’s not like he knew you or Peter, and he would forget about this in an hour when he was pulling a kitten from a tree.

“Wait, why would you…” his voice sounded hurried at first before he stopped and corrected himself, “um why do you think that, Miss? That your boyfriend is cheating on you? I really doubt that’s the case, I mean I don’t know him but I think that’s way out there to assume, not that I know anything about your relationship–”

“What do you care?” You turn from the super hero and back towards the coffee shop, where you try to swallow down your cries and sniffles long enough to order your coffee for a second time.

★★★★★★

Your boss had not been happy to see you appear in coffee covered clothes with a slight limp. He’d been the slightest bit concerned when he also took note of your red eyes and ruined hair, but then told you to go home and change as quick as humanly possible.

But you didn’t move like you were in a rush. Actually, you drug your feet back to your apartment hoping that Peter would really be at work. You didn’t even want to walk into the home you shared with him knowing that he had been running around with someone else while you were there alone. But you had no where else to go and change that was within a one-train-ride distance.

You unlock the door, eyes still stinging at the corners, your clothes sticking to your body. And there was a slight sting in your skin where the coffee had hit. Maybe Spider-Man had been right about icing it. Maybe a cold shower would make you feel better physically and emotionally, but you doubted it.

You open the front door, dropping your keys in the tray by the door.

“(Y/N)! You’re home!” You nearly jumped out of your skin when Peter’s voice came from the living area, “please, we need to talk!”

You look at him as you shut the door behind you, and you wanted to start crying just seeing him. But you held it in and turned away from him.

“I don’t have time for this, Peter,” you tell him, “I’m late for a meeting and I have to shower before I go back.”

“Please, (Y/N) even just a two minute conversation, I swear,” he pushed, walking after you as you went towards the bedroom where you had a bathroom connected, “you don’t even have to talk, just listen.”

“I don’t have time for this!” You repeat, starting to get irritated in the sadness you felt when he spoke your name. You reach the bedroom and make a beeline for the bathroom, wondering if he would disappear before you got out. He follows you up until you close the bathroom door in his face. Your tears fall again under the cold water, and you hope he can’t hear it.

You showered, changed, and blow dried your hair. Not as quickly as you could’ve, but quick enough for your boss to think you moved as fast as you could. Part of you didn’t even want to go back in, but the other option was staying here and facing the music with your boyfriend.

Who was still there when you opened the bathroom door. Sitting on the bed you two shared. His side was strewn about from sleeping, his pillow crooked, the blanks tossed aside. But your side was untouched, even your half of the blankets pulled up. You were always the one to make the bed. He immediately stands up when he hears the door open, turning towards you.

His normally put together hair was frazzed. He ran his hands through it when he was upset. It was one of his tells when he was nervous and tried to hide it.

“Peter…” you sigh as he gets up to follow you from the bedroom, “please, not now. I have a lot to do at work, and I don’t need to be thinking about this while I’m there.”

“You won’t come home at night,” Peter says behind you as you reach for your shoes by the door. They still had coffee marks on them, “you only come back when you know I’m at work, I don’t know when we’ll be able to talk aside from showing up at your work. Which I have thought about, believe me.”

“Then just wait until I’m ready to talk,” you tell him, “what’s wrong with that option?”

“Because I really want us to go back to normal, (Y/N). I want you to come home, and I want to see you next to me in the mornings, and I want to hear about your day–”

“We can’t go back to normal, Peter,” it looks like you were doing this now. There was no way around it anymore. Part of you was relieved, “not after this. I don’t even think there can be an us to go back to.”

“Please don’t do this, (Y/N),” he pleas, approaching you but keeping enough distance between you that you didn’t feel trapped here, “I know…that…I know you think that I’ve been doing something, I know what you think and you have to know–”

“How would you know what I think, Peter?” You ask him, your throat threatening to close, “you’re not around to hear what I think anymore! You’re never here, you’re running out in the middle of the night, you’re lying about where you are!”

“I know that I’ve made some stupid mistakes this past month,” he insists, “but I can fix it all, I swear, and you’ll never have to deal with those problems again.”

Fix it all. He couldn’t fix this. He couldn’t fix the fact that you didn’t believe a single word he said now. Or that you would always wonder if he was looking at someone else when you went out on dates. But you still looked at him and you loved him because you knew what it felt like to be loved by him at one point. When had that changed? When had he stopped loving you? Was it so quick you only noticed now, or had it been so slowly you hadn’t noticed at all?

“Just…” you inhale deeply and try to keep your breathing steady, “tell me the truth…please. Are you cheating–”

“No,” he shakes his head before the question is even out.

“--on me? Are you seeing someone else?”

“No,” he repeats, “I am not, have never, and will never cheat on you, (Y/N), I promise.”

“I don’t believe your promises anymore, Peter.”

“I love you,” he takes a few steps to close to distance between you two so he’s standing directly in front of you. He reaches down for your shaking hands, like he wanted to steady to flurry of emotions you were feeling, “I love you so much, and that is a promise I have never broken. Why do you think that? Why would you ever think I would chose someone over you?”

You pull your hands away from his, sick at how at ease he could still make you feel when he spoke with such a calm voice. You didn’t want to be calm or sad. You wanted to be angry. But his brown eyes only left you feeling small and defeated.

“What else am I supposed to think?” you shake your head and take a step away from him, “what are my other options? Of course there’s someone else–”

“There’s no one,” he presses, “You’re the only person I’ve ever loved like this.”

“So you leave me at a table by myself at Leos?” You ask with a disbelieving headshake, “and tell me you’re at work when Dr. Octavius says he can’t keep you after hours? If you’re not cheating, Peter, then why all the lies? Give me the truth, or I don’t think I can handle being loved like this anymore.”

He doesn’t say anything. Your shoe are on, youre reaching for the doorhandle, and you don’t think he’s going to stop you. That hurts more than anything. Or mayb all of the hurt was piling up and you didn’t know what was the most painful anymore. You couldn’t look back at him for fear you would crack and beg for an answer.

Your hands on the door handle, you want him to stop you, but you refuse to beg him to choose you.

There’s a thwipp sound behind you, and then something cold has your hand pinned to the doorknob. Unable to turn it. You look down at it, and a pile of white spiderwebs is covered your hand entirely. Looking back at Peter, his hand is out and pointed in your direction. His eyes are wide, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing either.

“I-I’m sorry,” he says and takes his hands through his hair in distress, “I didn’t want you to find out like this, but I couldn’t let you walk away thinking that I had cheated on you.”

Your head was going a mile a minute, probably not even on Earth anymore, and you were staring down at the webs covering your hand. Your first coherent thought was that it was Peter you had cried in front of an hour ago, crying about your cheating boyfriend. The second thought was that this also made sense for all the lies and the leaving.

“I’m not gonna stop you from leaving me,” He’s rambling behind you, “even though I’m ready to get down on my hands and knees and grovel for one more chance, but if you need to walk away from me then please just know the truth when you do it. I love you, (Y/N), and that is the only thing I’m sure is true anymore.”

You sniffle, your tears having run dry, “Peter,” you say in a dull and emotionless voice, “can you come get this shit off my hand so I can go back to work?”

★★★★★★

Needless to say, you didn’t get anything productive done after that encounter with Peter. It wasn’t hard to come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t cheating on you. You’d been looking for a reason to do that for a month now. But the fact that he was Spider-Man?

Your Peter, who hated violence, who was as peaceful as a butterfly, who didn’t even like watching MMA fights, was a crime fighting superhero? With powers? And you’d been living under the same room as him for a year and had never noticed?

Your brain was connecting the pieces of every time thing that had happened. Like when the sink handle had broken off one morning in Peter’s hand when you’d first moved into the apartment. You’d laughed about it, thinking about what a funny stroke of bad luck he’d had. Or when he’d come home bruises along his back and say he’d fallen while trying to get work on time. It had sounded true at the time, but Peter wasn’t the clumsy type. Now you knew why. He was coordinated enough to fight super villains.

None of what you needed to get done happened at work. You could hardly process any words you read, and any conversations went in one ear and out the other. Your boyfriend was Spider-Man, you were still grappling with that revelation by the time you got off.

You decided to go home. Now that you knew Peter wasn’t cheating on you, it felt like you could at least see the place again. However, on your walk to the train station, you were hyper aware of every se of sirens that went off somewhere in the distance. Which was every three seconds in New York, and the worry you felt knowing he could be at any crime scene was arguably as bad as the anxiety you’d felt all day.

Of course you could text him. But after ignoring him for three days, it felt only right to talk in person. You hoped you would be home when you arrived, but if not, you would have to wait. It would give you time to think of what you were going to say. Of how you wanted to go about things now that you knew the truth.

You unlocked the front door with anxiety running through your veins. On the other side, the remains of his webs from earlier were still hanging from the doorknob. He’d cut you free with his house keys, and you’d left before you could see the webs closely. When he wasn’t inside, you looked at them a little closer. They were as thin as real spider webs, but you’d felt how strong they were when holding your hand down. Peter was genius enough to make these himself, that’s for sure.

The apartment was empty. You didn’t hear any sign of Peter. So you place your keys in the tray by the door and take a seat on the couch, letting things slowly settle in your head.

You sent Peter a text, “I’m at home. We should talk.”

You honestly weren’t expecting a reply, so you set your phone down and decide to find something to eat. As you silently open the fridge, your options are slim. There’s one can of Dr. Pepper, left over pasta, and a container of uncooked mushrooms in the drawer. Peter clearly hadn’t been shopping while you were gone. You reach for the left over pasta, figuring it was your only option that required minimal cooking tonight.

“(Y/N),” your name makes you jump a mile in the air, a yelp leaving you. Spinning around, you see Peter.

He’s sitting on the edge of a newly opened window that led to your fire escape. In a familiar red and blue suit with a web design on it. The mask is crumpled in his hand, like he didn’t want you to panic when you saw him. His hair is a frizzed mess, and his eyes are staring at you like he was shocked to find you standing in the kitchen.

“You’re here,” he says as you place a hand on your chest to feel how hard your heart is hammering.

He steps into the living area, and you can see the suit in clear lighting. He came in so easily and with skill. Like he’d done it a million times before.

“That’s how you get in without setting off the alarm?!” You ask him in disbelief.

He looks back at the window for a second, and then back at you, “Yeah,” he confirms, “It doesn’t wake you up, and it’s less stairs.”

“Less stairs,” you repeat and nod your head, setting your cold pasta on the counter, “yeah, makes sense, sure.”

Peter puts the mask on the coffee table beside your phone, “you want to talk?” he asks, as if confirming it was you who sent the text message, “I wasn’t sure you were ever coming back, if I’m honest.”

“Well I did ask for the truth,” you tell him, leaning back against the, “I can’t be mad that I got it.”

There’s silence on his end. Like he wasn’t sure what to say next. But you weren’t either. A few things came to mind, but you didn’t know where to start. So you decided on the first thing that came up when you opened your mouth.

“I’m sorry,” you land on, “for thinking you were cheating.”

Peter looks up, eyes wide, clearly not having expected that, “what? Don’t apologize, I’m supposed to be apologzing.”

“Yeah, well, I figured I owe you one too.”

The space between you two felt like miles, but it was only feet. And the apartment felt cold, like you were both avoiding making the first move. You wanted him back at your side, as close to you as he could be. You wanted to sit on the couch with Peter as your peasonal heated blanket, listening to his heartbeat as you fell asleep.

“I owe you about a million more,” Peter shakes his head and finally breaks the distance separating you two, “I never should’ve even let you begin to think that I would pick someone else over you. I should’ve told you the truth years ago, I should’ve told you the moment I realized I loved you, I’m sorry.”

He’s maybe a foot away. He’d closed the distance up until now, and you decide to close the rest. Your hands reach out, the feeling of the suit alien under your fingers, but his warmth reminds you that its him. Pulling him forward, he practically melts into you as you wrap your arms around him. Burying your face into his neck, feeling his hair between your fingers. It was Peter, your loyal and loving Peter.

Peter holds you back. Now you know that the strength he’s holding back is because he doesn’t want to hurt you. How could Peter ever hurt you? He loved you, and you loved him. After too long thinking that that was a lie, it was a relief to know it was still true. Keeping this kind of secret couldn’t have been easy for him, just as it hadn’t been easy for you to think he was being unfaithful.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You ask him as he leans his body against yours, his face buried in your hair in relief, “it’s been years, Pete, you could’ve trusted me with this…”

He lifts his head, only enough so he could press his forehead to yours, “I do trust you,” he says, “but I also love you more than life itself, so I have to protect you above anything else. There’s a lot of people out there who wanna hurt me, and I will not let them use you to do it. I can’t do that to you.”

“Pete trusting me with something like this isn’t damning me to being a damsel in distress,” you inform him carefully, using your hands to gently swipe his messy hair from his eyes.

The apartment was dimly lit, something you’d always complained about, but you could see his face clear as day as he clung to you in the kitchen light. His brown eyes glossy with tears, the freckles dotting his cheeks that you counted when you couldn’t sleep. You though your knew everything about him, every part of him, but he had been hiding an entirely differen life from you. A life that couldn’t have been easy to shoulder all on his own. You couldn’t bring yourself to be mad at him for hiding from you only to protect you.

“I couldn’t risk it,” he admits, his voice as soft as the light above you, “but I also couldn’t stand the thought of you thinking that I didn’t love you with every cell in my body. I needed you to know the truth even if you still left.”

You shake your head against his, “this isn’t going to drive me away, Pete,” you assure him, palms coming to a rest on his cheeks, “what’ll drive me away is the lies. Promise me no more lies, Pete, please.”

He’s nodding his head before you can even finish the sentence, “No more,” he says, “no more lies or secrets, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

You believed him. Not just because you wanted to, but because you could feel that me meant it. Every doubt that you’d had in your head is flooded away as you make the first move to kiss him. His lips were as soft as they always were, his movements just as gentle. He was still your Peter, the same guy you fell in love with over Leo’s pizza. He leans forward, pinning you against the counter so he get a solid grip on your waist.

He hoists you up with one hand, and you can’t help but gasp as he lands your butt on the counter without blinking. He chuckles at your reaction, settling himself between your knees in your shock.

“You’ve been hiding this the whole time?” you ask, now more interested than anything else. You lock your legs around his hips, “Pete, we could’ve been having some real fun with this.”

Peter grins, “Trust me, I know, I’ve had a few dreams about it.”

178 notes · View notes

thatgirlstrawberry · 2 years

Text

Sick Surprise

Feb. Request-5

Spencer Reid x Single mother!fem!reader

In which Y/N and Spencer’s date gets canceled because she’s sick. He shows up at her apartment in for a big surprise

Warnings: Reader is a single mother, fluff and confusion, the reader’s kid being a smart ass just like her mom, cussing, lmk if I missed anything!

This is part 1 of a series linked on my pinned masterlist!

Y/N and Spencer had only been dating for a few weeks. It was fresh, new, amazing.

Spencer felt lucky to have mixed up coffees at the shop on the corner of his street.

“I got a hot white mocha with three shots of espresso and… a black coffee.” The cashier called out.

A girl about Spencer’s age hurried to the counter and grabbed one of the identical cups, not thinking about the other one there.

Spencer grabbed the other cup and pressed his lips together watching her walk back to her table by the big window. She had a book open on the table and a laptop open in front of her.

He looked down at the cup, his coffee smelling different than it usually did. He looked up just as the girl lifted the cup to her lip and made a face as she sipped.

Her eyes searched the shop until they Spencer’s and she smiled sheepishly, sliding off of her chair and onto her feet. She slowly walked up to him.

“Sorry, I think I accidentally grabbed your coffee.” She spoke, her face getting a bit red. “And I think you have mine.”

Spencer noticed how pretty her smile was. Her eyes sparkled even in the low light of the coffee shop. “Uh- Um it’s okay.” He held the cup out to her.

“We can switch lids, if you’d like.” She told him with a kind smile. “Since… y’know I drank out of it.”

“That’s a great i-idea.”

They switched lids and she inhaled awkwardly when they were staring at each other. “I’m Y/N.” She finally said. She didn’t stick her hand out, she just smiled up at him.

“I’m Spencer.”

.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.

Spencer smiled as he walked around his apartment as he talked to Y/N on the phone. “So I was thinking we could have dinner at your place tonight.” He told her. He hadn’t been to her apartment yet.

He heard her inhale sharply. “Spence, I don’t think that’s a good idea…” she trailed off. “I’m sick right now.” She explained.

“Oh… well maybe we can do it some other time.” He said.

Y/N cleared her throat. “Yeah, okay. Spence, I gotta go.”

Before he could say anything she hung up and Spencer furrowed his eyebrows.

.•.•.•.•.•.•.

Y/N wasn’t lying when she said she was sick. Eloise brought home a little cold from Daycare and spread it to her.

Nasty ass kids.

Y/N panicked when Spencer suggested that they do dinner at her place and gave him a weird answer. She didn’t want him to come over partially because she was a little sick but the other half of her was afraid that he’d leave her because she had a kid.

“Mommy!” She looked at her daughter who laid next to her on the couch. They were both watching Mickey Mouse because Eloise would scream her head off if they weren’t.

“Yes, baby?”

She giggled and clapped her hands pointing at the TV. “Goofy so funny!”

Y/N nodded. “Yes he is!” She smiled. She wanted to tear her ears off, she had heard Goofy’s stupid ass laugh way too much that day.

A few more moments later, Eloise piped up again. “Mommy.” She said all serious.

Y/N looked over at her daughter, sniffling. “Eloisey.” She said in the same tone.

She crawled up on her stomach. “Want to go play. In mini kitchen.” She stated.

The mother nodded. “Okay baby. Don’t be too loud. Our under neighbor doesn’t like it when you stomp.” She nodded, tickling her sides. “And what do we say about our under neighbor?” She asked.

Eloise giggle. “Under neighbor Molly has no personality and no ass.” She droned like she was reading from a script, her baby lisp making it sound more innocent than it was.

Y/N winked and high fived her daughter. “Good, go play Ellie.” She smiled.

The girl crawled off the couch and scrambled into her room.

The mother sighed and grabbed the remote, turning Mickey Mouse off and going to Netflix. She turned on Love Island UK— the best in her opinion.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. She sighed and paused her show, rolling off of the couch. She heard Eloise’s little feet pattering in from the other room.

She bit her lip as she glanced back at Eloise trailed behind her.

She reached the door and opened it. “Hel— holy fuck, no!” Her eyes widened. Spencer flinched back and furrowed his eyebrows at his girlfriend.

She looked down at his hands seeing cold medicine, a box of cold and flu tea, and container of soup.

“Mommy, who?” Eloise asked from behind her leg, peeking up at Spencer. He looked completely shocked and utterly confused.

The mother sighed and looked down. “Eloisey, why don’t you go play, baby?”

She nodded. “Can have hotdogs an’ cheese for lunch?”

She tore her guilty eyes away from Spencer’s and looked down at Eloise. “Yeah, babe. Just give me one second.”

The girl pattered away, giggling and shouting about her pasta that she was cooking in her mini kitchen.

She looked back up at Spencer. “What are you doing here?” She asked quietly.

Spencer swallowed. “I-I’m sorry— I just wanted to bring you some things since you said you were sick— was she calling you m-mommy?” He rambled.

Y/N bit her lip. “Do you wanna come in?” She asked, stepping out of the way. He sighed and nodded, walking into her apartment.

He looked around at all of the toys and paper and coloring pages. “I’m sorry. My place is a mess and Eloise is sick and the only way I could get her to stop screaming was to let her draw and run around like holy tyrant and-“

He set the things he had brought on the small dining room table. “I like it.” She but her lip and inhaled deeply.

“Thank you. For bringing me that stuff.” She nodded, hesitantly stepping closer to him.

“You’re welcome.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the only sounds were Eloise’s little voice pretending like she was running a restaurant.

Y/N smiled. “Spencer, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I- I just though that it would s-scare you away and I really didn’t wanna scare you away and-“

“You could never scare me away.” He spoke, getting closer to her.

Her eyes softened. “But you’re still really young. What man wants to date a girl who got knocked up in college?”

“What happened? Is her dad around?” He asked, avoiding the question.

She sighed and looked down at her feet. “This guy I was dating got me pregnant at a party and then like— transferred to a college across the state when I told him.”

She crossed her arms. “That’s terrible, Y/N. I’m sorry. Do you have any support at all? I mean, not that you’re not doing great I just mean—“

“My mom and dad don’t help out much. They still shame me for having a baby anyway.” She told him.

Spencer tilted his head. He was going to say something but Eloise’s voice was getting closer and closer.

“Mommy, play food with me!” She whined. She looked up at the stranger. “You play too!”

“Eloisey, I don’t think he wants—“

“What’s on the menu?” Spencer interrupted her. Eloise smiled and rushed up to him, grabbing his pant leg and dragging him towards her play room.

Y/N smiled warmly at the sight and pressed her lips together, following them.

“Strawbewy soup, pop tarts, chick pie…” She kept going with fake dishes she had made up as Spencer sat down at her little princess table. “Mommy sit!” She stomped her little foot.

She chuckled and sat on the other side of the table, her knees pressing against the edge just as Spencer’s were.

She glanced at him as Eloise brought a piece of paper with a bunch of scribbles on it. “What you want?” She asked rather snappily.

Spencer chuckled. “Uh, what are you getting Y/N?” He asked, smiling at her.

“I’ll take…” She pretended like she was thinking for a while. “Strawberry soup please!”

She hummed and nodded rapidly. She looked up at Spencer. “What want?”

“I want a chicken pie.” He nodded.

“Otay… toming wight up.” She nodded, tearing the paper up from the table after she scribbled words on it.

She walked away humming, going to play with her little mini kitchen. “How old is she?” Spencer asked.

Y/N tore her eyes away from the little girl as she ‘cooked’. “She’s 3 going on 13.”

“Wow.” He smiled.

Y/N giggled. “I’m glad you didn’t meet her during her terrible 2s. She’d have gum in your hair and your shoe laces tied together by now.”

Spencer chuckled but got quiet as he looked at Eloise still dancing and pretending to cook. “You could have told me, Y/N. ”

Y/N bit her lip as tears filled her eyes. “I— i didn’t want you to feel like I was trying to make you stay.” She shook her head. She was quiet. “And I w-was scared that we would get abandoned like we did when I got pregnant. A-and I didn’t want you to feel like you have to do anything for her— I’m so sorry—“

Spencer tilted his head. “Y/N, If I’m with you, that means I’m with her.” He nodded. “It’s a package deal.”

She smiled, trying not to burst into tears again. She wiped her eyes when Eloise came up to the table again. “Mkay, mommy. Here is straw soup!”

She nodded at the girl as she got a bowl of water and a plastic fork. “Mm thank you baby! It looks super good!”

She giggled and turned to Spencer. “Here is chick pie!”

“Thank you, Eloise!” He gasped as she set a paper plate with a piece of bread on. “This looks yummy.”

Y/N chuckled at the use of his word. “Mm looks so yummy I might need a bite of yours.”

The girl was in the middle of babbling incoherent words when she started sneezing and coughing.

Y/N raised her eyebrows. “Looks like it’s mommy’s turn to play food!” She gasped, getting up from the chair and scooping Eloise up. “It’s time to get some medicineeee and some hotdogsss and some souppppp.” She tickled the baby.

Spencer followed them into the kitchen where she set Eloise down on the counter next to the sink.

Y/N reached up in the cabinet to grab the baby cold medicine out. “What’s your name?” Eloise asked him as Y/N danced around the kitchen grabbing orange juice from the fridge. Spencer walked and leaned on the counter next to the little girl.

“My name’s Spencer. What’s yours?” Of course he already knew what it was but it’s important to ask toddlers questions that they can answer easily.

“Eloise.” She nodded proudly. “You call me Eloisey like mommy.” She smiled and clapped her hand over her mouth, coughing.

Y/N came up to her shaking a shot glass (yes a literal shot glass) that had a mixture of cough syrup and orange juice in it.

“Eloisey’s special drink!” She smiled handing the girl the shot glass. She quickly drank it and handed the glass back to her mother.

“Mmmm!”

Spencer laughed and she looked over at him. “Hey, it’s the only way I can get her to take medicine.” She held her hands up in surrender.

The man shook his head. “No, yeah, I get it! Whatever works, works right?”

Y/N nodded. “Yeah.” She sniffled. “Do you wanna stay for lunch? The menu is sparse but I make a pretty good hotdog bites and cheese.” She shrugged. “Also featuring that soup you brought.”

Spencer nodded. “Yeah, of course!”

.•.•.•.•.

Spencer now understood why Eloise liked to dance so much.

Y/N twirled around the kitchen, dancing around to the ‘Grease’ soundtrack. Eloise giggle in her arms as she screeched the wrong lyrics. Spencer wasn’t even sure that she he was saying real words.

Spencer chuckled and watched the two dance around. Eloise looked just like her mother.

“Okay! Time to eat baby!” She set the girl down in her chair and twirled back over to the stove where she took the hotdogs out of the pan and put it onto her green Mickey plate.

This kid was obsessed with Mickey.

She cut up the hotdog and tore sliced cheese up and put it on top. “Mommy, please! I’m hungry!” Eloise whined.

“I know baby, give me a minute I gotta get your fruit!” She smiled at Spencer. “Kid acts like I starve her.” She rolled her eyes.

He chuckled and walked over to the table sitting in the chair across from Eloise. “What kind of fruit do you like?” He asked her.

“I wike… ummmm bwuberries, appohs an…. oranges!” She listed. “Don’t wike nanas an gwapes.”

Y/N giggled from the kitchen, cutting up some oranges for her.

A few moments later, she set a plate in front of Spencer and plate in front of her daughter. “Where my cup, mommy?”

“In the kitchen.” She nodded, going back in there. “Do you want blue or pink juice?”

Spencer admired how they interacted. She was a really good mother and he could tell.

He watched her fill the small sippy cup halfway with pink juice and the other half with water. “Here you go sweet cheeks.” She smiled, setting the cup down in front of her.

Y/N looked at Spencer. “Would you like a glass of wine? Beer?”

Spencer shook his head. “Water’s fine.” He nodded at the glass she had already set in front of him before.

“Oh w-well do you want ice? Or a flavor packet?” She asked, her face a little worried.

“No I’m okay, Y/N.” He smiled. She sighed and nodded with a small smile on her face.

She sat down next to Eloise and kissed her cheek as she chewed on an orange.

.•.•.•.•.•.

After lunch, it was nap time. Eloise started getting cranky.

“You ass!” She cried when Spencer tried to play with her. “Ass! Ass!” Y/N gasped and scooped her up from the couch.

“No, Eloisey! We don’t say that.”

“You say ass all time, mommy!” She giggled.

Y/N sighed and looked at her boyfriend. “I’m gonna… go put her down. She’s tired.”

She walked into the room and left Spencer sitting on the couch.

20 minutes later, Y/N came back out with her hair a mess and sleepy eyes. She stalked over to the couch where Spencer was waiting patiently and collapsed next to him.

“God, she’s a terror when she’s tired.” She laid her head on his shoulder.

Spencer wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

A few minutes passed and that just sat there in silence. “Spencer?” She spoke quietly.

“Hm?” He hummed.

She looked up at him, a small smile graced her lips.

“Thank you for not leaving me.”

—————————

YUUUHHH DAY 5

Thanks to the amazing requester (chose not to be tagged) If you had something else in mind, I’m happy to rewrite!!

I LOVED WRITING THIS ONE

I was also asked to ask YOU if you’d like me to make this I to a series! I definitely will because I loooove this concept!

Feel free to request any fic!! Love y’all

#spencer reid #spencer fluff #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid smut #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid x original female character #spencer x oc #crimimal minds #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds

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qqueenofhades · 7 months

Note

Is it normal that I’m legitimately so scared of saying pretty morally tame things like “I don’t want to talk about genocide because it makes me severely uncomfortable” or in general expressing my political opinion.

Like i’m not even kidding when I say that all my drafts are just my possibly offensive (probably not) political takes i’m just so scared of everyone leaving me it’s not even funny.

Anyway i also think that if you talk about Palestine but not Ukraine you are a victim of Russian Propaganda™️

I’m sorry I don’t know why i did this have a nice day ok baiiiiiii

Here's the thing. You and every other average social media user should not have to masquerade as a sudden in-depth expert on every single social, political, humanitarian, etc. crisis that we are dealing with in this wretchedly miserable excuse for a timeline. It should not be a baseline expectation on you that when you log onto your little social media in your little average life, you have to come up with The Correct Opinions on everything and if you don't, you're "perpetrating oppression" by not vigorously spreading misinformation, instead of simply admitting that you don't know what to do, you as an average citizen are not in a position of making this change and therefore don't actually have to spend every waking minute obsessing about it, and that maybe, just maybe, you'd like to spend more time informing yourself until and/or IF you decide you want to talk about it. This is the same as the Instagram Activists (TM) who traumatize themselves to the point of PTSD by constantly consuming torture and/or war porn and/or graphic content about murdered children because they "don't have the right to look away." Actually, you do. You are able to make choices to control your personal social media use and to set boundaries as to what you do and do not want to do and/or see, rather than insisting that the only moral choice is to literally mentally destroy yourself with all the weight of human suffering in the world and then expected to act as a de facto expert on all of it, on pain of being Cancelled. This is a stupid, irrational, unhealthy, and generally idiotic expectation. You should not have to take part in it. Nobody should.

Likewise, I think that this is a large part of why people are so scared to voice any opinion that goes against the Prevailing Groupthink: they are afraid of losing friends, of having nasty bad-faith internet trolls say mean things about them, being accused of being a "bad person," or otherwise being guilt-tripped, shamed, and blamed for not centering their entire existence around something that they cannot actually do anything about. Once again, people think the only way you can be Known to Oppose Something Problematic (tm) is if you post on social media about it all the time. Forget whatever you might be doing offline, in your real life, or otherwise; it "doesn't count" if you don't make a big virtuous display of your Rightthink, or you will be viciously harassed. Now, look, I am old and/or tired enough that I don't give a shit what stupid internet users say about me, but I can tell you that I sure did when I was younger, it was incredibly painful to be on the end of those kinds of attacks, and it's (again!) not something you should just have to expect as a baseline level of gaslighting and harassment. As I have said. This is Tumblr. It is a stupid blue website mostly for fandom and/or three in-jokes. This is not a platform where we are expected To Do Social Justice all the time, nor should it be. As for Elon Musk's Twitter: yeah. No.

Also: yes, if you do spend all your waking moments obsessing over Palestine, but say nothing whatsoever about Ukraine and/or openly support Russia, you are in fact very much a victim of Russian Propaganda and you 100% support genocide when it's done by an "anti-western" state that you support for that reason alone. You only care because you can use the cause to make yourself look morally superior, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with opposing genocide on a basic, universal, or fundamental level. The end.

(I hope you have a nice day too. The anger in this is not directed at you. I support everything you've said here and hope that you're able to set healthy boundaries and protect yourself.)

#wolfieisacat #ask #politics for ts #apparently i am in a fighting mood today #so i might as well get it all out

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raisingcain7433 · 2 months

Text

Incorrect Quotes

Harry: Guys, there’s a monster under my bed and it’s really ugly. Valkyrie, on the bottom bunk: Honestly, fuck you.

Valkyrie: I refuse to apologize for being weird or off-putting. That’s actually your problem. I’m having a fantastic time!

Harry: WHY DID YOU KILL HIM?! HE COULD HAVE HAD HOPES AND DREAMS, HE COULD HAVE HAD A FAMILY!!! Valkyrie: Harry- Valkyrie: It- it was just an ant-

Valkyrie: I eat cheerios because they’re heart healthy. Valkyrie: And my heart has been severely damaged, so Militsa, if you’re out there—

Harry: I wanna be a knight! Valkyrie, a knight: What the fuck do you want this shit for? I kill people, all right? Their blood is on my hands! Every night, when I go to sleep, I see their FUCKING faces staring at me! Their families weep, and I FEEL NOTHING! I’M DEAD INSIDE! Harry: Man, I want some of that in my life!

Valkyrie: Do you want some tea? Fletcher: What are the options? Valkyrie: Yes or no.

Harry: Do you feel any better? Valkyrie: I feel much better now that you here with me. Fletcher walks in Valkyrie: I feel half better.

Fletcher: I’m so excited! Valkyrie: We’re gonna have the best costumes, get the most candy… Fletcher: And have the biggest stomach aches ever! Valkyrie: Yeah!

Fletcher: What do you three have to say for yourself? Nefarian: Skulduggery: Valkyrie: Oops?

Valkyrie: What’s wrong? Harry: I have to write a whole paragraph for school. Valkyrie: That’s not so bad; I write entire books. Harry: Yeah, but this has to be good.

Nefarian: Dude, I will never forgive Craigslist for banning me after I wrote a post seeking a sworn nemesis. Whoever reported that is obviously my nemesis but I was so pissed.

Skulduggery: Just trust me. Have I ever put you in an unsafe or uncomfortable situation? Fletcher: All the time. Skulduggery: Then you should be used to it by now.

Harry: Last night I found out Valkyrie is a sleep talker. Skulduggery: Oh, really? Harry: "The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell." Right. In. My. Ear. At 3am.

Nefarian: cooking Fletcher: kicks down door Fletcher: grabs knife from Nefarian's hand Fletcher: WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT DESTRUCTIVE BEHAVIOR? Nefarian: Nefarian: What. Harry: He's trying to tell you he wants to cook.

Nefarian: Wow, left handed AND British? You really are an illusion.

Fletcher: How do Valkyrie and Harry usually get out of these messes? Skulduggery: They don't. They just make a bigger mess that cancels the first one out.

Nefarian: Help! I’m drowning! Valkyrie: Calm down. We’re only in six feet of water! Nefarian: NOT ALL OF US ARE TALL!

Skulduggery: Come on, you need to go to bed. Harry Snuffles says that I can stay up as long as I want. And that you need to die! Skulduggery: … Skulduggery: What the hell, Sirius—

Skulduggery: So what’s the plan? Harry: I don’t know. You’re smart, points at Valkyrie they’re mean, come up with something.

Skulduggery: I dunno if I'm ready to process the ramifications of this bullshit.

Harry: So anyways have y'all seen Skulduggery? Valkyrie: I think they went in Nefarian's room 'studying'. Fletcher: Doubt that. I heard groans there. Meanwhile in Nefarian's room Skulduggery & Nefarian, fighting:

Harry, looking at a selfie of Valkyrie’s: I hate this photo. Valkyrie: I’m cute as fuck in that photo! I’m smiling kindly. Harry: You’re not smiling kindly; you look like you’re up to something. Valkyrie: Up to kindness.

Nefarian: Sometimes, I don’t realize an event was traumatic until I tell it as a funny story and notice everyone is staring at me weird.

Valkyrie: Stands in trash can. Skulduggery: Valkyrie, not again! You're not trash, you're at least recycling!

Valkyrie: Nefarian always accuses me of having a favourite but that’s not true. Valkyrie: I love Harry and all the not-Harrys equally.

Skulduggery, at the slightest provocation: I came into this earth screaming and covered in someone else's blood and and I'm not afraid to leave the same way.

Fletcher: Nefarian, you need to react when people cry! Nefarian: I did. I rolled my eyes.

Nefarian, shooing Skulduggery away: Can you go be depressed over there? You’re bumming out my whole area.

Nefarian: It smells like henway in here. Skulduggery: Harry: Skulduggery. Harry, forcefully: Doesn't it smell like henway in here? Skulduggery: sigh Skulduggery: What's a henway? Nefarian: OH ABOUT TEN POUNDS!

Valkyrie: I think I need a hug… Fletcher: Good thing I'm hug shaped! 45 minutes later Valkyrie: You… you can let go now. Fletcher: No, I absolutely cannot.

Valkyrie: Fletcher won’t wake up, what do I do? Nefarian: Did you try kicking him? Valkyrie: Yes. Nefarian: I’m out of ideas.

#skulduggery pleasant #harry potter #valkyrie cain #fletcher renn #nefarian serpine

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alharringtonfan · 6 months

Note

honestly I haven’t been that involved with the whole Alex stuff but am I somewhat not surprised how Chezz and many others are acting this way since the whole “the holier than thou” and “oh don’t worry guys I’m unproblematic and safe uwu” stuff some analog makers have if that explains it and please correct me if I’m wrong but isn’t one of the people that “came out” like also tried accusing Martin of the same shit? Like what.

Honestly I don’t wanna accuse people of anything but I would not be surprised if one day something similar comes out about them.

it’s just feeding a monster that will soon come to bite them in the ass.

I'm pretty sure it's Mitcha who started the grooming thing (always has to be them huh). They also went against Alex but the thing that confuses me is that they warned him about Ven making a callout doc... so, are they a hater or not? I don't know about that whole thing really well because I'm a donut specialist© but searching around the alex tag you'll finds tons of information about them.

100% my friend. Alex tried the same thing back then with Urbanspook and it just reflected back to him like a boomerang. This thing with pretending that you're better than everyone else is complete bullshit, because good people don't have to prove to anyone that they're good in the first place. Same thing with humility. People who are humble don't go around screaming "LOOK! I'M HUMBLE!!! LOOK AT ALL MY GOOD ACTIONS!!" because they don't need to. They show it through their actions and people see them and recognize them as such.

Chezz and Martin are disgusting people that try to mask their filth with a facade of kindness and acceptance. They try to pander to as many people as possible to convince the world that they're genuinely "good"; and to do that, they go for the narrative that's most widespread and accepted by the general public. Because if they would dare to even think about going against the masses, people would pile up on them. And they will do ANYTHING to prevent it from happening. What Martin fears the most (aside from cats apparently) is people hating on him. The guy is so fucking insecure that some mean things said about his series prompted him to take a year-long break. Oh and on this topic I recommend that you check out Radal's reaction to The Walten Files. It's funny and it pisses off Martin so win-win. Their public image is everything they have, they don't care about being genuine. If people will pat their backs and praise them for their behavior and "courage", that's good enough in their books. Same thing with donut, the slanderer queen and master of the anti-alex death cult.

So, don't ever trust people who are too overly accepting of everything, everyone, all the time. Especially if it is compatible with modern culture and media. EVERYONE has the things that they hate, the things that they disagree with. Milquetoast creators like Alex Kaizo and Tyler Osborne, who will just nod along to whatever their audience says and not even conjure a single original thought of their own because they're too afraid to face backlash are fake. They're all plastic without a hint of morality in themselves.

Also, it will DEFINITELY bite them in their asses. Believe me. Kwite and Squizzy collaborated with Slazo's ex girlfriend to try and cancel him over false allegations of abuse. Both of them got canceled. Alex went along the mob and tried to cancel Urbanspook because that was the hip new thing to do at the time. He got canceled as well. It's just something that happens on the internet, and it'll never change because people are willing to remain or at least pretend to be dumb if it gives them likes and a bit of notoriety. Nobody is perfect, and if a meh relationship was enough to get Alex to face all this shit, who knows what will be the catalyst of the next drama. Martin and Chezz are horrible people that do not deserve the audiences that they have. I am without a doubt when I say that they HAVE done something infinitely worse than this. Chezzkids is a serial clout-chaser and grifter, who let the little "fame" he got after calling Urban names (just like the toddler he is) get to his head and inflate his ego to an immense degree. People who are too full of themselves and think they're the best of the best mess up due to a lack of forethought. They are so confident in their abilities that they won't even think about if what they're doing is the right decision to make. And that's why the twat won't ever back down. He's too egotistical to accept defeat just like Ven's cult members defenders. If Chezz is willing to stain the relationship he had with Alex over some crappy highschool level drama, you can already pinpoint his morals and character, and how he truly treats others within his vicinity.

Martin has a server with a security tighter than the CIA. He's afraid to bite the hand that feeds him but it will punch him back when time is most appropriate; despite the lengths he will go to try to keep his image squeaky clean. One can only imagine the shit he has in there and when it'll eventually surface.

Urban "boogeyman" Spook is a better person than 99% of these cardboard cutouts that dare to call themselves creators. They can only destroy. All they create is hate, the sole things they know how to spread are lies and manipulation. They're nothing more than greedy, hateful, cowardly sycophants.

Phew. I feel a lot better now. Thank you for the ask, anon! I hope you're doing fantastic today 🫶

#ask #sue gang rise up #ranting and raving

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sparrowsage · 10 months

Note

Sparrow being offered to be drugged for a showing, which Damon promises will be the worst yet.

He can either be awake and feel it all, all the pain and humiliation, but still have the opportunity to fight. Or he could be blissfully unaware and 'sleep' through it. Wake up hours later, none the wiser and just a little sore.

Thank you so much for this! I was all giddy at the idea, it's so fucking beautiful! And I have to give an amazing thanks to @darkthingshappen for the use of her Whumper Volkov, who is mentioned in this piece! Her and I have some things planned with Volkov and Sparrow that was mentioned in this drabble that we're excited to share with you once it's done!

TW: Very vague implications of future noncon, mentions of past abuse/torture, drug mentions, implied future drugging, the term "boy" used for an adult male (if I missed any, let me know!)

Fighting the Decision (A Warehouse Drabble)

“Get the fuck away from me,” Sparrow growled, doing his best to back up from Damon as he approached him.

He had only been back at the Warehouse for a few days after his two week stay at the island, and while he was regrettably glad to be back in a familiar place, all Sparrow wanted was more than a few days rest before things returned to normal. Some peace before the oncoming storm he was sure to endure.

Damon clicked his tongue a couple times, looking down at the pet on the floor of his office, crossing his arms over his chest. “The whole point of that trip was to see what you’ve learned so far, but all it seems to have done is bring you back to where you started.”

“It was a sick and twisted joke and you know it,” Sparrow snarled back. “Why even send me there if I were to end up back here?”

Damon quirked an eyebrow, seeming to be slightly amused by the words despite it being back talk. “I was curious to see how you’d do under a different hand, and while you’ve resorted back to how I first got you two months ago, there have been noticeable changes in how you behave. You seem more…how should I put it? Afraid.”

Sparrow clenched his fists behind his back, his wrists straining against the metal cuffs that kept them locked behind him. “I’m not afraid of you,” Sparrow said, though his tone was more quiet than before.

“Oh, I think you are,” Damon said in return, crouching down so he was more level with the pet. “I have a proposition for you then.”

Sparrow did his best to scoot back even more when Damon crouched down, trying to hold himself to appear bigger, but all he really wanted to do was hide in the shadows of the office and disappear.

“What the fuck is a proposition?” Sparrow asked harshly, earning an amused chuckle from the Keeper.

“You’re so naive it’s funny, Songbird. An idea, I have an idea. I have quite the audience waiting for your next Showing since you’ve been absent for two weeks, so I have one scheduled for you in an hour. Since you’ve been fighting me at every turn ever since you returned, I thought I’d give you an option on how this Showing would go.”

“I don’t want to do a fucking Showing, cancel it.”

Damon shook his head softly, looking over the pet’s body. “You know that’s not an option. The choices are you go through this welcome home Showing lucid. Wide awake, able to feel and endure everything like you normally do. Or,” Damon paused, letting the first option sink in before he continued, “You can go through it drugged, to the point where you don’t remember a thing.”

This has to be a trick, Sparrow thought. Damon has never had him drugged for a Showing, preferring him to be awake and lucid to elicit more of a reaction.

“Why give me the stupid options when you’ll just end up choosing the first one?” Sparrow asked, his body rigid and tense at the thought of the whole thing.

“Because I’m genuinely asking. I know Volkov does things differently than I do, so I’m giving you an out to ease you back into the system. If you go with the first option, you can still fight against everything I do. Granted, it’ll do nothing in the end, but you’ll still be able to try. If you go with the second option, you get a break from it all, but it’ll leave you entirely at my mercy. This may be the only time I grant you this out, Songbird, so choose wisely.”

“Either way, I end up in a world of fucking pain and end up humiliated,” the pet mumbled, but his gaze shifted to the floor as he thought it over.

A break. When has he ever gotten a break from all of this? To have a choice in not remembering any of the things done to him? The Keeper hardly ever went back on his word, so the fact that Sparrow would never be given this chance again weighed down on him heavily.

But drugged to the point of not remembering anything that’s going on? Damon would probably give him something so he’d still be somewhat awake. The fucker loved hearing him moan and scream. He wouldn’t be able to do anything against what the Keeper had planned. It seemed like a lose-lose situation. Stay awake and endure it all and remember it but still stick to fighting back or not remember a thing and be as compliant as they come and embarrass himself due to the lack of thought.

As Sparrow thought over the options, Damon merely cocked his head to the side slightly, content to watch his Songbird think. It almost seemed like he could see the gears in Sparrow’s head turn, trying to figure out the best option. Regardless of his choice, the boy would go through the Showing and it would be a sight to behold.

After several minutes, Sparrow let out a sigh, his gaze not moving up from the floor, his head hanging in defeat. “The second one,” he mumbled, his body slowly going lax in his seated position on the floor. “Just get it over with.”

Damon’s eyes widened at the choice, the Keeper pushing himself up to his feet as he smiled down at the other. “Second option it is.”

Sparrow clenched his jaw as he heard Damon leave the office, flinching as he heard the door shut.

It felt like he was giving up on everything he had fought for up to this point, but all he truly wanted was a break. A true break from everything he was going through. Once it was all over, he’d be back to his normal, fighting self and things would resume as normal.

Sparrow couldn’t help a tiny part of himself hoping that Damon would keep him in that state forever so he’d never have to remember any of this again. But that was wishful thinking. The Keeper would never be that merciful. Might as well take the small mercy while he could.

Taglist: @mannerofwhump, @honey-is-mesi, @painful-pooch, @whumperfully, @hiding-in-the-shadows, @flowersarefreetherapy, @goronska, @blueyellow8green, @oddsconvert, @darkthingshappen, @whumpcereal, (If you want to be added, let me know!)

#answered ask #answered prompt #The Warehouse #Damon Graves #Sparrow Cresky #Very vague implications of future noncon #mentions of past abuse/torture #drug mentions #implied future drugging #the term “boy” used for an adult male #drabble #Warehouse drabble

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dlrconlicense · 10 months

Text

Louise Brealey On Starring In BBC Three’s Upcoming Comedy Such Brave Girls

Such Brave Girls will arrive on BBC iPlayer on 22 November

By Olivia Emily | 3 days ago

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Louise Brealey is perhaps best known for her witty portrayal of lovelorn morgue technician Molly Hooper in Sherlock – but we’re loving her recent comedy work even more. She’ll next be seen in the BBC‘s hotly anticipated comedy Such Brave Girls, coming later this month. Written by Kate Sadler, Louise plays Deb, the matriarch of a dysfunctional family, trying and failing to keep her kamikaze daughters from disaster. We sat down with Louise to hear all about it.

Interview: Louise Brealey

Hi Louise, how’s life going at the moment?

Hello! It’s been a busy summer – my new film has been doing the festival circuit so there have been a lot of planes, trains and automobiles.

You’re about to star in BBC’s new series Such Brave Girls – can you give us an elevator pitch for the show?

Two messed-up twenty-something (real-life) sisters [Kat Sadler and Lizzie Davidson] and their total car crash of a mother attempt to navigate their way out of disaster and into love.

You play Deb – can you describe her?

Deb is amazing. She’s a shockingly bad mum who has completely messed up her two Gen Z daughters. I think of her as one of those vending machines at railway stations and swimming pools where you can get a Twix, but all that’s on her shelves is Tough Love.

What was it like playing her?

A terrifying hoot – she has a lot of lines.

How did you get into character/prepare for the role?

I based Deb on a little girl I used to know. You could see every emotion on her face. Guile, rage, confusion, fear. When she was cross, she scowled. When she was delighted, she beamed.

I used my real accent: Northamptonshire. It has softened over the years, so I sound a lot posher now, but it’s how my family speak and I’ve never had the chance to work using it.

Any funny stories from rehearsals or filming?

The scenes requiring our amazing intimacy coordinator, Elle McAlpine, were hysterically funny and genuinely not at all awkward. Poor Paul Bazely who plays Dev may have experienced some chafing.

What is the cast dynamic? Who was your favourite person to work with?

We are like a little family when we are filming. I feel very protective of Kat and Lizzie. And Paul is a wonderful human being and a phenomenal actor.

Are you still in touch with any of your co-stars?

Yes, we message all the time.

Josie (KAT SADLER), Deb (LOUISE BREALEY), Billie (LIZZIE DAVIDSON) in Such Brave Girls. © BBC/Various Artists Limited/James Stack

You’re perhaps best known for your role as Molly in Sherlock. What is that like to look back on?

Bittersweet because I don’t feel we finished it, and we have lost Una Stubbs. But it was incredible to be a part of what was really a phenomenon. It couldn’t happen now with streaming.

Any special memories from the show?

Too many. Having a candle in an egg custard tart (my favourite) on my birthday in Benedict’s trailer… Laughing and laughing with darling Una and Rupert Graves, who is a dreamboat.

You’ve also starred in the likes of Lockwood & Co, Brian and Charles and Back recently. But what has been your favourite project to date?

I loved working on Clique for the BBC a few years back. I got to play a hard-ass Queen Bee university lecturer in power suits who was afraid of no one, and then to completely fall apart. In an Edinburgh accent.

I loved Lockwood & Co. How does it feel for the show to be cancelled after just one series?

I felt so bad for the young cast, the crew, the fans and everyone whose livelihoods depended on the show coming back. It got such fantastic reviews and great viewing figures. I feel like the hoop it had to jump through for the streamer was just too impossibly small.

Any roles in the pipeline that you’re excited about? (If you’re allowed to tell us!)

I’m the lead in a lesbian chicken factory musical film called Chuck Chuck Baby.

Who has been your favourite actor to work with in the past?

This is much too hard. There have been so many that I admired, and some I now call dear friends. But my buddy Jeff Rawle I’ve worked with three times now, and we are trying to make it a fourth.

Which co-star did you learn the most from?

Antonia Pemberton, who played Nanny in Peter Hall’s Uncle Vanya when I was Sonya. She told me not to keep tomatoes in the fridge.

What’s your dream role?

I’m desperate to get back on stage. I’ve been doing film and television for the past seven years, but theatre is my heart and my home.

What’s a genre you’d like to do more of?

I’d like a good horror. I can’t watch them because I’m a scaredy-cat, but I’d love to be in one.

Do you get to spend much time at home?

Not enough. I’ve been gadding about.

Do you live in the town or the country? Which do you prefer?

I’ve lived in London since I left university. I live on a hill next to an oak tree, so it feels like we are in the branches. I can never leave London because I’d miss the culture stuff, but I am a woodland creature.

What’s your interior design style?

A mish-mash of old things I’ve found in auctions. Too many books.

How do you find balance in your personal and work lives?

I don’t.

What did you want to be when you were growing up?

An astronaut.

If you could give advice to your 15-year-old self, what would it be?

Don’t sleep with that guy’s flatmate when you are 21.

How can we all live a little bit better?

Choose love.

Anything fun in the pipeline – professionally or personally?

I’m going to run away to a southern European city for January and February to write.

Quick Fire

I’m currently watching… Only Murders in the Building

What I’m reading… We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson

The last thing I watched (and loved) was… Silo. I love Rebecca Ferguson.

What I’m most looking forward to seeing… The Motive and the Cue with Mark Gatiss in the West End because I was away for its National Theatre run.

Favourite film of all time… Don’t Look Now

Favourite song of all time… ‘Disco 2000’ by Pulp

Band/singer I always have on repeat… Leonard Cohen

My ultimate cultural recommendation… Join all the museums and galleries

Cultural guilty pleasure… Overcooked 2. It’s computer game where you run around and try to make kebabs.

What’s next for me is… Walking my dog in Beckenham Place Park – it’s south London’s secret mini Hampstead Heath.

Watch

Louise Brealey stars in Such Brave Girls, on BBC iPlayer from 22 November. bbc.co.uk

#Louise Brealey #Such Brave Girls #BBC3 #A24 #I'm loving all the Loo-tent recently #She has a little shout out to Mark Gatiss in the quick fire section #I share her sentiment on Sherlock ending

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ivory--raven · 7 months

Text

day 28, made you smile. we've all seen the scene. we've all seen the looks.

Michael senses it with every aspect of her being. War against Hell has been declared.

Why? They’re not having an Armageddon. That was cancelled four years ago and she’s grown quite used to her existence as it is. It’s rather annoying, really, for it to be such a surprise. Work is satisfying, Jeanne is amazing and for once safe, Dagon has her utterly captivated. She isn’t ready for a war. She hasn’t had time to make plans, to prepare, she hasn’t had the troops training in four years.

Still, they are technically four years overdue for a war, and she does enjoy smiting demons. This will be her excuse.

She and Uriel meet Saraqael, the excitable scrivener Muriel, and someone else at the lift. The other being looks familiar, they are… Crowley. A demon. What’s he doing here?

Unauthorized war on Hell and a demon in Heaven. Had he caused it?

“Funny old world, isn’t it?” he says as they descend and his outfit changes to the black she associates with demons.

They emerge outside the embassy in London, Aziraphale’s bookshop. A ramp appears for Saraqael and they all follow Crowley inside. There is a stunned demon on the sofa.

“What did you do to them all?” asks Crowley.

Aziraphale clears his throat. “I did the thing with the halo.”

Oh no. That’s as official as it gets.

“You what?” asks Crowley, as if he can’t believe it either.

“I did the thing with the halo,” repeats Aziraphale.

“You blew up your halo? Hell won’t like that!” laughs Crowley.

No. No, they won’t. They’ll understand it as the war declaration it is.

They appear, then. Some demon whose face she doesn’t know and Dagon. Dagon who seems extremely pleased, strutting towards the center of the room. There’s a glint of fire and fight in her eyes. Her shoulders. Her hips.

Beelzebub appears in a flash of fire. Michael hardly notices.

“We are at war!” says Dagon through her smile. “Finally!”

“Nobody’s at war,” says Crowley. “You idiots sent an idiot to lead a gang of idiots to attack a bookshop. Those idiots there want their Archangel back so they can fire him.”

Michael does not like to be called an idiot but she is far too distracted by Dagon turning and hissing at her. She shakes her head. Her ridiculous demon. She’s far too attractive in her uniform, which she appears to be wearing over… not much, her top is sheer. It’s not fair.

Dagon chokes. Good. Michael likes to have that effect on her.

Beelzebub wakes up the demon from the sofa. “Nice job, Shax. Beautifully done. Remind me to put in for your commendation.”

“Sarcasm, yes?” Shax looks to Crowley.

“I’m afraid so,” confirms Beelzebub. If demons are going to be teaching each other the art of sarcasm, they can do it in Hell!

“If it is to be war,” Michael starts, looking at Dagon, before Crowley interrupts.

“No, no, no, no, no war,” says Crowley.

Dagon purses her lips, shimmies a bit with her hand on her hip. Ridiculous, enchanting demon. Michael would smite her all right, but not in the usual way. Take her away right now.

Crowley is saying something about Gabriel, Aziraphale brings out a cardboard box. Dagon leans forward, holding her arms in front of the two demons on either side of her. “Careful. Could be a trap.” She’s protective. She’s sweet. She’s actually afraid of the cardboard box. Michael understands. Aziraphale and Crowley are known traitors with suspicious powers. Michael knows how worried she was when it turned out Crowley was undestroyable.

“It’s a cardboard box, it’s not going to bite you,” says Saraqael.

Dagon moves back anyway when Aziraphale dumps some old things out of the box. Michael doesn’t blame her.

There’s writing on the box, a fly - Michael can guess where this is going. It’s him, the assistant bookseller, it’s Gabriel, and Beelzebub is so tender with him. “Good boy,” they say, “no wonder nobody could find you. This is where you were keeping all your memories. All your you. Look at you, you’re perfect.” They offer it to Gabriel - to Gabriel’s body, at least. “Here. Take it. Gently.” They’re smiling at him.

It goes in his eye, then, and he straightens - he remembers. Gabriel.

He smiles his professional smile. He laughs. “Michael, Uriel?” He forgets Saraqael’s name, which Michael can tell annoys them. Dagon makes an unpleasant face at him. Michael loves her for it. “Oh, eesh. You guys,” he says. “You,” he says when he finally turns to Beelzebub, and it’s like he’s immediately soothed. He remembers them, then. Good. They’d been distraught. If he’d remembered everything but them, there would’ve been a problem.

And he has been happier since he started seeing them. Annoying he may be, but he is something to her, and Michael wants that happiness for him.

“Silly, silly angel,” says Beelzebub, far too affectionately to be hiding anything. “Why?”

“I was coming to you, but I… forgot,” says Gabriel. Behind Beelzebub, Dagon meets Michael’s eyes.

The demon next to Dagon, Shax, calls Beelzebub a traitor. “Collaborating with Heaven,” she accuses them of.

It’s so risky, what they’re doing. They have to pull this off.

“I just found something that mattered more to me than choosing sides,” says Beelzebub. Dagon gags.

Someone says something and it’s a mortal. There are mortals here? “Someone turn them into salt,” says Michael. The security risk! Saraqael raises a hand but Crowley interrupts and ushers the two mortals out. He’d better be going to dispose of them outside.

“Fancy liking an angel,” Dagon says, shuddering. She sounds convincing. It isn’t real. It isn’t real. It’s for the benefit of everyone who can’t know, for privacy and safety. Shax has something loud and annoying to say to Michael, the demon Michael doesn’t know has a complaint for Michael. They want Beelzebub back, is the gist of it.

“They probably did something to Gabriel,” says Uriel. “Corrupted him.” Saraqael agrees.

Dagon points at Michael. “You Archangels,” she says. “You Archangels.”

Michael smirks. She’s right, and she can say it, as long as she doesn’t clarify. Michael cups her hand by her ear. “I can’t hear you.”

Aziraphale rings an annoying loud bell - Michael instinctively raises her arms to cover her head, but it’s only him, it’s only Aziraphale. “I’ve had quite enough of this!” he snaps. Michael has had quite enough of being here. If there is no war, the only crisis is Gabriel and Beelzebub, which wouldn’t be a crisis at all if it wasn’t so public. Michael would like to go home.

“You will speak one at a time,” demands Aziraphale.

Shax asks for Gabriel and Beelzebub to be handed over to Satan. “He won’t want them,” says Dagon. “Maybe as hors d'oeuvres.”

“And I demand you hand them over to us, to face celestial punishment,” says Michael. Someone had make the counteroffer, after all.

“Obviously we would be reserving the option to send them both to Hell as our punishment,” adds Saraqael. “But we’d be the ones doing it.”

Aziraphale offers Gabriel and Beelzebub the choice, and of course they choose to leave together than stay and be punished. They don’t want to be destroyed, and that is very much still on the table.

Crowley suggests Alpha Centauri.

“If you leave, you can never come back,” Uriel tells Gabriel.

“That would be the point,” he says. He seems fine. Perhaps with him officially gone, Michael can have his job. Heaven will need a new Supreme Archangel. And with Beelzebub gone, well, there is a natural choice for a successor.

Beelzebub suggests Shax might have their job. Dagon glares at the back of Shax’s head, shifting like she might be about to get out a weapon and stab Shax in the back.

Michael interrupts before that can happen. If Dagon is going to be rid of Shax, it won’t be now, in front of Aziraphale and Uriel and Saraqael and the demon she still doesn’t know. “Angels and demons, they can’t just-”

Gabriel and Beelzebub start singing that song Gabriel had been humming before, and disappear. Off to Alpha Centauri - or, if Michael knows Gabriel, a tailor.

“I believe the Dark Council might have something to say about all this nonsense,” says Dagon, who must know full well they do since she’s on it. The demon Michael doesn’t know whispers something to Shax, and all three vanish back to Hell.

“I am authorized to remove the name of anyone who helped Gabriel from the Book of Life,” says Michael. She’s never actually seen the Book, but Aziraphale doesn’t know that and she’ll figure something out. She’ll get it from The Metatron. “You will never have existed, Aziraphale. In the absence of Gabriel, I am the Supreme Archangel-”

“Duty officer,” says Uriel.

Michael does not care. “And I-”

“Excuse me, sorry, I must interrupt you there,” says someone who has just walked in. Michael stares, open mouthed. Walked in. Interrupted her. Michael. Supreme Archangel.

“I don’t believe I asked for any interruptions.”

“I couldn’t help it,” says the person. “You’re talking utter balderdash. I mean, complete piffle! You don’t have the authority to do anything like that!”

Michael has never been so insulted in her entire existence.

“And who are you?” she says, a moment away from smiting them no matter the response.

“For Heaven’s sake! And I mean that most literally. You don’t know me?” he asks. “What about you, demon, do you know me?”

“Get him out of here!” insists Michael. Or she will kill him.

It’s The Metatron. It’s The fucking Metatron. He dismisses them back to Heaven like naughty children.

Uriel and Michael exchange glances and Uriel bows. “Your Reverence, your - your Grace, your…”

“Spit it out,” he says.

“Have we done anything wrong?” asks Uriel. It’s the question both of them have, probably Saraqael too.

“That remains to be seen,” he says, which is very alarming. All three Archangels return to Heaven together.

“I’m going to my office,” says Michael as soon as they arrive. Uriel nods and turns on their heel, off to their own. Saraqael doesn’t even have a sarcastic comment - they must be shaken.

Of course Michael doesn’t go to her office. She goes to the house, with Jeanne, who is watching a film on the new television they’ve installed, where Dagon is waiting for her.

Dagon.

“Michael,” she breathes, and embraces her.

#femslash omens #femslashfeb2024 #angelfish #ineffable administrators

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mckiwi · 20 days

Text

Update for An Angel and a Demon Walk into a Hotel

Chapter 2: Crowley and Aziraphale's POV is now posted, but can also be read under the cut. If you haven't already, please read Chapter 1 either here or on AO3, then feel free to come back to this.

“I can’t believe you convinced me to watch a bloody Oscar Wilde play with you,” Crowley bemoaned, pushing the speed limit to just over 80 while keeping his eyes on the sparsely lit road in front of them.

Aziraphale scoffed, “You like the funny ones!”

“With a title like ‘The Importance of Being Earnest,’ you can’t blame a guy for being just a tad skeptical of the genre,” Crowley argued.

“Never judge a book by its cover, or, play, rather.”

“Everyone judges a book by its cover, Angel. Why d’ya think authors pay good money to have people design their covers?”

“Be that as it may, did you still enjoy it?” Aziraphale asked, turning to look at the other.

Crowley remained silent for a moment, “perhaps.” At Aziraphale’s chuckle, he bit back with, “Oi, none of that, now. You can lose your air of self-satisfaction.”

“And whyever would I do that?” Aziraphale challenged. Crowley responded in the way of a yawn. “Hmph. It is getting rather late, isn’t it? Would you like me to drive the rest of the way?”

Crowley laughed, “Absolutely not. Last time I tried to teach you how to drive the Bentley you nearly ran her into a signpost.”

“You hit a woman!”

“She hit me!”

Aziraphale sighed, “Okay, would you like to stop for the night, then?”

Crowley shook his head, “Nah. Think I’d rather get you home so we can drink till sunrise.”

Two minutes had passed and Crowley had yawned twice as much. “Crowley,” Aziraphale tutted.

Crowley threw his head back, “fine,” he drawled. “You’ve gotta pick the place, though. I doubt there’s anything open this late at night.”

Aziraphale hummed in acknowledgment. “The next town shouldn’t be too far from here. Perhaps we can find an inn somewhere.”

Not too much longer, Crowley found himself pulling under a canopy surrounded by a crowded car park. “I don’t know, this place is looking kinda full,” Crowley said as they stepped out of the Bentley, “I doubt there’s any rooms left.”

Aziraphale adjusted his coat and rounded the vehicle, “well, there’s no harm in asking.”

“There is in my experience,” Crowley retorted with a huff.

“Oh, Dearest, you know I didn’t mean it like that!” Aziraphale fretted and laid a comforting hand on the demon’s shoulder.

Crowley gently nudged his hand, “It’s all good… bad… whatever– just being a feather in your wing.”

“You always are,” Aziraphale said, but the fond crinkle around his eyes betrayed his words. The duo walked in through the front doors and took in the hotel’s vintage atmosphere. “Oh, well this is nice!”

“Sure, if you call a hotel that’s a few decades old ‘nice’– don’t answer that.” Crowley interrupted himself when he saw the angel’s eyes brighten.

A boy behind the front desk perked up at their arrival, “Hi, welcome in! Do you two have a reservation?”

Crowley wandered over to the coffee machines while Aziraphale took care of their room situation, per their agreement, “I’m afraid not. We’ll be needing a room for two, please.”

The boy grimaced sympathetically, “I’m sorry, we’re actually completely booked up for the night.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. He could almost feel Crowley smirking on the other side of the room. Well, that wouldn’t do. With a quick gesture out of the boy’s sight, a couple found they miraculously didn’t need their room for the night and canceled. “I do believe you’ll find you have one room left.”

“No, sir. I doubt it. I’ve been booked for hours now and I had just checked my page not that long ago,” the boy answered skeptically.

Crowley, having felt the slight tingle of miraculous activity, deadpanned while stirring his coffee, “Check again.”

The boy eyed Crowley warily from behind the front desk but checked his system again regardless. “Oh, I’m sorry! We actually do have a room left. It’ll be our standard King bedroom.”

At that, Crowley decided to intervene and approached the desk, “Just one bed, then?”

“One king-sized bed, yes,” he confirmed.

Crowley’s head rolled to the side dramatically and glared at Aziraphale, who in turn bristled, “Well how was I meant to know? And what would our head offices think if we shared a room.”

“It’ll be fine, Angel. Just get the room,” Crowley reminded. The six-thousand-year habit of ensuring plausible deniability was a hard one to break.

Aziraphale relaxed only minutely and sighed, “Fine. We’ll take the room, please. Under the name A. Z. Fell.”

“Perfect. What’s a good phone number we can use?” The boy turned his attention back to his computer.

“You can use my bookshop’s number. +44 20 7440 3248.”

“Excellent, and what kind of vehicle are you driving?”

Crowley intervened again, “We’re in my car. Issa Bentley. A black one from 1933. Plate is NIAT RUC. Name’s Anthony Crowley, by the way. If you need to put that in your notes, or whatever.”

The boy seemed to contemplate something before asking, “Is that ‘curtain’ backward? Are you a patron of the arts, by chance?”

“Ngk, well… you ah, you could say I’ve put a certain investment into Shakespeare,” Crowley answered as Aziraphale chuckled softly, knowingly.

They gave the final details of their reservation, paid, and were given their key cards. “Here you are! Room 119. That’ll be down this hallway to your right. The WiFi password and breakfast hours are inside your card envelope.” The boy handed the keys over to Aziraphale.

“Wonderful! Thank you ever so much! And what was your name again, dear?”

“Gabriel.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said sourly, “that’s unfortunate. No matter. Well, I hope you have a nice rest of your night.”

“You as well,” the boy returned.

Crowley announced, “Right, well, imma go park the car. Angel, you can go look at the room or something. I’ll catch up.”

“Okay, dear. See you in a tick.”

“Hmmk,” Crowley responded eloquently and left to go park the car. The car park was very nearly full, not that this mattered much to a demon with an imagination like Crowley’s. He expected there to be an empty spot close to the front door, and so there was.

Aziraphale in the meanwhile thanked the boy, Gabriel, again and went back to find their room. Shortly after Crowley came back in, made another coffee as well as some tea for Aziraphale, then knocked on the door of their room, “It’s me. Lemme in.”

Aziraphale opened the door partially and teased, “What if I don’t want to?”

“Aye, I paid for it! It’s my room, technically speaking.” Crowley argued, leaning his hip against the door frame.

“Yes, but, it’s under my name and number.”

“Nyeh, the devil’s in the details.”

“Oh, I’d rather hope not,” Aziraphale opened the door fully to let his demon inside.

Crowley analyzed the room and plopped onto the side of the bed, “not bad. Pretty much what you’d expect out of a place like this. Well done.”

“Thank you, though I am sorry about the bed,” Aziraphale confessed, taking a seat at the desk opposite the bed.

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll figure something out.” He leaned against the headboard and fiddled with the TV remote. “D’you suppose it’s weird we didn’t bring any luggage with us?”

Aziraphale thought about it for a moment and took a sip of his tea, “no, not really. I do have a book in your car I’d like to go get later, though.”

“Yeah, I’ll walk you out. Now, let’s see what kind of entertainment they’ve got for us.” Crowley pointed the remote at the TV and started flipping through the channels. “Let’s see… stupid American show, stupid American cartoon, oh, The Food Network, you might like that.” Crowley glanced over to Aziraphale sitting straight-backed in the desk chair. “You know you can sit on the bed, as well. There’s plenty of room. My back’s getting sore just watching you sitting all prim and proper like that.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the way I sit,” Aziraphale said, slightly offended.

“Exactly, scoliosis fears you.” Aziraphale remained where he was. Crowley tilted his head toward the empty side of the bed, “come on. We’ll be here all night. Might as well get cozy.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, “Yes, but I’d hate to be a bother. I know how much you need the rest.”

Crowley shook his head, “not a problem, Angel. Honest. You could never bother me. Look, we can ask for another pillow or blanket when we go grab your book if that makes you feel any better. That way we don’t have to worry about you being a blanket hogger.”

The angel smiled and looked down at his hands in his lap, “I suppose that could work.”

“Of course it could. I thought of it. What d’ya say we go ahead and grab the stuff so we can tuck in for the night? Get a few hours of rest and head out early. I’ll have you back to your books before afternoon tea.”

Aziraphale considered it, “Hmm, alright. Let’s do that.”

Crowley spun the car keys around his finger as he followed Aziraphale to the lobby, “I’ve been thinking about getting the Bentley detailed. Just a nice cleaning, really. I mean, I’ve kept her clean with miracles for decades, of course, but there’s something refreshing about taking a hot shower every now and then, you know? I imagine she’d probably feel the saYEM-” He yelped as Aziraphale grabbed his arm and jerked him back. Crowley stumbled at the sudden change of direction, “what was that for!”

Aziraphale urgently slapped a hand over Crowley’s mouth and looked back around the corner, “Shh! Be quiet!”

Crowley pulled Aziraphale’s hand away and whispered harshly, “What was that for?”

“Gabriel’s out there!” Aziraphale exclaimed lowly.

“Well, yeah. He works here? Doesn’t he?” Crowley asked, frowning in confusion.

Aziraphale pulled a face, “No, not Gabriel. Gabriel, Gabriel!”

Crowley stuck out a forked tongue and his eyes widened in understanding, “Oh. Yeah, that might be a bit of a problem.”

“A bit?” Aziraphale criticized, looking back around the corner.

Crowley followed his example and poked his head around the corner just above Aziraphale’s. “What’s he doing?” Crowley whispered.

“Nothing?” Aziraphale answered. “He’s just standing there, talking.”

“Mmm, sounds menacing.”

“Crowley, please take this seriously! What if he knows we’re here?”

Crowley took Aziraphale’s wrist and led them further down the hallway, away from Gabriel, “I am taking this seriously! And you know what, maybe he does know we’re here, but maybe he doesn’t. Am I comfortable with him being so close to us? Heavens no, but I’d rather just hide at this point and not draw attention to ourselves. He doesn’t seem to be looking for us. Or you, anyway.”

“Why else would he be here, then?” Aziraphale asked, distraught.

“I don’t know! What are you going to do? Go up to Gabriel and say, ‘Oh, hello there, buddy old pal! What brings you to this neck of the woods?’” Crowley gestured animatedly, giving the angel an incredulous look.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened as his gaze met Crowley’s, “maybe not the archangel Gabriel, but the human Gabriel…”

Crowley’s lips lifted into a sneer, “No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want you going anywhere near him!” Crowley said vehemently.

“Gabriel’s just a kid. He couldn’t hurt me.” Aziraphale answered, puzzled.

Crowley threw his head back with an aggravated groan, “No, not Gabriel. Gabriel!”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, “it really is quite the unfortunate name.”

“I’m sure the archangel Gabriel got a real kick out of it. Self-righteous arse that he is.” Crowley countered.

The two fell into a terse silence before Aziraphale spoke up, “I’m going with my initial plan.”

Crowley raised a single brow, “what plan?”

“To talk to Gabriel! Human Gabriel, that is.” Aziraphale said and made to peek around the corner once more.

“Ssstop!” Crowley grabbed his arm and twisted him back before the angel could see. Aziraphale’s complaint died on his lips once he saw Crowley’s eyes completely blown with gold, the slitted pupils a mere hair’s breadth in width. He knew the demon only ever had this kind of reaction when, “another demon’sss around.”

Surely enough, the pair heard the front doors slide open, accompanied by the sound of a demonic horde of flies.

“What is Gabriel doing here with Beelzebub?” Aziraphale exclaimed.

“Like hell I know!” Crowley retorted and committed to dragging them both back to their room. Only once the door was securely fastened and the desk chair lodged under the handle did Crowley take a breath and lean back against the wall. He heaved a sigh and let his eyes flutter shut for a moment, “What’ve we gotten ourselves into this time, Aziraphale?” He felt something warm bump into his arm and looked up in alarm. Aziraphale smiled apologetically and raised the warm cup of coffee in way of explanation. “Oh, thanks,” Crowley said and took the cup gingerly.

Aziraphale took a sip from his own cup and set it on the nearest surface. “I do think we need to see why Gabriel and Beelzebub are here– borne more out of necessity rather than curiosity.”

Crowley blinked languidly then downed the rest of his coffee, “Yup, you’re probably right. Alright, how do we do this?”

“Well, I can sense Gabriel, and you can sense Beelzebub. Perhaps we should wait until we feel them both leave the front lobby, then go ask human Gabriel if he knows why they’re here.”

Crowley stared somewhere behind Aziraphale, “I don’t like this.”

Aziraphale's eyes crinkled around his grimace, “I know, Dearest. I don’t either, but I don’t think there’s anything else we can do. You’re too tired to try to miracle yourself and the Bentley back to the bookshop.”

“I probably could,” Crowley narrowed his eyes in determination.

“Well let’s make that our Plan B, then. Hmm?” Aziraphale dissuaded.

“Mmh,” Crowley hummed. After a few moments, he flicked out his tongue, “Beelzebub is moving.”

“So is Gabriel,” Aziraphale agreed. They both stood stock-still as they tracked their respective former side’s boss. “He’s gone to the north side of the hotel.”

Crowley nodded, “Same here. What are they doing?”

Aziraphale held out an open palm, “I suppose we should go find out?” The demon considered the inviting hand in front of him for several seconds. He exhaled heavily through his nose and pressed his hand into the angel’s.

Upon confirming the archangel and Prince of Hell were out of sight, the duo hesitantly came up to the desk. “Hello again, dear,” Aziraphale began, “um, I understand if you can’t answer this for… patient confidentiality or what have you-”

“He’s not a doctor for Go– for Somebody’s sake, Angel. Just ask him the bloody question.”

“Right, yes, I was getting to that. Anyway, could you possibly tell us why Gabriel and Beelzebub are currently in your establishment?” Aziraphale asked, to which Crowley sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

The boy behind the desk seemed to consider his answer for a minute before settling on, “They said they were having a meeting.”

Both immortal beings felt their hearts stop despite never having needed them to beat in the first place. Crowley spoke first this time, “Did they say how long this ‘meeting’ would last? Did they say anything about what the meeting was over? Did they mention our names at all? Did they ask about us?”

“No, sir. As far as I’m aware, they’re having a meeting about some kind of report.” Gabriel looked between the two. “They haven’t said anything about either of you. Should I tell them you’re here?”

“No!” They both shouted, before promptly shushing each other and grabbing at each other’s sleeves. Aziraphale cleared his throat, “Best not, dear boy. That wouldn’t bode over so well for either party.”

“Right, okay, well…” Gabriel stumbled over words.

“Angel, with me,” Crowley all but dragged Aziraphale back towards their room once again.

Aziraphale fretted with his waistcoat, “Oh, dear Lord. Do you think they know about the swap?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley answered shakily, looking around their room wildly. The desk chair once again found itself to be lodged under the door handle. “I don’t know, Aziraphale, I just– I don’t know what to do.”

“They haven’t asked about us, at the very least. That might be a good sign?” Aziraphale theorized.

Crowley shrugged, “I don’t know. They didn’t seem to be aggressive, but that doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Aziraphale blinked, “now that you mention it, the lobby did feel rather odd.”

“Odd how?”

“Like it was… oh, how do I put this? Almost as if Gabriel, the archangel, were projecting feelings of love.”

“Gabriel? Giving off love? That prick’s never given off a lick of ‘love’ in his too-long life.” Crowley said, disgusted.

Aziraphale made an expression of agreement, “I did say it was odd.”

Crowley pursed his lips, “Actually, you might not be too off the mark. Beelzebub’s presence is feeling less hateful than usual.”

“Maybe,” Aziraphale started, “they’re not here for us, after all.”

“Maybe, ‘cause Beelzebub definitely hates me. I’d know if they were trying to find me.”

Aziraphale spun the signet ring around his pinky a few times, “I don’t even feel Gabriel’s presence here, anymore, except for a Blessing.”

Crowley took the opportunity to feel for Beelzebub, “they’re gone, too. That was quick. Ope, wait, they just Cursed something, I think.”

“Should we go see?” Aziraphale asked.

“See what they Cursed? Probably not. Better not be my car.” Crowley stiffened at the thought of his precious Bentley being harmed.

“Go see if they’re both truly gone, I meant.”

“Oh, yeah. Probably.” Crowley amended.

Exactly one minute later, Crowley peeked around the corner, “Are they gone yet?”

The human Gabriel exclaimed from the lobby’s windows, “There’s a car on fire outside!”

“What!” Crowley was at the nearest window before either of them could comprehend it. He practically plastered himself to the glass to peer out, then peeled himself away with a sigh of relief, “Whew, it’s not mine. Almost had a heart attack there, and that’s saying something.”

“What’s going on here?” Aziraphale asked, having followed Crowley out a moment later.

Gabriel shrugged, “There’s a car on fire, apparently. I don’t know what to do, I– I mean,” he gestured cluelessly, “guess we should see who’s it is.”

Crowley moved back slightly to give the boy room to look outside and laughed, “I’d hate to be that guy.”

The boy paled, “That’s my car.”

Crowley shifted uncomfortably, “…oh.”

Aziraphale came up behind Gabriel and rested a hand on his shoulder to turn him away from the window, “Don’t fret. I’m sure your car is just fine.” With a quick miracle, reality adhered to his words.

“What was that?” Gabriel asked.

“What was what?” Aziraphale returned.

“That thing you just did with your hand.”

“I don’t believe I know what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale said carefully.

The boy narrowed his eyes in confusion before looking at Crowley, who shrugged noncommittally, “didn’t see a thing.”

The boy then turned back to the window frantically, shook his head, rubbed his eyes, and looked at the window again. “No, you did something. I’ve been getting this weird feeling ever since you came in.”

Dread started to slowly snake its way into Aziraphale’s mind as the angel and human observed each other. His brow creased in worry and pinched his lips as he took in Gabriel’s erratic breaths and clammy skin. “Are you feeling alright?” he asked.

Gabriel stepped back and inhaled shakily, cocking his head to the side and eyeing Crowley warily. He’d stepped up to Aziraphale’s side. “Think we might have another one, Angel.”

Aziraphale sighed, “Seems like it. That’s what happens when you get blessed by an archangel, I suppose. Gabriel never did have a touch of subtlety.” Aziraphale took a step toward the archangel’s Blessed, “Come here, dear.”

The boy shook his head vehemently, “why?”

“Don’t be afraid,” Aziraphale Said. Crowley hissed softly and backed away from the second-hand holiness as Gabriel walked towards it. The angel held one of the human’s hands in both of his. “May you go home, and dream of whatever it is that you like best. Be well and go in peace.” Aziraphale released Gabriel’s hand, and the boy clutched it with his other at his chest.

“Healed that scratch too, didn’t you?” Crowley asked from a small distance away.

Aziraphale smiled sheepishly as his holiness diminished, “I was already extending my Grace to fix what Gabriel left rattled– might as well go ahead and fix what I find on the physical plane as well as the metaphysical.”

A soft grin spread across Crowley’s face, “I know. You’ve always liked healings.”

Aziraphale jolted at the memory of Crowley’s earlier hiss, “Oh, my dear! I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“Nah. Just got a little too close to a hot oven, is all. No harm done.” Crowley reassured with a yawn. “Think we can head back to the room now? The kid’ll be coming back to his senses soon enough. Best not give him another existential crisis by seeing us.”

Gabriel still stood in place, holding his hand to his chest, but he was indeed beginning to blink away the haziness.

“Perhaps you’re right. Let me just grab my book from your car and I’ll be back with you in the shake of a lamb’s tail.” Aziraphale said and stepped out of the front doors. Crowley snapped his fingers in the meanwhile and an extra pillow and blanket appeared in his waiting arms. Aziraphale noticed the new linens immediately once back inside, “where’d you find those?”

Crowley shrugged, “does it matter?”

Aziraphale mirrored the action, “I guess not. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

An angel and a demon found themselves on either side of a king-sized bed. The demon lay underneath a white duvet while the angel sat on top with a thin blanket and book in his lap. Aziraphale used the pillows to create a makeshift backrest while he kept his hands occupied with reading Persuasion. A small pair of reading glasses fit soundly on his nose and a small smile graced his lips while his eyes danced over the words on the page. Crowley peered up at the angel from beneath his nest of sheets and pillows, suddenly glad for the lack of sunglasses. From where Crowley was on the opposite end of the bed, the lamp’s light cast Aziraphale’s side profile into a fiery silhouette, framing his face in sharp shadows to contrast the brilliant halo of soft curls that Crowley knew could never be as stunning as the real deal, no matter how bright the light. Nothing could compare to the pure essence of his angel. “Aziraphale?”

“Yes, dear?” Aziraphale asked, eyes meeting Crowley’s for only the briefest of moments before returning to the page in front of him.

Crowley couldn’t help but stare openly, “I did like the play.”

“I’m so glad to hear it. You can choose next time if you’d like.” Aziraphale suggested, sparing Crowley another glance and a smile reserved just for him.

Crowley hummed, “maybe.” He shuffled onto his side so his back faced the other and pulled the duvet up to his chin. “G’night, Angel.”

“Good night, Dearest.”

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #good omens fic #azirapahle fic #crowley fic #mckiwiwrites

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f0point5 · 27 days

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/f0point5/759896129817182208/okay-soooo-this-influencer-halley-went-out-with

When the guy broke up with Halley he literally told her to her face “I don’t see you as the love of my life” she admitted it and when she made a video trashing them for going on a date she called him pathetic and a homie hopper.

People are coming at Sofia like “why is she talking about this now it happened a long time ago” as if influencers aren’t known to talk about shit that has happened to them. Sophia was was STILL getting shit in her comments about being a home wrecker and according to her was getting harassed in public over it. Some people are trying to justify the hate towards her because when this first happened (she was seen with the guy) someone told her “oh you’re trying to do Halley’s hair and it doesn’t look good on you” or something with Halley’s style and she answered “her ex looks good on me”

Which I’m not gonna lie I kinda thought was a little funny. Like if you’re gonna send your millions of followers to cancel me for going on a date with with the guy that dumped you I would probably be shit talking too

My fyp has injected more of the story now omg I didn’t know the girl was responsible for “Im sorry I didn’t know you owned him he wasn’t wearing a collar”…iconic sorrynotsorry.

At the end of the day this never needed to get brought to the internet. Like, Sophia should have kept it pushing if she knew what was good for her because society cannot handle a Regina George anymore. If you want to be bitch nowadays you have to be a “girls girl” bitch.

They weren’t friends, Sophia didn’t owe the other girl any loyalty. The man is free agent, go get him if you want him. Fr what if he was the love of her life? She’s going to miss out on that because of some other girl whose name she won’t know in 3 years? Fuck offf with that. Did she need to be running her mouth? No. Dumb move. Unnecessary. But then if people were trying to paint it like she needed to be ashamed of herself when all she did was go out with a man? Idk I’d probably have popped off.

Home wrecker? What home? The man said he couldn’t ever love her bitch there was no home to wreck they were probably paying for their own McNuggets 😂😂

And there is NO excuse for this Halley girl. Honestly if a man told me he didn’t love me/didn’t see a future with me…you couldn’t waterboard that information out of me And she’s out there sharing that on the internet like girl maybe he didn’t love you because your sense of shame is so underdeveloped he was afraid you had a damage prefrontal cortex 🤮 are you not embarazzzed? And then to take him back? Dear lord i would say she should go as a doormat for Halloween but you’re supposed to be in costume and doormat is clearly just her regular attire. And she was trying to cancel her friend who wasn’t even her friend for what? Dating the same man she’s pining over publicly? Maybe your not-friend has good taste idk.

So yeah, Sophia didn’t need to bring this online but she has an excuse. Halley has not one.

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shadowoffandoms · 2 years

Text

ROTTMNT Incorrect Quotes

Look, I'm sleep deprived, and this happened. Enjoy.

April: What do you guys do when you're stressed? Mikey: Try and calm myself down! Raph: Sleep. Leo: Get myself into even more stress, so that the first reason for my stress gets cancelled out. Donnie: I don't.

Donnie: I'm going to be an adult in 4 years and I only have a vague idea of what I'm going to do. Raph: I’m gonna be an adult in less than a year and I don’t know what I’m doing with my life. Leo: I'm with you there… April: I'm an adult and I don't know what I'm doing with my life. Mikey: Three types of people.

Mikey: The greatest trick the devil ever played was getting me banned from an all you can eat pizza buffet. Leo: Why’d you get banned? Mikey: Touched the rat. Leo: … What rat? Mikey: Chunky Cheese.

Donnie: That's not funny. Cassandra: I thought it was funny. Donnie: You don't count. You started laughing in the middle of a funeral because you started thinking of a meme you saw on Facebook.

Leo: Yesterday, I watched Cassandra try to eat a decorative rock from April's potted plant. Raph caught them, and told them they can't eat rocks. Cassandra started whining something about no food being in the house before walking away.

Raph: I have to say, I'm a little embarrassed for you. Leo: This is a sports-related injury. It makes me look cool! Raph: Tripping over a basketball on your way to the bathroom is not cool!

Mikey: I'm so tired of this life. I want to be a roomba. I want knives taped to me. And I want to be set loose.

Cassandra: What does a winner do when life gives them lemons? Casey: Um, make lemonade? Cassandra: No, they squeeze them right back into life’s eyes!

April: Baby vibes… hold gentle… like hamburger. Leo: Punt like football.

Cassandra, at the slightest provocation: I came into this earth screaming and covered in someone else's blood and and I'm not afraid to leave the same way.

Leo: Stressed. Cassandra: Depressed. Raph: Possessed. Mikey: Obsessed. April: Impressed. Casey: Chicken breast. Everyone: …What? Casey: I just wanted to join in.

Donnie: Sometimes I drink milk straight from the container. Mikey: The cow?? Donnie: What? Raph: Mikey, W H Y?

Donnie: Astrology is fun because i can pretend that all of my behaviors are just a result of being a Gemini and not symptoms of mental illness. Leo: Being a Gemini is a mental illness. That’s not hate it’s just a fact.

Donnie: So oxygen went on a date with potassium, it went… OK. Leo: I thought oxygen was dating magnesium, OMG. Donnie: Actually oxygen first asked nitrogen out, but nitrogen was all like NO. Casey: I thought oxygen had that double bond with the hydrogen twins. Mikey: Looks like someone's a HO. Leo: NaBrO. Cassandra: I'm done with all of you!

Cassandra: Why isn’t the statue smirking at me? Mikey: It isn’t smirking at anyone, they’re all just imagining it. Donnie: Three of us saw it, Mikey. How do you explain that? Mikey: *points at Casey* Sleep deprivation. *points at Leo* Paranoia. *points at Raph* Delusional personality disorder.

#rise of the tmnt #rottmnt #rottmnt incorrect quotes #rottmnt mikey #rottmnt raph #rottmnt leo #rottmnt casey jr #rottmnt cassandra jones #rottmnt april #rottmnt donnie #save rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #save rise of the tmnt #save rottmnt #unpause rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #incorrect quotes

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nanathott · 4 months

Note

okay, I'm the one I asked for advice. this is a bit long so take your time.

first I must give you some context. i’ve always been a person who has a hard time interacting with people, especially making friends because i’m very introverted and quite shy and people usually think i’m scary bcs of my looks. that's why when i was a kid i didn't really have friends (just a few but weren't really close and i always felt out of place around them), but that was okay because i always had my sister who was a year younger than me who was like my best friend. even so with adolescence that changed and as we developed our tastes and personalities we began to distance ourselves, so i lost my best friend </3 and so i had to start looking for friends, which was extremely difficult because i had no experience.

but anyway, despite that in high school i managed to make friends, which made me very happy. and it was always fine, they’re very good people and i appreciated them a lot, especially for being my only friends.

the problem began abt three months ago when i met two new girls who are my classmates and we quickly became friends, which left me somewhat confused because again, it had always been difficult for me to make friends and it even took me a few years to get used to and even feel comfortable around my old friends. this, because (and this is another reason why i find it difficult to have any kind of relationship) i’m too cautious and distrustful of people, afraid that they might hurt me or abandon me (due to family traumas lol).

despite this, my two new friends made me feel comfortable super quickly and managed to break down all my barriers effortlessly. for example, i hate physical contact (or at least that's what i always thought, since it always made me uncomfortable, except coming from my little brother who has always been bit clingy) but with my new friends it's different and in fact i feel touch starved and the NEED to always touch them, whether in hugs, playing with their hands, resting my head on their shoulder, etc. things i never got to do with my old friends who i've known longer. i also feel that i don't have to restrict myself with the things i want to say and we share many more things in common than with my old friends with whom i used to differ a lot

i also feel that with my new friends i’m a little more adventurous, since lately i’ve been trying new things that i’d never have dared to do before and trying to enjoy life in different ways.

anyway, the thing is that my old friends feel a little insecure about these new friends of mine, even more so when i see them every day since we share classes unlike my old friends. and they always “jokingly” claim that i’m replacing them since i'm spending too much time with my new friends, even going out with them outside of class, which makes me feel guilty. but at the same time, my old friends (and this has always been a problem(?) in the friendship) never have time to go out, whether for classes, work or other activities, since high school we’ve always had difficulty meeting up and stuff. and with these girls we have similar schedules, so it is easier to spend time together but it results in insecurities for my old friends, even though they always reject or cancel plans with me (something that i always took as normal and never complained about bc i know it's difficult to balance responsibilities and social life)

even so, whenever i spend time with my new friends i think about my old ones and feel guilty.

the important thing is that yesterday i was organizing plans with my two friends for today when my old friends texted me to go out in the same day and for a moment i didn't know what to do, because i didn't want to cancel my plans but i didn't want to tell them that i already had plans and reject them bc i'm afraid i might make them feel bad. and in the end, i decided not to cancel my plans and reject my old friends because the thought of hanging out with them gave me a funny feeling in my gut (and i don't usually ignore those signs) which never happened to me before, and again, they made jokes about me preferring my new friends over them and that kinda stuff that made me feel bad about my decision.

and i really love all my friends but i don't feel good about the situation. i'm afraid that i'm doing something wrong or hurting someone but at the same time i don't know what to do because i can't and i don't want to stop spending time with my new friends bc i really like being around them but i don't want to leave aside the old ones either, even though the way they’re behaving does bother me a little and i think it's a little unfair they're getting upset (bcs I know those jokes aren't really jokes) with me for spending time with other ppl when they never have the time to make plans with me, which i'm not complaining about but it seems unfair on their part. but idk, maybe i'm wrong? i don't have much experience with friendships so i'm not sure.

but to close the topic, a couple of hours ago one of my old friends sent me several messages which i didn't get to read because she later deleted them all before i even realized she texted me, and i'm afraid to ask what they said, but i guess if she deleted them maybe they weren't a good thing? idk.

whatever, do you have any advice, nana? or what's your opinion on the matter? i'm really lost.

hmm… well i would follow your gut, u said you had a feeling when they asked you to hangout with them and u know urself best

i’ve always been the kinda person who just accepts fallouts with people so it’s hard to say what to do here, but people grow out of friendships, it happens

esp if your old friends aren’t making the effort to hangout with you much and always cancel plans, i’d follow your gut, but i do think you should talk to your old friends

this could be a situation that could be solved with communication so i would message them and let them know how you’ve been feeling

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lovedrunkheadcanons · 1 year

Text

Chapter Contents

(Arranged Marriage Pic) Read on AO3

Rated M

The way his sensei greeted them reminded Megumi of a whining dog, excitedly peeing all over the floor.

“Megumi-kun!! You’re back. I missed you.”

The boy glowered. Satoru greatly misjudged his young ward’s tolerance if he thought these overly saccharine endearments would magically cancel out his annoyingness. Quite the contrary. Megumi had been reluctant to come but was harangued by his older sister that they go. “Don’t you want to see Hannah-san?” she had said, crossing her arms in a huff. “No fair. How come you’ve gotten to meet her and I haven’t? I’m the eldest.”

She had a point.

Being half-siblings never bothered Megumi. Why should sharing a different mother and father bother anyone? That’s dumb. It’s not like it was their fault. You don’t get to choose your parents, and you most definitely don’t get to choose whether one of them dies, and the other abandons you like two pieces of roadside trash, never to return. Gone were the days when Megumi would look up at the sky and curse his dad for leaving them in their hour of need. But now he thought ‘good riddance.’ The man was trash, not them, and he had been too young to remember him that well anyway.

Tsumiki tried being the good, nurturing older sister. She was supportive of him and loved her younger brother dearly, but Megumi was reluctant to open up to anyone. Even to his own flesh and blood.

Their apartment wasn’t upper-class by any stretch. Gojo-sensei talked of upgrading them to a sweeter gig, but these offers were swiftly declined. Both Fushiguro children opted for comfort rather than luxury. Who needed a four-bedroom penthouse suite with an unbeatable view, when a two bedroom apartment in a safe, affluent neighborhood more than sufficed? And more importantly, they didn’t want to become dependent on Gojo’s money. In their eyes he wasn’t family, nor a close friend. He was doing them a favor they couldn’t repay. And then some.

“Aw, come on, Megumi-kun. Don’t be such a sour puss. Aren’t you glad to see me?”

Megumi glowered some more. “I told you not to call me that.”

“But why, Megumi-kun? Would you rather I switch back to Megumi-chan? I thought we outgrew that phase?”

The eleven year old seemed to bristle. “I'd rather you not call me anything at all.”

“Megumiiiii. That’s no way to treat your kind and loving sensei. Be nice.”

“Weirdo, leave me alone. You're just acting like this because the others are here.”

“Hey, I’m no weirdo. Take that back.” Satoru picked up the eleven year old, kicking and screaming, and headlocked him in a noogie, digging his fist into the poor boy’s skull. “Take it back. Take it back. Take it — ”

“Stop!” Megumi yelled.

“Okay, I’ll stop, but only if you repeat after me: ‘Satoru-sensei is the bestest, not weirdest person in the whole wide world.’”

The boy's growl was almost feral. “Never.”

Hannah turned to the other Fushiguro sibling for an explanation. “Are they always like this? Diametrically opposed, I mean?”

“Yep,” the girl said with a nod. “Afraid so.”

“Seems odd how they’re teacher and student.”

“Very odd. I’ve never understood it myself.”

Hannah giggled. “They’re like honey and vinegar.”

“Or a sun beam colliding with a rain cloud,” the girl added with a small bow. “I’m Tsumiki by the way, Megumi’s older sister.”

Hannah cordially bowed back. “Yes, I’m so glad to finally meet you. Megumi speaks of you all the time.”

“Does he? How funny.” Tsumiki nervously tucked a strand of her loose brown hair behind her ear. “I know you’re the one he’s enlisted as his English tutor. I can’t tell you how much it’s helped. If there’s a fee for your services, we’ll be more than happy to — ”

“Services? Oh, no, no.” Hannah frantically waved her hand, a light blush appearing on her face. “I’ve enjoyed doing it. He’s such a fast learner. Please, keep your money.”

The seeds to a very special friendship had been sown. Hannah wondered what it would be like to have a sister. Tsumiki would be the closest thing to it, their ages twelve and twenty, a separation of eight years. Not very long. The two talked as if they’d known each other their whole lives. Like her brother, Tsumiki was surprisingly mature for her age. (What twelve year old uses words like ‘services’ in a sentence?) They nattered on about school exams, about the looming summer break, and favorite hobbies. Hannah swore she could’ve kissed the girl la bise on both cheeks when she mentioned the potted plants she collected. Orchids. Orchidaceae: 26,000 plus species with more than 100,000 cultivars thriving on this one miracle planet since around the Cretaceous period. They could be found on every continent (except Antarctica).The same diverse, saprophytic plant that produces vanilla and was once believed to scare off evil spirits. Not counting how the orchid got its name (‘orchis’ is Greek for testicles), they made for lovely home flowers, and orchid collectors were a passionate bunch no matter their age. Some even spent their entire life savings to acquire a rare and endangered species. It was reported that one of England’s last remaining lady’s slipper orchids (Cypripedium calceolus) had to be put under armed security to guard against potential thieves. And like those pesky orchid thieves, Hannah knew ‘rare’ when she saw it. Tsumiki was one of those said rarities. A precious person. Such treasures were meant to be seized upon and never let go. “Do you like flowers too, Hannah-san?” Why yes. Yes, she did. Thank you very much for asking. Perhaps she would get Tsumiki’s opinion on daylilies for her English garden before she went home. She’d be sure to love it.

“Is this what being ignored feels like?”

Hannah and Tsumiki paused their conversation and glanced over at Satoru. He had relinquished a grumbling Megumi from his headlock, who was busy massaging his sore noggin. Those noogies really hurt.

He didn’t receive an answer though because Makoto stepped outside holding a tray.

“Could I interest anyone in some lemonade?”

The children ran up to the beloved housekeeper. “Ah, Ms. Tsumiki. Master Megumi,” she delighted as they all shuffled inside to escape the summer heat and drink their lemonade.

Both Fushiguro siblings noted Hannah and Satoru reaching out for the other's hand upon entering the house, their fingers woven together. Then there were the infatuated smiles on their faces as they made eye contact, a sweet gesture that spoke droves. Were they even aware of how they looked to the rest of the world?

“Cute,” Tsumiki whispered. “Things seem to be going well for them.”

Megumi blinked dubiously at the couple while sipping his lemonade. In all the years they’d known him, the boy had never seen his sensei look so happy. Hannah was laughing at a joke he had said. She looked happy too. Where did this bubbly feeling in the pit of his stomach come from? The eleven year old let out a pessimistic snort.

“Whatever. I still say it’s weird.”

Brother and sister stayed at the Gojo’s for lunch and then piled into Mr. Ijichi’s Lexus which would take them home. They would see each other again in a few days.

July was an active month for Japan. During this time, visitors from all over the country were migrating to Kyoto to partake in the month-long Gion Festival. It was the fourteenth day. The float processions would soon begin. Satoru asked if Hannah wanted to go on a weekend, but with so much work to be done, she thought it was better to hold off.

Running an estate was no walk in the park.

The majority of its rooms were kept regularly clean and free of dust, but hadn’t been occupied in quite awhile. Walking through them was like walking through a history book, regal vestiges of the decadent Meiji era and the long-reigning Tokugawa shogunate that preceded it. Nothing had been purchased within living memory; Pearl-inlaid cabinets. Woodblock paintings (ukiyo-e) by Jakuchū, Hōitsu, and Yoshitoshi. Folding screens airbrushed with gold leaf. Sparsely laden throughout the rooms were dozens of priceless Satsuma vases ornamented in glistening enamels and gilt. Hannah had two favorites; One in the drawing room showing a sparrow perched on a ginkgo branch, curiously watching a spider anchor itself down a gossamer laced web. And another situated in the parlor where she and Satoru ate their meals, illustrating a pair of flirtatious monkeys swinging loftily from vines of hanging wisteria. Each had her smiling. But there would be further additions made to these rooms that would have her smiling even more.

Afterall, this was her house now.

Goodness. What a strange thing to think about; Her, owning a house. A mansion at that.

While traditionally men were charged with earning money and providing for the family, it was women who ran the household, managing finances, hiring staff, raising children. This would be her day-to-day life, and as her first real indulgence as Gojo matriarch, Hannah requested that every room - from the kitchen to the onsen - contain a flower arrangement, ikebana or likewise. Oh, it was grand fun trimming roses and irises and honing her arrangement skills with Makoto, who also found the activity gratifying. Designing flowers was a welcome reprieve from cooking and cleaning.

Though the work wasn’t all play. Satoru and Hannah were busy as bees the entire summer.

Satoru was saddled with missions and meetings and report write-ups. Administrational bullshit. If it weren’t for his wife and housekeeper he’d stage a protest. Orchestrate a labor union or something of that nature: “We demand paid holiday! Sorcerers’ rights are human rights!” The idea sounded better by the minute. The fatigue was starting to show. The Six Eyes user carried Bufferin everywhere he went. He feared he’d contract an ibuprofen addiction before long. The migraines were bearable with reverse curse technique, but only just so. Hannah was less lenient than Makoto when it came to how many pills he was allowed to take at home. “You should take no more than three capsules, Satoru, and at twelve hour intervals. It’ll wreck your bowels if you take any more.” His bowels, eh? Sounds serious, though he didn’t see much of an issue. If his intestines imploded, he could simply heal them with the help of reverse curse technique. But he knew she only made a fuss because she cared. Cared for his health. Cared for him. One of the few people in this life who did. Every day he’d discover a new reason why his wife was brilliant.

One of Satoru’s special pet projects was his charity; a program that provided financial aid to children who had either lost a parent or had become orphaned due to curse attacks. It was funded by both the government - that is to say the Japanese taxpayer - and the sorcerer families (70% government / 30% sorcerer families). Two years it had taken Satoru to finally get the ball rolling and convince the higher-ups that the project was worthwhile, though it took a considerable amount of time and effort. There were 112 children residing in some form of foster care and 134 living in single parent households. The sums weren’t huge, just enough to pay for utilities or groceries, maybe a rental payment on an apartment. Whatever the family or child needed to make life a little easier. Hannah had proposed a new idea.

“What if we sent the children care packages for their birthdays?”

Satoru blinked. “Care packages?”

“Fun little parcels filled with either their favorite sweets or maybe a new toy they’ve been wanting but can’t afford.”

“And how would we do that?”

Hannah smashed her lips together; her ‘thinking face’ as he came to call it. “Yes, I’ve thought of that too. There are 246 children in the system, correct?”

Satoru nodded.

“And we know their date of birth and current home addresses?”

Again, Satoru nodded.

“Then why don’t we mail a survey for the children to fill out, or maybe the parents? We can review how many replies we get and operate from there.”

Satoru nodded a third time, but was wondering something. “Alright, you’ve got me on board, but that’s 246 days out of the year, Hannah. This would be no small undertaking.”

Her eyes shone with determination. “Nothing is too big an undertaking when it comes to protecting childhood.”

Well, he couldn’t argue with that one. Hear, hear! Also was it wrong that he found her kinda sexy when she brainstormed? Anywho, they would type up a mini questionnaire and send it out the following week.

Speaking of questionnaires, answering correspondence became its own undertaking. Hannah and Makoto had gotten through the congratulatory letters and well wishers from her wedding. Though there was still no sign of tea invitations from either the Kamos or the Zen’ins. Hannah tried not to be too put out about it. However, when she found a mulberry-papered envelope sealed with a large golden chrysanthemum in the center she just about fainted. A golden chrysanthemum; The Imperial seal.

“Please tell me we won’t be entertaining the Emperor,” she begged Makoto, dread ringing in her voice.

“Not to worry, ma’am,” the housekeeper assuaged. “One of the duties of the Imperial family is to uphold the secrecy of the jujutsu world. These letters are simply out of common courtesy. However, you and the young master might be invited to official state functions, but rest assured. The Emperor has never stayed a night in this house.”

“Oh, thank God.” Hannah exhaled a deep sigh of relief. She turned the envelope over. “Will I be expected to write back, you think?”

“A short ‘thank you’ never hurts. It’s usually Her Majesty, the Empress, who manages these affairs. Her personal insignia is the Beach Rose. I will show you how to write to her.”

On top of writing to royalty, there were also financial matters for Hannah to contend with; Outstanding balances that needed to be paid. Budgeting for food and home renovations before winter. Satoru and Hannah had decided that ¾ of the shoji panels facing the outside would be replaced with glass instead of washi paper. The alterations would be expensive now, but in the long run would cut down on added costs, as glass did not have to be regularly replaced every few years. Satoru had trusted Hannah to oversee the project. Then there was going over dinner plans with Makoto. The housekeeper was looking to incorporate more European dishes to the menu card. For Thursday nights it would be a mixture between French and English like so:

Might be a bit of a stretch, but she hoped the food would meet Satoru’s approval.

For the most part, Hannah let Makoto make most of the decisions on that front. She wasn’t picky and encouraged the housekeeper to make leftovers so she wouldn’t have to cook every night.

And at last when Hannah wasn’t buried neck-deep in letters, or balancing checkbooks, or catching up on her tea ceremony lessons (which were coming along splendidly) Hannah was given time out of the busy week to step outside and garden.

She had quickly befriended the Gojo family’s fifty-two year old gardener, Mr. Aoyama, who was nonetheless charmed by his new lady’s horticultural knowledge, especially for being one so young. The garden estates he had worked on in the past, with their great ladies and multi-millionaires, had never been this enthusiastic. He even watched her strap on a pair of gardening gloves and Wellingtons, pick up a trusty shovel, and join in on the mulching herself. A woman after my own heart, he thought. About time these privileged ladies, with their sniveling noses and outdated prejudices, come down from their ivory towers and learn what proper work is and get their hands dirty.

During the course of her twenty years, Hannah had developed a placid sense of unquestioning acceptance. She had been handed a raw deal in life, but what good was it to stomp your feet and endlessly complain about how unfair the world was? Better to get on with it and move on. That’s why gardening brought her so much joy. It was her oyster, an artistic exercise to enjoy and partake in while it lasted, making her forget her indemnities. Whenever she had enough free time on her hands, it would be spent budgeting and designing the groundwork for her English garden Satoru had promised; her ‘Eden’ as she’d later come to call it, spanning less than two hectares, her own tiny piece of heaven.

She already had the blueprint laid out. On a mood board in her bedroom were pictures of flower varieties and garden ideas she had snipped from magazine and newspaper clippings next to watercolor palettes, ranging from the deepest indigo to lightest pale yellow. This presentation gave Hannah a visual aid for deciding on color and texture combinations. So far, she’d listed her main frontrunners in a journal, referencing it like some kind of magic crystal ball, foretelling the future.

The early months of spring would bloom ranunculus, Japanese anemones, and star-petaled narcissi, and numerous shrubs of calming lilac. For early summer it would be English roses, snapdragons, daylilies of every color, red and orange oriental poppies, bigleaf blue hydrangea and blushing pink peonies, exploding with sweet, fragrant perfume. Come late summer and early autumn, there’d be burgundy hued dahlias shaped like honeycombed pom-poms, together with zinnias, golden chrysanthemums, ‘Midnight Magic’ crepe myrtle, and Antwerp hollyhock, their heavily flowered columnar spiraling up towards the sun, all shades of ostentatious reds, pinks, purples, and yellows. And then when the first frost of winter finally arrived there would be an assortment of rosemary, snowdrops, and holly; Hardier breeds, making their last hurrah before spring. This continual carousel of blooms would stem from a ‘layering technique’ where once the perennial ran its course for the season, a new one would spring and take its place like a growing-living-dying song.

Trial and error were bound to erupt. Multiple factors had to be taken into careful consideration for this dream garden to become reality. Preparations had to be made, specifically as it pertained to soil. Fortunately for Hannah, Japan’s soil was naturally compacted with rich nutrients and organic minerals from millennia of volcanic activity, creating the ideal ratio of silt, ash, and clay needed to grow plants. However, much of the species Hannah wanted to cultivate weren’t native to Japan. Ericaceous plants, like hydrangeas and rhododendrons, were natural born ‘acid lovers’ and could thrive in denser pH environments, however, if the soil contained too much alkaline substances - like lime, for instance - then calcifuges plants, such as camellias and azaleas, could be unintentionally poisoned. Acidic levels had to be maintained at just the right levels depending on what was being planted (which could be checked with the aid of an inexpensive pH kit). So to mitigate the increase of dead growth, Hannah decided she would make the soil from scratch.

Home-made compost followed a relatively simple recipe; a 50-50 mixture of nitrogen and carbon based ingredients left exposed to oxygen and water, later breaking down into humus. Basic science. What was used in making the mixture was left entirely to the gardener’s discretion; dead leaves, woody stems, eggshells, food scraps, seaweed, fresh animal manure, etc. If making compost in the summertime, the added heat would help the nitrogen rich ingredients decompose quicker and encourage good bacteria to germinate, as microorganisms were necessary to produce healthy soil. This provided cheaper, more beneficial compost instead of buying it in big stretchy plastic bags. The only downside was time. It would take months for the soil to be ready, and even then Hannah would have to wait. Unlike Edith’s roses she planted during her first week at Jujutsu High, where she dug into the ground and arduously churned the soil with a tiller and spade, Hannah was going to apply a ‘no-dig’ method. This meant she would prep the flower beds by first marking the perimeters with stakes and twine and then flattening dampened cardboard over the site; One layer of compost would be packed under the cardboard and another layer would be stacked on top. Since these were brand new flower beds, the cardboard would prevent sunlight from filtering through, thus killing any weeds or invasive plants beneath without robbing the soil of nutrients. Given time, the cardboard between the two compost layers would biodegrade, making food for benevolent garden dwellers buried deep inside the earth (worms loved decomposed cardboard). But composting was only half the battle.

With the plants selected, and the beds and compost prepped, there was also the climate to account for.

The Gojo estate was hidden away in the bucolic Takao mountains, meaning the garden terrace would be seated at higher elevation, leaving it exposed to more sunlight and harsher weather conditions. Windbreakers would need to be put in place to protect from damaging storm gusts and winter temperatures would plunge well below zero. She would have to study-up on the area’s annual rain and snowfall as well, and whether more landscaping would be involved. Not all the flowers would make it through the year, and it would take multiple seasons to get the garden she wanted, but if she played her cards right, Hannah would be able plant bulbs and sow her first seeds by mid-autumn at the earliest.

Satoru was impressed by Hannah’s vast gardening expertise, as anyone would be. Over the years he would grow accustomed to entering the house and seeing profusions of flowers in every shape, color, and scent decorate the halls and window arches, breathing life and color into the space; his wife’s personal touch. Whenever she worked, he would always be milling around the vicinity, snooping over her shoulder, curious about what she was doing, asking questions like “What is ‘comfrey tea?’ Do you drink it?” (The answer was no. You do not drink it) Though on occasions, sometimes his questions delved more into the transcendent.

“Do you really believe the entire world was created in six days?”

Hannah peered up from taking notes in her garden journal. He was towering directly above her, hands placed in his pockets. Like always.

“I suppose,” she said with a shrug. “If you took the Book of Genesis at face value, sure. Why not.”

Satoru looked even more perplexed. “I thought Christians took everything in their Bible literally?”

Hannah smiled, a certain glimmer in her moss brown eyes that looked like a challenge. “Not always. For instance you could argue there is not one creation story told in the Bible, but three. The first chapter of Genesis is separate from the story of Adam and Eve. Then there’s also the story of Noah and his ark, before God issued a great flood over the earth, setting it anew. Rather than being taken as history, the purpose of these stories is to emphasize God’s dominion over creation, and that Man, His greatest creation, somehow fell victim to original sin in the process.” She stood up from her seat. “Anywho, now you have me curious. Do Buddhists ever ponder the origins of the universe?”

Satoru shook his head.

“To be honest, no,” he replied flatly. “There is the tale of the Izanagi and Izanami creating the islands of Japan with brine, dripping from a jeweled spear, which could symbolize the world. But from a purely Buddhist perspective, the universe has no beginning or end, so philosophizing how it came into being is seen as a fruitless exercise that leads to nowhere.”

This didn’t stop Hannah from trying.

“But didn’t the Buddha say that everything comes to an end at some point?” she said. “And if everything comes to an end, then it must have had a beginning, no?” (3)

Over the years, they would have many discussions like this, volleying questions back and forth, pondering the deeper meanings of life. But like an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object, neither husband nor wife would concede to the other’s beliefs. Satoru had trouble grasping Christianity’s radical take on monotheism: How one deity could simultaneously be a divine Creator, a Human (who was also ‘hypostatically’ divine), and a strange Spirit that bore no distinctive shape whatsoever but was often depicted in the form of a dove, and somehow not be called polytheistic. Additionally this Trinitarian Deity was revered as being all-loving, omnipresent, and omniscient, and yet if that were the case, Satoru couldn’t conceive how this supposed ‘all-loving’ God could allow evil things to befall innocent human beings, especially at the hands of His ‘most holy’ church. Then there were the outlandish beliefs surrounding the Eucharist, which he found a little creepy: Wine and unleavened bread that ‘transubstantiate’ into the actual blood and flesh of Christ while retaining the ‘accidents’ of real bread and wine, which you then ate? Huh? What the heck was that all about? He wasn’t a philosopher, but wouldn’t that make Christians cannibals? Plus, this Jesus character sounded very similar to the Buddha at given times, but he wasn’t going to read too much into it.

Hannah, in the meanwhile, struggled equally with Shinto and Buddhism, and how both religions could co-exist without delegitimizing the other. Were the gods more paramount to the highly secular Japanese, or did the Buddha and his Dharma take first precedence? To her knowledge Shinto was an altogether pantheistic faith where rocks, trees, and even mountains could be worshiped as kami (deities). The many myths and legends surrounding these kami, however, Hannah saw no differently than those of Zeus or Ra; fictional tales used to convey didactic truths. Buddhism offered more spiritual substance, yes, though she failed to understand karma’s intrinsic nature and why it held so much sway over one’s life, or more importantly, where it came from; a moot point given Buddhism’s beliefs of causality rather than creation. It didn’t matter who or where it originated from, or why ‘the true way of things’ functioned the way it did; how good deeds produced happiness and bad deeds produced suffering. What was enlightenment anyway? Why did it matter so much whether you obtained it or not, and could all the world’s sufferings really be eliminated by practicing ‘mindfulness’ and following the Five Precepts, and then awaiting rebirth in the ‘Pure Land?’ So many reeling questions…

‘We are not meant to resolve all contradictions,’ wrote the meek Thomas Merton, and so Hannah and Satoru would agree to disagree. These beliefs, however confusing, however paradoxical, weren’t worth fighting over, not to the detriment of a marriage. They had come too far to risk falling out. Challenge and learn, yes. Disrespect and insult, no. Let bygones be bygones and put it to rest.

On a less philosophical note, Hannah’s training was showing signs of tremendous progress. Satoru had moved on from teaching her how to punch and kick and was now in the middle of teaching her defensive maneuvers, like how to escape from being pinned to the ground.

“This is ridiculous,” Hannah panted, struggling desperately to free herself. “How can I possibly get out like this?”

“Because I’m telling you,” was all Satoru said, increasing his weight, barely holding up a sweat as he subdued her, casually switching to a gruff, sagely English. “If no mistake have you made, yet losing you are, a different game you should play.”

She wasn’t laughing at his Yoda impression, having only watched Stars Wars last week. They resigned to training indoors for the evening and had cleared the reception hall, creating a dojo-like atmosphere. Crouched on his hands and knees, Satoru had her pinned in the ‘Mount Position,’ seizing her wrists and restraining them to the floor, while his legs straddled her waist, immobilizing her. She was boxed in. Hannah tried pushing him off with her upper body, but Satoru’s grip was tight. With all the power stored in his shoulder and arms, her hands barely lifted off the floor. Gravity was on his side. He wasn’t letting go. And like all good esoterics, Satoru wasn’t going to just tell her how to break free - No, no - that would be too practical. Instead he would keep silent and force his wife to figure it out on her own.

Hannah kicked and writhed and shimmied. She once attempted to bite him, but his Infinity made it so her teeth never sought flesh (not that she was biting very hard). As was usual with training, he wore a thin black cotton tee and matching black sweatpants, which were probably overpriced. She could see every ripple and flex of his toned biceps and pectoral muscles underneath the cotton as he worked to restrain her. The position was rather demoralizing; a man overpowering a woman with the use of his body. The intimacy of their position felt unfamiliar too - dare she say, sensual - but Hannah ignored the proximity of their bodies and focused on getting out from underneath him. Twenty minutes in, her efforts were met with no success and after some more prolonged struggling, she gave up.

“I can’t,” she said out of breath. “You’re too strong.”

Her husband held back a smile, her inadvertent praise sounding like music to his ears. “Excuses, excuses,” he chided, not looking the least bit tired. “C’mon, Hannah, use that clever little brain of yours. If I have your hands pinned like this,” he took her seized wrists and (lightly) pressed them back to the floor, “and you can’t use your legs,” he clamped his own legs around her waist, “what else could you do?”

“Nothing. I’m stuck.”

“No, you’re not. There is a way out. You just have to be creative. Think outside the box.”

‘Creative.’ Well, that was one way of looking at it.

Hannah’s eyes searched his person for an opening, any indication he had left an opportunity for her to escape. His body was still on top of her like a human cage, squeezing her wrists, pressing them to the floor. She attempted to push him off again. “Nope, you’ve tried that enough times already,” he said, transferring more of his weight on top of her. “Promise ya, it’s not gonna work.” He was right, of course. Trying the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result was foolish. Alright, Hannah. Think outside the box. Be creative.

Satoru’s Infinity could repel and attract various things at once. For instance, if he were walking down the street holding a bag of groceries in the middle of a torrential downpour, he could keep the grocery bag in his hand while repelling off the rain. The bag was allowed in his orbit, the raindrops were not. She had seen him do this more than once, an invisible shield carapaced around him, stepping back inside the house, dry as a feather. This also explained why his clothes - or any piece of him for that matter - didn’t get stripped away whenever he used his curse technique. However, other than shielding himself from getting bitten, Hannah realized he wasn’t using Infinity that much during their training session. And his arms, which were supporting most of his weight in keeping her restrained, were slanted at an (she eyeballed it) eighty degree angle from his shoulder to his hands. Meaning if she got his shoulders slanted at an angle over his wrists, past ninety degrees, he would be forced to let go or risk face-planting on the floor like the back end of a teeter-totter. But how would she accomplish this? His hold on her was firm.

Hannah looked down at his hips straddling her waist. His knees were planted to the ground, but his hind legs were hooked around her calves. There was nothing other than his hands, keeping him balanced. She thought back to the teeter-totter analogy. This was her way out.

Ureka!

With speed she didn’t know she was capable of Hannah rammed her torso up as far as it would go, bridging her hips, and violently swooped her hands downwards like a snow angel. She barely caught the excited glint in Satoru’s blue eyes at her discovering the loophole. Like she predicted, he fell face forward from the momentum, having no choice but to release her hands to prevent eating the floor, however, Hannah got ahead of herself. See, what she was supposed to do in this instance was hug his torso like a tree, grab his shoulder, lock the arm, and roll. And so having forgotten those four additional steps, she instead tried scrambling out from under him. Big mistake. Without locking his arm, there was nothing blocking it from the rebound. Satoru miscalculated her move…

And elbowed her straight in the nose like a sledgehammer.

CR-ACK!!

It was a heart rendering sound. Satoru could feel and hear the fracturing of bone as though it were porcelain china.

The smirk on his face vanished completely.

“Oh shit, I didn’t think you’d — Fuck, Hannah, are you alright?”

Stupid of him to ask really. Even the densest simpleton could see her nose was broken. Hannah tasted iron on her tongue. The world was an explosion of stars. Every pinch of her eyes stung. She had taken a direct hit. The cartilage was bent out of line and swelling heavily, bruised purple and red, blood oozing out both nostrils. He didn’t have to use his Six Eyes to know it was horrible. So much for creativity.

“Quick, use this.” Satoru raised his arms and without a moment’s hesitation peeled off his shirt. Cradling the base of her neck, he then tilted her head down, and shoved the wadded shirt to her nose. “Put pressure on it.”

Hannah held the sweaty shirt. Her swollen nasal passages might’ve been clogged with blood, but she still managed to catch remnants of incense and Italian-roast coffee saturated in the cotton; two scents that shouldn’t go together and yet did. The dampened shirt didn’t smell bad as one would imagine, mixed with his sweat and body odor, but rather soothingly pleasant and masculine. So him. Like honeysuckle to an insect, she found it near impossible to resist, closing her eyes and slowly inhaling as much incense and coffee as she could, wanting more. The pressure and pain seemed to gradually subside until she felt something like fingers tilt her chin at the floor again, readjusting the shirt in her hands that was surely covered in blood.

“Gotta keep your head down, Hannah. No looking up.”

Whether it had been deliberate or not, he had given her a clear, perfect view. Hannah had never seen him shirtless before. The strange tingling sensation gripped her body like a vise, and the blood rushing from her nostrils felt as though it were pumping back up her nose to her cranium. He was handsome in a near-painful way. Her eyes traced the breadth of his broad shoulders, to his veiny toned biceps and smooth sculpted chest. Years of training and strict discipline edged in every contour of his musculature, from his trapezoids down to his six-pack, unblemished skin coated in a thin sheen of sweat, no obvious signs of excess body fat to be had. Adonis. Masculine. Ravishing.

How long did it take him to achieve such a physique, she wondered. Perhaps he always had it. Some people have all the luck in that department; height, strength, brains, and dashing good looks.

Her silent appraisal did not go unnoticed.

“Like what you see?”

Hannah's attention snapped from his laughing turquoise blue eyes boring into her. She could feel his chuckle rumble through his chest. It did things to her stomach, turning it into knots.

“It’s alright. You're not the first. I’ll let you off the hook this time.”

“M’not?”

“No.”

“Oh.” There was a lull. “Um…May I ask how many?”

He arched a brow. “How many what?”

Hannah blushed and turned herself away. Trying to extract this bit of information was a thorny subject, the forbidden fruit she was not allowed to eat from. Yet once the inner voice had reached its verdict, there was little point evading the question. “Firsts before me.”

Frowning, his eyes were like blocks of ice. Not angry per say, just guarded.

“Does it matter?”

The quietness returned. She could hear the sound of a bee trapped somewhere against one of the newly installed windows, that familiar buzzing thump on glass. Yes. Yes, it did matter. It mattered to her a great deal not knowing how many lovers had come before her. Satoru rarely divulged anything about his past and judging by his frosty reaction, that wasn’t going to change anytime soon.

He removed the shirt to inspect her nose. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he concentrated, white brows pinched together, biting his lower lip. She suppressed a shiver, feeling his rough calluses graze her cheek.

“Looks like you're not a human spigot anymore,” he said. “Good. Reverse Curse Technique should clear this up in a jiffy.”

Hannah’s eyes widened. “You can do that?”

Her husband’s hubris returned. Slipping her a wink, Satoru gingerly cupped the back of her head. “Hold still,” he hushed, and lifted his spare hand above her face, thinking back to what he learned in his school days: How energy can neither be created, nor destroyed, only converted from one form to the other. First law of thermodynamics. Neat stuff. He felt the negative cursed energy pulse at his fingertips, conducting a positive charge. Felt it mend the contused cartilage and broken bone, decrease the swelling, reattach popped blood vessels, but for some reason he also felt…resistance. Like the moment your quad-core processor suddenly runs at half its initial speed, or how water molecules slow down light. A non life-threatening injury, Hannah’s nose should’ve healed the second the positive energy came into contact with her skin, except it didn’t. It bided its time, stalling. Three minutes in and he still hadn’t fixed her nose.

What the hell?

Satoru stopped for a second, increasing his energerial output. He’d never encountered this problem before. It was like the more he emitted, the more he was met with resistance. Like it wasn’t passing through.

Confused, he glanced over at his wife. She seemed oblivious of the delay, showing no signs of further discomfort, staring up at the ceiling. He went back to the task at hand.

It took him a while longer than usual, but with enough persistence the nose returned as it was. He decided to cheat, just once, and use the Six Eyes ‘x-ray’ vision to assess his handiwork. The purple and red bruising hadn’t completely gone away, although the nasal bone and septum were fully repaired.

“Are we good?”

Believing Shoko would approve of his technique skills, he nodded. “We’re good.”

“Do you want to continue where we left off? I can keep going.”

“Nah,” he said dismissively, taking his bloody shirt from her before standing up. He extended his hand out, hoisting his little wife off the floor. “That’s enough blood loss for one evening. Let’s get some food in you before you pass out.”

She eyed the red splotches on the floor. “What about the tatami? I ruined those too.”

“Leave ‘em be. If they can’t be salvaged, we’ll order new ones.”

The amber sun started to set above the garden lakes. The two placed the table and furniture back where it belonged and headed for the hall. Makoto had dinner ready for them.

The food was delicious as always, three Michelin stars, though Satoru seemed to pester Hannah incessantly about her nose every five minutes. She assured him all was fine and the pain had settled. Upon finishing their meal, the two helped Makoto clean the dishes and put the leftovers in the fridge, and after the last piece of Meissen was hand washed and dried, they thanked the housekeeper for her valiant efforts and let her retire for the evening. Being a Friday night, the couple had nowhere to be tomorrow, so the two chose to stay up a while longer and watch a movie together over ice-cream; plain old Vanilla for Hannah and Triple Chocolate Fudge for Satoru. Satoru had been insisting all week they watch Avatar. They cozied up on the couch with their frozen dairy treats and mentally teleported to the planet of Pandora. The plot was so-so, but the world building was unlike any other. “It looks almost real,” Hannah kept repeating. Satoru agreed. For a five year old movie, the CGI held up nicely.

Three hours later, the film credits rolled. The Six Eyes user stretched his arms out with a yawn. Hannah herself stifled a yawn, signaling it was time for bed.

They continued commenting about the movie as their bedrooms were right around the corner.

“Did you say it made two billion U.S dollars at the box-office?”

Satoru raised a finger. “Two point nine billion.”

Hannah tried doing the money conversion in her head and pulled a sour face. “That’s too much money.”

Satoru chuckled as they faced each other in the hallway right outside their respective rooms.

This was when things got good.

Like two infatuated teenagers standing by their lockers, the couple waited before parting. Satoru had his hands tied behind his back while Hannah was staring bashfully at the floor. They both knew what came next. Since that night facing the smiling Amida statue, husband and wife had been partaking in a new pre-bedtime ritual. Kissing; Nothing quite like the passion (and romance) they shared at Tokyo Tower overlooking the city skyline; A chaste kiss on the cheek. A light peck on the lips. But that was about to change because Satoru was anything if not persistent.

“Can we try…something else?”

Hannah tilted her head in that innocent manner of hers. Satoru had to bite his lower lip to keep from grinning like an idiot, she was so adorable. “Something else?”

“Yeah, something more,” he searched for the word, “substantial.”

His wife's brow narrowed. “I thought we were taking things slow?”

“We are, but this’ll be different.”

“Different? Different how?”

“Just follow my lead.”

“Satoru, I — ”

“Shh.” He held a finger to her lips and spoke tenderly. “I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

Hannah took an apprehensive breath, felt one of his palms frame her cheek, the other hook around her waist, and then came the moment of truth. Satoru’s mouth gently sought hers, but it wasn’t short lived like the others. Far from it. The way he opened her with his tongue was as though her lips were made of smooth butter and he was parsing through them with a hot knife.

Oh, it was a kiss. It really was. Hannah had no experience to fall back on, but she knew Satoru was a good kisser. He had to be. Their previous kisses had been sweet and chaste. This kiss was long and meandering, his satin-like tongue slowly stirring the inside of her mouth like an old-fashioned butter churner. ‘Follow my lead,’ she remembered him saying. Closing her eyes, Hannah began copying his movements. To be honest, she wasn’t exactly sure what she was doing - at least - she thought she wasn’t sure. The wife had been too intoxicated to remember a certain infamous night out, where she might’ve stumbled home drunk at two in the morning and quite possibly flashed him her breasts, before enveloping Satoru in a searing, French kiss. But again, her memory was a blur. It was no use to her now sober, fully aware of how tentative and uncoordinated she was...

Dear God, he tasted wonderful.

Every so often they’d come back up for air, dip their heads, and meet in yet another kiss, just as deep and languid as the last. How long they stood in that hallway, their tongues moving to an unspecified rhythm, taking their sweet time exploring one another, these new uncharted waters, she didn’t know. Satoru was doing most of the work, his left hand wandering up and down her back, while the right got tangled in her hair. The moment seemed to stretch on forever and it became quite hot between them. Hannah thought the flames engulfing her entire body would consume her, a blend of embarrassment, heat, and pleasure. The whimper that came out of her throat was automatic.

Satoru broke away.

“Sorry,” he panted, face slightly flushed from exertion. “Should’ve tapped out sooner.” He cleared his throat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “So, whaddya think? Fantastic? Amazing? Phenomenal?”

“Good,” Hannah answered, also out of breath. She could think of nothing more to say. “It was good.”

His laugh was disbelieving.

“Actually though?”

She pursed her lips and looked guilty at the floor. Her blush hadn’t gone away. “I guess some more practice couldn’t hurt.”

Satoru grinned at the invitation.

“Practice, hmm?” There was a knowing glint in his eyes he couldn’t hide. “Maybe we’ll add it to your training schedule.”

He watched his wife shyly peer up at him. A smile crept at the edges of her kissed lips. Lips kissed by him. Her eyes were so hazel, so warm, empty of everything that wasn’t just the two of them. “I wouldn’t be against that.”

The Six Eyes wielder could’ve danced a jig up and down the hallway, playing every bit the love-struck imbecile he knew himself to be.

It was the tiny victories in life.

Chapter Contents

#Jujutsu Kaisen #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #satoru x oc #satoru x wife #Satoru x fem oc #satoru gojo #Gojo #gojo satoru #Gojo Takes a Wife #fanfiction #jjk fanfic

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