#can't be melodramatic ALL the time.......

[greattigerssimp]

It's really funny how our Don's share a headcanon I made a while ago. It makes me think...

How would other boxers cope with Don's weak stomach? (Genuinely curious)

(May wanna put a CW for Emetophobia/vomiting for this one)

That's a really good question! Here's how'd they react...

(Cw: emetophobia/vomiting)

Glass Joe 🇫🇷 🥐

- Easily disgusted by vomiting or phlegm... and snails

- Both him and Don hate the idea of eating snails

- Probably wouldn't be the first to help poor Don, but he relates to him since he's a picky eater

- Thankfully, his Sunday brunches never gross Don out

Von Kaiser 🇩🇪 🔩

- Comes prepared with barf bags anytime he eats out with Don or the gang

- Is usually the first to see Don about to puke, and would warn everyone

- One time while Don was sick in the bathroom, he lore dropped how one of his pupils (probably Mason again smh) got sick after watching this documentary about boxing

Disco Kid 🇺🇲 🕺

- Screams whenever Don pukes

- If Don faints, he's the one to carry him home

- He's honestly cool about most things Don hates

King Hippo 🏝 🦛

- Can't really understand human disgust

- Made Don puke once after Don watched him have a "light snack" before a match

Piston Hondo 🇯🇵🥊

- Will feel horribly if he accidentally makes Don sick

- Is typically one to warn Don about his sickness triggers before Don participates in anything

- Is reluctantly the one to clean up any bodily fluids Don dispenses

- Will try his best to cook and make foods that Don agrees with

Bear Hugger 🇨🇦 🐻

- Him (and a certain Irish) are typically the ones to gross out Don

- One time all the boxers went camping, Bear caught a raw fish using his mouth, and he made Don sick

- Feels bad about unintentionally grossing Don out

Great Tiger 🇮🇳 🐅

- Is a sucker for the gross, and is the stark opposite of Don

- Made Don throw up once by creating a bad, deformed clone of himself

- Tries to not laugh when Don feels lightheaded bc he's dramatic about it

Don Flamenco 🇪🇸 🥀

- This poor guy and his squeamish stomach...

- Makes his sickness everyone's problem (and tbh he's kinda real for that)

- Can and will get scolded by Carmen for being sick... and by scolded, I mean verbally abused.

Aran Ryan 🇮🇪 😈

- Is most likely the reason Don is throwing up

- Will purposely show him gross images or facts to get him to get sick

- Laughs when Don throws up or gets sick

Soda Popinski 🇷🇺 🍾

- Once made Don throw up after he threw up from drinking too much soda

- Relates to Don getting sick, since his alcohol consumption led to his stomach sensitivity

- Will pat Don's back when he gets sick, as if Don was a baby... he doesn't understand that this doesn't help

Bald Bull 🇹🇷 🐂

- Doesn't really care if Don gets sick

- If anything, his melodramatic behavior annoys him

- Sometimes feels bad if Aran or Bear cause it

Super Macho Man 🇺🇸 🌊

- Also doesn't care about Donnie Flamingo

- One time, Don tried a colorful cocktail he was drinking, and he got violently sick from it

- Annoyed that Don could get seasick easily, it makes beach trips hard

Mr Sandman 🟢💤

- Doesn't care at all.

- Thinks Don is a dramatic baby for being sick (this mentality is wrong)

- Almost never gets sick himself, or shows signs

[arainesque]

for future reference

authors note:

have a blurb I cooked up because I feel horrible about my posting schedule. (I must've been horribly subconsciously inspired from all the wedding talk and wedding fics sue me.)

word count: 801

-----------

Holding George’s hand was one of Matty’s favourite things. A throwback to the past, a symbol of a shift in dynamic. A small thing that solidified that what he had with George was something else, something special. Something that Matty had done one day and never really stopped craving since. Something that used to make George blush so prettily, head tilted away from Matty in a futile attempt to hide it as his hand was gripped tighter, walking side by side.

He’d always found excuses to touch George’s hands, when he was sleeping facing Matty and they were right there, resting just in front of his own face. The innocent linking of pinkies while George was still fast asleep. Lingering too long when George passed him a lighter. Picking his rips for him only to have him whining about soft hands the next day.

Matty fiddled with the rings on George’s fingers while his head rested heavily against his shoulder. He had one hand around George’s wrist, feeling his pulse keeping time with the heartbeat against his ear, the other twisting and turning the metal jewellery around and around. Watching it sporadically glisten when it caught the dim light from the television.

His head felt empty in the best kind of way, serene in a sense where the notion of calmness wasn’t instantly morphed into a painful version of boredom. A rare occasion where he was able to just be. Be close to George without any thoughts interrupting them. George watched the telly as Matty watched George’s hand in his own.

They were both in a good place, really.

“You with me?” George murmured, snapping Matty out of his daydream while pressing a firm kiss to the top of his head. Keeping his lips there as he waited for an answer.

“Yes.” Matty breathed, surprised to find his voice coming out a little croaky, wondering how long he’d been quiet for.

“Can I have my hand back?”

“No-” Matty snorted, mock-offended, lifting his head off of George’s shoulder while tightening the grip on his hand. “Be glad I didn’t take your dominant one.”

“Here-” George took the ring off his pinky and placed it on Matty’s index finger, something about the gesture made Matty’s heart stumble clumsily in his chest. “Now you have your own fidget toy.”

“Not as fun as when it’s on you.” He quipped back, instead of addressing the thoughts suddenly provoked to the front of his mind.

In reality, the role reversal had Matty’s breath catching in his throat. The sight of George’s hand engulfing his own slight wrist, the ring that fit snugly around George’s pinky slotting perfectly onto that finger. He wondered briefly if George realised. If it was intentional. Matty felt claimed in the least possessive of ways, claimed without restrictions. He wanted to be claimed by George.

The quiet returned, his hand still in both of George’s. A ring on his index finger and a dramatic voice at the back of his head that never wanted George to let go. A quiet voice belonging to the part of his subconscious that wanted George to file away the ring measurement. An estimate in his own possession. For future reference.

But then George kissed Matty’s palm and his eyes started watering.

“Would you marry me?” Matty said, quietly. Like he almost didn’t want George to hear him. Ready to let it go if asked to repeat it.

“Is that you asking?” George murmured, his breath tickling the skin of Matty’s hand, sending shivers up his arm that spread throughout his body, melting him from the inside out.

He’d heard George’s voice everyday without fail for the past twenty years and yet it still caught him off-guard sometimes. How deep it was, how he could feel the bass of it resonating within his own chest. How it soothed him. How it was so distinctly George.

“No,” Matty pondered, not like this. He closed his eyes as George leaned forward to place a gentle kiss on his cheek, leaving his skin tingling. “But would you?”

“I’ve agreed to weirder things you’ve proposed.”

“Be serious!” 

“Sorry, sorry-” George was giggling, having brought their joined hands beneath his own chin, pressed close against the warm skin of his throat. He could feel George swallowing. “Of course I would, you knew that, surely.”

“Yeah,” Matty said, surprised at how confident he sounded. George released his hand to wrap his arms around his shoulders, letting Matty slump his entire weight onto George’s side. His favourite place to be, where he could simply feel him breathe. “Just wanted to hear you say it.”

The silence returned, yet again. This time accompanied by George’s heart beating just beneath his ear, his index finger still sparkling with the silver band adorning it.

Because one day, he would.

[forcebookish]

i need a new strategy for like, cleaning my room and doing yoga and reading and leaving the house. the adhd has reached mythic levels of bad. i have the thought, "i should do X," and then i won't move. i make a to-do list and i won't do anything on it. i queue up a yoga practice and i won't do it. i stare at my room and get stressed out about how cluttered it is. i write 3000 words of notes for a fic i don't even know if i'm going to write. i think and i think and i think about my OCs and they won't let me write them. i spend hours looking at stuff i can't buy. i take like an hour to write this.

[cup-noodle]

how do people survive leaving their cats for uni?? i'm struggling here 😭

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

good grief I hecking hate Google

[running-in-the-dark]

I'm starting to really feel like I might have to like. stop being online. in any form. but especially on social media.

I already don't read the news anymore because it made me too anxious. but social media is basically like the news except worse. at least with the news you know that you're mostly gonna get bad things. on tumblr/reddit/wherever it's a pleasant stream of fun/interesting/entertaining posts and then bam here's some really bad shit that's going to ruin the world as we know it and we're all fucked and there's nothing you can do about it! and right below it is the next cute cat picture or a cool drawing or a silly text post and you just keep scrolling

[2nd-mushroom-circle]

For the dnd ask

Jairix for 32, 64, 68 ;)

oh I'm so glad you asked Kim 🥰

32. do they seek control, or do they want less of it?

AHAHAHAH I don't think jairix could stand a loss of control - not now, not when she's holding on so tight to every bit of it she has left. I think she's desperate for it and it's killing her. Every possible circumstance, every possible enemy is rearing its head over Abseir, and Jairix knows only too well that a lack of control does not mean the responsibility weighs any less heavy.

64. do they value mercy or justice more?

to be frank, I don't think that she cares. jairix wants the things she has claimed as her own - her homeland, her city, her scattered party - to survive. she values mercy when it is extended to Abseir. She values justice when it protects Starfall. Although, perhaps, she leans more heavily on the side of justice now. Mercy leaves too much room for consequences later. (perhaps she looks at the decisions she makes every day and the compromises she's made and cannot bring herself to ask for mercy. perhaps she's locked it inside her so deep that her mouth no longer knows how to form the words.)

68. what was the best moment of their life?

I'll pick two. One during the campaign and one before, because nothing that happened during the campaign was unequivocally happy - there was always some greater cloud hanging over it. But I think sitting with Nan'Uov, looking up at the stars of the Orclands, was the closest thing to content she's been in a long time.

But the best moment of Jairix's life may have been arriving in Abseir for the first time, a little 10-year-old lizard fleeing the only home she'd ever known, and arriving at a miraculous city, still half-built and growing by the day, filled with all sorts of different kinds of people and with strange flying contraptions (airships, although how would she know it, they were some of the first) dotting the sky. Of course she fell in love at once. Of course she begged her parents, even after the war was over, to stay, so she could live in this wonderful place and learn its magic. Of course she ended up here, in the very center of its interconnected parts, giving everything she has and everything she is to the city that she adores.

[alittlebitofrainbyyourside]

I got Drunk tonight because idk, grown adult, I can do that and I'm currently doing the thing I do where I sober up as much as possible before I go to sleep. wanna go to sleep. it is So Many Hours past my normal bed time. but I was also literally still drink in hand past my normal bed time and alcohol has a half life of 4-5 hours.

[hedgehog-moss]

I'm happy to announce that this month I was finally able to buy Pirlouit a proper packsaddle! Doesn't he look very professional? And handsome. He receives a lot of compliments every time a visitor sees him all dressed up.

If he looks a bit wary in this photo it's because it was the first time I added the baskets, and as he'd never seen such large baskets before he wasn't sure they weren't about to eat him. His nervousness only took the form of twitchy ears though, there was no drama. (And he can be very melodramatic, so really he's been very stoical and self-possessed in the process of getting used to the packsaddle.)

He can also sulk for days if I make him do something he doesn't like (e.g. hoof care, which he seems to interpret as pointless torture), so I find it gratifying that every time we've used the packsaddle so far, he didn't try to avoid me the next day but came to greet me—he makes it very obvious when he is offended by an activity, and I'm glad that he seems to enjoy being asked to help carry things :).

When I bought the packsaddle I was a bit concerned about the girth being too small, because Pirou refused to let me measure his circumference beforehand (and I was pretty sure having to resort to some sort of girth extender would embarrass him) (but he does have a very round belly...)

But no; I was able to fasten all the straps—though I spared him the crupper strap at first.

I had to have two tall trees felled in the pasture (because of a project I will talk about in another post), and I also cut a couple of storm-damaged trees in my woods, so I spent a lot of time this year cutting & splitting logs. I now have several stacks quite far from my house, in places that can't be reached with a wheelbarrow, and my donkey's help is very appreciated to carry everything to the woodshed. Plus, the people who visit me are usually more into doing stuff with the llamas, so this allows me to give attention to Pirlouit too, while doing something useful.

Aren't you proud to be now in my Top 3 Most Useful Animals, Pirou?

... wait he's still grumbling about that one comment.

[pomefioredove]

May I req headcanons for diasomnia reacting to a reader who had really long hair getting it cut, like, shoulder length or shorter?

I hope you get well soon. Take care of yourself in the meantime!

this is cute I like this :)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ short hair

type of post: headcanons characters: sebek, silver, lilia, malleus additional info: romantic or platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is not specified to be yuu

it's not that Sebek is oblivious, it's just that you're standing next to Malleus right now, and he tends to become blinded by the sight of his two favorite people in the same room. he can still tell that something is off, but he's busy imagining how this magnificent scene would look like as a painting hung above his bed when you ask him if he's noticed anything different

"OF COURSE I HAVE! your complexion simply glows when you're next to my liege!"

then he very confidently walks away

(when he does realize, he walks all the way to your dorm at 9 PM to loudly compliment you)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Silver tends to notice little things about you all the time. even when he's not awake. the you he sees in the dreamscape is always picturesque, so he knows that you've done something different with your hair before you even see each other

of course, when you do, the first thing he says is that he likes it, it frames your face nicely, and shorter hair is better for combat because it's more difficult to grab

...very straight forward, very seriously, very Silver

if you didn't know him already, you might be freaked out, but, luckily, you know how meaningful a compliment like this is

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

you just know Lilia is going to ask if he can do it next time. honestly, he's offended you didn't come to him first! he would've given the both of you the same haircut... what? no? awwww...

he gets over it fast, though he still not-so-subtly offers to bleach and dye it to match his...

do not fall asleep around this man fr

otherwise, if you'll let him, he'd enjoy playing with your hair

twirling his fingers around it, flicking it, braiding it, gently tugging it, it's just fun for him. he's weird (<3)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

okay. Malleus, the prince of not being able to handle change, is just a little upset you didn't even tell him you were going to cut it. of course, he knows it's not his place, and he can't (and also wouldn't) tell you what to do, but, to him, it's another harrowing reminder that humans have a completely different relationship with time

(he's in his philosophical era, don't worry about him. or do?)

he consults Lilia, and then broods about it, as he does

and then once he's over his melodramatic intermission, comes to really like it

really! you'd look cute in anything, of course, but there's something about this style that is really alluring to him

so pretty, he could stare at you all day!

I mean, like, more than he already does

[moonsaver]

i like the idea of sunday being this prim and proper church boy, absolutely gentlemanly so well put together. but the moment he meets the 'right person' he just turns into this high maintenance clingy princess........

HAHHA i kept thinking ab this ask randomly. It just kept popping up into my head from time to time.

I imagine in the start, maybe he's just getting a crush on you, or he's trying to drop hints – he's veeery gentlemanly. Opens the door for you, pulls out the chair for you, occasionally gifts you flowers, compliments you fairly well, etc etc..

And then in the relationship, he starts becoming a little bit clingy. It starts out faint at first – taking a few extra minutes to just hold onto you, kiss your face, occasionally hugging you from behind and holding on before you ask him to let go.

And then it gets worse.

Well, as "worse" as it can get actually. He's unfortunately quite adorable with it.

He sulks when you have to get up and out of bed, leaving him behind, when you leave to go to the bathroom. He'll be subtle, but he'll be sure you see it – turning his back to you, curling up into himself as if it's the cold winter and he hath no shelter until you coo and pamper him.

Only likes being touched by you – so for the most part he wants you to help him comb through his hair and wings. Only wants you to massage it and (gently) scratch them from time to time. It becomes a sort of habit or routine for you two – early mornings where he sits all propped up at the dressing table, waiting for you to gently comb through his bed hair and compliment the softness of it. Acts so shocked when you refuse, as if he hasn't heard it right. He'll continue doing his own hair, but you'll constantly, periodically hear from the other side of the room, or from the corners of the house – his sighs and the sad, victorian boy look in his eyes until you feel guilty.

He doesn't like eating desserts if you don't eat with him. He insists and even pesters you to occasionally text him random stuff during the day so he can talk to you. Acts passive aggressive when you comment on how pretty someone else's halo is. He'll sometimes sigh wearily and "accidentally" ponder out loud just when will his significant other finally pay attention to him?

You have to spoil him rotten with kisses and affection, and promise to go out on dates with him after, just to get him to stop being so melodramatic. Not to mention you have to big spoon him. And even then, he'll grumble into the crook of your neck until you pamper him a bit more.

Granted, he won't overdo it. But a few people, like Robin and your family, might know just how clingy he is. A simple "I can't come, sorry" from you is enough for them to understand that it's Sunday who's been (subtly) whining and sulking for your attention, and wounds up making you cancel some of your plans. Maybe you do enjoy staying in with him, maybe you don't. Either way, it's not bad. He does spoil you in return too – paying for all your show subscriptions, ordering whatever you want to eat, big spooning you whenever you want. There's many other ways he can pay you back, too.

--

[yayll]

~ a little something about Dazai and his tantrums ~

"... Hmph. I hope you crash this car and we both die."

The moody brunet mutters under his breath as he looks out of the car window, his arms crossed over his chest, refusing to look at you. He was awfully cute whenever he did this, and oh so vexing at the same time. You learned to acclimate to this very early into your relationship with him.

"What? All I said was that I was going to be driving us, Osamu!"

Your laugh is light hearted as you focus on the road ahead, dismissing his whiny behavior for another one of his... Melodramatic performances, his co-workers once called it. He finally turns to glare at you, but a wicked glint in his narrowed eyes betrays him... You can tell he's more unserious than anything. Playful, even. And besides, he would never actually be upset with you, he just can't stop thinking up schemes to make you roll your eyes at him. Your smile alone makes his thoughts impure, shame on you!

"Yeah, well... I feel dehumanized! overlooked! neglected..." He feigns offense, sighing heavily as he slouches into the passenger seat. He places a bandaged arm over his face, groaning softly but still side eyeing you to check if you're looking at him or not.

"You do that all on your own, silly."

"Excuse me? I'm expressing my grievances and you're calling me silly? Oh, so that's what this is really about. You don't love me anymore! What a cruel beauty you are..."

He gasps, now burying his face into the crook of his elbow, pretending to weep as he mumbles incoherent nonsense about how much you mistreat him. In actuality, he was giddy as hell. You park the car, and turn to face him, a coy smile flashes on your lips.

"Nobody said anything about not loving you. Now, what can I do to fix this, Mm?"

He lifts his head up, suddenly composed and shrugging his shoulders as if nothing ever happened, speaking in a matter of fact voice that somehow deepened.

"Well, definitely don't let me drive. I don't even have a license. I'd kill us in an instant."

"... Then why argue about it?!"

"Because you look so beautiful when you're yelling at me. And you make me feel alive. Anddd, because I'm bored~"

He flashes you a cheeky grin, it's dreamy and sickening. His eyes twinkle with mischief as he leans over the seat and flicks away a stray hair from your face. Dazai then taps the tip of your nose, slowly dragging his finger down to your plush bottom lip, gently flipping it over to expose your teeth. The pad of his finger gently swirls against your canines, and finally, retreats... He knows there's a time and place for his worship prodding. His eyes travel back up to yours, and you can swear they look darker than usual. If only the Port Mafia could see what became of the Demon Prodigy... A new man reborn! A man who loves!

The rest of the day is spent with you indulging Dazai, something along the lines of 'reparations' is what he calls it. Only he knows how much it means to him that you can handle him during his calculated outbursts... or rather harmless tests to prove you won't leave him at the first sign of trouble. He needs you to be in it for the longhaul, just like he is. It's deceptive, but no one has to know! He just loves you and these are simply counter measures. You'd probably call him selfish, but as long as you call him at all, he doesn't give a shit. Because in the grand scheme of things, he really can't drive, and you two are inevitably endgame.

You're the ball, and he's your chain.

[ddarker-dreams]

Which one of ur yanderes take care of you way too much that it's suffocating to you <3333

oh boy.

geto and gojo from the golden girl yan au are suffocating in ways that'd make your sanity wane. separate, they're semi-tolerable. heavy emphasis on semi. geto hides his obsessive tendencies better but gojo barely bothers.

geto's self-aware enough to know you won't appreciate your privacy/autonomy being blatantly violated. he's careful, always gauging your body language to see what he can and can't get away with. he paints himself as the more reasonable one (which gojo finds funny, considering geto's need for control exceeds his). geto eases you into this new reality of their heavy involvement in your life. it's gradual, starting off with him casually asking where you were or who you were with.

the way he phrases and times his questions won't have you thinking twice about offering the information up. should you ever hesitate, your instinct swearing that something's just off, he can handle that too. he'll get quiet, almost solemn. geto professes to knowing it's a bit much and apologizes. the last thing he'd ever want to do is make you uncomfortable, he'll say. you're dear to him and he doesn't know what he'd do if anything happened to you. by the end of the spiel, guilt festers in your chest for doubting his intentions.

then there's gojo.

he's always finding excuses to be in your vicinity, soaking up all your attention like a sponge. from his perspective, there's no point in you talking to anyone besides him, geto, and shoko. nanami and haibara are on thin ice but he can tolerate them, so long as your interactions remain short. gojo ramps up his obnoxiousness to a blinding degree, ensuring yours eyes never wander from him. he's always draping himself over you, cracking jokes, prodding for reactions, or otherwise invading your personal space. shoko made an apt comparison, likening him to a parasite 'that doesn't know when to stop feeding.'

while his fussing over you might seem melodramatic, he's very in tune to your emotions and overall wellbeing. you couldn't hide anything from him if you tried, he knows you like the back of his hand. it never hit how observant he is until he picks up on something troubling you before you were aware of it yourself.

they both see how easily exploitable your kind disposition is. hell, it's how they're able to get away with half the things they do. the world would devour your sweet qualities, spitting out whatever pieces of you remain. certainly, your naïveté could be taken advantage of, but, ironically enough, in 'protecting' you from this, they're participating in what they've set out to prevent. they both kinda know it too. ultimately, their greed outweighs any guilt they might feel for monopolizing your attention.

[trappolia]

── NO GRAVE CAN HOLD MY BODY DOWN

(minor spoilers for season 2!) sevika. near what feels like death, sevika has a revelation and a confession.

Sevika thinks two things when the Hexcore's static passes through her scar and seizes her bloodstream.

One: she can't believe that she's writhing on the floor in agony, beaten by Vi's little Piltie girlfriend in her ridiculous beret.

Two: she might actually die today.

It's ridiculous, she thinks, how everyone has gone to absolute shit. There's a new sort of madness glinting in Jinx's no-longer-baby-blues (the odd magenta shimmer of her eyes sends a shiver down her spine) and not to mention that little shit that has tagged along in this operation, with Jinx doing little to dissuade the runt besides some sarcastic melodramatic warning and a few finger guns. And now they're here, beaten and clawing at each other's faces wildly like fucking children (she can see Jinx in her peripheral, has never seen her fight so sloppily with her little hands; she understands now why Silco had insisted her skills laid in engineering and inventions, rather than the fists that her sister wielded so boldly) and Sevika doesn't know where the fuck Isha is nor does she know what the fuck is going on with their weapons. Her new arm is fine, albeit heavy with extra weight and throbbing with phantom pain— but something had gone wrong

She's going to die. She's going to fucking die, and because of some fucking magic trick gone wrong.

Sevika doesn't fear death. Hell, she's lasted a lot longer than what her own mother thought. Life down here in the Undercity is nothing like the wealth and opulence and light of Piltover's Topside. To some, death may have been a blessing. Some days, Sevika thinks that it's better than cleaning up after Jinx's messes and running Silco's errands.

But Silco is dead, and the one thing he loved more than their city is off the fucking rails. Sevika can't die now. Not with these fucking blue bellies gassing her home with the fucking Grey again, not when there's so much left to be done.

And maybe there's a third thing in the mix too. Caught between rage and pure, genuine terror, Sevika twitches and grunts and claws at her skin, thinking: Fuck. Fuck. She's going to die like a wimp whimpering on the cold stone, and she's never going to see you again.

Sevika is not the romantic sort. Before you, she'd found simple pleasures in the smoky rooms of Margo's brothels, or pretty doe-eyed lasses she met at the bar. But now she finally finds it in herself to admit that for fucking once, she might have wanted to take you to a candlelit dinner. Seen you giggle and shit about her poor attempts at romance— not the malicious sort of giggle, no, but fond. Endlessly fond, in the way Sevika never deserved.

The thing — magic, engineering, Hextech or whatever the fuck it's called — crackles across her veins and bones, setting fire to her blood and the viscera that sits contained under her skin. Her body gives another involuntary jerk. It's certainly not her first time having the misfortune of being caught at the wrong place at the wrong time— hell, that blue explosion all those years ago is the reason she has to rely on a metal arm now. But this is different, wrong. It sinks deep into her bones, claws at the essence of her being with its arcane

Sevika tries to scream, but she can't.

In the ringing between her ears, Sevika can only think of where she could be— anywhere but here, either dying or something far, far worse. She wants to sit by your bar after a long day's work while listening to you re-tell the odd and frankly ridiculous narratives your patrons tell you when they're neck deep in drink and tab. She wants to wake up in the middle of the night when you roll over and instinctively press yourself to her side for warmth in your sleep. And maybe, more than anything, she wants to go back in time and cradle your face when you beg her not to leave, kiss you and tell you that she'll be home in time for dinner.

(She'd dismissed you then, told you that a spoiled Piltie couldn't beat her ass hard enough to keep her down.

She was wrong. So fucking wrong.)

Sevika thinks of you now, waiting at home. Anxious; oh, so anxious, because Silco is dead and Jinx has been haywire and who is level-headed enough to at least attempt to clean everything up, but she's only one woman and the Chembarons are fucking deranged and she's just— just—

"Just come home safe, Vika."

Fuck. Fuck.

From her periphery, she registers Cait — Vi's little girlfriend, that prestigious bitch — stumbling to her feet, fumbling for her glitching (why the fuck is it glitching?) rifle. Sevika moans in pain, trying to will some strength into her muscles to get up, fucking get up! Cait can't be a better shot than Jinx. No one is. But Jinx is out of weapons, having been clawing at Vi with her bare hands and pink-blue nails for what might have been just a minute or hours, Sevika's brain is too muddled to tell. But she knows Jinx, knows that she's nearly damn useless when it comes to rationality without her sanity and her trinkets, and when she's squabbling with Vi so blindly, so violently, Sevika knows Cait will have a clear shot.

And she does.

Sevika hears a cry. Pained, almost child-like. She thinks its Jinx, at first— and for a split moment, it is. Jinx, blue-haired, glossy-eyed, a finger shot straight off its knuckle. Electricity crackles over the palm of her gloved hands, her shoulders rising and falling rapidly with each breath she takes.

But then the pain overtakes Sevika again, and she clutches at her rib, her leg— everything. She wants it out, but she doesn't know where it even is.

When her eyes clear again and she can breathe semi-properly, it's Isha now. That little runt with her mop of messy brown hair and that stupid helmet that's toppled to the floor. Vi is straddling her sister-- or was, before that stupid kid ran from where she was hiding in the rafters (when had she gotten down, and how did she do it so quickly?), shoved herself between the pink-haired turncoat and Jinx.

There's two holding a gun now.

Words being spoken. Isha wails, clinging onto Jinx fiercely even when Jinx tries to shove her off, equal parts frustrated and confused by the younger girl's behaviour. Sevika thinks of you, just as quick to shove yourself between Sevika and danger when the two of you had been barely strangers.

"Come back to me."

A groan rips itself from her throat, silent but pained. Sevika pulls herself to her feet, the goddamned Devil's lightning still crackling around her limbs like some fancy magic trick gone horribly wrong (She hopes it doesn't ruin her new arm. She literally just got it this week, goddammit.) Cait's back is turned to her, the Enforcer's hands gripping her rifle like a lifeline— but too stupid, too caught up in playing hero for her fucked little kingdom to notice the heavy footfalls behind her.

She stumbles to the wall, wracks her brain for somethng. She's missing it. Sevika blames it on that damn Jinx, the way she yaps like an overexcited puppy when she's explaining her plans; and the way she never actually elaborates on them, because "Sevika is too dumb, Sevika won't get it." Stupid kid. Sevika needs to get her out of here.

"Sevika. Please, don't do this," your pretty face, your teary little eyes. You're a tough little cookie, Sevika knows, like a stubborn weed growing in their nasty streets, but you're always so quick to tears when you think Sevika's staking her bets too high.

Maybe she did. But she can't lose the game. Not now.

One more bet.

Her human arm fumbles clumsily over the flat stone wall— not one of those pillars that Jinx and Vi had so recklessly ruined in their squabble. She feels along the ridges, remembers the flares and bombs that Jinx had planted all around Topside.

There's a click.

"Don't go."

Oh, she's not going. She's got another day yet.

[ginevrapng]

"did sirius black just wink at you?"

no. you're trying to pretend he didn't at least, this is the second time so far this term sirius has winked at you and he smirks at you whenever you accidentally makes eye contact.

sirius black cannot like you, he just can't. he likes loud, confident, thin, conventionally attractive girls, he does not go for girls like you. black dates 'hot' girls like marlene mckinnon, not you.

not a girl like you, soft, cute, round.

black cannot like you, he likes someone who's like him, a gryffindor, popular, likeable, approachable, someone with the same friends. someone who he can walk next to in the corridor as he can sling his arm around their shoulder with zero shame.

that's why sirius black cannot like you. you're not his type and at this point you're getting annoyed with his constant fucking around with you.

you pretend you've never shown much interest in him before. you don't talk to him in class and don't talk to him in general, you pretend to think his jokes are immature and his hair is ridiculous and everyone believes you, apart from the man himself. you scoff and roll your eyes at the snarky remarks made in class towards the teachers although you hide your mouth behind your hand and slightly smile, you bite your lip trying to stop giggling, you pretend you want to support your house and watch all the quidditch matches but the only reason you attend every single game is to watch sirius play.

sirius black is smarter than people believe him to be, he knows that it's all an act that you put up. and he loves it.

he loves the way you turn your head away from the door every time he walks into class late. he loves to hear you stifle your giggling as you see the latest prank he's pulled like snape walking around with bright green hair. he loves the big jumpers you wear when you always pull your sleeves down so they cover your hands. he loves the way your chubby cheeks become more prominent on your face as you're talking carefree to your friends.

"black did not wink at me, he probably doesn't even know my name. i'm not his type."

you're sitting in the courtyard and you're pretending you haven't noticed the marauders. you want to read to get some work done but the library is too cold and your common room is too crowded. you try and focus on your essay but not only are the marauders near you, a couple of your friends are distracting you too.

one of your friends is bending down to your eye level, blocking out the sun while complaining that you're wasting the day, your other friend being just as melodramatic waving their hands about complaining about something you're paying zero attention to.

in the corner of your eye you see james potter laying on the ground fiddling with a golden snitch, which you think is strange because though you go to the gryffindor games to watch sirius you do know that james is a chaser. remus lupin's reading a muggle book and is somehow being able to ignore his mates chattering. peter pettigrew has his hand stuck in a can of something that he's trying to shake out off while sirius is snickering at him.

thinking you've looked at him long enough for it to start becoming suspicious you turn your full attention back to your essay.

"oi, black's looking at you again." your friend shouted to you in a whisper.

"no he's not," you hiss back not looking up.

"yes he is!" came from both of your friends.

"i'm not his type guys," you reply getting exasperated, feeling like you've had this exact conversation so many times by now.

"who says?"

you freeze, knowing that voice, having dreams about that voice. finally you look up from your essay to see sirius smirking from behind you having heard your conversation. your two friends have the biggest grins on their face, i told you so grins.

[vultbae]

water and oil ✩

tashi duncan x female reader blurb

↳ summary: the two female college tennis archenemies play against each other.

↳ warnings: angst, being closeted.

↳ notes: english is not my first language pookies! also, I couldn't believe there aren't almost any Tashi fics??? and happy pride! not proof-read btw

word count: 1.1k

An ear-piercing scream rips through the air, slicing through the ambient noise of the tennis court like a knife, instantly making your body freeze. Your chest aggressively compresses as you watch your lifetime opponent, Tashi Duncan, fall on her back and crumple to the ground in agony, hands clutching her injured knee as if trying to hold herself together. 

Everything has diverted into penetrating silence, and you feel your racket gradually slipping from your fingers, the once-familiar weight slipping away unnoticed as you stare at Tashi Duncan with shock and a rigid, fast-pounding heart. Her face is a torturous portrayal of suffering, with knitted eyebrows and a constant audible sob escaping her lips.

You can't —or are incapable— of moving a muscle; they have locked themselves with a key you forgot where you placed. Instead, you stare with tears brimming at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over but held back by sheer will. Suddenly, the sour mutterings from the crowd began to stab the thick fog of your shock. At first, the voices were just a faraway hum, but soon, the words became crystal clear.

"Why isn't she helping her?" 

"Look at her—she doesn't even care. She will win by default."

"They hate each other; she won't help." 

You are aware that the public perception of your rivalry with Tashi is intense, fueled by years of competitive clashes on and off the court. So, technically, they aren't wrong. You kind of hate each other, at least publicly. Even college recruiters had recognized early on that your rivalry was too severe to coexist on the same team—you for UCLA and Tashi for Stanford. You are polar opposites in playing style and temperament, each embodying traits that clash rather than complement. 

While other tennis players in your age group get praised for their ability to work beautifully together, Tashi and you resemble more water and oil.

And water and oil don't mix. 

Your heart sinks further as your gaze shifts from Tashi Duncan to the male figure now hysterically rushing onto the court. He is tall and good-looking, with blonde curls and an exaggerated expression of concern that you find melodramatic and infuriatingly genuine all at once. Recognition dawns upon you like a dark cloud—Art Donaldson, the young tennis promise Tashi had been talking to lately, also from Stanford.

The sight of Donaldson crossing onto the court, jumping over the net without hesitation, and acting like a wannabe hero stirs a mixture of sour emotions within your core—jealousy, resentment, and a deep sense of helplessness. Of course, it makes absolute sense Tashi Duncan is dating a handsome, talented tennis player from her same school... and guess what? He came to the rescue! You internally cringe at the horrid thought of everyone applauding him for caring for your girlfriend.

The crowd's accusatory murmurs continue behind your back. Your fists clench at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you follow Art Donaldson's silhouette kneeling beside Tashi's body with eyes filled with hostility and envy. You watch as he gently takes Tashi's hand in his, his facial expression softening as he murmurs charming words of reassurance to the girl deliriously in pain. You can't tolerate it. You stay there, still torn and immobilized, with your mind racing and endeavoring to decide what to do. 

"Sometimes I wish I was a dude," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper in the quiet of Tashi's dimly lit college dorm. Tashi's fingers lightly brushed through your hair but abruptly stopped. "If I was that Patrick dude or the other blonde guy, my life would be ten times easier."  

You heard her sigh. 

"But you wouldn't be as good at tennis," Tashi softly replied, and you could tell she was avoiding conflict at all costs. 

A beat.

"But I would have you," you said, turning your head to face Tashi, whose expression remained reflective and contradictory as she stared into the soft glow of the lamp lying on her night table. "I promise that's all that matters to me, Tash," you reassured.

Your eyes met, each with equal sorrow and frustration. Tashi broke eye contact first.

Tashi knew that picking arguments with Patrick was very easy, and she didn't have the urge to speak of anything else annexed from tennis and sex with him. You somehow managed to actively amuse her with conversations regarding your crusty dog back home, the food you have tried when you travel abroad, and everlasting anecdotes that provoke you to giggle and steal a genuine smile from Tashi's lips every single time. 

And it wasn't too long after you exchanged your first words in private for her to realize she loved you. But not in a chummy way. Tashi romantically loved you.

But she never said it. Tashi just guessed you would assume she maniacally loved you, and you would satisfy yourself with that.

But the belief of Tashi loving you felt unimaginable in situations like this.

And now, the panorama of them together reflecting a couple straight out of a film—Art's concern etched on his face, Tashi's distress requiring attention—served as a stark, fucking bitter reminder of the captivating image they could market for years. They look perfect, they look—right.

So, why bother ruining Tashi's career? If her key to branding conquest is right there, kneeling next to her aching body in the form of a six-foot gorgeous tennis player.

In that rare moment of clarity, you make a sore, silent vow to honor your secret, to continue navigating the labyrinth of hidden tenderness and affection if Tashi doesn't decide to drop you after this.

But, as you are one intrusive thought away from stepping out of the court —or, better said, escape— Tashi's hazel orbs, flickering with anxiety and in between dried and brand-new tears, disembark on your outline. Internally, she wonders why you cry —at least as much as her, and you wish you could clarify is because you feel powerless. You are powerless. 

Tashi stares one, five, fifteen, thirty seconds. She doesn't quit. You stare back. Encircling her, the Stanford medical team consoles her and provides instructions to which she doesn't pay attention. To her right side, and almost covering the view of her, the blonde guy starts to question what —or who— she is looking at.

You mouth, "I love you."

Tashi's eyes widen slightly in surprise, and you can see that little pout of hers appearing over her lips.

Art turns to track Tashi's gaze, falling over you.

And when he's not looking, Tashi mouths back.

"I love you too."

And that's what matters because no one else needs to know that water and oil can mix.