#does that mean i should read books again
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sometimes I think of all the on-the-surface warm, well-meaning but deeply ineffectual advice and attention john gives harrow through harrow the ninth (make some soup and get some sleep! get a hobby! don't be so hard on yourself! self care harrow! as long as I need take no actual responsibility in this relationship whatsoever I would have loved to be your dad!) set up against the stark truth that with his other hand he has been staging her attempted horrific murder again and again and again like a living nightmare on the logic that it will 'put her down or fix her'. and then I find that I wish there is a hell. a special hell where twitch streamers turned necromantic death emperors go
#the locked tomb#harrowhark nonagesimus#john gaius#harrow the ninth#this is why I don't buy john as misunderstood and initially well-meaning AT ALL#this is a pattern you see with him again and again and again -- right down to his interpersonal relationships#(and indeed it's in the more grounded interpersonal relationships you can most clearly see him as he is I think#the fantasy death empire of a thousand years doesn't register quite as viscerally because it's like. heightened; not quite real#but the emotional violence and manipulation that surrounds him? oh boy that is EXTREMELY real and scarily well-observed)#there's a premeditation to so much of what he does (contracts with planets that only end 'in the event of the emperor's death' anyone?#yeah john we get it you're hilarious and I wish you weren't)#the greatest trick john ever pulled was making anyone think he's just a lil guy. what does he know he's only god#when you first read the book the complete callousness of the other adults is so horrible that john seems like an oasis of care#(though you start to get this uneasy feeling when that care never seems to translate to like... relief or soothing or resolution)#and it makes it feel almost obscene when you find out what's actually going on#it's the mercy & augustine enabler hour but at least they're completely honest in their cruelty there#while john is -- well he sure is being john huh#this is just me being angry with him btw philosophically I don't think this is how the story will or should end#(with john slam dunked right into hell that is)#it's just... harrow is so vulnerable. and what he does to her is so insidious and fucked up#john is very deeply human. unfortunately the capacity to quite simply suck so much is deeply human too
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Doodle of my boy
#keese draws#eternal gales#oc art#oc#fydd <3333333333#he is my bestie I need to get over my fear of drawing him so bad#grips bathroom sink I Will get better at drawing for fun and letting my art be messy and being proud of it anyways#but yeah look at him he is so cute and is so silly and he’s never gone through any traumatic events ever I would never#<- lying lier who lies and loves tormenting it’s ocs#but yeah he’s half alien half human but was raised entirely by his human mom#his alien mom is alas stuck in the cult the two met at rip#fydd doesn’t know abt any of that tho he just knows that he has another mom that his mom doesn’t like talking abt#he loves playing games of all kind but especially loves video games and will play them for hours#not that he has much else to do since he’s spent pretty much his entire life living by a garbage dump in the middle of nowhere#and he’s not allowed to go fuck around in the dump much since his mom doesn’t want him to be seen so he’s stuck at home most of the time#thankfully now he has an adopted sister to play with but he still has viddy game autism#his mom has done her best to introduce him to the various cultures she and his other mom came from but she struggles with it#she was quite disconnected from her own culture growing up and she knows limited amount about her girlfriends home planet#fydd doesn’t mind much rn cause he’s 12 but a certain other older fydd might care a smidge more#fydd does like 60% know both japanese and spanish tho so that’s pretty cool#his mom tried to do regular lessons when he was younger but wasn’t able to keep them up consistently and eventually gave up#mostly because she wasn’t anywhere near fluent in either herself and she had a hard time keeping up with how fast fydd would pick up on it#they still have some books from back then laying around that fydd will pick up and read aloud when he’s bored sometimes#he gets bored of speaking english all the time as his brain is built to pick apart different sounds and assign them linguistic meaning#so reading and speaking different languages is good enrichment for him#his mom doesn’t know this unfortunately otherwise she totally would have gotten him more stuff in different languages to chew on#he does get to learn the language the stalien cast speaks tho he has a lot of fun with that#he alas can’t properly experience most stalien video games though rip#I should rly get to redesigning his human mom again at some point she needs it sooo bad#I mean her whole squad needs it but she’s my favorite so like
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Highly recommend reading this essay about grappling with art and the creator's bad acts/monsterousness:
I've struggled to put much of this into words myself. It's a hard thing to grapple with and I think the point being made in the article is incredibly valuable. When we work so hard to claim we only take in unharmful art, we willingly blind ourselves to the truth that we too are capable of great harm, which in turn can perpetuate abusive systems. It can create this mindset: If I am not capable of harming others, because I am a righteous and "good" person, then any harm caused must have been the fault of someone else. You are essentially gaslighting yourself, which leads to gaslighting others.
If you asked my mother, she would tell you that she was a great mother. She gave up so much for her kids and sacrificed all her own wants and needs. She'd tell you that I was a fragile, overly emotional child. That I was difficult and over imaginative. She'd express confusion about how I went from the perfect, quiet baby to the angry, depressed teen, to an adult who no longer spoke with her.
She'd never mention the thrown objects, the rages, the climbing into my bed (not just to comfort me after a nightmare), the belittling, the emotional manipulation, the times she told me I must be mistaken and played off my observations as imagination (gaslighting me), the constantly changing expectations and rules. Because she was incapable (and probably still is incapable) of acknowledging that she herself had the capacity to do the same things her father did to her. In her head she was a victim and a good person, and she used those ideas to shield herself from her own monsterous behavior.
It is important to acknowledge that you can and will fuck up. That no one is purely good or purely evil. That we all contain the potential for both helpful and harmful acts and that if we are not mindful of others actual needs our helpful acts can be harmful.
When it comes to art, I do think it is important to not just shun, without thought or contemplation, art when we find out something awful about the creator. What we learn will change the way we see the art, but that goes from learning anything about the creator--good or bad.
#we all have to find our own metric and deal with things as best we can#i refuse to give JKR any more money#because she is actively using her fortune to harm those like myself#but that doesn't necessarily mean I think all people should avoid reading the Harry Potter books or watching the movies#it's a complicated thing and I make a choice for my own personal mores#but each person has to do that for themselves#I will admit that I'd encourage people to engage with the works from the public library or a used book store#basically anyway that wouldn't give JKR more money#when it comes to other bad deeds by creators my main question is “does my purchasing this enable them to continue to cause harm to others”?#again these are just my personal metrics#we each have to find our own#culture#art and flawed creators#we are all flawed
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Mmm Jeanne
#servants cant learn new stuff (i'll talk about jalter in a second) therefore#jeanne shouldnt know how to read or write#we actually Dont get a confirmation that she can do those things in summer 3. because the book that jalter thought jeanne wrote#was actually Her own book#jeanne works with marie. maybe she comes up with the ideas and does rough drawings that marie would be Delighted to bring to life#marie reads to jeanne is my image#jalter taught herself how to read and write and i think that was possible because of the unstability of her existence#if you try to teach jeanne how to read and write it will stick for a second but if like idk 15-20 min pass she would likely find herself#unable to read again and her writting to be suboptimal#she can sign her own name ofc thats historical#she can recite the bible from memory iirc#i love jalter's ability to be her own person even if it comes with the fact that she is very much. an ephemeral dream#like her FCKING SKILL IS CALLED.#WHY MUST YOU HURT ME LIKE THIS FGO#anyway. now jeanne again but physical#oughhh thank u for the support in the tags when i said jeanne should have self image issues because she looked different in life#i hadnt fully talked bout it i just went with hair but yeah. i need to check again because im pretty sure her body wasnt Suuuper different#but i just gotta confirm#but im just so i love the idea of her just not liking the way she manifested abd not knowing Why she manifested like that#when there are Countless depictions of her with her short brown hair#sieg looks to the side whistling (its not his fault but he knows the pseudo servant part#and its probably a mix of . fate apocrypha's manifestation and of how some people imagined jeanne looked like#but it still upsets her#not that she'd ever complain to people#you can probably get it out of her tho#unrelated and only to those who reached this far: im thinking of a singularity set in 15th century orleans in the Middle of the hundred year#war. but the difference aint “oh jeanne d'arc came back to life evil” rather than “there seems to be a battle here where it shouldnt and oh#my god is that jeanne- oh god jeanne d'arc fucking died--#and chaldeas has to try and fix the war without living breathing jeanne d'arc#actually thats not the middle of the 100yearwar but yknow what i mean. also haha jk unless...
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as i get closer and closer to finishing my main passion project novel, the more and more i realize that it's gonna be a pain in the ass to publish considering the subject matter. not necessarily getting it published-- but the public/audience opinion of it. it does require media literacy to read, and as we all know, for whatever reason, media literacy and having to figure out written subtext and actually draw your own conclusions is impossible for people to do nowadays.
#writeblr#writingblr#might make a writing accnt again its been a long time but idk yet i have like 70 tumblr accounts LOL#mine#i just like to complain#why is everyone against reading things that have meaning?#why does everyone just want everything spelled out for them now?#has the proliferation of YA and fast novels (like fast fashion) caused people to hate reading books above a 5th grade level of complexity?#it is ok to find meaning in things#it is ok to analyze every single aspect of a book including words and color usage and syntax#it should be encouraged actually#but yall hated omg the curtains are blue#so here we are#i fear the boomers were right...
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reading to gaze upon wicked gods was such a harrowing experience, but it was nothing compared to reading the REVIEWS of to gaze upon wicked gods
the people who hate this book bc they think the author is writing a romance novel between an asian girl and her colonizer are stupid as rocks. but they're not as stupid as the people who thought this book was a romance between an asian girl and her colonizer AND STILL WANTED THEM TO END UP TOGETHER
#i have many thoughts the first of which being this was an okay novel. like really middle of the road for me 3/5 stars#but dear lord people acted like author was out here committing the war crimes herself the way they spoke about this book#it's not a “colonizer romance” SHES AN UNRELIABLE NARRATOR WHO IS BEING MANIPULATED BY A MAN IN A POSITION OF POWER OVER HER#this guy has literally skeletons in the closet bodies in the basement and you think the author is uncritically supporting his actions???#are you crazy?#also people clowned on her for “writing unit 731 fanfiction” which i think is a terrible description of what the book is.#she does not romanticize the conditions those people were forced into by any means.#and i don't care that she made the bad guys romans instead of japanese people#shes literally fucking chinese i don't care about how YOU think she should fictionalize the brutality done to her people#like was it the strongest writing choice? no.#but writing a bland oversimplified metaphor for colonization is not a crime#the plot of this book was fine the thing i didn't like was the fuck ass setting#like why was fantasy china another planet called pangu but the roman empire was just literally the roman empire#and they were seperate planets connected through a space portal??? girl what? why tf would that be the setting.#it should have been one fantasy earth set during the late 1800's. instead of all that fuckery.#and they should have just fucking called it opium#whatever. never speak to me about this book again. i will be reading the sequel.#rambles
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I just came across a tweet saying that Aaron Bushnell--the man who burned himself to death while yelling Free Palestine until he couldn't anymore--will be "in the history books" and that phrase has been coming up a lot. And it chafes me every time I read it, every time I hear it.
Cause, a. no, a lot of this won't be in the American history books. American atrocities, especially those overseas but even those against American people (especially American people of color), don't go in the literal history books. Or the figurative ones. Most American atrocities are wiped from the collective memory... sometimes as soon as they happen. They go unreported (like the first person to self immolate to protest this genocide), they go erased, they go whitewashed, they go falsely recontextualized, and they get twisted into pro-America sentiment--we were right for those atrocities, we were wrong for them but we learned, we didn't learn from it but we felt bad about it and should be comforted for that soreness.
And b. is harder to verbalize but I'm gonna try. It feels... performative in the literal sense. Like we only value what is happening today out of deference for how people in the future will perceive it. We aren't doing anything to change anything NOW, to care about other people NOW, but so that one day... we'll be remembered a caring. Like this man killed himself as gesture, as a move for his legacy.
And I see this phrase--"this will be remembered in the history books"--whipped out in extremely horrific contexts. A child's dead body hanging off a wall, "oh, this will be in the history books." What does that even mean? Was her death worth the historical context? Was it necessary to embellish the horror of it all?
Would the people reading these hypothetical history books not get the wrongness of the genocide without the death of a little girl that you're using as... window dressing?
It just seems so weirdly self satisfied. Like you're eager to note you just witnessed a real moment that people will remember decades from now. When... a lot of people won't which is what is so tragic. A lot of people don't even know it's happening right now.
Because, again, it's not being reported. And when it is being reported it's not being reported honestly.
I'm not saying this well but it just feels like such a gross reaction to things we're seeing in real time.
Why does it have to matter later to matter now? Why is the hypothetical reaction of a history book reader the thing you think about?
A lot of people won't live to read those "history books" because people, right now, aren't doing anything to help them.
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ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — GOJO SATORU x FEM READER
Gojo “my girl is mad at me I hope I die” Satoru
wc — 600
tags — fluff, companion piece to modern intimacy so you’re also married in this one, love as annoyance
Gojo looks like he tried to drown himself in the shower.
If you hadn’t just mopped the floor, you might be tempted to give in and beckon him over to cuddle. As it is, your annoyance is only mildly tempered by how adorable he is. You suspect this was his plan all along.
“Go dry your hair,” you tell him coldly, hardly even giving him a glance after his first step into the room.
He pouts, which you were expecting. He should really learn some new tricks at this point. You make a shooing gesture at him to drive home the point.
Instead, he clambers down next to your feet, all six feet and two inches of him compressed down to fit his head into your lap. Gojo’s so lanky it gives you the impression of a Jenga tower collapsing in on itself to watch him get on his knees.
“But you’re mad at me,” he whines. Chilly droplets are seeping into your thighs.
“I’ll be madder if you keep getting my pants wet. Go on, you’ll catch a cold.”
“I deserve it.”
“Gojo.”
You say it as if you’re short of patience, when really, you’re far from it. You’re enjoying this way too much.
He turns his head so he can look up at you. His hair falls into his eyes, making him look like a sad, wet puppy, shivering at your feet for mercy. It’s an act, of course.
He’s the strongest man in the world. Still, you feel your heart melting as you would for any poor abandoned creature. You brush his bangs out of his face, trying to hold onto your weakening resolve.
He knows he’s got you. It’s just a matter of time.
“I can’t live with myself,” he says. “If you’re going to be mad at me, you should just kill me. It would be easier-“
“Don’t be dramatic,” you say, but that’s when he strikes the killing blow.
He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he just looks at you with eyes that are suspiciously shiny, his pretty pink lips in a soft frown. You sigh and put the book you were trying to read down.
“Go get the hairdryer.”
Gojo perks up immediately. You stay on the sofa. He sits on the ground between your legs as you run your hands through his hair, moving section by section. It fluffs up as hot air moves over it.
“Are you still mad?”
“Want to take a guess?”
He turns around so fast he almost hits himself in the face with the hairdryer in your hand.
“I’ll never do it again, I swear.”
“You swear?” You’re teasing.
Gojo places one hand over his heart and raises the other like he’s making a pledge. You’re the only nation he’d ever devote himself to, anyway. “You know my motto is happy wife, happy life.”
“I don’t know, actually.” You laugh. “Did you just come up with that?”
“Now you’re just being mean,” he says.
“I’m glad you picked up on it,” you say dryly.
You like him pathetic. It appeals to your worst nature, the one that kind of wants to pinch him just to see him cry. You don’t know when you developed such feelings, and you’re certainly not sadistic towards anyone else, but Gojo just provokes you. It’s what he does. He’s good at being annoying.
But you love that part of him, just as much as you love the part of him that can’t live without your attention.
“You really learned your lesson?” You ask. “You won’t do it again?”
“And go through this again? You kidding?”
You pinch his cheek in annoyance, but he just laughs and wraps his arms around you, ignoring the way you try to wriggle away.
“Your hair isn’t dry yet!”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, rubbing his cheek against yours. His shampoo smells good. “Happy husband, happy wife.”
He knows you too well for you to disagree.
#sera writes#gojo satoru x reader#gojo x reader#gojou satoru x reader#gojou x reader#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jjk x reader#gojo fluff#gojou fluff#jjk fluff
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WOULD THAT I: PROLOGUE
The Gojo boy doesn't have a soulmate.
When you're both children, you overhear him being referred to as inhuman, between his power and his lack of a mark. The next time you see him, you use a marker to write your name on his skin, too young to understand what it means.
You forget, but Gojo—
Gojo never does.
MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT.
masterlist
pairing: gn!reader x gojo
wc: 2.6k
notes: thank you to my beta, as always! especially for putting up with my bratty ass and reading this early so i could post it earlier. this has been a fun fic to get started and i hope you enjoy the prologue!
content warnings: none. see masterlist for series content warnings.
The Gojo boy doesn’t have a soulmate.
You don’t think you’re supposed to know; it’s only ever talked about in hushed voices. The clans all speak like that, sometimes, each word a butterfly’s wing as it flutters from their mouths.
The servants, however, are louder.
One of them has a voice like a lark, a sweet, trilling song. It carries. You learn to hear her coming, to recognize her shadow against the shoji. You know the edges of her by heart. Sometimes she spreads her arms out as she makes her way through the hallway; her kimono sleeves flare out behind her like wings.
“There’s something wrong with the Gojo heir,” she sings one afternoon, her fluting voice half-muffled by the shoji. “Those eyes of his—it’s like he can see right through you. And Fujioka says he doesn’t have a soulmark.”
Another servant hushes her. “Don’t gossip,” she chides.
“It’s true, though!”
“That doesn’t mean you should repeat it.”
She huffs, grumbling something too soft for you to hear anything aside from the melody of it. The other servant laughs quietly before chivvying her forward. You watch until their shadows disappear, leaving only the hallway light to filter golden through the shoji.
You return to your coloring book.
The Gojo boy doesn’t have a soulmate, but that doesn’t mean anything to you.
Not yet.
—
There’s a boy in the courtyard.
He’s hopping from stone to stone in the koi pond, his snow-white hair glittering under the morning sun. He moves like a dancer, each step sure and swift, never once slipping on the wet rock. When he gets to the biggest rock in the pond, he crouches down, his back to you, and drags his fingers over the surface of the water. The koi rise to meet him, firework scales flashing in the sun.
You watch him from the engawa, peeking out at him from behind one of the columns. You’ve never seen him before, and you’d remember him, with his starlight hair.
“Who’re you?” he asks, not turning around.
You stay quiet.
“I know you’re there,” he says. “You can’t hide from me.”
He glances over his shoulder and the world goes blue.
It’s the cold burn of a comet’s tail streaking through the velvet night. It’s oceantide, relentless and unyielding. It’s a slice of the sky brought down to earth, heaven devoured.
Then he blinks, and he’s just a boy again.
“Who’re you?” you ask, stepping to the edge of the engawa.
He lifts his chin. “I asked you first.”
You introduce yourself the way your mother taught you, bowing to him shallowly.
He scoffs. “You’re not even from the main clan.”
“Are you?”
“I’m not part of your stupid clan.”
“Oh.”
He stares at you, his crystalline eyes sharp-edged, all prismatic ice. “You don’t know who I am?”
“Nope.”
He rises to his full height, unfolding like an elegant crane. “I’m Gojo Satoru.”
You tilt your head. The servants’ humming gossip made the Gojo heir sound ethereal, a fallen star that had burned away into human form as it plummeted through the heavens. His eyes are otherworldly, and you can feel the power rippling out from his lean form, as unstoppable as the tides, but—
“You’re just a boy,” you say.
He scowls. “Am not.”
“Are too.”
“I’m Gojo Satoru,” he says again, deeper this time, an intonation, a promise, a curse. His eyes flash, St. Elmo’s fire, a lightning strike of blue. “I have the Limitless and the Six Eyes. I’m not just a boy.”
You would believe him, but the last bit sounded more sulky than anything else. You’re about to tell him so when someone calls your name. You glance over your shoulder, but there are no shadows against the shoji yet.
When you turn back around, there are wet patches shining on the stones in the koi pond, an imprint of the past, but nothing else.
The Gojo boy is gone.
—
Your mother is hovering.
She smooths down your yukata, chasing creases from the thin cotton with trembling hands. There hadn’t been time to change; she’d pulled you out of your lessons and hurried you down the hallways of the estate.
“Bow low when you meet him,” she tells you, though she hasn’t bothered to tell you who ‘he’ is. “Understand?”
You nod.
There’s a fine layer of sweat gleaming at your mother’s nape as she kneels before the shoji. She reaches out to open it; her kimono sleeve slips down, revealing the elegant curve of her wrist. You focus there instead of the opening shoji, the slow slide of it a hissing snake, coiled to bite.
The shoji clicks, a chime of teeth, its maw wide open. You take in a deep breath and step through, your gaze on the tatami mats. Someone shifts.
“Oh, it’s you.”
You glance up, directly into the gaze of Gojo Satoru. His eyes are as otherworldly as you remember, a crisp, clear blue framed in long lashes, like a snowy-edged mountain lake. He tilts his head as you gape, his hair gleaming bone-white in the sun streaming through the open shoji.
You blink. “What’re you doing here?” you ask, and next to you, your mother hisses in a low, sharp breath.
Gojo shrugs. “Dunno. The clan said I had to come and they caught me when I snuck out.”
The woman behind Gojo clears her throat. “Gojo-sama,” she says, her voice like the shivering leaves when the summer breeze stirs to life, “they’re a candidate for you to train with.”
He eyes you. “Why?” he asks. “They’re not very strong.”
“Hey!”
“You aren’t, though,” he says. “I can tell.”
You throw yourself at him.
His eyes widen, a devouring sea, and he grunts as you make impact. He’s sturdier than you thought; he’s slight, but it’s all lean muscle, even though he can’t be much older than you are. Your mother calls out your name, horrified, but Gojo is already recovering, grappling with you for control.
By the time the adults pull you apart, Gojo is nursing a rapidly-purpling mark high on his cheekbone. Your split lip aches; you tongue at it and wince. You can taste blood, sour and metallic. You glare at Gojo even as your mother bows deeply to the woman.
“My deepest apologies,” she says, tightening her grip on the sleeve of your yukata and forcing you to bow with her. “I don’t know what came over them.”
The woman clicks her tongue. “The child should be punished,” she says, and your mother stiffens. “I would suggest—”
“No.”
Everyone looks at Gojo. He thumbs at a rip in his kimono, grinning widely. It bares his teeth.
“I’ll train with them,” he says.
“Gojo-sama—”
“I said I’d train with them. Now can we go? I want a popsicle.”
The woman sighs. “Yes, Gojo-sama.”
Gojo sweeps by you and your mother. He pauses right next to you. “You’re weak,” he tells you, ignoring the way you bristle, “but at least you’re fun.”
He’s out the shoji before you can respond.
—
Summer settles over Kyoto, a wet lick of heat. Even the wind seems to feel it; it ripples honey-slow through the trees, barely strong enough to stir the air. Frogs move into the koi pond in the courtyard; they sing along with the cicadas’ sawing choir.
“Catch it!” Gojo shouts as your hands spear through the murky pond water. It gushes free from between your fingers as you come up empty-handed, the frog you were aiming for frantically disappearing further below the surface. “You’re so slow.”
“Am not!”
“Are too,” he counters, holding out his cupped hands. A plaintive ribbit sounds out from between them. “I already caught one. It was easy.”
“You’re annoying.”
He stares at you, his blue eyes icy. “You’re annoying.”
“You’re the one who came over.”
He rolls his eyes. “We train at your estate.”
“How come?”
“How come what?”
“How come we train here? Your estate is probably better.”
He shrugs, opening his hands enough to peer down at the frog. It glistens in the sunlight, the same deep green as the lush courtyard. It makes a break for freedom; he closes his hands again, his long fingers sewing the gap shut. “I like it better here.”
You wrinkle your nose. “Why?”
“I just do,” he says, voice flat.
You don’t ask again.
—
“Why are we here?”
Gojo blinks, his long white lashes sweeping over the sweet curve of his cheek. “Why are you whispering?”
Your cheeks heat. The Gojo estate is a sprawling, massive maw; you’ve felt devoured ever since you set foot in it. Even the golden light that slants through the shoji feels cold. There are ikebana arrangements lining the halls, the leggy, deep purple irises sculptural as they rise proudly from the vases, but it still feels like a mausoleum.
“We’ve just never trained here before,” you say, taking care to use your regular voice. “So why are we here now?”
He shrugs. “They insisted.”
“Who?”
He dismisses the question with a wave of his hand, his long pianist’s fingers cutting through the air. You roll your eyes, long used to his occasionally imperious ways. The two of you continue along the hallways, you trailing after him closely, as if caught in his gravity, an orbiting moon.
You almost run into him when he comes to a sudden halt. You peek around him—in the last few months, he’s gone through a growth spurt, one that your mother says will come when you’re his age, and he’s too tall to peer over his shoulder—and see a servant bowing low, her ebony hair glinting.
“Gojo-sama,” she says. “Please follow me. The elders are waiting.”
He sighs, a dramatic heave of his chest. “What do they want?”
“They didn’t specify.”
“Ugh.”
“Gojo-sama—”
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he says. “Go tell those geezers I’ll be there soon.”
You wince right along with the servant. Gojo’s disdain for the elders is not new, but it still unnerves you every time, as if they will come along and smite you down.
“C’mon,” Gojo says to you. “Let’s get it over with.”
The servant clears her throat. “Only you, Gojo-sama.”
He glares, his blue eyes burning, a comet streaking through the sky. “No,” he says. “They’re coming.”
“They cannot.”
“I said they’re coming.”
“It’s okay,” you tell him, eyes wide. “Really.”
Gojo looks back at you. For a second, his mouth is a wound, tender and pink, but in the next breath, it’s gone, frozen under a layer of ice.
“Fine.”
You bite your lip, but he’s already walking away. You catch yourself before you reach for him. He disappears down the hallway, his hair glinting like exposed bone.
The servant turns to you. “This way,” she says, her voice perfectly neutral.
You follow her to an empty room; she slides the shoji shut behind herself as you settle onto the cushion at the chabudai. You gaze around the room. There’s not much to take in; it’s wealthy in a subdued way. You fidget with the hem of your sleeve and then get to your feet.
You slide open the shoji leading out to the engawa; it opens onto a huge, lush courtyard. The plush flowers are weighted down by their own blooms, their stems curving like a dancer’s back. A shishi-odoshi rings out with a hollow thud; a few songbirds scatter, their wings rustling like leaves as they soar towards the sky.
You step out onto the engawa. It’s still early enough that the sun slants onto the wood, warming it. You sit down and bask in it, tilting your face up for the sun’s sweet kiss. You lay back, your eyes fluttering shut.
A voice wakes you.
“He’s an insolent brat!” a man hisses. “He needs to be taken in hand!”
“He’s too powerful,” another man answers. His voice is calm, but you can sense the ripples in it, the thing lurking underneath. “We can only do what we’re already doing.”
You go still. They can only be talking about Gojo. Their footsteps echo; they’re drawing closer and closer.
“It’s not enough.”
“He’s still young. Maybe we can mold him.”
The first man snorts. “You don’t believe that.”
“No, I don’t.”
“There’s something wrong with that boy,” the first man says. “Those eyes—that power—and not even a hint of a mark. He’s barely human.”
Their footsteps are starting to fade; their voices become murmurs. But you still hear it when the second man says:
“I don’t think he’s human at all.”
Then they’re gone, fading from your world like malevolent spirits, dissipating on the wind. You unclench your fists and find that your nails have bitten into your skin, little half-moon curves cutting through the leylines of your palms.
Gojo shows up a mere minute later. He slides open the shoji with a bang; his eyes find you immediately.
“C’mon,” he says, stepping out into the courtyard. His eyes are shadowed; his lips are pulled tight, an unstitched wound. He’s heard them, you realize. You’ve never seen him bothered by other people’s opinions; your chest aches, a pressed bruise. You open your mouth to say something, but you can’t find the words.
He grabs your hand as he passes by you, tugging you along behind him, ignoring your surprised yelp. “Let’s go before those stupid geezers find me again.”
“Where are we going?”
“Away from here.”
“But my shoes—”
He glances back at you and you drown in blue.
“Okay,” you say quietly. “Let’s go.”
He doesn’t answer; he just tugs you along. You stare at the back of his head for a moment, trying to make sense of the expression you’d seen flash across his face before he’d turned around again. You can’t understand it, but you know one thing.
He’s never looked more human to you.
—
The next time you see him, you’re prepared.
You uncap the marker with your teeth. You reach out for Gojo’s arm; he pulls away before you can grab hold, as quick as a darting fish.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Give me your arm.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.”
He eyes you for a moment, but gives you his arm.
You push up his yukata sleeve to expose the tender underbelly of his wrist. You start to write, laboring over each stroke of the marker, keeping it as neat as you can. The silver ink covers the rivers of his blue-green veins as it sinks into his skin, a childish tattoo.
“There,” you say, finishing with a somewhat-shaky flourish. “Now you have a mark.”
Gojo stares at you, his cerulean gaze lit from within, the sea beneath the sun. He covers the katakana of your name with his free hand, careful not to smudge the still-drying characters. Under the shadow, they fade to gray, but they still glint and glimmer the same way real soulmarks do.
You hum, pleased with yourself, cap the marker, and toss it to the side so you can start training.
You don’t know it yet, but it’s your last session with him. He disappears into the dawn like a fading star, spirited off to Tokyo to continue his training. You’ve only spent six months with him. Still, it aches, a pressed bruise, but you’ve always known he would outgrow you; his power is a black hole, always devouring.
Life, ever unmoved, continues on.
The boy you knew fades from your memories, though you never forget him. It’s impossible, with the stories that come out of Tokyo, how he completes missions that no one his age should be able to handle.
Still, you forget things. The tilt of his mouth; the cadence of his voice. He becomes a shadow of himself, a shade with burning blue eyes.
You forget that you once wrote your name on the delicate inside of his wrist.
Gojo, though—
Gojo never does.
#jjk x reader#gojo x reader#gojo x you#gojo satoru x reader#gojo satoru x you#bee writes jjk#fic: would that i
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Apparently there was some lil drama in Good Omens fandom again about people being deeply nervous and scared of the end of Season 3, and I wrote this in the replies of one of the asks that Neil Gaiman answered, but I feel like it is deserving of being crossposted into its own post (in a slightly expanded form) so folks actually see it.
cmere, good omens fandom, we're having an intervention. a Come To Jesus talk, if you will.
First of all, I'm literally begging the fandom to:
learn what personal boundaries are, especially around parasocial relationships with strangers. (Suggestion: When sending asks to authors you like, use "polite work email" etiquette, not "joking with a friend" etiquette. The latter comes off REAL weird sometimes, and sometimes outright mean/rude/bullying).
take a couple deep fucking breaths
embrace the philosophy of The Author's Intent Only HAS To Matter To The Author, It Does Not Have To Matter To YOU. If you do not like the author's intent, you can say "hmmmm no thanks" and write some fanfic. That's what it's for.
Friends, Romans, countrymen..... Stop trying to make Neil Gaiman responsible for your happiness. For one thing, that is an absolutely unfair and cruel burden to put on a stranger who doesn't know you. Neil is only responsible for Neil's happiness. You're responsible for your own happiness. In fact, do not rely on ANY external source to guarantee your happiness, not even very nice people like Neil, not even your significant other, not even your family members. Yes, those people might be able to help you with your happiness, but they cannot guarantee it. Expecting a third party to guarantee your happiness is how corporations exploit you, and it is the source of all media trauma. Take agency over your own joy! Don't give away your power! Plan to DIY your personal ideal ending!
Neil is not telepathic, Neil cannot know all your hopes and dreams and wishes, nor SHOULD he be expected to know them, nor does he have space to know them. He is busy with things like his own and Terry's hopes and dreams and wishes. Their hopes/dreams/wishes are just as valid and important as yours, aren't they? Yes, they are. So calm down. caaaaaaaallllllm dowwwwwn.
Yes, I love the show very much too, but at the end of the day it is just a story. And the great thing about stories is that you are empowered to retell them in a different way. It is not real, so if you end up unsatisfied by S3, then blithely impose your own reality and build your own joy. It's not like it's the End Of The World or anything (lil fandom joke there for you)
And look, if you read this and you're feeling Mad and Upset or Frustrated about it, that is a symptom that you are maybe feeling a little stung in your Media Trauma parts. I am sorry that other stories have let you down in the past, and I really sympathize that you are feeling scared about the fate of this story that really matters to you. You've invested a lot of love into it! I really understand the fear! You don't want to be hurt again, and that's super understandable and normal.
But bestie, literally the only way for you to find a story that's exactly perfect for you and that won't hurt you at all is for you to write it yourself. I know that sucks to hear, but it is the truth. If you keep pinning a hope of perfection on other people's stories, you will keep getting traumatized by the media you consume. Love other people's stories for what they ARE, not for the stories that you WANTED them to be -- the same way that we love people, you know? You have to let a person be their own person; you can't force them to be someone else. That's fucked up, so if you notice that you keep trying to do that, maybe go to therapy so you can be that Someone-Else person for yourself (or, if you can't afford therapy, read some self-help books from the library or find some good channels on Youtube who make content that might help with that (I really like JulienHimself)).
If you need a story to be something big and important for you, if you are seeking catharsis and healing from a story that matters to you and you're really scared that you won't get it, then open a Word document and start typing. You can do it. You're a human being, and you evolved to tell stories. Literally it's a species specialization. You got this. It's gonna be okay, because you're going to seize the means of production and MAKE it okay. Yes? Yes.
Good Omens S3 will be what it will be. It will be what Neil wants it to be and what Terry would have wanted it to be. Period. That IS actually the highest achievement and the most noble and admirable accomplishment that we can hope for. And hey, maybe what they want overlaps with what you want, and that will be wonderful! But that will be merely a happy coincidence. The only person who can TRULY center your wants is YOU. So stop trying to trap Neil into doing it, please, because he's busy and it's not his job, AND because your wants do matter and you deserve to have someone who can give your wants their 100% full attention (aka you. that's you. only you can do that. Not even your best friends in the world can do it. Not even your mom can do it, at least not if you're old enough to know how to read.)
It's gonna be okay. Really. Really, it is. No, stop typing the snarky melodramatic reply. This is not the time for jokes; I'm being serious. It's going to be okay. Neil Gaiman can only break your heart exactly as much as you allow him to do so. That's how art works. You have to consent in order to be affected by it, and you can withdraw your consent at any time. You're going to be okay. I promise. As long as you choose to claim your own agency and your own empowerment as an individual, then all will be well and all manner of things will be well.
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Levi Month - Day 21 (Post-War: Children)
cw: canonverse/post-war, written with fem!reader in mind, suggestive sexual content, established relationship, mostly domestic fluff
word count: 857
“I found condoms in Falco’s room today.”
You peek over the top of your book to find Levi frowning in the bathroom doorway.
He had quietly retreated into the room several minutes ago for his usual nighttime routine, leaving you with the job of locking up and shutting off the lights. If relinquishing that task hadn’t been enough to clue you in that something was wrong, the familiar little scrunch of concern that is now etched between his eyebrows says everything. He’s worried.
Despite his obvious displeasure, the revelation still makes you smile. It isn’t the news necessarily–that isn’t as shocking to you as it apparently is to Levi. You’ve witnessed enough by accident of Gabi and Falco hurriedly pulling away from one another in the empty kitchen to know that something was going on.
But the second bedroom–first door on the left down the hall–is actually a guest bedroom. In the years since you and Levi have relocated and the restoration project began, a number of people have used it–Connie, Jean, Onyankopon, even you–but it seems that Levi has subconsciously deemed it Falco’s. It’s so like him to reveal his feelings in such an unintentional way. It’s cute.
You decide to tuck away that knowledge instead of antagonizing him for once and shrug.
“At least they’re being responsible,” you reply and return to your book.
Quietly, Levi crosses the room, a look of dissatisfaction still polluting his expression as he sinks onto his side of the bed.
“You’re not worried about it?” he asks.
You turn, meeting his concerned gaze with a sardonic tilt of your head. “Tell me you weren’t thinking about sex at his age.”
His lips purse slightly, and you know you’ve made your point when the tips of his ears begin to turn a faint shade of pink. “I wasn’t acting on it,” he says as if that makes any real difference.
You laugh. “Well, I think that was more because of your circumstances than anything else.”
He doesn’t say anything to refute what you say. Instead, Levi settles into his side of the bed, propped upright on the pillows next to you. With a slow sigh, his hand finds your thigh much like it does almost every night. It’s an idle touch, one that you’re not even sure he realizes he does anymore, but it still causes you to scoot closer, seeking out his warmth.
“That doesn’t mean they should be having sex. They’re kids,” he continues, seemingly still preoccupied with the topic. “Maybe we should talk to them.”
“Gabi and Falco are almost eighteen, Levi,” you point out, not looking up from your page. “I’m sure their parents have already had that kind of talk with them. Pretty soon they’ll have little ones of their own running around. And that’s what we fought for anyway, right? For people to live and fall in love. Have families, grow old.”
He doesn’t reply.
For a few minutes, you sit like this, absorbed in your book. Coaxed into comfort by the slow caress of Levi’s thumb on your skin. Some nights, Levi will read over your shoulder, and you think that’s what he’s doing again tonight, until–
“Have you ever thought about it?”
You don’t look up when you ask, “About what?”
“Having kids.”
Your eyes stutter on the page before freezing entirely. Any attempt to recall anything you just read is impossible, so you carefully bookmark your place at the end of the chapter and set the book aside.
Levi is already watching you when you turn, the expression in his one good eye now open and passive.
“I have,” you tell him slowly. “But never seriously. Never thought I’d get the chance to.”
He nods to assert he knows what you mean. It’s difficult to dream for a future when each day feels like it may be your last. It’s a feeling you’re both well accustomed to.
He keeps his gaze fixed and even in a way that makes your heart flutter. “And now?” he asks.
You swallow.
An implication sits in the air that you’re sure is intentional. You’ve been by Levi’s side as a comrade for almost a decade but as his partner for only a fraction of that time, only revealing your feelings a few months after the battle at Fort Salta. Thankfully, he had reciprocated.
And now, he’s asking if you want children with him.
Scenarios immediately flash through your mind. Ones of Levi holding a little boy with his eyes and your nose. Others of a little girl with both of her parents wrapped around her finger.
It conjures an indescribable feeling, but if you had to choose, you think joy might be the closest thing to it.
“I’d like that,” you finally say, eyes focusing on him once more. “But we’re not exactly young anymore. We’d have to start trying soon.”
There’s a small twitch of his mouth upwards–the tiniest of movements that you’ve come to recognize as the precursor to mischief. So when he reaches to pull you in for a kiss, you’re not surprised when he says, “We can start trying right now.”
#levi ackerman x reader#levi x reader#levi ackerman x fem!reader#captain levi x reader#levi ackerman x you#levimonth24
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my father told me he read it, but he hasn't read it. that's okay. my friends keep picking the words out of my throat.
someone once told me that the more trigger warnings that go on a book, the better it is. i didn't mean to write something with so many conditional phrases - i was writing about what i felt while being a human. sometimes you are a person and sometimes you are a statistic. sometimes it is falling upwards and sometimes it's sliding back down again.
my father tells me that it will be difficult to get people to read it. i didn't like the idea of a singular genre. i'm not going to lie to you - it is actually a difficult book to get through. i change the rules in it. it's not poetry or prose explicitly. it's neither false nor reality. i give you the tools to "solve" the book, but i let you do the thinking. my father says people don't care to think. i don't know about that - i think we just, like, enjoy reading.
the thing is - i was tired of stories about survival where someone with depression goes to therapy and wakes up okay. i didn't live like that. i was tired of books about violence, where the gore of what i experience was splashed in glitter to lick off the page. like, i was a person, you know? i had a life and a job and a family. and in books, i watched my story get ripped up so people could explore the viscera of my body. so they could feel good. my brother once called it inspiration pornography. we had walked out of a suicide-prevention seminar, both of us disgusted while the increasingly-elated presenter kept listing methods-of. i remember the look on my brother's face. like i would tear that man apart given the right time and place.
my father says that kids these days. he warns me against writing about things that are too-serious. he says that they don't want it. i don't listen. he does make me take out a scene from the book where i go to church after having sex with a woman. it used to be the 7th scene in the book. i don't think he's read further than that, it rocked him too hard to continue.
it's a book about being queer. it's a book about being raised catholic. it doesn't have monsterfucking, i'm sorry. it's just about, like.
at some point you have to choose to stay here. and then you do have to stay here, which takes practice. this is about forming the habit. this is about what happens after you've already started doing the work. because, like. you keep going. you have to. and it's like. very imperfect.
i should make a post on instagram. i should make this announcement less bittersweet. but like -- i'm giving it you, specifically, because i think you know why i had to write it. you and me. this little community.
body's a bad monster. here's the link if you're interested in ordering.
#i will never shut up about this#by the way . this is the book that u are trying to get me to eat#also available on other links!! barnes and noble and s&S#also btw i drew the cover :) they asked me to lol#btw this isn't self-published. this is like. book deal thru simon and schuster
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If You Love Me Right
Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader
Part 1 || Part 2 Summary: Emily asks an all important question regarding the next step of your relationship with Spencer Trope: Fluff! Just fluff! w.c: 1.2k a/n: Back at it again with something Short n' Sweet. Unsure if this will be the last of this album inspired fics but so far the album is still on repeat. I think out of all the fluff I've written, this is the one where I could just feel how much of a green flag Spencer would be as a partner, if only he wasn't fictional. Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated! 💗 masterlist
“Have you thought about it?” Emily asked, wine glass on hand as she slid into the seat next to you.
The sun was just starting to set, covering the lush backyard in multitude of pink & orange hues. It was a Sunday and Rossi had invited the team and their extended families for an early Italian dinner feast. When Spencer inquired about your availability, it warmed your heart to hear who you are to him.
“Are you sure you want me there, Spence?” your voice coming out soft and muffled as you burrowed yourself further into the warmth of his slender neck. His invitation was a big step in further solidifying the relationship and having been in questionable situation-ships, you had to be sure where you stood.
He pulled back, doe eyes inquisitively staring into yours. His gaze had this way of making you feel known and at home. It was as if his soul has recognized yours from eons ago and needed no further introduction.
“Of course,” his calloused fingers softly pushing stray locks behind your ears. “You’re my person now and it feels right to have you there with me.”
Emily cleared her throat binging you back to the present. “Well?”
“Thought about what?”
She nodded her head in Spencer’s direction. “Having genius babies with our boy genius?”
You softly smiled, watching your boyfriend of one year perform magic tricks for Henry and Michael. It wasn’t like it never crossed your mind. If you were being honest, by the sixth date and the first time he stayed over for the night, the idea of growing old and starting a family with Spencer by your side had started to solidify.
“Maybe,” you drawled out. A half truth that the seasoned profiler caught on right away.
“And has this—” she lifted her hands to form quotation marks in the air. “‘maybe’ been discussed with the potential baby daddy?”
You brought the wine glass up to your lips, the outer corner of your lips tugging upwards your face as you took a sip. Dating a man of Spencer’s caliber had given you the comfort and stability to discuss any little insecurity, adoration, and realization without the unease of thinking he’d judge you for it. Gone were those nights of second guessing and reading too much in between the lines and in its place were honest discussions between two consenting adults.
It was a real breath of fresh air.
“Do you think we should have a baby?” you casually asked, laying on his lap as he was propped up against the headboard with a book on hand. “I mean, not this second but—yeah, do you?”
There was a rustle of pages before a soft thud. “Sweetheart, don’t take this the wrong way but are you by any chance ovulating?”
“Uh—maybe?”
He smiled, looking down at your slowly reddening cheeks. I—uh, have actually been keeping track—” he bit his lip before rushing out to explain himself. “—not to use the information for nefarious reasons but my brain just started to notice the patterns and it feels like an invasion of your privacy and—are you angry?”
“Oh Spence, no. Not at all,” your hand twining with his to stop its nervous movements. “It might be weird but I know you meant well. Now, will you tell me some facts about why you thought I was ovulating?”
“Well, studies had shown that women feel more flirty, sociable, and more physically attractive right before and during ovulation. Some studies also support the idea of increased libido which makes sense since that is the peak window for propagation of the human species.”
You giggled, always welcoming his rambles even if it had to do with your own reproductive system. “Right, but you know what else got me thinking about it?”
A slight scrunch in between his eyebrows appeared as his mind no doubt rewound the day for any trigger. His eyes brightening when it clicked. “Was it the picture of me holding Henry and Michael?”
“Definitely,” you breathed out, starting to feel warm just thinking about how secure his hold was to the newborn babies and that smile on his face that reached his molten hazel eyes and radiated from his whole face.
He pressed feather-like kisses all over cheeks and forehead. “There’s actually also a study on why that affected you so much. It all comes down to women seeing their partners acting as providers—” he cut himself off to land a kiss on your lips. “—I’m not saying no—I’d actually really like that but maybe we can revisit the idea again in two weeks? I want to make sure this is something you really want and not something your biology has dictated on you.”
“Okay, that sounds fair. I love you, Spence.”
“I love you too.”
Spencer’s laughter floating through the air brought you out of your reverie. A slight shiver passed through you—either from the wind or the imagery of him carrying Michael and holding hands with Henry on the other as they slowly made their way back to their mother.
You turned to face Emily, no doubt that the blush on your cheeks giving you away. “Maybe.”
“Huh,” she tilted her head slightly to the left—a subtle tick you’ve grown to read into.
“What?”
Shaking her head, she leaned in to clink her glass with yours and a teasing smile forming on her face. “Nothing. Well—you’re welcome, by the way. And as a thank you, what do you think about naming the maybe baby after me?”
You laughed. The trio had taken full credit for bringing the couple together—something that they had always brought up like it was their greatest contribution to earth.
A layer of warmth was added to your shoulders and a faint scent of books and wood wafted to your nose. Tilting your head backwards, it was Spencer sans his black coat that was now adorning your body. His garment effectively marking you as an extension of him, as if the necklace around your neck with his initials 'SR' wasn't enough already. A priceless jewelry that had a partner with your own initials that found its home around his neck. “Hi love.”
“Hi sweetheart,” leaning down to give your lips a kiss. “You looked cold.”
You were both wrapped up in your own little bubble to notice Emily’s eyebrows arching towards her hairline. “It won’t be long now, I guess. So how many?”
“One would be cute—” your eyes never lingering on his face as if you were tracing the all his angles and memorizing all the stubbles that had started to grow on his jaw line.
Spencer without further explanation continued on. “—two would be better.”
“You know, you both have to stop finishing each other’s sentences, it’s getting creepy,” Emily quipped.
You both laughed, turning to face her, and although your gazes were no longer meeting, the gentle caress of his thumb on the back of your hand was enough to communicate everything and anything in between.
Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!
#spencer reid fic#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid fanfiction#criminal minds fanfic#criminal minds fic#criminal minds fanfiction#dr spencer reid#spencer reid#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid oneshot#spencer reid one shot#spencer reid x fem!reader#spencer reid x y/n#spencer reid x you#spencer reid x reader#Spotify
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Deadball
Deadball Second Edition is a platinum bestseller on DrivethruRPG. This means it's in the top 2% of all products on the site. Its back cover has an endorsement from Sports Illustrated Kids.
It's also not an rpg I'd heard about until I discovered all of these facts one after another.
I was raised in a profoundly anti-sports household. My father would say stuff like "sports is for people who can't think" and "there's no point in exercising, everything in your body goes away eventually." So I didn't learn really any of the rules of the more popular American sports until I was in my mid twenties, and I've been to two ballgames in my life. I appreciate the enthusiasm that people have for sports, but it's in the same way that I appreciate anyone talking about their specific fandom.
One of the things that struck me reading Deadball was its sense of reverence for the sport. Its language isn't flowery. It's plain and technical and smart. But its love for baseball radiates off of the pages. Not like a blind adoration. But like when a dog sits with you on the porch.
For folks familiar with indie rpgs, there's a tone throughout the book that feels OSR. Deadball doesn't claim to be a precise simulation or a baseball wargame or anything like that---instead it lays out a bunch of rules and then encourages you to treat them like a recipe, adjusting to your taste. And it does this *while* being a detailed simulation that skirts the line of wargaming, which is an extremely OSR thing to do.
For folks not familiar with baseball, Deadball starts off assuming you know nothing and it explains the core rules of the sport before trying to pin dice and mechanics onto anything. It also explains baseball notation (which I was not able to decipher) and it uses this notation to track a play-by-play report of each game. Following this is an example of play and---in a move I think more rpgs should steal from---it has you play out a few rounds of this example of play. Again, this is all before it's really had a section explaining its rules.
In terms of characters and stats, Deadball is a detailed game. You can play modern or early 1900s baseball, and players can be of any gender on the same team, so there's a sort of alt history flavor to the whole experience, but there's also an intricate dice roll for every at bat and a full list of complex baseball feats that any character can have alongside their normal baseball stats. Plus there's a full table for oddities (things not normally covered by the rules of baseball, such as a raccoon straying onto the field and attacking a pitcher,) and a whole fatigue system for pitchers that contributes a strong sense of momentum to the game.
Deadball is also as much about franchises as it is about individual games, and you can also scout players, trade players, track injuries, track aging, appoint managers of different temperaments, rest pitchers in between games, etc.
For fans of specific athletes, Deadball includes rules for creating players, for playing in different eras, for adapting historical greats into one massively achronological superteam, and for playing through two different campaigns---one in a 2020s that wasn't and one in the 1910s.
There's also thankfully a simplified single roll you can use to abstract an entire game, allowing you to speed through seasons and potentially take a franchise far into the future. Finances and concession sales and things like that aren't tracked, but Deadball has already had a few expansions and a second edition, so this might be its next frontier.
Overall, my takeaway from Deadball is that it's a heck of a game. It's a remarkably detailed single or multiplayer simulation that I think might work really well for play-by-post (you could get a few friends to form a league and have a whole discord about it,) and it could certainly be used to generate some Blaseball if you start tweaking the rules as you play and never stop.
It's also an interesting read from a purely rpg design perspective. Deadball recognizes that its rules have the potential to be a little overbearing and so it puts in lots of little checks against that. It also keeps its more complex systems from sprawling out of control by trying to pack as much information as possible into a single dice roll.
For someone like me who has zero background in baseball, I don't think I'd properly play Deadball unless I had a bunch of friends who were into it and I could ride along with that enthusiasm. However as a designer I like the book a lot, and I'm putting it on my shelf of rpgs that have been formative for me, alongside Into The Odd, Monsterhearts, Mausritter, and Transit.
#ttrpg#ttrpg homebrew#ttrpgs#ttrpg design#indie ttrpgs#rpg#tabletop#indie ttrpg#dnd#rpgs#baseball#fantasy baseball#deadball
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The Doctor's In - Part 3
Summary: Wanda gets a little jealous and you're in trooouublee.
Wanda Maximoff x F!R, Carol Danvers x F!R.
A/N: Part 1 & 2 are recent, so you can find them on my blog. Sorry I'm tired and lazy to link them. Will do that later lol.
Coffee in an IV, that’s what you need. However, drinking it is the next best thing so you get one from the cafeteria and give the other cup to Darcy, who’s yawning in one of the stretchers that people leave in the hallway.
“Bless you”
You hum in acknowledgment, sitting next to her.
“Duty or booty?” she asks when your phone pings.
“Ha, good one. You should do stand up” you say, ignoring her.
“So, it is a booty call” Darcy insists when you begin typing, a smile on your face.
“It’s not. My neighbour was telling me something about her children. You remember them, the Maximoffs”
“The broken arm?” you nod, sipping from your cup. “Ok, so now you text her about her children? To get into her pants?”
“No! Not everything is about sex, Darcy”
“If you really think about it, it kinda is. And you still haven’t told me why she’s texting you”
“I took care of the twins the other day, when she went out on a blind date. With a man” you give her a pointed look. “And I showed them a videogame I loved when I was kid, and apparently helped to create a new obsession”
“Which one? Lara Croft?”
“Spyro”
“The purple dragon? You are such a dork” she says, scrunching up her face. You roll your eyes, ready to give her the middle finger when her pager goes off.
“Karma” you cough up and she glares.
“This conversation is not over!” she threatens, leaving you alone.
You look at the chat with Wanda.
Wanda: They both want to be Spyro for Halloween!
Y/N: Sounds cute! They could have a little Sparks floating around on their shoulder.
Wanda: It’s all they talk about every day, I swear I’m dreaming about dragons.
Y/N: Sorry?
Y/N: I do have a plan to make it up to you.
—
You’re done with the coffee, at least if you want to get some rest. Still, you pick up a latte and a scone for Wanda, and carry the new videogame as you knock on the woman’s door.
“Oh, hi!” she looks at you, confused.
“Hey. Sorry, I don’t know how you take your coffee. It’s a latte, dairy free” you hand over the cup and the scone. “And I have something for the twins”
“That’s so sweet, but they’re at school”
“Today’s not Saturday?” you say, confused. Wanda giggles at that, making you blush.
“Today is Tuesday. Come on in”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt, I’m sorry” you say, following her to the kitchen.
“I don’t have to be at work for another hour, so it’s fine” she assures you. “Plus you saved me a trip to the coffee shop”
“You know, I’ve never asked about what you do for a living” you say apologetically, only now realising that you’ve barely interacted with Wanda since you moved here.
“I’m an author and illustrator” she says.
“That’s so cool! Anything I’ve read?”
“Only if you like children’s books” the woman smiles.
“Can’t say that I have read any lately. But that’s awesome. I’m a little starstruck, I’ve never met a writer before”
Wanda laughs at that, and you blush a little.
“Oh, before I forget. Maybe this will distract them from dragons” you hand over the new videogame and Wanda arches an eyebrow.
“The solution to a videogame is another videogame?” she says with her mom voice.
“Uh… yes? It’s Crash. It’s really funny. Sorry, it was dumb, forget it” you begin to regret it, reaching for the box, but Wanda does the same thing, her hand landing on yours.
“I’m kidding. It’s very sweet of you, Y/N”
The way she says your name is almost hypnotic, and once again your eyes travel to her lips.
For the first time, you’re willing to admit that it wasn’t the alcohol that made you wanna kiss Wanda.
Still, your hands are touching and you want to lean forward.
Your phone interrupts the moment, and you apologize, thinking it might be from the hospital.
Carol: I’m outside your house :)
What?
“Work?” Wanda says when you frown.
“I’m not sure… I should get home. Sorry”
“I’ll walk you out. If you want to come by for dinner and show the boys the new game, you’re more than welcomed” she offers.
“Yeah, that sounds like fun. I’ll text you later” you promise, waving the woman goodbye.
Carol is leaning against her motorcycle, and she does a double take when you walk out of the house across the street.
“Did I get the wrong house?”
“No” you laugh. “I was at my neighbour’s, I got something for her kids”
“That’s very thoughtful” Carol holds your hand, and you try not to blush at the sudden contact.
“So, what’s up?”
“I was wondering if you’d like to come to my place tonight. I’ll cook something nice, we’ll have a lot of sex and you won’t have to hold back those pretty moans of yours”
“Such a romantic, Danvers” you roll your eyes, but smile nonetheless. “I’m in”
“Alright. See you tonight” Carol says, kissing you. That’s another thing that takes you by surprise, and you don’t know what’s gotten into her.
Walking inside your home, you open the fridge and it doesn’t hit you until you see Billy’s drawing.
You told Wanda you’d be there for dinner.
Crap.
It feels cheap to cancel over what is esentially a -very tempting- booty call, but you’re also aware that you might be thinking too much of yourself. The truth is, Wanda probably doesn’t give a crap about whether or not her workaholic neighbour comes to dinner.
A few hours later, when you’re still thinking of a way to politely reschedule, you get a text from Wanda.
Wanda: I forgot we had a thing with friends from school. Maybe some other time?
Y/N: Yeah, no worries!
You try to ignore the disappointment you feel over not seeing Wanda again, focusing on the night ahead.
Here were the facts:
Wanda dated men, obviously.
Darcy would kick your ass if she even suspected you had a crush on your straight neighbour.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s what is happening.
—
“I hope you like parmesan chicken” Carol says, as you look around her apartment. The decoration is very modern and you admire the collection of books she has. You’re more of an online article person, but right now you’re reconsidering your stance.
“Smells great” you comment, opening the bottle of white wine you brought. You hop on her kitchen counter, watching as she finishes the food.
“So, what did your neighbours say about that thing you got them?”
“I don’t know, they were at school, but maybe I’ll stop by tomorrow”
Or maybe not, considering you’re developing a crush on their beautiful mother.
“I didn’t know you liked kids so much” she comments and you shrug your shoulders.
“I mean, I’m ok with kids, but these two are really sweet and nice. One of them was at the hospital recently, he broke his arm”
“Really? And how come I didn’t hear of it?” Carol raises her eyebrows, always on top of everything that happens at her department.
“Relax, Ortho Goddess. I drove them there and took care of everything, your intern just helped with the cast” you take a sip of your wine. “I don’t even know if you were at the hospital”
“So, no dad?”
You shrug your shoulders, a bit impatient. You were hoping to push Wanda out of your mind, and Carol kept on bringing her up.
“I’m not sure what happened, if there’s a father in the picture or not… but enough about this. How’s the grant application?”
“It’s hell. But I’m glad Kamala is so committed, I’d go nuts without her”
“Must be nice, to have an intern like that” you say, thinking about the rotation of doctors you get. They’re helpful, but none of them stay long enough to understand the logistics of an ER.
“No more chat about work” Carol proclaims and you laugh.
“Oh, what else can we talk about?“
“You’re right. Maybe we shouldn’t talk at all” she pretends to think about it, standing between your legs. Your laugh is cut off by her lips on yours, moving impatiently until you let her explore your mouth with her tongue.
“Food’s gonna get cold”
“We’ll heat it up” Carol says, pulling your legs around her waist and carrying you across the apartment. “Let me show you the bedroom”
“We’re skipping the rest of the tour?”
“No, we’re definitely having sex in the shower” Carol says, making you laugh.
As her kissing becomes frantic, and you lose yourself in the feeling of skin against skin, for a brief moment, you forget those green eyes and auburn hair.
—
The rest of the week goes by in a blur. An accident in the highway keeps you locked in the hospital for 48 hours straight, and all you can manage is sleep and shower between surgeries.
You get to be for eight hours at home before returning for a day and a half shift. The only thing in your mind as you finally get in the car is working out, because you’ve seen horrible situations for the past four days and need to be so exhausted that you’ll pass out as soon as your head hits the pillow.
You go out in a sports bra and shorts, hoping the exercise helps with all the stress. After a good thirty minutes, you return home, sweating and panting.
You turn to the garden hose to pour some water on your face and neck, when you hear someone cursing and something falling.
“You ok?” you run to Wanda, trying to get her garbage can back up.
“Yeah, thanks” she says, looking anywhere but you. “Busy lately?”
“God, you have no idea” you sigh, crossing your arms. “Heard about that crash in the highway? We had like twelve people come in”
“That’s horrible” Wanda says, finally looking at you.
“It’s the job I guess. How are you? And the twins? Did they like the game?”
“Oh, they actually haven’t had…”
You hear a motorcycle pulling up and have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes. What’s Carol’s game? The blonde eyes you, and you want to smack that smug grin off her face.
“Sorry, you were saying” you ignore her, turning back to Wanda.
“It’s not important, I have to get back and make dinner” she says, saying goodbye as fast as possible. You turn back home, feeling dejected.
“Was I interrupting?” Carol asks.
“Is that supposed to mean something?”
“I don’t think you notice the way she’s looking at you, Y/N” she insists as you both step inside your house.
“Wanda? Don’t be ridiculous, she’s just my neighbour”
Your perfect, funny, beautiful neighbour who has her life together and no time to entertain a workaholic like you.
“And last time I checked, we weren’t exclusive” you add.
“Why are you trying to pick a fight with me?” she smiles, cornering you against the wall.
“Because, I don’t know what’s up with you, having me over and then showing up out of the blue. It’s very… couple-y”
“Is that so?” she leans forward, her lips barely touching yours.
“Y-yes”
“Maybe I just had a bad week, and I know for a fact you did too. So we can take a bath together, have some pizza and then fuck each other’s brains out”
This time, her lips do actually meet yours and inspite of everything, you give into the kiss.
“Unless you wanna invite your neighbour over to join us, which I’m definitely not against”
“Ugh, you’re such an ass” you break apart, rolling your eyes and going upstairs, laughing with Carol as she follows you eagerly.
—
They’ll have to move. That’s the only way to escape.
Wanda closes the door, leaning against it, hoping that the image of you, walking in those sinful clothes disappears from her mind.
Of course she had to make a fool of herself, dropping the garbage and attracting your attention.
If only she had gone out earlier, Wanda could have saved herself the trouble of witnessing that mysterious woman, who was very obviously your girlfriend, looking at you like you were an entire meal.
What if she moves in with you? What if Wanda has to see you everyday, kissing the blonde goodbye or hanging around or…?
“Mom” Tommy calls for her, and she has to pull herself together.
“Yes, sweetheart” she forces a smile, looking at her son.
“What are we having for dinner?”
“Well, I was thinking some mac and cheese”
And then, she’ll drown her sorrows in a bottle of cheap wine. Hopefully she’ll dream of you, sweaty and having your way with Wanda.
—
There’s an unfamiliar weight as you wake up, and as you turn, you look at Carol’s disheveled state.
“Blanket thief” you accuse.
“Shhh”
“Gotta pee”
“No, five more minutes” she pleads, nuzzling against your neck.
“What? Too tired after last night?” you taunt, remembering how she seemed to be insatiable and only stopped when you were too sensitive.
“Well, yeah. I rocked your world. Where’s my reward?”
“I can offer you coffee and scrambled eggs”
“Your fridge was empty, remember?”
“Oh. In that case, coffee and breakfast somewhere nice”
“Deal” she kisses your shoulder, moving to get her clothes.
“I can’t believe we have to be back in three hours” you complain, stretching. The sheet falls, leaving your entire body in full display.
“Maybe we can have something else for breakfast” Carol says, pulling you back down.
After another hour, you finally go down the stairs. You’re arguing over taking her motorcycle or your car when you hear voices outside.
Billy and Tommy are looking curiously at the motorcycle, touching the handle.
“Hey, kiddos” you greet, and they turn around, scared at being caught.
“Wanna get on it?” Carol offers and they nod excitedly.
Carol is busy showing them how it works when the front door opens, Wanda calling for the twins.
“You know you can’t leave the house like that. I am so sorry” she turns to you, but Carol is the one who answers.
“It’s no problem, really”
Wanda gives the blonde a tight smile.
“Come on, let’s get back inside”
“Oh, how long has he had the cast?” Carol says.
“Like a year” Billy says and you laugh, ruffling his hair.
“3 weeks?” you turn to Wanda.
��It’s actually 4. I meant to ask you when is he supposed to get it off”
“Come by the hospital and we’ll take a look. Children’s bones heal faster” Carol says, and it’s very obvious now that she’s inserting herself in the conversation so Wanda acknowledges she’s with you.
“Sure. I’ll text Y/N later”
“Great. I’ll make time to personally check Billy, did I get it right?” Carol turns to the kid and he nods.
“Well, Y/N has been his doctor, so I don’t think that’s necessary” Wanda pushes back, crossing her arms. All you do is look between them.
“Oh, we can both check it out if it makes you more comfortable, after all I am the head of Orthopedic Surgery”
“I thought you didn’t date other surgeons” Wanda turns, and you can finally get a glimpse of how scary she must be when one of the twins disobbeys her. She’s smiling, but her eyes tell a different story.
“I… well…” you mumble like an idiot.
“Time to go, or we won’t eat breakfast. Come on, I’m starving after last night” Carol takes your hand, pulling you away from Wanda.
You’d rather be doing an enema on a patient than witnessing this weird tug-a-war they have going on.
“Come on, boys” Wanda takes them back home, and Carol waves innocently at her.
“Seriously?” you say, ripping out the extra helmet from her hands.
“What? I was just messing with her. Come on, princess. Hold on tight”
Carol revs the engine loudly, leaving your driveway with a smile on her face.
She has the better sense to drop the subject during breakfast, picking out a small diner close to the hospital.
On the other hand, you are unable to stop thinking about everything that happened and, against your better judgement, do something that you’ll clearly regret.
You tell Darcy.
“Wait, wait, wait!” she says, holding her sides. “Your situationship and the MILF next door were fighting over you?”
“It’s not funny” you say, resisting the urge to choke her with her stethoscope.
“It so is. Girl, you gotta pick a struggle”
“You’re useless” you complain.
“No, ok, hear me out” she takes a deep breath, wiping away the tears and looking at you. “So, on one hand, you have a thing with Danvers. Do you really think she got over Rambeau already?”
“Of course not! Which is why I was fine with it being just sex. She’s the one who started doing other weird, couple stuff”
You weren’t an idiot; Carol and Maria had been together for years, and engaged until Maria left to work with Doctors Without Borders. Thought you didn’t know why they split up, it was fairly obvious that they were too proud to talk it out, but they still loved each other.
“Exactly. So, let’s say you start seeing Danvers more seriously, and then Maria comes back. You’re…”
“Fucked” you nod along, starting to understand Darcy’s point.
“On the other hand, you have the hot mom. According to you, she dates men. We have no clue if the father of her children is dead, missing, crazy… Maybe he'll come back eventually”
“And I’m fucked again” you rub your eyes, frustrated. “All I wanted was a way to destress. This is the exact opposite”
“I guess you’re very charming” Darcy shrugs her shoulders, and you’re about to thank her when she adds. “Or stupid”
In spite of everything, her words hold some truth. As you see patients and take care of the ER, you think of a way to fix everything.
Then, your phone pings and dread invades you.
Wanda: We’re in the foyer.
Fuck it, you’ll make sure you get to them before Carol and send them home before they get into another weird ass argument.
You run to find the Maximoffs, taking Billy to get an X-Ray.
“It’s urgent” you tell the technician.
But Carol is three steps ahead of you, because she asked to be informed of any patients that came to get X-Rays over cast removals.
So, by the time you and Billy come back, Wanda and Tommy are in the room, while Carol confirms Billy’s arm is completely healed.
“Hey, thank you for getting that X-Ray” Carol says with a smile and you curse to yourself.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“Come on, kiddo, let’s get your arm back” you bring him to the bed, where Kamala prepares to do the removal. Carol forgets her little feud with Wanda for a moment, reminding her resident how to do the procedure.
“Is that a saw?” Wanda says, pale.
“Yes, I know it looks scary but it’s perfectly safe, I promise” you say, holding on to her arm. She looks at you, nodding and you smile, letting your hand drop to her back, rubbing slowly to calm her down. Wanda leans into the touch, her shoulders relaxing.
It’s so easy, to reach out for her.
Carol doesn’t miss the contact, but keeps on observing as Kamala cuts the cast.
Billy moves his arm tentatively.
“It might be weird at first. Try to take it easy the first few days” you say and Billy nods, keeping the cast with all stickers and drawings from his friends.
“That’s pretty much it” Carol says, removing her gloves. “If you have any questions…”
“I’ll call Y/N. Thank you” Wanda cuts off.
“Mom, we should celebrate!” Billy says. “Can Y/N come over?”
“That would be fun…” you begin to say.
“Oh, sweetheart. Y/N is very busy” Wanda speaks over you. She’s not even looking your way and you hate to admit it, it kinda hurts.
“No more running down the stairs, buddy” you say, opening the door for them. The three walk out, Tommy and Billy waving goodbye.
Carol goes after you the minute you leave the room.
“What the hell was that?”
“Excuse me?”
“The touching and the love eyes” she insists.
“You’re the one that made it weird to begin with, Carol” you say, feeling a headache approaching.
“Well, yeah. We have this thing going on and you act like you’re in love with someone else”
“Now hold on” you stop in the middle of the hallway, pointing a finger to her chest. “You and I agreed it was just sex. We don’t talk about the massive elephant in the room because frankly, it’s none of my business. But be honest. If Maria came back right now, would you not to want to be with her?”
Carol takes a step back. This is the first time you’ve seen her speechless.
“I don’t know. Maybe. If she came back, I… she would come first. But that’s just hypothetical”
“No, it isn’t. Because she is right there, Carol”
You point behind her, watching as Maria Rambeau, former head of Pediatric Surgery is talking to Chief Fury.
Carol turns her head so fast you’re shocked she didn’t snap something.
The look of adoration, longing and sorrow in her eyes tells you everything you need to know.
“Go” you smile, squeezing her arm. “You should always go after what you want, Danvers”
She nods, still too shocked to move.
You’ll let them have their reunion in private and will use the rest of your shift to mope about Wanda.
“Go home” Fury says when you stick around long after your shift. “Sorry about Danvers”
“Sir, you knew?”
“I know everything” he shrugs his shoulders and you can’t help but smile.
Of course, Carol drove you here so you take a cab home, which is fine. You’re too tired and distracted to drive anyway.
Truth is, you’re not sad about Carol. The only thing you can think about is Wanda and how she left without so much as a look in your direction.
“This the place?” the driver says and you snap out of it, handing him the money and some extra. “Sweet, thanks. Have a good night”
“You too, man”
After a shower, and eating pizza leftovers, you’re still thinking about Wanda. As you sip from your beer, and look at the tv without paying attention, someone knocks at the door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Wanda”
You jump from the couch, spilling some of the beer on your pants.
“Sorry, if it’s a bad time I’ll come back later”
“No, wait” you run to the door, opening and looking ashamed. “I spilled beer on myself. I seem to do that a lot when you’re around”
“I should have texted, I’m sorry”
“No, you can come over whenever you want. Is everything ok, are you ok?”
“Well, no” she runs her hands through her hair, and starts ranting. “I came to apologize, I was so rude to you, and I have absolutely no right to be. You have been nothing but nice, helpful and kind and I… I was a total bitch”
“Hey, hey, stop it” you take her hand, pulling her inside. “Wanda, it’s fine, I get it. I’m not mad at you”
“You have every right to be” Wanda insists, and you can see she’s spiraling, so you pull her against you, hugging her.
“I’m here. Not going anywhere”, you say against her shoulder. You only let go when you feel Wanda’s breathing going back to normal. You take a step back, your hands dropping to her waist. “Want some pizza and beer?”
“Uh… that sounds good, yeah. Can we sit on your kitchen? That way I can look out the window, just in case the twins wake up”
“Yeah, come on” you take her hand, closing the door as she enters your place.
You stay silent as you warm a slice of pizza and get another beer for you, offering her a bottle.
��I don’t think I’ve drank beer since college” she says, smiling.
“Only fancy wine?” you joke, taking a seat next to her.
“Not even that these days. Listen… I really am sorry and though it may not seem like it, I’m happy for you and Doctor Danvers”
“Oh, that’s not a thing” you interrupt her.
“Was it something I did?” she says, looking mortified.
“No, it was just… uh, never serious. I think she might be fixing things with her ex so that’s the end” you explain, removing the label of your bottle.
“Are you ok?” Wanda reaches for your hand and you blush.
Yeah, I’m ok because you’re here now.
“I am, it wasn’t serious. Honestly, it was just sex”
“Oh” Wanda blushes, and removes her hand from yours, taking a large gulp of her beer.
“I mean, we all have needs, wouldn’t you agree?” you tease, leaning forward as if you’re telling her a secret.
“I suppose so, yeah” Wanda gets lost in your eyes, hoping you close the distance.
And you want to, you really do, but Wanda gave you a hard time and you might make her sweat a little before giving in.
So, you lean back on your chair, smiling mischeviously at the other woman.
“How’s Billy? Happy to be cast free?”
“Yeah, he’s excited about getting to play that dragon game you gave them from the start”
“I guess Crash wasn’t good enough to replace Spyro” you say, understanding the twins. You always had a soft spot for the latter.
“Actually… I didn’t give them the other game” Wanda admits, chewing her lip nervously.
“Why?”
“To be honest, I wanted you to give it to them so I could… I don’t know, have an excuse to see you again”
As Wanda admits her reasoning, red invades her cheeks. Your heart skips a beat at the sweet admission, and you stand up, walking to where she’s sitting.
“You don’t ever need an excuse to talk to me”
“No?” she says, fidgeting wih her bottle.
“You can text me, call me, fax me, page me. I’ll give you my email so you have that option as well” you say, making Wanda laugh.
“I just don’t know what to talk about sometimes, I get nervous”
“Well, we could talk about the weather, how inflation is crazy high… you could tell me about the Scarlet Witch”
“You looked up one of my books?” Wanda says, blushing.
“Yeah, I have it, ready to get an autograph from the author herself”
Wanda blushes even more at that, chewing on her bottom lip. You take another teeny, tiny step towards her, eyes going to her lips.
“Or, we could not talk. There’s plenty one can do without verbal communication. Like bird watching”
“Crossword puzzles” Wanda jokes, following along.
“Kissing” you say, leaning forward until you’re inches apart. You let her decide if she wants to close the distance, and Wanda does, her lips tentatively moving against yours.
She tastes like vanilla and you sigh against her mouth, pulling her close to you.
It’s everything you imagined and more, her pretty sighs spurring you on until your hands go down her sides, and to her waist.
At the movement, Wanda breaks the kiss, making you whine.
“Is this… do you want this to be just sex?”
“You deserve more than that”
Yes, the thought of Wanda naked, moaning your name make you weak in the knees, but you also want to bring her coffee and have lunch together.
“So, does that mean…?”
“Go out on a date with me” you blurt out, trying to catch your breath.
“Yes” she nods, pulling you in for another kiss. This time, you’re not so sure you’ll be able to resist the urge of worshipping her body right in the middle of your kitchen, for all the nighbourhood to watch. “I should go”
“You only just got here” you complain, kissing down her neck.
“And if I stay, you won’t get your beauty sleep”
“Sleep is overrated” you mumble, biting down her neck playfully.
“Ok!” she holds back a moan, jumping as if your touch burns her.
“Did I hurt you?” you say, worried.
“No, it wasn’t pain that I felt” Wanda admits, turning red.
“I’ll behave” you raise your hands and Wanda steps back, not sure that she believes you. “How about next Thursday?”
“That can work, yeah. Let me just check with the nanny”
She walks to the door, lips slightly swollen.
“Sounds good. I’ll see you before that, though”
“Right, because I live across the street”
“And I might need to borrow some sugar” you joke, leaning forward to open the door, trapping Wanda’s body. “Or other stuff”
“I should go”
“You sure?”
“Yes” the woman nods, biting down her lip. Still, she pecks your lips one last time, and takes advantage of how flustered you get to walk out the door.
“Text me when you’re home” you joke, making her giggle. Still, you don’t get inside until she opens her own door, waving at you one last time.
You take your phone, reading a lenghty text from Carol saying she was really sorry about everything. And then another one comes in.
Wanda: I’m home.
Y/N: Come back.
Wanda: I wish.
Wanda: Night, Y/N
Y/N: Night, Wands.
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poly!ghoap x reader where you’re working in a hostile workplace and have a creep shitbag of a manager who always lingers around you. his hands always manage to find their way to the small of your back, his chin resting on your shoulder as he’ll sway. it’s unnerving, i mean, the man is damn near old enough to be your dad. you’ve asked him to stop, but he never listens.
and one shift, he takes it too far. he corners you in the storage closet, getting all touchy feely. you break free and instantly take off, sobbing as you drive back to your apartment. the boys come home late, carrying bags full of takeout as they idly chatter to themselves.
normally, you’d be curled up on the sofa reading your book, beaming ear to ear as you greet them. but instead, you were nestled on the bathroom floor, pale and sickly looking as your bleary eyes wearily glance up and simon and johnny. simon looks furious, almost as if he knows what happened just based on his instincts. johnny kneels besides you, large hands soothing your back gently as he coos, “hey…. what’s up, hen?”
you explain everything, how your manager just keeps on pushing himself onto you, how you’ve complained and complained and nobody seems to give a shit. the pay isn’t even great, but jobs are scarce these days so you persevere to make ends meet, so you can pay the rent on the apartment. oh reader, you should have mentioned this a whole lot sooner …
simon and johnny exchange glances, simon’s lips drawn into a straight line as he glances back to you, nodding at you. “what’s this bastard’s name, and where does he live?” he asks, no, demands. you shake your head, sniffling. “i… i don’t know where he lives, si…. don’t bother, yeah? it’s.. it’s no probl—“
johnny presses a gentle kiss to your temple, giving your back one last gentle rub before getting up, nodding at simon. “we’ll be back in a bit, love. help yerself to some chips, yeah? don’t wait fer us.” he says with a chuckle, winking before disappearing back out the front door with simon.
the next morning, you wake up to breakfast in bed from both johnny and simon. johnny cuts up your pancakes, playfully making aeroplane noises as he gently feeds you. simon leans against the wall opposite your bed, clearing his throat. “don’t worry about work, yeah? we’ll look after everything until you can find a better job. you won’t have to worry about that prick ever again.”
you glance over at johnny, raising your eyebrows out of shock. he nods, bashfully grinning as he playfully nudges you. “aye, we mean it. oh, don’t worry— we didnae hurt the wee fella.” with an impish grin, he glances back at simon, who’s lips twitch with a slight smirk.
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