#dr peach

[ask-rosalina-and-her-family]

Three little princesses working in the medical field !!

I'm proud to admit that this new art style is going to be my official art style. I also had this idea in my head for months now, and it feels so good to finally draw and post.

BONUS : Mario and Nurse Peach

One of my favorite couples ever !

I love how Peach is worried about her little hero getting hurt on his way to visit her after her shift as a nurse, this was also an idea I had in mind and was originally going to be Luigi and Daisy, but I figured Daisy would be the perfect surgeon since she does not fear anything.

And since I've started dedicating my artwork, I'm going to dedicate these both to @silenzahra and @ask-the-doors-entities . You both deserve something special after all those hard times you both went through. Feel better you guys !! I also want to dedicate this artpost to @starrosalina and @vulpixfairy1985 . Thank you so much for supporting my many (and I mean many) of my Luaisy artwork. I really appreciate it !!

Art is mine !! Don't copy/repost

Please ask before using

[retrogamingblog2]

[peachesofteal]

Sometimes I think about Dr. Riley sitting in his office, fidgeting with a pen staring out of the window, waiting for something... someone. There's a storm coming.

I still think about Dr Riley.

I think about him having a very inappropriate relationship with his patient, Clover. Clover who got her nickname because her special ops team thought she was sooo lucky… until she wasn’t. Until she made a mistake, miscalculated, and got two of her teammates killed. Clover, who had to look Captain Garrick in the eyes as he told her to take indefinite leave until she got her head on straight.

Clover can’t think or eat or sleep without hear the high pitch whine of a drone in her ear. Public places make her skin crawl. She can hardly function. Manages to feed herself and slink down to her building’s gym in the middle of the night, when no one else is there. She runs herself ragged, to the point of exhaustion, and only then can she manage sleep.

The train is late.

The tardiness makes everyone on the platform uneasy. They shift and grimace, fingers fidgeting, eyes roaming.

It’s grey down here. Grey up there, too. A city blanketed in rain, thick cottony fog obscuring streets and buildings, rolling through day, washing it into night without giving the sun it’s singular chance.

It’s grey everywhere. Grey in your bones, in your head. Grey cotton stuffed between your ears to stop the bleeding.

You try to let the anxieties of the delay drift past you, like a warm breeze, but it feels like a winter’s wind instead. Icy. Vicious. Cutting to the bone.

You’re a dog at the end of a chain. Ready. Waiting for the signal. Captain’s orders.

Relax. You’re at home. Waiting for the call. Going to finish therapy, so you can finally get out of here.

The yellow line of the boundary lays straight in front of you. You count the cracks in the concrete and wonder what would happen if you took a step off the edge.

Just one.

A single step.

Would these people try to save you? Would they scream and run? Would they watch you die, body exploded into bits by a train that couldn’t stop? How long would it take you ID you? Who would they call?

It’s not that you want to die. You’re more… curious about it now. Morbidly so. Wondering when it will happen, if death is following you around, waiting to collect his due.

You steady with a long breath, attention focused on the wall across the tracks, counting each tile. Your eyes are still sharp, as sharp as ever, and you focus in on each one individually, judging the distance, imagining a scope in your line of sight, smooth trigger under your finger.

There’s a collective sigh across the platform when the train squeaks to a halt, and you intentionally board last, watching the backs and profiles of everyone else. Back packs, long jackets, anxious faces are all catalogued and sorted, filtered and stacked into neat little piles.

You tug at a piece of skin around your nail, trying to tear it down to the cuticle. The delay has made you uneasy, nervous. Not at all like you used to be. Not at all like your old self.

This will be it this time, you coach, train car pulling away and rocketing into darkness. You’ll get it this time. It’s almost over.

“Hi, sorry I have an appointment at ten, with…” you check your calendar. “Dr. Riley? I know I’m late…” the woman at the desk smiles. It’s clinical, just like every other time. You don’t think she likes you much, you’re not like her. Not like any of them.

“That’s alright, it’s just this way.” She leads you through a maze of hallways, coming to a stop at one dark, wooden door. “Dr. Riley? Your ten o’clock is here.”

It opens to the biggest man you’ve ever seen, clad in jeans and a black hoodie. Is this… is this the shrink?

He says your name. When you don’t answer, he says it again, a little louder. His Manchester accent is full of grit, a mouth full of rocks, but there’s something warm in it too, something spinning you in a soft cocoon of yarn.

“H-hi.” He extends his hand, a massive palm, dwarfing yours.

“I’m Dr. Riley, come in. Thanks, Laura.” He bids the receptionist goodbye, and clicks the door shut behind her, turning with a motion to the couch. “Take a seat. I was just about to call you.”

“I’m sorry, the train was delayed and-“ He holds up his hand, a motion to stop.

“You made it, that’s what matters.” Your hands shake, and you clutch them in your lap. It’s a side effect, they tell you. It’s supposed to go away, but you’ve stopped counting the days.

He’s not what you expected. Your last doctor in this building was an old man who wore a dress shirt and slacks. Dr. Riley looks like he’s in his forties. He’s built out like a solider, broad shoulders and broad chest filling out his casual clothes, glasses reflecting his focused gaze. There are scars on his face, faded white streaks on his upper lip, cheek and jaw. His nose has been broken and repaired, and there’s a patch of his eyebrow missing, like it’s been burned away. He’s part shadow, part marble, full lips, sandy brown hair, chiseled jaw, ocean eyes.

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?” He begins, glancing at the laptop screen.

“I need to pass my psych eval, sir.” You focus on the question, and not the lone drone rattle rolling through your skull.

“There’s no rank in this office.” Oh, duh. “Why do you need to pass an eval?”

“I’m ready to return to my job. Just need to pass this last step.” Sir. You bite the honorific off just in time.

“If you can’t pass a psych eval, I’d say the conclusion is you’re not ready.” Your spine straightens at the authority in his voice. “And you’re not here for an eval.” Wait, what?

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re not here for an evaluation, you’re here for therapy.”

“N-no, sir- ah, Dr. Riley,” his lips tilt, a fraction, and your knees press together involuntarily. “I’ve already had therapy.” He ignores your protest.

“You’ve failed three evaluations in the last two months. You can’t just keep throwing it all the wall, hoping it will stick. You need care.” The room pitches, and you’re trapped on a tilt-a-whirl, locked into a too loud, too bright carnival ride, sirens and screams screeching in the distance.

He says your name again.

“Sorry.” The tablet folds into a laptop, balanced on a broad knee.

“Tell me about them.”

“About…”

“The psych evals. Failing three in such a short time window is a feat.” You blanche. You hate that word, fail. It stings. It’s an affront to you, you who doesn’t fail. You who was the top of her class, first selected, first pick. Your captain depends on you, your team counts on you, to not fail. At anything. Ever.

“I… I struggled with them.” There are photos on the wall, framed medals and degrees. A picture of a German shepherd, and a hanging house plant of some kind, spritely and green, leaves and vines twisting from its perch.

“Let’s start today talking about why you’re struggling with them, then.”

“I don’t know why. If I did, I wouldn’t be here.” You’re peevish, and he raises an eyebrow. “Sorry, I’m just… stressed. My team-“

“is operating in the field without you.”

“Yes.”

“And it’s causing you stress.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why?” What is this?

“Why is it causing you stress? Do you not trust them to operate successfully without you?”

“No… I do.”

“What about your captain? Do you not trust him to lead them?”

“Of course I do.” Your fingers tighten on the chair. “I do. But they’re down a man, and they can’t be down for too long.”

“I’m sure your team cares more about you getting the care need, over rushing back into engagement too soon.”

“I know, but I’m ready.”

“You’re not. And I know your captain, Garrick? He wouldn’t want you to jeopardize your wellbeing.” How does he know cap?

“You know captain Garrick?” Dr. Riley smiles.

“I do. And like I said, he wouldn’t want you passed through if you weren’t ready.” He’s got you pinned, metaphorically. Back against the mat, shoulders immobilized. You can’t crawl your way free, can’t fight or twist out of his grip. “Do you want to talk about why you’re on leave?”

“No! No, I… don’t need to.” You complain. “I’ve had eight counseling sessions in the last two months.”

“They’ve clearly helped.” He drawls, glancing at you over the laptop. The eye contact rakes a shiver down your spine, and you find your feet.

“I don’t want to talk about it again, sir.” You whisper it to the ground, silently begging he won’t make you.

“There’s no rank here.” He reminds, voice soft and understanding. “But I’m your clinician now, and I won’t sign off on you taking another psychological evaluation until I’m confident you’re healthy enough to return to work.”

“Can I ask…” you taper off, but he nods to encourage you. “Can I ask why I’ve suddenly been switched to a new doctor?”

“You failed an eval three times. The practice decided you needed a different approach to care.” There’s a pause, and the laptop shuts. His hands settle across his thighs. “Let’s talk about what they call you.”

“Sir?” His lips press together but deigns to remind you a third time about rank.

“Clover.” Oh.

“Yeah, that’s what my team calls me. Only my mum uses my real name anymore.” You joke, and he smiles in a small way, gaze unreadable, bearing down onto you from above.

“Is there meaning behind it?”

“I used to be considered good luck.”

“Used to be?” You blink. Used to be. Like you used to be someone else.

“I guess… my luck ran out.” He nods thoughtfully.

“Why do you think that?” Because you fucked up? You got your friends killed? Because you got into a jam you couldn’t get out of? Because you were tortured into an unrecognizable piece of human pulp?

“I… I don’t know.”

“You do.” He states matter of fact, leveling you easily. You gape.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” You mutter, looking towards your knees.

“How about mirrors?”

“What?”

“How do you feel about mirrors?” The question sets you aback. It’s never been asked, not in your previous sessions, not by anyone. No one knows about the mirrors in your flat, covered by shirts and sheets and dish towels. Turned away, forced into corners. The bathroom vanity obscured by a long white bedsheet; your reflection hidden at every turn.

“I… I don’t like them.” The honesty on your tongue tastes good, but it burns.

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I don’t like to look at myself, now.” The laptop reopens, and he types in silence for a long moment. The quiet settles around the two of you, ticking of a second hand clicking away in your ear.

“I’m going to give you some homework.” Homework?

“What kind of homework?”

“I want you to look in a mirror.” You draw a sharp breath. “When you’re at home, and you’re alone, I want you to really look at yourself, see yourself, for as long as you can. If it’s only a few seconds, it’s only a few seconds. There’s no time requirement. The only thing you have to do… is look.”

“Dr. Riley…” you laugh nervously, and he meets your eyes with a serious expression.

“Only for a few seconds. Can you do that?” No.

“I can… I can try.” You can do whatever he wants, if it will get him to pass you on the eval. If it will get you out of here.

“Good.” The watch on his wrist glints in the afternoon sun. “I’ll give you my number. Text me when your homework is done.”

“Okay.” That’s it? He stands, and you look away, unable to focus on anything but the edge of the table, brown wood slatted together and worn with age.

“You can run away now.” He murmurs, standing between you and the door. “This was good, Clover. I know it’s not easy. You did well today.” Words catch in your throat, caustic and rough. Still, you try to get them out.

“T-thanks.”

You try to do your homework that night.

You stand in front of the bathroom mirror in your pajamas, one hand on a hem, waiting to pull free and reveal your reflection.

You can do this. You can. Just do it.

The tug never comes.

You stare at the white sheet until your eyes start to cross.

Better luck tomorrow.

You hold steady in your routines. Eating. Walking. Stretching. Strength. You do yoga in the evenings, weights in the mornings. You spend too much time in your building’s gym, mindlessly pounding out miles on the treadmill, headphones blaring at full volume. You do it all robotically.

You’re outside of your body. Out of your mind.

But you could still pull a trigger.

Sometimes, when you can stand it, you take your walks outside, bypassing those who linger on sidewalks, cutting through parks and alleys. Fresh air and sunlight are supposed to help, but you don’t think it does any good. The rot is still there, curled up in your bones, blackened and sticky, festering like an infection. It’s a monster inside your body, a monster you now share your life with, cutting away pieces, long after being freed from the cell.

You eat. You walk. You try to look in the mirror.

With three days before your next session with Dr. Riley, you still haven’t managed to complete your homework. You try, in the hall, in your bedroom, again and again in the bathroom, but it never happens, you can’t quite get yourself to cross the bridge.

Failure.

Dr. Riley is waiting for you in the lobby on the day of your next appointment.

“Hi Clover.” He smiles, and it’s genuine, warm, almost wrapping around your shoulders.

“Hi, Dr. Riley.”

“How was your week?” You lag him, letting him guide you to the office, where the yellow lights are dim and darkened, casting shadow across the brown couch where you take your seat.

“It was fine.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing, really. I’ve been at the gym a lot, trying to keep myself in shape for when I go back.”

“Exercise is good as long as you’re not overdoing it. Do you do anything else?”

“Um, I take walks outside.” His leg shifts, ankle on knee, and then his hand folds over his thigh. Something akin to interest brightens in your heart but is desperately snuffed out. He’s your therapist. “I walk in the park a lot.”

“Oh yeah? Which?”

“The one off of eighth.”

“I walk there too, nice park. Lots of trails.” You try to imagine him in joggers, taking a stroll. “I’m going to guess; you didn’t do your homework?” Heat unfurls across your face.

“I tried, but…”

“That’s okay. I thought we could try today, if you feel up to it.” Here? Now? Your eyes go wide. You look around.

“I don’t see a mirror.”

“There’s one on wheels down the hall, the occupational therapists use it all the time. Can I bring it in?” Your stomach twists up, nausea tossing your lunch from side to side.

“I uh… I don’t know.”

“You can do it. I know you can.” You hedge, unsure. Can you? Will you?

You can try.

“Okay.”

“Alright, close your eyes. I’ll be right back.” The door opens and shuts, and then opens again, wheels rolling close. You clench your eyes closed so tight it nearly hurts.

Warm fingers grab yours.

“It’s over here.” He murmurs, leading your blind steps away from the couch, coming to a stop… somewhere. “Whenever you’re ready.” You can’t feel him anymore, but you know he’s there, at your back. There’s a faint ruffle of air through your hair, against your neck. “Take a deep breath.”

You focus on the pace of your lungs, the expansion, the give and take of your ribcage.

“I can’t.” You whisper. You’re floating in space, unable to pull the trigger.

A kind hand on your shoulder brings you back.

“You can do it. Try.” The encouragement, the belief is a vine in your heart. Alive and green, it sows roots as deep as it can manage, clinging to fibrous flesh and hollowing you out. It catches on valves and ventricles, spiraling forward in a complicated web like an anchor.

You see him first, in the mirror. Stare straight back at him, falling into his gaze, vibrating in his hold like a child’s wind-up toy.

“Not me. You.” He says gently, and when you can, you bear it.

You almost gasp. It’s been two months since you’ve seen your own face, your complexion, your nose and your eyes and your chin. You’re long healed, bones set perfectly, everything right as rain. You look normal. You look fine. It’s the most shocking thing, to see yourself looking healthy, pieced back together, nearly whole. Your lower lip trembles with effort to hold yourself at bay, to keep yourself from breaking apart, drifting back towards the moon.

“That’s it. Great job, Clover.” His hand still rests on your shoulder, but you shake with a violence now, a torrent of emotion, threatening to cut you off at the knees. “It’s okay.” He whispers.

When you can’t stand it any longer, you close your eyes.

“How did you know?” You’re resettled on the couch, hands tucked under your thighs.

“Know what?”

“That I hadn’t looked in a mirror… since…”

“I know a thing or two, about coming back different. I know how it feels when you don’t want to see yourself.” You glance at the medals on the wall, primly tacked to a plush pillow, encased in glass, and wonder.

“Did you work with captain Garrick?”

“We were in a task force together, before I retired early to do this.” He smiles, easy and light, but there’s something guarded in it, something sharp, shark’s teeth aiming for docile flesh. It purrs, and makes you want to pull back more layers. Gives you something else to focus on, something else to fall into, but it’s gone before you can really study him.

“Oh.” It’s all you can say as he types something on the laptop, and then puts it away.

“That’s all for today. I’ll see you next week then?”

[elitadream]

Hey, I love your art! Anyways, do you headcanon any time where Peach or Mario have been sick and what the other partner does to make them feel better?

Thanks! :)

Even though I've never drawn a Mareach piece directly related to it, I must say the "sick" concept is one that I've always been very fond of (in any fandom!), and I did gather a few notes about it for this pairing in particular.^^

What's especially interesting here is that Mario and Peach are from two very different worlds, with different foods and climates and medications, so to me it seems rather inevitable that either one of the two (or both) would eventually become slightly ill after being exposed to the other's homeland for a time; their immune system having not yet built proper resistence to its germs and bacteria.

In my AU, the bros never see Brooklyn again, so the most likely avenue would be for Mario to fall sick (developping a fever due to an infected injury, for example, or reacting badly to a certain substance however deemed benign for the Mushroom Kingdom citizens...) and Peach to be the one to look after him. 🤒❤️‍🩹

Depending on how severe the symptoms would be, the treatments would range from a simple spoon of health syrup to full medical assistance with lots of rest, and the Princess would scarcely leave his side until he's fully healed. She would use her magic to soothe the pain and help him relax, and Mario would later claim that it did more good for him than any medicine ever could have. 💗

I had also imagined a short scene where, while laying in bed in his groggiest state, Mario would smile at her tiredly and mumble half-coherently that she would have made a wonderful nurse, to which Peach would respond by reaching forward and boldly touching his face in a gentle caress. Though it wouldn't quite register, he would close his eyes with bliss regardless, sighing as sleep would finally overtake him. He wouldn't be sure whether he dreamed it or not upon waking up later, but he would feel incredibly invigorated regardless. 😊✨️

[blamemma]

✨🍑big, broad, and bountiful🍑✨

- daniel ricciardo struggles to slide into his seat ahead of the red bull show run at the goodwood festival of speed 2024

[thenadnerb02]

The existence of the WarioWare games within the greater Mario universe is so fascinating to me because it means Wario is constantly going back and forth between two different friend groups, one of which seemingly doesn’t know the other exists at all.

I guess I have to admire his dedication to keeping his work and downtime activities completely separate from each other.

[cyberfinik]

Header for ask community (vk.com)

I hope I won't die tagging all the cookies here (there's also 2 mascot fan cookies - VK Cookie and Deadline Cookie)

[charlie-the-ghost64]

I love Dr.Mario. He’s great. But, I had an idea for another au- details for it are below the cut :]

Main story

Mario and Luigi live together in a separate apartment from their family. They’d originally been working together at the wrecking company when Mario had finally been convinced by Luigi to go to school for his dream job- being a doctor.

Luigi stayed on at the wrecking company, insisting at least one of the two needed a full time job. Mario, not wanting his little brother to miss out on the chance of getting his own dream job, promised Luigi they’d get him into college after he started working. Luigi never got to take him up on that offer, though he wasn’t too sure what he’d chose to study in the first place.

The first year of med school, Mario kept trying to work part time with Luigi. But, this turned out to be a very rough decision. He was struggling to balance work with his classes, not to mention how much he needed to study. It didn’t take long for Luigi to notice his brother struggling, so, Luigi had him quit. Luigi promised his big brother he’d handle the money, he’d just take an extra shift every now and then (almost four times a week).

Luigi takes a lot of night shifts on-top of his already heavy workload in the day. Due to this, he wears a knee brace (bad knees) while at work. Spike is absolutely awful to him. He’d been bad before, but without Mario to give him confidence, he’s quickly become the laughing stock of the team. He’s forced to do any job no one else wants. He’d have quit by now if he could find a job that wouldn’t be a pay cut.

Mario would often use Luigi as a practice dummy or study partner. Study groups are nice, but Mario always got too distracted by wanting to get to know everyone and didn’t have enough time to actually work. Luigi meanwhile is more than happy to help, spite both of them being partially asleep during it. Luigi usually is the one to fall asleep first.

One night the two had been together in the car when Luigi got called in to go check out some strange house. Mario was partially convinced it was a prank, but agreed to stay in the car and wait for his little brother. He ended up going down into the basement himself after the thirty minute mark.

This is where the two (Luigi first, then Mario) had found the warp pipe. He went in, Mushroom Kingdom, scary dragon-turtle-koopa thing, talking mushrooms, ect ect. Since he was fascinated by the world, and cost of living was so much better, the two soon move there.

They do occasionally visit their family, though they try to avoid the subject of their new place. Neither was sure how their parents would react to it. Mario did end up graduating to be a doctor, just for the species they thought. He works in a hospital in the Mushroom Kingdom. Luigi’s content being a plumber, but, he did like working with his and his big brother’s karts. Maybe he would look into it someday.

Princess Peach

Both brothers know and care for the princess. Mario’s primary interactions with her include..well, being her primary care doctor.

They’ll do a small bit of catching up during those appointments. And by that, I mean Peach takes complete advantage of being in the presence of someone who isn’t in her court and she can trust not to spread to all corners of The Mushroom Kingdom. Mario mainly just nods his head as he handled the routine things, but he did give his opinions when asked. She liked having his outside perspective. Sometimes she’d have him come to the palace just to talk, spite Mario having told her before that he had sick patients to tend to while on the clock. So instead, he got invited over during his off days. He’d given up on being professional awhile ago.

You could imagine her shock when she discovered her favorite doctor had a brother. She’d insisted the two join her for dinner, having been very curious to know what the brother of what a quiet and calming man would be like. During the dinner, the two hit it off very well after discovering they’d been reading the same books.

Dinners quickly became a weekly event, Mario primarily just enjoying listening to the two discuss random books he’d never read.

Random

Luigi and Mario had met Daisy after living in the Mushroom Kingdom for about a year. Luigi and Daisy’s first conversation had been about sports. More specifically tennis. Luigi had been very nervous when she’d practically demanded to play him so she could give him a challenge. One accidental tennis ball to the face later, the two became good friends.

Both Mario and Luigi are fluent in Italian and often speak it when just talking to the other person. Occasionally one will forget to switch back to English for the rest of the group.

Mario likes to cook breakfast for himself and Luigi when he has a morning shift. He considered it a relaxing way to start the day. Luigi will usually jokingly ask if his start has to involve a full load of dishes.

Luigi continues to wear a knee brace even after he finally quit working for Spike. His knees just never recovered from all the pressure they’d been under. Luckily, he had a good pain tolerance.

Mario tends to be more quiet than others off the clock. He’ll speak if he has to, but he prefers to just sit and listen instead of being the one to talk someone’s head off. If someone (primarily Peach and Luigi) wants to ramble or rant for hours on end? He’ll more than happily be sitting across from them with a soft smile, nodding along as he sipped on some coffee.

Mario has absolutely no fashion sense. Mixing and matching patterns that have no right being together is his favorite. Not exactly because of how he looked, he didn’t really care about that, but because of the way his little brother and Peach would cringe at the sight of him. Peach has amazing fashion sense, of course. Primarily wearing gorgeous dresses that were occasionally her own ideas.

Luigi’s a good middle ground for the two. Sometimes his outfits are questionable, sometimes they’re more fashionable like Peach. He’s fully aware of the fact that sometimes his outfits just aren’t great. He tends to ask Peach for help in that regard once the two had gotten comfortable enough with each other. Surely if she can make her own dresses she can tell him not to overlap patterns.

Mario tends to hang out with Toad when Peach didn’t need him to vent to. The two like going on hikes in the woods together. Mario thought it was refreshing to get outside and exercise, Toad found it fun to adventure into the wilderness.

That’s all! Thank you for reading down to this point! I hope you enjoyed! If you have any suggestions for how to improve my writing or formatting I’d greatly appreciate it!!

[creatively-cosmic]

sonic y mario designs

[bloodstainedpossum]

Tnmn Head Canons

(Mainly about Nightmare Mode, specifically Teutates)

-Chester Listens to Gorillaz -Abducius sleeps ON A NASTY AND JUST DISGUSTING MATTRESS -Abducius is covered in scars -The unlikely Clown Sounds like Beetle Juice -Teutates is Surprisingly Chill -Anastacha likes Twilight(no suprise there) -Yog Looks as if he’s in his 20-30s but is WAY OLDER -Peach Peach is a very friendly Doppler, he isn’t deadly at all unless you provoke him -Abducius LOVES to annoy/Torment the fuck outa Barbatos(Abducius is also dating Zoth) Orcus/Afton both really like cats -Teutates Will wear/Really likes any dark aesthetic,(idk how to describe it but I mean aesthetics like Scene, Punk, Goth, etc) -Teutates is GenderFluid -Ishtars Tongue is a Centipede -Mclooy + Steven both can easily Fucking Fist fight a doppel and WIN (Are ya winning son) -Yog Is DISGUSTED with his human counter part, he doesn’t like Francis very much -Henry is Autistic -Angus will scam you. (no suprise there -Angus has a tooth gap -Teutates listens to KISS -Yog Listens to My Chemical Romance

-Zoth is Surprisingly A Cinnamon Roll, silly worm boi

[woodenplankstudios]

Super smashed sisters (Everyone is Home)

[floette777]

Happy🎃Halloween Everyone!!!

Please don't repost reblog is okie dokie!

[retrogamingblog2]

[peachesofteal]

dr. riley has me in a chokehold

(anon is talking about this and my previous ramblings about Simon as a shrink but they were too long ago so now they're lost to the ether, thanks Tumblr search)

He's in the pub.

The bar is a safe space. A spot where you can slink into the darkness and allow alcohol to nurse your wounds, the scars scratched into your mind so deep they'll never fade.

You can't do it yourself, so you let the drinks do it instead.

You've had enough tonight that you can't read the screen on your phone without going cross eyed, and the edges of your vision blur a bit.

You should stop.

But you won't.

The raw saw of the blades have finally stopped ringing between your ears. The buzzing hums at a low, tolerable whine.

You're ordering another one, when you spot him. Turned on your barstool, you catch a glimpse of his shoulders, the ones so wide, so thick he's more sequoia than man, his profile complete with the crooked nose, glasses resting on the bridge. He's shaking his head at another man, but when he shifts, you see her.

There's a beautiful woman at his side. Her hip rests against his thigh, beer cradled in her hand as she leans into him. All smiles. Beaming smiles, radiant like the sun.

Not broken, like yours. Scarred and misshapen, like yours.

You came back. But you came back wrong.

You're not stupid enough to see you're falling victim to the Florence Nightingale effect. Dr. Riley is kind, and patient, and he knows what you've been through. It almost feels like he understands you, knows you. He doesn't get angry when you struggle or fail, he lets you try again. He encourages you.

It's been a really long time since you've felt like anyone understands you.

And, the way he touches you has to be professional, but to you, it's starting to turn to something else. Something dark. Craven. His wide palm resting between your shoulder blades, a firm squeeze of your hand when he holds it, a soft rub of your shoulders. Practiced, therapeutic reassurance on one end, and the other: fire roaring through your body until you're slick with flames.

You're too distracted by your wandering thoughts, zoned out staring at the trio across the bar that the other man sees you, and cocks his head. Fuck. Like a slow motion car crash, you watch the man say something to Dr. Riley, the bulk of his body turning, searching through a sea of faces until his gaze lands on yours.

Double fuck.

Black tar wraps around your heart in vines, and your vision melts to double. You throw notes, too many, onto the bar top and nearly sprint for the exit, heavy wooden door squeaking on its hinges as you plunge into the cool air.

The world is spinning. The alley is dark, the asphalt is firm beneath your feet and still, everything turns on its side.

"Clover?" You turn, exerting too much energy to keep yourself upright, stable.

"Hi, Dr. Riley." He traces you from head to toe. Slowly. No doubt tabulating the state you're in, the way your eyes have trouble focusing, how your balance is blatantly askew.

"It's... good to see you, out and about."

"Oh. Yeah, well, I'm just here for the alcohol, ya know." It escapes from your mouth before you can shove it back down, and he frowns.

You've seen that frown before. It's the 'I'm worried about you, clover" frown, or the "I need to see more progress clover, you know that" or, your personal favorite, the "I understand you're upset, but I'm not going to compromise on making sure you have the care you need."

"Are you alright?"

"Oh yeah. I'm grand." You hold your arms out, palms up, babbling still, "I'm great, Dr. Riley, just peachy," and then try to spin for added effect. See? I'm fine. Totally fine. Normal, even.

It's embarrassing how fast you lose control and careen towards the pavement, your forearms coming up just in time to shield your face, alcohol burning in the back of your throat, warring with your control, attempting to come back up.

He lunges, heavy arm catching you around your middle. He's warm, scorching even, and you grip his forearm to try to get your legs beneath you. Once you're right side up, one of his hands settles at your shoulder and the other... your waist.

"S-sorry."

"It's okay." He's looking down at you, the glow from the street light catching in the umber flicker of his eyes, and you think you see something different in them, something deeper, something more. Your mouth is dry, and you lick your lips, his gaze dropping. You shudder, skin crawling with goosebumps and electric shock, confusing thoughts and feeling cycling through you like a storm. A storm destined to destroy everything in its path.

Stupidity blooms in your blood. You're close enough to smell the peat and sting of bourbon on his tongue, track the back and forth of his eyes as you rise to your toes.

A bold swell rises, a tide so strong it sweeps you to see, drags your toes across the sand like small weightless anchors, until you can no longer touch, until you can no longer see the horizon past the curve of the waves.

You let it drag you under. Fill your lungs. You let it push you further, faster, harder, and before you're even aware of it, your lips are pressed to his.

There's a beat. A single heartbeat, where you're fused as one and then-

He jerks backward, eyes wide. His hands envelope your shoulders and create as much distance between your body and his. He looks... surprised. Shocked even.

Not at all what you wanted.

What did you want?

He's still holding you by the shoulders. At first, it's confusing, because why would he do that? But when you listlessly tilt to the side, you understand. He's just keeping you upright.

The full scale veil of shame comes quickly. Horror coats your tongue. You fucking fool. You bleeding idiot. What have you done? He's inside with a woman, for fucks sake. The shock at yourself, at the loss of control, makes your chest tight, eyes darting around wildly, in a panic.

"Clover." You've never heard this tone before. It's serious, and very heavy. There's a hint of lecture in it, a shade of disappointment. "You're very drunk. Let me get you an uber so you can get h-"

"No." You jerk away, marveling at your ability to stay steady. "No, no. I... I'm sorry. I'm actually already waiting on one." Lie. How will you get out of that? "It'll be here... be here soon, 'round the corner." You pull every piece of your still functioning brain forward to get it all out without slurring too much, and melting into the ground from embarrassment. He gives you a stern look. It's awful.

"I'm jus' gonna go inside and grab my phone, okay? Stay put." He's still using that voice, the serious one without a hint of softness, the one that sounds nothing like the one you hear in therapy, when you're on his couch with your eyes closed, slowly walking through your thoughts with your eyes closed.

"Okay, sure." You try a reassuring smile, but he only scrutinizes you closer, before heading inside. He's moving fast, faster than you expected, but it won't matter. The block is short. You'll be a few away by the time he reappears.

You swallow your nausea, shake your limbs loose, and then...

you run.

[zoethehead]

Well, i just came up with my own cookie run cookie wishlist, because why not?

[blamemma]

Daniel Ricciardo | Circuit of the Americas | via