#far future fantasy does something to me

[gay-dorito-dust]

I can't stop thinking about the batboys in a relationship and their significant other doing that trend where you call your boyfriend your husband. Like just randomly mid conversation they'd be like "my husband". I wonder how the batboys would feel about that.

I’m currently in mourning of my snakebites (they might be healed up after I took them out for one fucking day, sounds dramatic I know but I genuinely can’t get them back in) so rip to them I guess haha(laughing but crying real tears 🥲)

Dick

He acts like he knew you’d would call him husband one day but on the inside he was trying not to explode with how badly that word affected him.

Husband.

He didn’t think he would fit the mould for a perfect husband, yeah sure he’s great in many aspects when it comes down to it, but Dick still has a fear that he still didn’t measure up and that he’d end up letting you down sooner or later.

Yet hearing you call him your husband with confidence and pride only had him feeling as though he was falling for you all over again as his vision seemly became brighter, Gotham’s dark and miserable aesthetic had become a little more tolerable for Dick.

Within a blink of an eye he’s holding your face, his beautiful blue eyes shimmering like gemstones, and before you could say anything your face was being bombarded with rapid fire kisses and sweet nothings to accompany them.

‘You want to marry me? Awww you’re so definitely in love with me!’ - Dick would say teasingly.

‘Dick we’ve been dating for a while now-‘

‘Shhhh, let’s enjoy this moment sweetheart.’ Dick would cut you off as he holds you closer to his chest, pressing a lingering kiss against your forehead as he felt a warm and welcoming feeling within his chest as he could only imagine the day where you got to obviously call each other mrs/mr Grayson or spouse.

It made dick impatient for the future, but he knew he couldn’t rush perfection.

Jason

Smug prick.

That’s all I’m going to say is that the moment you call him your husband, he’s got a smirk upon his face but his eyes are soft and filled with unspoken love and affection.

He genuinely didn’t think he’d ever get to a point where he would have someone to call him own, to call his home and have something that was his and wouldn’t run away when he comes back from patrol bloody and bruised.

He didn’t think a domestic life was for him but with you, there wasn’t a day that went by where you weren’t doing something domestic like folding clothes, or doing the dishes together; it was moments where Jason is proven wrong that makes him feel more compelled to think towards the future, or more specifically a future with you where he’d one day stop being a vigilante for good and settle down.

So hearing you call him your husband has this man on cloud nine and a hell of a lot happier then he’s ever been in his entire life. Expect to be hugged tightly from behind with his faces buried deep into your neck as he just breaths you in and reminds himself that this was all real, that this wasn’t some fantasy dream he’ll wake up from; Jason will be reminded that this is his life and it’s a hell of a lot better with you in it that was for certain.

Damian

Doesn’t outwardly show his reaction but his actions afterwards will definitely show what really thinks.

He’s doing more domestic tasks with and for you without hesitation, treating you to lovely outings with Titus and Ace within the park where he’s holding you from behind and smiling at you when your eyes were occupied elsewhere.

With Damian he doesn’t verbally say he how he felt about being called your husband, he just acts like he is your husband by spoiling you rotten with gifts and quality time with him, for he soon came to realise that his time with you was few and far between for his own liking.

He does everything he can in his power to prove that he would be a reliable husband one day, he even does chores that you put on yourself in hopes that eases the long, long list of things to do you’ve already given yourself. He doesn’t like it when you’re stressed and can’t do everything within an unrealistic timeframe that you’ve set for yourself.

However there are still some things that Damian keeps up his sleeves as he’s not found of showing all of his little tricks when there’s room for him to surprise you later on down the line. He acts like your husband because he will become your husband in the distant future, one that’ll be safer than the times you are both were living in now; he just won’t tell you but he will give you hints in hopes you’d able to see them beforehand.

Tim

He stops.

Literally.

Like he has completely stopped what he’s doing and tries to piece together whether or not he did in fact heard what you had just said.

So he waits for you in hopes that you’d say it again and when you do, he’s beaming, he’s smiling as wide as he possibly can.

So once he’s done being frozen to the spot, acting as though he’s just completely shut down from the inside, his laptop would have multiple tabs open with stuff such as;

‘How to be a good husband (with pictures)’

‘Be a better husband by avoiding these 21 common mistakes.’

‘15 small ways to be a better husband, from a marriage therapist.’

And ‘25 qualities of a good husband’

He wasn’t playing when it comes to preparing in being a husband that you can be proud of and gush about to your friends, not only that but also becoming that cliche couple that might as well still be in their honeymoon phase. He just wants to be ready and prepared when the day does become reality and he might as well have folders upon folders of advice that he had stored away for future reference.

It didn’t matter whether or not you meant it when you called him your husband because Tim was more than ready to learn how to be one for the distant future, for being married to you would be a daydream for sweet Tim and he wanted your marriage to be a long and happy one.

[i9chicago]

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. Sweet loving you.

pairing — spencer reid x professor! fem! reader.

genre — smut (18+ so minors dni)

summary — you think you despise dr. spencer reid with all your bones, you think he's too good and too accomplished at what he does, and you think he despises you too. till you discover his particular liking for you that night when he saw you in a red dress.

word count — 9k (i'm so sorry)

warnings — oral (f receiving) fingering, soft dom! spencer cuz it's rotting my brain cells. masturbation. semi-public sex. lots of kissing. reader is a neuroscience professor.

a/n — this is my first fic here so be nice or i'll cry. english is not my first language so forgive me for any grammar mistakes. like for part 2 (please) ehh, i hate the ending. that's it. hope at least you enjoy it! <3

Red was never a color linked to joy. For some, it was the antithesis of calm—an unruly hue brimming with everything those fond of gentler tones tended to avoid: anger, desire, unbridled passion. A color that rose along a scale of relentless intensity, evoking not warmth, but power.

That’s why you chose to wear a crimson dress fitted neatly across your back, for the event. It didn’t need to be overly elegant or striking— just enough to keep you from feeling underdressed. Just enough to give you the confidence to stand tall and lift your chin in a room full of professors and potential future colleagues, the ones you'd meet again in hallways and over hurried lunches. You loved teaching. And truthfully, you didn’t mind being surrounded by university students who emailed you at four in the morning with long-winded excuses dressed up in flowery language to explain why they missed class or hadn’t done the work. You bit your tongue and kept going. People in the field admired your approach to teaching and your background in neuroscience had taken you far—far enough to park your car outside a sleek hotel and walk through its doors to stand among the best. To make your position as a tenured professor feel less like a myth spun into fantasy in your own head—and more like the fact it was becoming.

It was meant to be a calm affair, or so claimed the invitation embossed in gold thread and impeccable calligraphy, which promised a welcoming evening for the newly appointed tenured professors. You were one of them, even though you'd only been teaching for a year. Your heart thudded in erratic rhythms and you clutched your small handbag so tightly your knuckles turned white, the click of your heels echoing across the ceramic-gray tiles. Tilted your head, curious, catching sight of a golden chandelier overhead, mirroring the three-dimensional designs painted into the ceiling. It was such a pivotal moment, and yet, in all the hours spent getting ready, your mind had spiraled through a thousand reasons for things to go wrong. You couldn’t help it. Your head was always turning against you like it took some kind of pleasure in watching you unravel into a mess of nerves and dread, about the room’s reactions, about your own autonomy. Maybe you’d spill wine on your dress. Maybe you’d choke on a piece of ice from a champagne flute. Maybe you'd talk too much and accidentally let slip something painfully personal. The other professors didn’t need to know that. They didn’t need to know anything about you. Still, when alcohol starts to feel like a second skin, you’d promised yourself you’d manage it, one drink every two hours. Enough to keep disaster at bay.

You greeted a few adjunct professors as they passed by, and the moment you stepped into the grand hall, your jaw nearly dropped. The entire place was blue. Neon lights laced the walls, and a young DJ—probably no older than twenty—was spinning electronic remixes of ‘80s hits. It was almost a joke. There were far too many people for this to be just faculty. You doubted it. The entire teaching department must’ve been here, something you hadn’t quite expected. You’d imagined a more traditional venue: jazz music, old money burning through the most expensive drinks at a quiet bar in the corner. Instead, the tables were dressed in white linen with centerpieces of soft blue and white flowers. And suddenly, you felt overwhelmed. You accepted the glass of champagne a waiter offered you, now, it felt less like a choice and more like a necessity. You didn’t see a single familiar face and with the sheer number of bodies crowding the space, heat began to wrap around your bones. Usually, you were good at socializing, at least good enough not to make a fool of yourself. Winning over professors — especially the ones in physics— was a simple task, and the unspoken rule from the arts department was clear: never, under any circumstances, cross them. So yes, faking camaraderie came naturally to you. And with a few drinks, the task became almost idyllic.

You approached a table and picked up a small peach pastry, the sweetness of the powdered sugar melting on your tongue as your eyes scanned the room, now with a faint smudge of red lipstick on the bite. Then, something shifted. You felt it a gaze on the back of your neck. You turned slowly, your breath catching just as your pulse began to quicken.

Spencer Reid. And he was looking at you.

The same who was too ‘good’ to consider a tenured position at the college. The genius. The chosen one. The prodigy. An FBI profiler whose dignity vanished from the young girls in his classes as soon as they saw him or attended his seminars purely to watch him talk and talk and spill random data that none of them really cared about. They just went to see him. And he didn't even notice. Or, if he did, he was perfectly good at turning a blind eye to it.

It made your blood crawl. Cause you spent months hearing praise behind your back about how all his degrees and accomplishments put him in an optimal position to walk the halls as if he were a member of royalty himself. Sometimes you would see him in the gardens talking to some students being so generous and so kind that you would inevitably roll your eyes at his perfect kindness that you wanted to avoid seeing him as soon as possible. Everyone talked about him and you could understand why: He was an excellent prototype of the good man wrapped in good faith. Occasionally, you would meet his gaze at teacher's meetings, passing a cup of coffee in the mornings of pure silent politeness because neither of you had ever conversed in sentences that veered beyond a harmless thank you and good morning. You offered him your best smiles as his fingers brushed yours as you held out the cardboard cup full of black coffee and he would stare longer at your lips before sliding his periphery into your hands and leaving, as if touching you made him burn, as if he ached for the involuntary touch of your skins. Your friends were aware of how much you didn't like at all everything that endorsed his presence, and they didn't understand. You had a stable job. And of almost the same vitality as his. They told you that your reasons for loathing him were ridiculous, childish and, for a moment, they said you just didn't like him because he incarnated in flesh and blood everything you were attracted to in a man. And you were perfect at dismissing that.

Because it was. And that's what you really fucking hated.

You were unlucky. That was it. As if there was some bizarre entity pre-existing that dragged your decisions into an eternal abyss and turned you into a mixture of bad experiences that only increased as the years went by. And Spencer, in theory, seemed to be too surreal. Sure, his proportions as a whole were appropriate. And you had no trouble figuring out why young girls sighed with their hand on their chin every time he opened his mouth. There was no name for what you felt for him. It was just... It was weird. Weird for you, even, because you were used to being around people like him. But never like him. No one was like him.

Maybe your friends were right in saying that your occasional disdain for Spencer was born solely out of a need for adrenaline that you simply stopped paying attention to him. When your eyes met his in the distance, in a crowd, he smiled at you.

Bastard.

He had no right. He had no right to smile warmly at you as he raised his hand slightly in greeting, which he then lowered because of how awkward and absurd it looked. Much less did he have it to look this well melted by a suit that seemed to be itching his skin. With the red tie and the white shirt stuck to his body. All your attempts to pretend to be indifferent when it came to him were more than unsuccessful, in fact, irrational was a better word to describe it. You did nothing more than answer his greeting with a rehearsed smile as you turned to the food table swallowing a couple of those peach snacks, which you simulated with another swig of champagne feeling how the taste of alcohol numbed the few senses you had left one hundred percent. You sighed, much to your dismay, the dress was starting to feel tighter and tighter around your waist and you felt a flash of wind caressing the bare skin of your back. And to think that Spencer was probably watching you sent a searing heat through all your extremities. You stood up on your back and walked to the other end, however, the glass goblet you held in your right hand had a small crack that dug into your palm making you gasp from the sting of the glass against your flesh. Blood, thick and metallic, gushed out in small gushes from the wound. You felt dizzy for a second. And you wanted to go straight to the nearest bathroom.

Spencer followed your figure gliding through the crowd. The music was loud and what he heard from some of the professors, even if he didn't like to admit it (they were a bit older and kind of jerks) he stopped listening to them the moment your eyes connected with his and just lost himself in how he felt his heart rate become erratic. Superficial. He didn't need the world to be quiet to hear his heart racing. And it wasn't in the ingestion of alcohol, so in his glass rested a simple apple cider that he drank with enthusiasm. It was in how you received his perception, he was used to reading between the lines. And he had spent a lot of time reading specifically how you responded to being in his presence. Always evasive. You pleaded silently. He was not indifferent to your avoidance and sometimes caught you looking at him when you thought he didn't notice. In some other context it would seem creepy and worthy of concern. But it was you. All he saw was you. He wanted to see why his limits seemed to be nonexistent when it came to you and everything that warranted your mere objectivity. He listened to you in your classes, giving extensive perorations on the theory of neuroplasticity, and your students raved about you.

There was something irrefutable in how you learned to avoid him with a grace that overwhelmed him. He wished the words you never pronounced could be a clear language. But no. You chose evasion, silence. An elusiveness so subtle that it only left room for curiosity, for the need to understand why you were doing it. As if everything between you was an unwritten dialogue that he couldn't complete.

He could hear the softness of your words as he rummaged deep into his memories, when you talked about the evaluative changes in neuroscience in front of a packed classroom, your voice flowed like a calm river but inside him everything was churning and he didn't even bother to look for its root. It didn't bother him, actually, he was fascinated by how you were able to captivate everyone, and, at the same time, keep him out of your reach.

It killed him. It killed him slowly and torturously how he begged you with the simplicity of his gestures and looks and you purely eluded him. But what killed him the most was that, despite being so close, it always seemed like it wasn't enough. That he never reached that last layer that protected you.

He couldn't help but feel like a doomed voyeur watching as that invisible barricade between you held firm. Talk to me. Look at me. Why not? How long will I endure? Every vestige of desire of his was mounting to catatonic levels.

A cold current was seeping deep into his skin, icing his fingers as he waited, patiently, for some movement, a sign from you.

But nothing.

Only the pleasure of your indifference, so bitter and bewitching, like a trap he didn't know how to escape from. And, damn it, he loved it.

The white walls in the bathroom loomed over you as you walked in hoping for an aid kit somewhere, you looked in the mirror for a moment, realizing how lousy the night was going and you were just getting there. It was supposed to be a good time to continue making friends and finally find more people to have lunch with at noon. You should have seen it coming. You thought for hours about whether it was a good idea to attend and your apartment, not far from the hotel, a few blocks from the venue, was a mess. Dresses strewn across the floor and your cat found the jumble of sleeping fabric in every corner of the house fascinating. The pain in your hand was getting more intense, too strong, unbearable. A burst of burning that intensified every second. You made a point of washing away the bright blood with the water and grimaced at the new coolness and stinging sensation of the cut.

But even the pain didn't lessen the fact that you were thinking about him. And that infuriated you. The gazes that lasted longer than usual, the gestures you avoided and those imperceptible moments charged with something much more substantial. What did you want to do with all of that? Nothing. You couldn't do anything. Spencer was in a completely foreign league to you and you had to respect that.

You didn't even want to imagine what would happen if people at the college found out. People talk, and they don't measure the magnitude of their words and all that a simple hallway rumor could trigger. Like teens. No one should be interested in what two professors were doing outside the institution. And besides, he wasn't even working full time. He was an agent. Even more reason why this growing, heated thing between you two was a flat out no way it was going to happen. It was undermining all your senses. All your good judgment diminishing it to nothing. No, it couldn't happen. The tension was limiting your core beliefs. And as you tried to maintain a control you knew you didn't have, the restlessness in your chest only grew.

As you did everything in you to heal the cut quickly, you heard the faint creak of the door. You raised your head and, in the reflection of the mirror you saw Spencer's figure bursting into the glare of the bathroom lights. You failed to keep calm. Because you had nothing left. Spencer briefly held the handle, his eyes sliding a quick glance between the mess in your hand and the confusion evident on your face, your cheeks flushed, your breathing still uncontrolled. And, without a word, he locked the door.

The sound of the lock clicking echoed in the air, amplifying the tension already vibrating in the space. His scent enveloped you, the warmth of his presence washed over you so tightly that the sting in your cut receded into the background. But for him it seemed otherwise. He stood in front of you so close you could feel his breath, a faint sigh that seemed to touch your skin, make the air thick, dense. He looked at you briefly, straight into your eyes and that's when you understood why you were avoiding him so much. It was him. His gaze. His warmth. Everything about him sucked you in, pulled you in and was all too evident. His intensity was like a force of gravity that drew you in hopelessly. No matter how much you dodged it, no matter how hard you tried to shield yourself from that connection, it was as if the very nature of the situation had determined that the distances between the two of you were simply not viable.

He looked at you as if asking for permission to heal your hand, and though he didn't say it out loud, he didn't need to. The question was in the solid silence between the two of you, in the way he watched you, so close that you could almost feel his thoughts without a single word needing to be uttered. That look, that little action.

You couldn't hide from him.

You, who had always maintained control, felt how he crumbled at the softness of his gesture, at the implicit trust he offered. At how his hands, veiny and warm, took yours with an unspoken hush. You were trapped in his closeness and in his palpable presence. And worst of all, you wanted to stay there, caught in the nervousness of his look, in the subtle touch of his fingers.

You decided to speak. Or else you couldn't stand it any longer. “I should put in a beef about the dangers of champagne glasses.” You said trying to sound normal, calm. But the tension in your voice was so intense that you ignored it, "It was broken, hmm, I guess it's no big deal. It's probably not even deep."

“You're bleeding out here,” he chuckles, and the sound of his laughter, light but kind of warm, sneaks through the cracks in your conscience. You feel his thumb caress the palm of your hand, and the derision in his tone makes you laugh too. He clears his throat, before scanning his gaze around the bathroom for an aid kit. "You need to clean that. Or it'll get infected.”

“No, no. You don't need to ” you whisper, but you let his hand continue to hold you. “I'm fine, really...”

Spencer stopped in front of you, bent down slightly to look at your hand in more detail. “It does need to,” he replied in a slight murmur. "Superficial wounds can be much more dangerous than they appear. In fact, small cuts are more susceptible to infection than larger ones, because they may go unnoticed, but they leave a perfect entrance for bacterias. In this case, if you don't clean and disinfect it, Staphylococcus aureus bacteria are quite common, and that could lead to a serious infection."

You felt a little stunned. The amount of information he dumped on you so quickly left you somewhat entranced. However, the concern on his face was genuine. And it touched you.

Why did he have to look like that?

“Uh, I can't say I knew that.”

“Does it hurt?”

 “Just a bit.” You replied. It was true. But it hurt more that as he looked at you he kept stroking your hand with his thumb and each caress drove you crazy. “Any diagnostic, doctor?”

He laughed, and your heart skipped a beat. God. His smile was even more charming holding you that close. A pair of dimples growing in his cheeks and he effortlessly aroused sensations in you too primal to admit out loud.

“I'm not that kind of doctor,” he whispers, the hint of his smile still visible. “But I need to clean that up for you... It's... It's okay if I do?”

You nodded, not knowing what to answer. Her gaze slid across the bathroom coming across a small white box resting on the counter. He turned away from you for brief seconds and, though it was a flicker in time, you felt the emptiness he left. You missed his touch and felt pathetic. So simple. So insignificant. And yet he still managed to unsettle you

Why did his closeness make you feel exposed, vulnerable? You knew something between the two of you was changing, but was it something you really wanted? Or rather, something you could afford to want?

It didn't give you time to think as he stepped in front of you again and wiped a cotton ball with antiseptic. Taking your hand again, the cool sensation of the antiseptic with the warmth of his fingers pressing against you making a twisted contrast of what it was. It was soft. It was gentle. As if he feared to break you with the simplicity of his caress. He was exalted, you could tell by the way he was breathing through his nose and his chest was rising and falling in a continuous back and forth. You couldn't help but think how, for a second, it seemed like the rest of the world disappeared, and all that was left was him. Just him.

“I'm sorry,” he murmured, breaking the silence. “I don't mean to make you uncomfortable.”

It was strange to hear him say that. Because how could he not know that discomfort was, in fact, what made you feel so alive? The vulnerability, the not knowing what was going on between you and the uncertainty you felt in his every gesture. It was all there, hovering between the two of you, and you weren't saying anything about it. You just held each other in this delicate balance that you longed to break.

“You don't.” you said quickly, "It's dumb. I probably wouldn't have done it. I'm not good at this stuff, the last time my cat scratched my whole arm and I'm pretty sure I made the scratches even worse."

Spencer looked up, and for a moment, his expression softened. “I just don't want you to think I'm invading your space,” he said, and the sincerity in his voice was like a soft punch to the chest.

Spencer curved his lips, barely a smile. He continued his slow, meticulous movements cleaning your wound with a precision that was hard to ignore. Every time his finger brushed your skin it was like lighting a thousand matches inside you.

 “This isn't so bad,” he murmured, as he carefully cleaned the area around the cut. “It could have been so much worse.”

“Well, hopefully I'm not bleeding to death,” you replied with a small touch of humor. The slight stinging in the wound when the antiseptic touched your skin was somewhat tolerable now, and his presence somehow made you feel calmer.

And, of course, you decided not to pay attention to the closeness of his face and that incipient beard that adorned it perfectly. All over his jaw, you had the urge to touch it and put the fingers of your free hand on the fabric of your dress as if it contained all those growing desires.

“Hopefully not” Spencer laughed, not looking away from your hand. "It's not that dramatic, but you know, some people faint over something as simple as this. The body's reaction to minimal pain can be interesting."

“Really? How?”

You knew the answer. But hearing him speak for you was a necessity now and you decided to take advantage of every second.

"The fear of pain and the physiological reaction is more prevalent than it seems, that's all kind of like a mind game. That it thinks you have something, when the damage is likely to be minimal.”

“And I assume that if there was anyone here passed out, it would be me.” you said, shaking your head and looking at the wound with mock concern. "Yeah, I should have guessed. I cannot tolerate pain.”

Spencer let out a genuine laugh, a laugh that made the air around the two of you feel less tense.

“Definitely,” he said with a laugh. “But don't worry, I'll keep an eye on you.”

“Good to know.”

He continued cleaning and gently placed a children's band-aid (from some cartoon you couldn't recognize) over your cut, now clean and out of harm's way. Were his eyes always this bright or was it the glare of the white lights? And his lips, his lips. Slightly splendorous from whatever he was drinking before he came in. You swallowed saliva, feeling the heat rising to your cheeks as he seemed to have scanned across your face and the bathroom was flooded by a couple of giggles that pretended to say a lot, but was nothing. It wasn't awkward, but that kind of silence that hovered over you and enveloped you in a still atmosphere that you countered with the rowdiness outside. You sat on the countertop, the coldness of the ceramic hitting your thighs hoping he wouldn't leave. You lay your head back in the mirror, and Spencer's head shorted out.

He didn't know how much more he was capable of taking, if he was fit to drown everything that came into his head when he saw through the mirror's reflection that curve of your back, smooth, perfect. The red dress tight to every curve fitting in the right places and that lipstick, lightly smeared across your lower lip. He put his hands in his pockets and swallowed thickly. Your eyes traveled down his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down with nervousness and notoriety.

“You didn't seem to be enjoying yourself over there" you say amused, your voice tired. "I don't blame you. Teachers' humors are crap."

Spencer nods, standing in front of you. Your knee brushing against the fabric of his dress pants. "I usually enjoy theoretical physics jokes but there's a point where it gets repetitive and boring. If I'm honest, I was looking forward to getting out of there.”

The laugh you let out was soft, almost intimate, as if only he was meant to hear it. Spencer drank it in as if it were something sacred. His fingers, still warm from touching you, flexed in his pants pockets, trying to contain the absurd need to brush against you again. 

“Spencer Reid?” you repeated with an arched eyebrow, watching him with a vague smile as you leaned your head back against the mirror a little more. "You must have the highest tolerance for repetitive. You analyze it, dissect it. You find patterns in it, revel in it. I thought you were used to it.”

Spencer tilted his head slightly, tickled by your remark. His eyes roamed over your face with a scrutiny that made you hold your breath. He didn't seem to be looking at you out of mere habit anymore, it seemed he couldn't even help himself. You cleared your throat, but his closeness was brutal. He smelled like aftershave, so strong that the scent drugged you completely.

"Maybe you're right, but there are exceptions. There are always exceptions to the rule, no matter how much I'd rather abide by them." he said, this time turning to you and you swore your heart was going to jump out of your rib cage.

His hands slowly came out of his pockets, and he leaned lightly on the countertop to the side of you. His arm almost brushed your thigh and for an instant you thought he would do it on purpose, that he would trace the fabric of your dress with his fingertips. That he would dare. And you thought how good it would feel to be on his hands, long fingers and protruding veins, holding you like a longing.

“And is tonight one of those exceptions?” you asked, tilting your face toward him, watching him closely. 

His throat worked in a strained swallow. "I'm sure it is.”

A shiver ran down your spine. Your breathing got slower, deeper. Your inhibitions out of you. His knuckles, distracted, barely grazed your knee in a touch so light it might have gone unnoticed if it weren't for all your skin igniting in response. Spencer froze at his own boldness, but didn't immediately pull his hand away. Instead, he exhaled slowly through his nose, and his eyelashes lowered slightly as he looked back up at you. All content, his eyes dancing all over your face.

He didn't move. 

He didn't leave. 

The air in the bathroom seemed to thicken as Spencer leaned forward gently, closing the distance with torturous slowness as if to give your body time to react, to reject him. But you didn't. And you had no plans to either. Your back brushed against the mirror, the coolness of the glass seeping through the thin dress as Spencer's warmth enveloped you from the front. His hands continuing to rest on the countertop on either side of your legs, locking you in with devastating ease.

He was tense. You could see it in his jaw. The line of his throat working as he swallowed saliva with visible effort. Almost instinctively, you tilted your head, and mentally beat yourself up as you thought you could ignore or simply disregard everything that revolved around him because it was impossible. You hesitated on whether to do that thing that was killing you so much, to touch his face, to caress his cheek. Let him do something. His gaze made you breathless. Dark, intense. Fixed on you and only you. His dark, chocolate irises, a hazel hue that you could finally detail up close.

He had the most beautiful eyes you'd ever seen.

“Why do you keep avoiding me so much?” his voice was a whisper, but you felt it throughout your body. His breath was warm with a minty undertone, it brushed your mouth. "Did I...did I do something to bother you? I didn't say anything bad about you, if you were wondering. I have eidetic memory, I would remember if I was rude to you at any time.”

You found yourself caught between need and uncertainty. Your hands rested on your thighs, and you wanted him to push them away. Spencer saw it. He saw it in the way your eyelashes quivered in a flutter that sent shocks through his body, in how your gaze dropped fleetingly to his mouth before returning to his eyes, in the way your chest rose and fell too fast, too erratically. 

His knuckles brushed the fabric of your dress with calculated carelessness, a light touch on your right thigh that made everything in you tense with an internal jolt. There was no urgency in his movement. Only a torturous patience, an unspoken question in the way his skin tested yours. As if testing the ground.

A restrained sigh escaped your throat, almost inaudible, but he heard it. 

“You didn't do or say anything bad about me, Spencer.” you murmur, your voice sharp. "It was my thing. I make movies all the time in my head. I think I was just jealous.”

His brow furrowed in confusion. His knuckles still moving in a steady rhythm over the fabric of your dress, “Jealous? Why would you be jealous?”

Your tongue fleetingly moistened your upper lip. His gaze followed the movement with unsettling thoroughness, his fingers twitching subtly on the countertop. You were unconsciously tasting him. And it delighted you to watch his jaw clench.

“I guess you're too good to be real.” you let out an irony-laden laugh, "It's lame. Don't mind me. I actually thought you didn't like me."

“Why would you think that?” he sounded almost offended, incredulous at what you just said as he let his fingers trail southward away from the red fabric. It was silk, fine silk that hugged your thighs beautifully. His fingers were just as warm on your skin and you shivered as his caresses went up and down. Paulatine, subtle, but it made your hair stand on end. And the way he whispered your name... Almost like a longing held on his tongue, like a heavenly prayer. "I've done nothing but silently wanted you. If you only knew... How long I've been saving this. Keeping you. As if just looking at you was enough.”

Your lips parted, but the words stuck in your throat. As if every particle had stopped in time, leaving them suspended in that instant where nothing else existed except the way he touched you. His hand slid, slow, barely perceptible, but enough to set your skin on fire. His fingers traced invisible lines over your thigh with a devotion that left you gasping for breath, memorizing the texture of your skin, the way you reacted under his touch.

“I'm sorry,” you murmured, it was the only thing that could come out of your mouth. Your voice cracked, feeling the pressure building in your chest, in your belly, in every nerve ending in your body. 

A sound escaped from his throat. Low. Grave. As if the confession had managed to shake something inside him. 

His hands moved, with deliberate leisure, barely moving up the curve of your thigh before clinginging to the flesh. His torso was so close you could feel the heat radiating from him, the racing beat of his heart pounding in sync with yours.

"No, don't be sorry" his voice was a whisper, his lips against your temple. They were so close you could feel them, a temptation suspended in the air. The edge of his nose brushed yours, a touch so thin, so intimate, that a shiver danced down your back. "I guess it's my fault for not talking to you in the first place. But if you'll let me... I promise not to ask for more than you're willing to give. Because having you anyway is already more than I ever thought I deserved."

God. 

You couldn't think, not when he was there, so tangible, so immensely real, tearing down every barrier you'd ever built between the both of you. 

His fingers came up again, this time with less hesitation, brushing the inside of your thigh in a barely perceptible movement, but one that sent an electric whiplash up and down your spine. If you moved a little, just a little, he would brush the fabric of your panties.

"Spencer..." his name was a breath caught in your mouth, a plea, a surrender.

He took it. He took your exhalation and made it his own. He kissed you with the kind of awe with where someone touches something sacred for the first time. His mouth rested on yours in a brush that contained months of longing compressed into a single instant. So violently that your body tensed. His lips moved gracefully over yours and his hands squeezed the flesh of your thighs as if he was holding back from touching you further. At first it was slow, painfully slow, waiting for you to refuse. But you had no intention of it. You sensed how his tongue brushed your lower lip in an invitation to thrust inside you, and the sweet gasp that came from your mouth in delight entranced him. He sensed it in the way your fingers reached up to grasp at the lapels of his suit, clinging to him as if you were about to collapse.

Kissing Spencer was just how you imagined it would be. Addictive. Teeth and tongues in a rough dance, he was stunned by how you responded to his caresses. By how your hands stopped trembling and rested on the back of his neck, in his hair, pulling him closer to you till you melted into a lingering kiss. Spencer moaned against your mouth, a harsh, restrained sound that reverberated between the both of you, becoming a vibration that traveled down your backbone and spread in torrid heat throughout your body. His fingers, which until now had traced a contained path over superficial parts of your body, twitched over the skin of your thigh, sinking just barely into the soft flesh, as if he needed to hold on to something in particular to keep from twisting his grip. He was losing it completely.

The kiss became hungrier, more impatient. His tongue slid against yours in a fiery, deep caress as his other hand moved up the curve of your back, pressing you against him as if trying to memorize every inch of your body. You shivered from just feeling his touch on your back and how that slit in your dress gave him the opportunity to move down a little.

Every scrape of his lips against yours was a silent confession, every halting gasp a secret that slipped out without the need for words. 

Spencer wasn't doing anything by halves, and kissing you was the ultimate proof of that. He was feeling you with every fiber of his being. He was drinking you in with the devotion of a thirsty man finally finding water in the middle of a forsaken desert.

With every particle of his autonomy, with every heaving breath that escaped his throat and the way his body pressed against yours, drawing closer and closer until the air between you ceased to exist. His hand, the one that had traveled up the curve of your back, slid with exasperating slowness to the base of your nape, tangling in your hair. Wrapping itself around the strands of your locks.

As if afraid you might fade away.

His other hand went up another inch, and when his fingertips brushed the thin fabric of your panties, a fierce thrill ran through you, arching your back involuntarily at his touch. Wanting more. That he would turn his attentions upon you. He sensed it in the way your nails scratched his hairline, in how your thighs trembled under his caresses and the sudden gasp that escaped from your mouth, imprisoned in his. 

He pulled away just a few millimeters, just enough to be able to look at you. To see the slight tremble of your lips swollen by his kisses, the febrile shine in your eyes. His breath collided against your skin, warm and ragged, and in the thick silence of the bathroom, his breath seemed an echo of yours. 

The Adam's apple in his throat rose and fell in an effort to swallow saliva. 

"I can't believe we missed this just because we had misconceptions about each other." he whispered, as if he found it hard to speak, as if the words scraped his throat as they came out, "You don't know all you do to me."

"I think I have an idea." you said, stunned. With a slow smile curving your mouth as your hands went back up to his cheeks, his beard stinging your fingers, "But I think I'm starting to like it when you show me."

A low growl escaped his chest before he took your mouth again, and no fantasy could match how good it felt to be in his arms. His kisses were intoxicating, tongue everywhere, low moans sending shocks straight to the recent growing bulge in his pants. He held your jaw and claimed you. And you loved it. You melted into him. Your hands took advantage of traveling to his neck, his cheeks, his shoulders. You could spend hours like that. There was a latent tension in his muscles, in the visible struggle between his control and his desire, in the way his dark gaze devoured every detail of you. His hands were so big, gripping your face as you moved closer until you wrapped your legs around him, your thighs at his sides.

Spencer pulled away, he was a mess. His brown hair tousled and his lips glossy and swollen from you. His thumb traced a sweet line over your lower lip. "You're beautiful," he exhales briefly. "So beautiful.”

You pull him by the neck and kiss him again. Hopeless. Hungry. You were sure the denim of your lingerie was wet and that he could feel it. You move your hips moaning against his mouth from the friction of your center against his pants. Spencer noticed your need, and his knee began to rub you. Slowly, feeling you contract from the pleasure. Your dress rode up over your thighs and he pulled them almost all the way up, to the level of your hips, allowing himself to revel in the matching lace of your wet panties. Soaked. For him. His right hand slid to your chest and groped your dress, seeking to pull it down. You nodded in agreement still with your lips on his, letting him know you needed him. That he would touch you. It was a slight effort, but with blind skill he lowered the top of your dress.

"I'm surprised at how skillfully you did that," you whispered between kisses. You hear his laugh, hoarse and throaty, as his knee continued to rub your center, and you cried out. A low cry that you silenced by biting your tongue.

"If it makes you feel any better, I thought as soon as I saw you come in." he said resting his forehead with yours. Widening his hands below your knees, and when he stretched a little, the breath caught in his throat.

You looked like a gorgeous wreck. Your lipstick was running, your barely visible red lace bra made your hardened nipples noticeable and the feel of the cold made them hard as rocks. Spencer kissed you. Quick, fleeting, placing his thumb and forefinger against your right nipple and pressing it, making you turn your eyes. His touch sent tingles all over your body, no matter how small or large, the mere fact that he was touching you was driving you crazy.

His kisses descend to your neck, leaving soft bites in an everlasting path. He nibbles that spot on your pulse and you tremble. Your hand touching his curls as you gasped uncontrollably.

"You're..." he began, but the word was lost in your neck. He kissed the curve of your collarbone, the racing pulse in your throat. " You're devastating.”

He scattered sporadic kisses across your neck and suddenly you felt like you were out of orbit when his fingers found your panties. Stroking you over the fabric. You wiggled your hips in search of more friction and melted into his arms. He teased both of your nipples. He kissed you with such vehemence and eagerness. It was simply too much. Your eyes traveled to the bulge in his sweatpants, and you had that urge to touch him again. It was big, you deduced immediately by how the fabric of the pants fit painfully around the outline of his cock. Your hand barely grazed it as he pushed you away and returned his kisses to your lips. Tugging at them. Biting, sucking with impetus.

"Is that good or bad?" you asked curving your back.

Spencer looked up from his spot, his eyes burning with an intensity so pure it took your breath away. "It's all I want.”

He bent down with only one knee digging into the floor, and your brain lit up. You were aware of what he was about to do and you pressed your thighs together, almost reluctantly. In response, he put his hands on your knees and looked at you over his long eyelashes and his eyes sparkling from all the excitement that was only growing more and more. No, he had no right to look at you like that. To have you at his mercy with just a kiss. To look so needy for you. 

"Don't get shy now." he said, his fingers squeezing the hypersensitive flesh of your thighs to open them for him again. "I want to touch you, please, angel. Let me show you how much I've needed you. How much I've longed to touch you, please, can I?"

His plea turned you to plasticine. It was a desperation rooted from deep in your chest and the mere thought that he had imagined this precise scene in the past turned you on. That maybe he had it all planned out and now he was kneeling before you basically begging to touch you. Your hand reached out to his curls, stroking his brown, unruly hair and you nodded as your lips curved into a smile that Spencer was quick to retort.

"Of course, I wasn't going to let you leave me like that and then leave." you whisper in amusement, holding his face "You owe me.”

Spencer smiled at you, sweet, almost too sweet for the kind of look he gave you. Filled with desire, with something far, vastly stronger than you. His fingers groping the edges of your panties. Swiftly pulling them down to your ankles. You shuddered at the change in sensations, the gusts of wind setting your nipples on edge and his gaze fixed on your cunt enveloped you in a cloud too intense for your brain to function properly. He looked at you with dilated pupils, licked his lips slowly as if tasting you on it.

"I owe you, huh?" he said, pressing a kiss on your inner thigh. Then on the other. "I guess I should make it up to you, right? Is that what you want?"

You nodded frantically, but he bit down on a thin layer of skin and you gasped.

"Use your words, angel."

"I..." you doubted that your head could work correctly, his touch sent tingles through parts of your body unthinkable. "Fuck, Spencer. Just do it.”

"So desperate." he whispered, his tongue beginning to lick the wetness of your thigh. You swayed in response to the sensation, your back arching as your hands involuntarily moved up to your nipple, pinching and stimulating. You needed to feel him everywhere. It was disarming you. "Have you thought about this, do you think I don't notice when you look at me, when you sneak into my classes?”

He grabbed you by the knees and pulled you into his mouth with such speed that you didn't even have time to get used to the thrill. Fuck. His mouth was desperate, he licked your folds and his curls hide between your legs. You'd let him sleep right at dawn right there. You moaned his name so loud that you were thankful the music outside was so loud no one could hear, 'cause you needed that. You needed to scream how much you enjoyed it and when Spencer gasped in delight, your whole body jerked. A rough hand gripped your thigh, his thumbs pressing into your skin, holding you open just for him. To keep you from shivering. His tongue was relentless. He swirled with precision, sucked you with intensity and reserved kisses for your clit. You rolled your eyes and your hips followed in a back and forth motion over his mouth, surrendering yourself completely to the pleasure.

There was a heat swirling over your belly, over your bloated, hypersensitive center. You shuddered and Spencer hummed above you as you tightened his head making him bury himself in your pussy. You were drunk, it was vertiginous, too much to bear.

He pulled away slightly, his breathing ragged. You couldn't see him because he was still hiding between your legs but the image was projected in your head instantly. His lips glossy from your wetness, yearning for more. The fibers of his hair messy from your pulls "How did I not notice before that you are this beautiful?" he kissed one of your folds and your back flexed again. "That you taste so good…”

Your whole body jerked in pleasure as he sealed his lips on your clit. Sucking. Drinking. Opening his mouth wide and devouring every nerve of you like a starving man. As if you were his last entrée that he would hesitate to ravish for how exquisite it was. One hand came up and took away yours that was caressing your boobs, his now cold fingers closing on them. His hand was large. It went all the way around you and pressed your hard, overstimulated nipple between the middle of his fingers.

"Spencer," you moaned, your thighs trembling and his mouth devouring your cunt with vigor, "It's too much. Sensitive."

His mouth closed on you again, your hips still twitching at him. Pleasure engulfed you, your stomach contracted and you swore you saw nebulae and tiny stars the moment his tongue sucked slowly at your slit. It curved, it teased you, driving you to your limit.

"No, not yet" he groaned against your skin, but his fingers didn't falter for a single second. The bundle of stimulation cut your lungs out. "Just one, yes? Can you give it to me, angel?"

You barely nodded as he returned to devouring you. He wanted to take you to the last of your strength. Heat coiled in your stomach and your heart was about to burst out of your chest. Irregular beats that succumbed you in instant pleasure. His tongue licked in one last long line in your pussy that tore out a scream that you stifled by biting your lip. The release of your orgasm taking you elsewhere. You were trapped in ecstasy. Your limbs ached and you needed him more and more. His breath was warm as he pulled away and kissed your mons pubis, testing, seeing how much more you could take. It made your hair stood on edge.

"You had this well planned, hmm?" you whimpered in a murmur, feeling the sequels of your first orgasm shaking your body, "I bet you've thought about it too. About how good it would feel to have me in your hands, is that it? Did you want me so bad you couldn't do anything but imagine it?”

He growled in reply, and the sound made your blood rise. Time slowed down around you and for a moment you forgot there was a whole party going on outside. But all you could think about was that you had Spencer on his knees for you, his erection probably being too painful for him and yet he continued to kiss you and tasted all of your senses. The pressure of his lips was deep worship, in restrained cravings that would sooner or later explode into frenzy. Your head fell against the mirrored glass as now his fingers curved lightly to touch your cunt in search of more. He added a finger, then another, patiently opening you up. Your hips throbbed again from the overstimulation, your brow furrowing as he rose and began to spread kisses all over your face.

"You have no idea, I asked myself that every night I pretended I didn't care about you more than I should have." he murmured, his palm pressed against your clit and his bulge in his pants pressed against your thigh, in pursuit of a delicious friction you both needed. You were at his mercy completely. You lowered your head and rested your forehead on his shoulder, feeling his fingers move nimbly inside you. "And each time, the answer was yes. I wanted you so much that it hurts. Do you think you can give me one more, sweetheart?"

You nodded again and that sweet moan that came out of your mouth when he added a third finger made you see stars. Your eyes closed, you impaled yourself on his hand until you felt Spencer silencing as best he could his moans by stifling them with his own lips, still glistening from your arousal.

He continued touching you. Kissing you with ardor. And you questioned if you would have done this if you were both talking to each other instead of immediately deducing that you disliked each other. You were an idiot. Because from now on you didn't want to be in the hands of any man but Spencer. You didn't want to see another face. Neither did you want to go back to the normal course of your life when he had brought you to a point of no return that you never reached with anyone else.

"Just like that," he whispered, kissing that dangerous spot in the area of your racing pulse. Provocatively. "Fucking my hand. Gasping for me. You're so good. So beautiful. I can't get enough of you."

He bit back a slim layer of skin, and you moaned.

"Spencer..." you hissed, leaning your hips into him, "Fuck.”

You glimpsed his frown trying to concentrate on your own pleasure, but his hips bucked and he rubbed at your inner thighs, you could almost see some pre seminal liquid pouring out of his pants and the sight made you rush at his touch. His fingers curled, you grabbed him by the cheeks and kissed him as you bucked unconsciously and the surges of your second orgasm filled you up to your ears. Spencer gasped as you came in his hand, and he was precious. Beautiful, dark eyes, rosy cheeks and fully swollen, glowing lips. Your breaths hitched in unison as he pulled his hand away from you and you brushed back the strands of hair that clung to his sweaty forehead.

You give him a smile, tired, and his head does nothing but spin. At the need, at how good it felt to finally touch you and feel you collapse into him. At how masterful you perceived better than all the times he imagined what it would be like. A giggle escapes from his lips, pressing a kiss to your temple, his warm breath spreading over your skin, and his hand, almost by instinct, moved up your abdomen in a lazy rubbing tracing distracted circles. Now yours played with the hairs at the nape of his neck and you let yourself drift in the sweet silence surrounding you.

"Hmm," he whispered. "It took us longer to heal your wound."

You opened your mouth in an offended gesture, hitting him gently but you didn't have the strength for much. His body vibrated from his laughter, and you loved it. "I want to see you say that later. We'll see who gets the last laugh and it will definitely be me.”

Spencer looked at you with those deer-eyed eyes full of tenderness that your knees felt weaker. He left another soft kiss on your cheek and you hummed in delight at the gesture. Slipping your arms around his shoulders, hugging him. Melting into him.

"Whatever you say, angel." he said with his eyes closed. "We still have time."

It was as if the entire universe had shrunk to that instant. The feel of your skin against his effortlessly banishing everything you felt for him before. Of knowing he craved you as much as you craved him. His breath attached to yours, coupled in a quiet, slightly agitated rhythm, just enough to fill the bathroom with him.

You leaned your forehead against his shoulder, feeling the slow waves of his breathing, and for a moment you felt light. As if in that minuscule piece where nothing bad could reach you. As if he was the refuge you had always wanted to return to without knowing it.

"Do we have it?" you repeated softly, shyly, almost as a question to yourself.

Spencer nodded, his nose brushing against your temple."We have all the time in the world if you're with me.”

Your lips pursued his just because the words got stuck in your mouth, this time in a more chaste kiss. One that tasted of rest, of complicity. And your heart was beating so fast you could hear its beat rewinding in your ears.

"I like you so much," you murmured against his mouth, barely a whisper. "I reiterate that I'm concerned about all the effects you have on me.”

His hands traced slow figures on your back, the whisper of his voice lulling you low:

"Then let's be scared together. It's much safer for both of us, isn't it?"

And you did. You closed your eyes, sank into him... And, for the first time in a while, you didn't care what came next.

[twstwizard]

Hellooo :3c I hope you are doing alright 🌸

I want to make a request, i got a silly idea and i hope you dont mind!

If posible, i would like to request for Riddle, Carter, Azul and Lilia and how they would react when while they were hanging out with their crush (or s/o, however you prefer) reader out of nowhere tells them that last night they had a dream where both were getting married, but like reader is telling them cuz the dreams was so wild, like in the old princess Disney movies everything was so animated, there were floating things everywhere and it was full of color and everyone was dancing (even the furniture)

The wedding bells

Type: Headcanons, SFW, Fluff, Romantic

Characters: Riddle Rosehearts; Cater Diamond; Azul Ashengrotto; Lilia Vanrouge; GN!Reader

AN: I might've gone a bit too sappy, let me know what you think

Riddle Rosehearts

-Riddle is slightly baffled, more so by the thought of you dreaming of a wedding with him as the groom, not how wierd it was. The latter at least makes sense, dreams are intended to be strange, like that one time he dreamt about being a tart. Nonetheless he's touched.

- The young man would be flustered, yet curious. Inanimate objects becoming... Animate? In tales about Queen of Hearts something similar acured on daily basis. Perhaps if the two of you do get married maybe he should try and arrange for the whole ordeal to be heavily based off of one of the Sevens? But that's jumping too fast and too far into the future.

- His mind wonders as you tell and more about your dream, as his face grows redder and redder with blush as you describe any detail involving him as the groom. He's both touched and embarrassed to an extent, yet he's happy that at least in your dream he stayed a proper gentleman.

- Riddle cannot get an image of you by the altar from his head for some time, both of you dressed for the ceremony, staring lovingly into each other's eyes... As he mentally scolds himself for daydreaming amids the day, he can't help but hope that one day that little dream of yours becomes reality for both of you.

Cater Diamond

- Oh?! Do tell him every little detail! Cater is not only happy that he was in your dream, but also was the groom? Oh did the two of you kiss? Did he feed you the cake, did you two dance with the furniture? The young man listens to your dream, exited expression on his face.

- It may be a dream, but now it's a shared dream between the two of you. Cater knows that you might be jumping over your heads with the hypothetical dream wedding of yours, but he doesn't care, he's already invested, trying to prey out as much detail as possible simply to try and envision the whole thing. He might even pull out some kind of Piccrew for rooms and try to recreate the place for giggles with you.

- Cater is also encouraging of your ideas or how dream might've ended or what happened in parts you don't remember no matter how silly or how little they make sense, so long as they make sense to you. He might even throw in his own theories or add even more redicules ideas, to make your dream seem even more whimsical.

- While Cater is obviously joking around, he does find the thought of marrying you a pleasant one. He's jealous even, the man wishes he saw a wedding with you in his dream, but then again, reality is just as pleasant if not better.

Azul Ashengrotto

- What. The man is flattered that he was in your dream, but mainly, what? Azul is a very analytic person in every aspect of his life, even if such aspect involves his significant other's dreams. Que his search history later on containing "Dreams of wedding meaning?"

- He might be a little red in a face or loss at words, but please don't stop, tell him all, the man lives for information. While he won't encourage such silly fantasies, he will entertain a thought of marriage to you. A lot... Maybe dancing and singing furniture is surface dwellers costume? He'll have to research.

-Ashengrotto will now daydream from time to time of a wedding, a life of being married to you, after the two of you graduate. Would the you stay on land? Perhaps you'd like to move to the Coral Sea with him, take up family business even? He might pretend that such silly fantasies don't affect him, but even capatlists aren't immune to love.

- Azul harbors such hopes and dreams, redoubling in his work. If he will be married to you he'll have to outdo your dream, which will involve outdoing alive furniture. The merman is ready for the challenge as long as it involves giving you everything, beyond your dreams.

Lilia Vanrouge

- You don't say... Alive furniture? Was it awkward to use it? Were chairs rioting if you sat in them? Was food also alive? Did he cook it? Then perhaps it was alive if that was the case. Lilia finds anything you say entertaining, your dreams are con exception. The man saw many things in his life, yet others visions during slumber were yet to be places he visits often.

- Before you know it Lilia is already imagining and building theories as to how it would be to live in your dream after that wedding if everything followed the same rules. Must be awkward taking a shower or using a toilet.

- The man wholeheartedly believes it tonbe a sign from someone above. While Vanrouge won't drop down on one knee right that instant, he will remember everything. The suite he was wearing, the cake the two of you ate, how many guests were there etc.

-Lilia is not young, so naturally thoughts of marriage crossed his mind more then once, let alone with his darling. While to you were retelling your silly dream, Vanrouge was imagining the real thing. He can't help it, life with you already feels like a dream come true, what's a wedding?

[tainbocuailnge]

this is a final fantasy fourteen dawntrail post. it speaks incredibly for the desperation of the people of alexandria in its decline that they both couldn't bear to remember the dead and couldn't bear the thought of the dead no longer being remembered, and thus created this contradictory system where the dead are only remembered by something other than those to whom that memory is meaningful. so crushed by collective trauma and grief that they directed every effort to eradicating awareness of mortality altogether and it's resulted in a paradise where everyone is incredibly blasé about dying because the dead live forever in the cloud until they run out of spare souls and are completely paralyzed with fear of their own mortality.

but even more than desperation it speaks of a naive sincerity that the scientists and officials behind the project just actually genuinely built and maintained this giant memory database to preserve the deceased at increasingly large cost, rather than just lie that they totally did that to a populace who won't remember those deceased anyway. they're not harvesting souls to power the war effort while using a recreation of the beloved princess as puppet figurehead, they completely sincerely recreate the dead from their memories and simulate them living happily ever after, started by a sincere desire to not lose their beloved princess. living memory is an eternal theme park that actively goes out of its way to facilitate letting people who remember each other fondly meet again. it's the manifestation of a childish wish for a world where there are no partings, only reunions. it's a theme park rather than an actual city with a dmv and shit like amaurot was precisely Because it's a childish dream. it's fundamentally an artificial experience, but one which sole motive is to bring joy and relief from everyday sadness.

and sphene is the first and most prominent victim of that naive sincerity. she's the mascot of this theme park, and because she's the mascot in charge of providing this artificial but kind experience she can't ever break character. the people of alexandria couldn't bear the thought of her being forgotten, so they created a memory of her that would last forever, but they also couldn't bear to actually remember sphene, so she's a mascot instead of a person. she loves her people, and they love her, but none of them can possibly understand the weight that love puts on her shoulders. the sphene we meet is fundamentally trapped by other people's deeply limited understanding of her.

it's so so so important to her character that she's a small dainty feminine woman that exists to take care of everyone emotionally and be loved by them for being so nice and sweet and loving, and when she tries to arrange some kind of secure future she ends up with an abusive husband who ignores her wants and needs for his own ambitions, and she is fundamentally unable to act outside this highly gendered framework. sphene reads like the commonplace tragedy of the straight woman to me to the point where making her in lesbians with wuk lamat is like. I can certainly understand wanting to grant sphene the sense of liberation and comfort that many lesbians themselves feel at the realisation that they don't have to marry men, so far be it from me to say anyone is wrong to do so. but it's kinda ignoring part of what her deal is for the sake of that comfort I think.

not that lesbians have never ended up in abusive marriages with men but sphene very explicitly does not have other options, part of the tragedy is that you fundamentally cannot actually grant her that liberation and comfort. cahciua explicitly says there's no way to know what the real living sphene would have done because this sphene is a recreated memory of the beloved princess whose job is to sustain living memory. their darling sphene who will always listen to all their troubles and is always nice to them and will always take care of them. she's literally trapped by the role society assigned her, and that role is essentially to be their tradwife mother. the living sphene may have been into women, but the people who recorded her to create the sphene we meet never even considered the option.

do you guys know that tweet thread where OP describes going to a funeral for a woman they didn't know who'd died young of a heart attack, and the husband spent most of the eulogy talking about himself instead of his recently deceased wife, and by the end of the ceremony OP had learned nothing at all about what this woman was like beyond being a wife and mother? everyone fondly remembers the princess and queen of alexandria, but nobody remembers sphene. and just like all OP could still do for this woman was go to her casket and acknowledge that she too had been a full person in her own right before the stress of swallowing everything about herself killed her, all wuk lamat can really still do for sphene is think of her as the full person she must have been.

we're not told anything about what sphene was like as a leader, what her policies were, how she actually did her work, her vision for the future of her country before she died and was reconstructed. they only tell us everyone loved her so dearly because she was so kind to them. we're shown her dying moments and it's her using her airship to shield a civilian, so we can assume her love for her people was indeed true. but none of sphene's history that we're shown and nothing of how otis (who knew the living sphene) talks about her tells us anything about what she was like outside her role as beloved princess. her memories from after her "revival" are dissonant and corrupted and possibly not even real, and her policy of preserving living memory no matter what is a wish implanted in her by the people who reconstructed her. we don't even get to see what she looked like when alive. the only sphene the people know is the theme park mascot of living memory.

cahciua was exactly as erenville knew her and was true enough to herself to be able to turn against the system, so we're not given reason to believe any of the endless were tampered with. but sphene was already dead by the time they even tried to figure out how to preserve her memory, her actual soul and memories definitely long gone by the time the technology worked. we're explicitly told that nobody in everkeep really cared who or what sphene was as long as she adequately fulfilled this role of loving them all so much. she can't even tell you her favourite food, none of the people who labored so intensely and sincerely to bring her back bothered to write down even her most basic personal preferences when they reconstructed her. she has to deflect the question with "when I think of the people who make the food I can't pick just one" because the only preference she's allowed is loving all her people equally. she's completely thrown off that wuk lamat would even ask.

and it's precisely because she is remembered only as this kind loving woman who gave everything for her people that she is weak and powerless to actually do whatever it takes to keep them safe. she does not have the freedom to assert herself, let alone to be cruel or violent or take extreme actions. society does not give her that freedom, because she is a small dainty woman and (therefore) the only role allowed to her is to be their tradwife mother. so while her desire to protect her people is as real and true as it can be part of her plan to lobotomise herself in order to become someone capable of violence and cruelty also reads to me as that specific female frustration of wanting to destroy the sweet babygirl image of yourself by doing something extreme. like britney spears shaving her head. but in sphene's case destroying the babygirl image amounts to destroying herself completely, because the babygirl image of her is all that comprises her. and so when all is said and done the only fragment of sphene that is restored and lingers just a bit longer after that image is destroyed is the sphene that wuk lamat sincerely wanted to get to know.

[hellspawnmotel]

Any specific thoughts on Noelle’s seemingly one sided crush on Susie? Ur analysis are always real neat

hm! well I kinda already talked about this but only in a tag essay like 2 1/2 years ago (here) so I can get into it again.

I think noelle's crush on susie reveals a lot about noelle as a person, though the story and framing so far have kind of conditioned us to just look at it as a surface level "omg mean tough girl x sweet shy girl! lesbians!!" and maybe even subconsciously connect it to alphys/undyne and just brush it off as the type of wholesome relationship toby likes writing. I also don't think the crush is necessarily one-sided! you could argue that susie felt pressured into saying what she did on the ferris wheel, but susie is all about breaking the rules and doing whatever she wants so that wouldn't make much sense to me. her responses seemed very genuine. it could turn out to be a fleeting feeling or susie mistaking a desire to be friends as a desire for romance, but I don't really have enough information to speculate much on that yet.

back to noelle, pre-chapter 2 noelle's attraction to susie seems far more based in fantasy than anything, kind of objectifying susie's violence. which is fine, she's a teenager, it doesn't make noelle a bad person, it just indicates that the crush is very shallow to start off. susie is also a symbol to noelle, someone she definitely sees as representing freedom and defiance, which is something she craves. noelle does end up very open to the possibility of getting to know susie as a real person once she learns susie is "nice" but her priorities are still more with her own feelings than susie's.

this is tricky to talk about as an adult, so first I'd like to remind everyone that I have Been a teenage girl and I remember very clearly what it was like, haha. anyway I would argue that noelle's interest in susie is also undeniably sexual, even if she doesn't fully realize it. I think we all kind of know that but it's uncomfortable to just say in plain language. (this is an aside but I think the way toby implies this from noelle's dialogue and internal monologue is REALLY smart from a writing perspective, it leads the brain there without getting weird about it.) in addition to freedom, susie also represents adulthood to noelle in that way. she represents the future, one where noelle can fully express herself. at the same time, noelle associates the feeling of fear with being protected by somebody else in her childhood, the past. susie is "the good kind of scary", both sexually exciting, an "adult" feeling, and nostalgically comfortable, a "child" feeling. susie could be the bridge between past and future that noelle, who is notoriously frozen in her own childhood, needs to move forward. I think that could apply even if the two don't end up together, just from noelle working through her own feelings about it all.

I could also get into the implications of suselle being "the narrative's approved ship" or how noelle's relationship with susie contrasts her relationship with kris, or even how we're conditioned to see lesbian relationships as either inherently more "wholesome" or the taboo and exciting "toxic yuri", but this is getting really long already. idk where it all will end up going but I think theres already a lot to dive into if you look past the surface!

[galactic-rhea]

WDYM Anakin is Luke and Leia's dad

I dunno if this post will reach the Star Wars fandom but I hope it does because I'm sure you all will get a good laugh at me.

As of recent I have developed a good hiperfixation for Star Wars, the thing is I knew nothing. NOTHING about Star Wars besides the fact it had aliens and...a war...in space? And funny swords. And main character is Luke or something, I spent over 20 years ignoring anything about Star Wars and somehow missing most references out there.

And recently, literally less than a month ago I saw a gif and said to my partner "oh this guy this guy looks cool, this gif looks nice" and he said "Oh well, he's a good character." And it all developed into me watching Clone Wars, the animated series you know and...and I was kinda blown away, on my opinion the show IS GREAT. And I love every character and their interactions, I love how much they focus on side characters, and they all seem very well written. I got hiperfixated really fast and saw Anakin and I was like "Omg, babygirl. He's a blorbo now."

And because of the show, this was super unexpected, but somehow I also got, really got, into the ship with Padmé because omg, cool woman. Literal happy squeaky noises of someone who was in a bad state and needed some good ol' distraction and comfort.

Now, like I said I knew nothing about Star Wars as a whole. And I still haven't watched the movies, besides the ocassional gif?

So imagine my shock, my surprise, my...bewilderment when I realized.

"Wait a minute, LUKE IS ANAKIN'S SON?! HOLY-"

Ladies, gentleman, and others, I think I came very late to this party and I don't even know how it took me so long.

Not only that, but because of this sudden love for the series, I went to my friends circle like "BESTIE, GUESS WHAT, I HAVE A NEW BLROBO AND A NEW FAV SHIP AND EEEP"

And my friends are like "omg that's amazing, what is it?"

I tell them, and of course they all know these characters and they all react like they know this very bad secret fact and I got told several times already "Please, don't watch the episodes 2 and 3 alone, it will hurt."

I feel like blissfully walking among rainbows and blue skies while everyone else know that my future is doomed. Somehow.

(Uncomfortable silence)

Not only that, but then I spent a whole deal of time thinking "Where the heck I have seen these guys" cus there was some fmailiarity I couldn't just point out and then one day I woke up, brushed my teeth and of all sudden I realized and it was such a shock.

Do you know how SURREAL is to get very into a character, and into a ship, and then realize they're the same from that super widespread meme that has been around for who knows how much time?

I swear I thought that meme was from some old medieval fantasy movies or something.

But alas, Star Wars now is EVERYWHERE. People do references to Star Wars ALL THE TIME and it's just now I'm catching them.

I got spoilers. From a meme. In a youtube review that had nothing to do with Star Wars hah. Everything is a spoiler, the world is an apparent spoiler. Now I'm here, trying to avoid spoilers from something everyone seems to know, even my family knows. It's so surreal and I wouldn't have it any other way 😂

Anyways, if you read until here, know that a wild ride still waits me, cuz I'm only starting Season 3 of Clone Wars and I don't plan to watch the movies until I finish the series.

And yes, I made this blog just to ramble freely about SW and draw stuff because it sparked my inspiration after a long art block.

Have this doodle I drew after watching the two first episodes, my offering for you reaching this far.

Note: Wouldn't Anakin and Padmé's ship name be Animé? Cuz that's hilarious.

[ma1dita]

a wish your heart makes

a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader prev -> play pretend | next -> star crossing words: 1.4k summary: (established relationship) The one where you share dreams, burn cookies, and it still reminds him of home. You try to do something nice for your boyfriend and everything goes wrong, or so you think. Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader a/n: I thought about May Castellan, alone in her kitchen, baking cookies and making sandwiches for a son who would never come ho—OH FUCK OFF, UNCLE RICK. sidenote this haunted me. (posted 1/26/24 unbetad)

—

Luke’s dreams were always different from yours. 

Both when he’s awake and holding your hand up until sleep finally rips him away from your earthly embrace, he’s always been certain of who he was and what he wants to achieve. To be a hero providing salvation for the needy, to be a half-blood son worth the love of a god, and to be a fierce soldier, leading his troop into battle for glory. These are the thoughts he routinely pounds into his brain, so much so that anyone who knows him knows of his aspirations.

You don’t think you’ve ever met anyone so insistent on wanting to be remembered. Luke wants to leave a legacy worth dying for, worth talking about for millenia to come. And your boy persists, despite the trials of life, the ignorance of his father, and the strings of the Fates.

Your dreams, however, were always much simpler. 

Cuddled under your covers and brushing your lips against Luke’s forehead to quell the growing unease that occupies his brain, you whisper what you deeply wish for.

“We’re getting old,” you mumble, and the breath of his laugh tickles your ear. He lazily runs his nose against the slope of your collarbone, sighing when he finally hears the steady beat of your chest, “We’ve definitely surpassed the average life expectancy of a typical demigod. Look at us…” he jests.

Your breath jumps in amusement as you feel his lips against your sternum, and then your boyfriend is smiling against your heart, using you for comfort as you both pass the time waiting for Hypnos to come calling.

“In a year, we’ll be nineteen…And I know you never wanted to stay here forever, so… What’s next?”

You hold in a bated breath, always unsure of where to place yourself in rank of his priorities. Who were you if not his biggest supporter?

Luke contemplates for a moment in the silence of your bedroom. It’s much easier to think and have more adult… conversations… without the many meddling children of cabin 11 always asking for one more lullaby, one more glass of water, and one more tuck-in goodnight. Here in the privacy of your room, he gets to be a boy void of his responsibilities besides hiding under his girlfriend’s duvet, giving her another shirt of his to wear, and kissing her until Apollo’s rays of light gently help you wake.

“You tell me, Trouble. What does the future have in store for us?”

Us.

He’s sweet to indulge in your fantasies like this, and you stroke your fingers through his curls as you speak, ‘I think it’d be nice to go to college. Made it this far, so maybe being normal won’t be so hard…”

A soft noise leaves his throat, urging you to continue as you bite your lip and smile.

“Maybe someday, we could get a house. One on top of a hill. I don’t need much, something like the Big House, but one we can call home.”

You can feel the teeth of his sleepy grin against your skin as he whispers the next words into your heart.

“We could do that. House with big bay windows, and the smell of my mom’s chocolate chip cookies in the air. Sounds nice, baby.”

And it does.

Luke’s eyes flutter shut shortly after, but your mind is awake with how to make the dream you now share a reality. Perhaps you couldn’t give him glory, or pray hard enough to Hermes so that he’d talk to his son, but you reckon that chocolate chip cookies would be easy enough. 

—

At least, it was supposed to be—until you set off the smoke alarm again.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” 

Clouds of grey are billowing from the communal kitchen oven after your multiple attempts of trying to get this right. The dryads had both partially given up on the havoc you wrecked upon their workspace as well as your increasing frustration towards them. It wasn’t their fault, you knew that—but as a perfectionist who followed the recipe to a t, how was it possible that everything was still going wrong? The first batch, you got too excited and mixed all the ingredients together, making them lumpy and inconsistent. The second batch was over-creamed, and you had to scrape them off the tray, and with this one… well you had the oven setting on a bit too high.

You sigh deeply, pressing the palms of your hands into your eyes as you try to will away the mania creeping up your neck. Being the daughter of the god of insanity was hard, having to consistently control your emotions for the sake of others. Taking a shaky breath, you stare blankly at the darkened cookies, close to being burned to a crisp. The jingle of the windchime against the door rings across the room and you barely hear it until you feel Luke’s hands skate past your waist to go open a window.

“What’d you get into now, Trouble? Been looking for you,” he says, coughing lightly from the smoke.

You groan, trying to cover the mess behind you on the counter and accidentally catching your arm on the hot tray, making you flinch.

“Ow! Ugh, babe, you’re not supposed to be here yet! I thought you were still sparring…”

Your boyfriend approaches you, squeezing your arm to examine if you’ve gotten hurt and tugging you towards him.

“That was an hour ago—how long have you been here, baby?” Luke pulls you into his arms, placing a kiss on your warm wrist, instantly soothing your anxiety until you see his eyes meet your latest failure.

“You bake now?”

“Clearly not, Luke, I’m sorry…I tried but I kept getting it wrong and then I got mad at myself for fucking up something so…” your voice weakens, tears welling in your eyes again thinking you’ve disappointed him.

Luke steps away from you and towards the kitchen counter, warm cookies browned to a crisp. He reaches out to pick one up before you can stop him, crunching down on it, the bittersweet taste filling his mouth as he sniffs.

Just like his mother would make them, through her madness and all.

He’s transported back to a memory of a house with big bay windows, kind of like the one you two dreamt up last night, but he’s nine and sitting at the kitchen table drinking Kool-Aid while his mom makes peanut butter sandwiches. May Castellan forgets the cookies in the oven again, and for a moment, Luke forgets that the last time he saw his mother was a lifetime ago. 

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he feels your fingertips brushing away the saltwater from his cheeks.

“Didn’t mean to make you cry, angelface, I’m sorry…” you mumble, but stop speaking when you see him take another bite.

“They’re great.”

“What?”

He chomps on another singed cookie, his lips quirking into a soft smile. Luke’s not going to let you throw the rest of this batch out. Chuckling weakly, he lifts you onto the kitchen counter as he slots himself between your legs, rough hands patting your thighs.

“Well, they’re not great. But they’re perfect. Just the way I remember them,” he smiles, kissing the furrow in your brow. You don’t bother trying to comprehend his statement, happy that you didn’t mess up a memory he holds dear. 

Luke wonders if maybe he’s been blessed by his father after all, to have such extreme luck to exist at the same time as you. He doesn’t answer to the gods, to fate, but he does answer when you call his name, and settles into your arms. Love is an action after all, uncontained by just words, and he knows you tried your best, which makes it more than enough.

“She would’ve loved you, I’m sure of it,” he says rubbing his nose against yours before you can interject again, “I love you, so I know she would’ve too.”

Luke presses a tender kiss against the palm that caresses his jaw, before meeting you in the middle and finding your lips. It’s a dance you two have memorized, sweet and breathless as you meld both of your grins together. To him, you taste like chocolate chips and feel like home.

“I love you too, angelface. Almost burned the kitchen down for you,” your chuckle is cut off when he goes to press against your pout again hungrily, tracing patterns against the soft skin of your thighs as he just eats you up. The sound of your moans escapes between kisses as you wind your legs around his waist and it dampens the sound of the kitchen timer when it goes off. 

(You forcibly have to detach from Luke’s embrace, much to his displeasure so that you don’t burn the next batch too.)

—

"Your name is humming inside my chest. I think this is what it means to love. I think this is what it means to be living." -Emma Bleker

ask to be added to general/luke taglists!

luke taglist (some won't let me tag, turn on my post notifs?): @kissingyourgrl @dorcas4meadowes @lorarri @andrewgarfldsgf @noodlesketchbook @10ava01 @poppysrin @ashisabitgay @timhalamet @liv1104 @leeknows-wife @mxtokko @bugcuti3 @luvvfromme @midmourn @2hiigh2cry @yuminako @niktwazny303 @lukecastellandefender @intergalactic-padawan @iliketopgun @annybah @dangelnleif @thegrinningghost @alyssajunelle @obxstiles @m00ng4z3r @visndcaitswhore @b0ok-lover @elegant-face-tree @this-barbie-is-having-breakdowns @amortencjja @idonevenknow1359 @maliaaaa @targaryenluvs @sakyira @dhdjdjjdhsjdiri @number-onekidqueen @nininehaaa @bradynoonswife @stevenknightmarc @hoodedhavok @happy-mushrooms @homebyeleven @anotherblackreader @too-deviant @liviessun @lilacspider @theadventuresofanartist @sucker4seresin @simpforsunwoo @zanzie @starrystormwritings

[ak1chi]

Obsessed with his birdie. Golden Cage.

Warnings: MDNI, fem!reader (afab!reader), yandere behavior, suggestive (a dirty fantasy is mentioned), OOC, the reader is assumed to be an adult (19-20+ years old), age difference, teacher/student, unrequited feelings, english is not my native language. idk how to write warnings :P

I will also insert the introductory part on ao3 (not required reading, but recommended. It was created so that there would be no misunderstandings in the future. There is also an explanation about fanfics.)

—I met her on the milky way

[Song: Dunkelbunt – Cinnamon Girl]

Who she was I could not say

I only knew I wanna stay

Together we spent night and day

We used to fly trough summer trees

The air was full of blossom breeze

Deep inhale this tasty smell

Thoughts of you (thoughts that are far from pure) have haunted him for a long time. They are burning, reaching right to the depths of his soul, tormenting him with unhealthy love. And now, as you step into his office, it does nothing to ease Crowley’s inner turmoil.

How many stories does it tell?

Once again, he has to play his role. He’s tired. Truly. But there is still so much to do before he snaps, like a wild raven catching sight of something shiny.

Crowley is well aware of the mixed feelings his saccharine-sweet smile stirs within you. And he understands why you’ve come to his office for the fourth time this week. Not that he minds—far from it. He enjoys seeing his birdie, especially when that annoying familiar isn’t by your side.

"Prefect, I’ve already told you—I am doing everything in my power to find a way to return you to your world!" Crowley exclaims in his dramatic way, appearing beside you in the blink of an eye. "Ah, so much work has piled up for poor, kind me... If only someone would help me with these documents."

Crowley sighs, ready to shed a tear at being so poor and unhappy. His arm drapes around your shoulders, and you barely notice how swiftly he changes the subject, not giving you a chance to say anything.

"It’s a good thing I have someone like you, Prefect, who can lend a hand to their poor, unfortunate Headmage. You’ll help me, won’t you?"

A question that doesn’t require an answer—he already knows what you’ll say. After all, you’re such a good little bird, aren’t you?

"Um… I guess I will," you reply uncertainly, not even sure why you’re agreeing. Perhaps it has something to do with his hand, the way it strokes your shoulder so gently, his claws somehow avoiding the fabric of your shirt. The touch is soft, almost caring, and it makes you forget the real reason you came here in the first place.

"That's a good girl! I knew you’d say yes!" Crowley’s mood shifts instantly, his smile widening just enough to reveal his fangs. He pulls you into what appears to be a friendly embrace—if one ignores a few telling details and, more importantly, what Crowley himself is feeling. His eyes gleam behind his mask as he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, leaving behind a faint trace of his lipstick. The beak of his mask brushes against your hair, firm but not painful. If he had his way, he would have kissed you on the lips.

Releasing you, he turns away, heading back to his desk where his cane rests, leaving you standing in the middle of his office, rubbing your forehead with your sleeve.

"You may begin reviewing the teachers' reports, Prefect," he calls out, his voice loud, cheerful... and satisfied.

"Alright…"

Your voice makes him exhale, and for a brief moment, his self-control cracks. If you could see his face, you’d notice the way his lips curl into a grin, the faint flush on his cheeks—but your gaze is fixed on his back. Even the round eyes of his mask seem to glow oddly.

That familiar desire stirs again, the one he has fought so hard to suppress. Vivid images flash before his mind’s eye—you, cheeks flushed, whimpering under his kisses and touch. The way you’d take him like a good girl, tears rolling down your face, dripping onto the wooden desk, staining the documents and everything else beneath you. He swallows hard, fingers tightening around his cane.

But he quickly regains control, settling into his chair to conceal his obvious arousal, acting far too innocent and charming for someone who has just made you do his work for him. For someone who, mere moments ago, indulged in such indecent fantasies about you.

It’s still too soon to show you his true self.

And though Crowley has managed to lock you inside his gilded cage since the moment you arrived—showering you with money, clothes, everything you could possibly need, because really, who else would take care of such a lovely dove if not him—he can’t guarantee you won’t try to escape. Escape from him once you realize what feelings you’ve awakened in him. Once you understand what he truly wants to do to you. No, no—it's too early for you to know that he has forbidden you from searching for a way back on your own, that he has hidden everything related to it in a place no one could ever find. That he has never once intended to send you home.

You are his mate, and if necessary, Crowley is prepared to keep you in a cage until you accept his love and return his feelings. After all, he has already clipped your wings, tying you to him.

—Hey my little honey bee

He’s just in love, after all.

You're far away that´s hurting me

I miss you darling far away

Your warm sweet smile this summerday

[writing-the-stars]

A Second Chance Romance

Pairing: Klaus Mikaelson x Fem!Reader, Unnamed OC x Fem!Reader

Summary: It had been years since you last heard from Klaus Mikaelson, and just as you were finally ready to move on, he decided to remind you of the love you once shared.

Warnings: Angst (As Always) and Emotional Cheating. Let Me Know If I Forgot Something

Word Count: 1.4k

A/N: Hey guys! I'm baaaaaaaaaaack. Did you miss me? It's been far too long. I'm alive and I have been slowly ramping up to my return. Starting with this story! The title, to be frank, is not greatest, but I think this is a nice little story to raise me from the dead. I hope you enjoy and thank you all so much for reading!!! Have a wonderful day!

Masterlist | TVDU Masterlist

You perfect the practiced smile you’ve been working on for weeks. It should be easy for you by now– it should come naturally. Everything about this day shouldn’t feel as forced as it does, and yet, on what was meant to be the happiest day of your life, you could only feel the apprehensive dread pooling in your gut. 

The heirloom gown from your soon to be mother-in-law feels heavier than it should, almost suffocating, magnifying the doubts consuming your mind. This was supposed to be the genesis of your new life, the start of your would-be happily ever after. Yet, that menacing fear of regret whittles away at any persuasion you used to get yourself to this moment. You were so sure this is what you wanted. The venue, the menu, the flowers, the seating– all meticulously chosen for this day. But with the weight of vows looming in the horizon, the word “mistake” seems to have made a home in your mind. Were you really prepared to commit yourself to a lifetime with this man?

He was good and pure-hearted– kind, caring, and devoted. He treasured you, loving you in a way that you could never fully reciprocate. You do have an affinity for the man waiting for you at the end of the aisle and you know he could give you a stable and contented life. Yet, the allure of the security his last name would bring pales when you reflect on the life you are now trying to shed. 

Memories intricately woven with passion and adventure. Each day an unpredictable surprise filled with experiences that reshaped the person you once were. The encompassing romance that breathed new meaning to your life, sparking a deeper fulfillment as you were pushed beyond your familiar boundaries. A chapter of your life where your heart had found its rhythm. And despite the inevitable challenges, especially given his past, you were unwavering in facing them with him, and your life was richer for it. 

That danger of living on the edge wasn’t something you realized you craved until it was suddenly taken away. But that was not a sustainable life, you remind yourself as you latch on to a new flaw in your appearance to occupy your mind. 

Your groom is safe— a predictable and reliable anchor in life. A mundane routine you can easily fall into. He promises stability and security, granting you a solid foundation for your future. Which is why you convinced yourself to marry him. It wouldn’t be the life of fantasy that you longed for, but you would be content. 

“Hello, love.”  

Everything within you stills at the sound of the ghost of your past. Your eyes travel the expanse of the mirror, landing on the reflection of his figure propped against the doorframe of your bridal suite– emulating the way he used to watch you get ready. 

“Your beauty is nothing short of breathtaking.” 

“What are you doing here?” the words a mere whisper as they are pushed through your constricted throat. You force yourself to stare fixedly through the mirror, resisting the urge to turn around. Because if you do, if you physically lay your eyes on him, it would shatter all the progress you have made the past three years. And you're determined not to grant him the satisfaction and reward of rejoicing his return as if his actions did not hurt you.

“I’ve heard about your impending nuptials. I couldn’t possibly miss your big day.” 

You laugh, a hollow sound. After all this time, the man you spent years waiting by the door for has finally returned, just as you've made the decision to move on. Bitterness saturates you at the audacity of this man to appear today of all days, wearing that brazen grin. Did he truly believe he could waltz back into your life after everything?

“Why? So you can stop me from ridding myself of you. Starting over and actually having a shot at happiness.” 

Your voice is sharp– venom drips from every word, aiming to puncture another layer deeper into his calloused over heart. His jaw ticks, the only indication you hit your target. 

“I like to think you were quite happy with me, love.”

You scoff, a pathetic attempt to dismiss the validity of his words. Your gaze returns to your own reflection, beginning to readjust the lacey veil pinned to your head, needing a distraction from the man who has an incomprehensible hold on you. 

“Why are you really here, Klaus?” his name falling from your lips as if your tongue had been molded to say it, “You didn’t come back to town just to watch me get married.” 

He steps into the room– reflection growing as he steps closer to you. 

“I’ve come to wish you luck,” you watch as his turquoise eyes trail your frame before returning to your gaze in the mirror, “Though I can’t help but wish you were wearing that dress for me.” 

Something inside you breaks, setting free a torrent of long-suppressed emotions that had been brewing beneath the surface.

“You threw that away 7 years ago when you left me. I waited for you. For 4 years, I waited for you to come back like an idiot because you promised your heart to me and I was dumb enough to fall for it. And now, once I’ve finally picked up the pieces and I’m ready to start again, you want to come back and take that away from me!”

“I left to protect you!”

“No, Klaus! You left because you were afraid. Because for once somebody actually meant something to you and you couldn’t handle the responsibility of that reality. Because, in spite of all my best efforts, you have it solidified in that warped brain of yours that you are incapable of being loved. That no one could ever truly want to be with you. So what do you do? You run. You push people away to avoid your biggest fear and end up becoming your own self-fulfilling prophecy. Well guess what, Klaus? It worked. You’re alone now.”

You turn your back on the Mikaelson, finally ready to give yourself over to your groom. You open your mouth to dismiss the hybrid, but the words die on your tongue as your eyes meet his. His reflection reveals the glistening of tears brimming in his eyes, on the verge of spilling over, but you know Klaus Mikaelson is too prideful to ever let you see him cry. Yet, the thought of it stills you. You take in the sight of him—his clenched fists, his labored breathing—and for the first time, you truly see him. You see the vulnerability beneath the facade, the depth of his struggle, and it stops you in your tracks. 

The wounded boy who only sought his father's approval and his mother's affection. The scars etched deep into his soul, born from the torment of being a bastard cruelly shunned. The millennia of isolating loneliness that followed—an inhumane punishment for another's sin. Beyond that, you witness the fresh wounds your words have inflicted, reopening the scars you had fought so hard to help him heal. Your vengeful words have confirmed his lifelong fear. Here stands a man who has finally gained everything he ever desired, only to realize he is on the brink of losing it all. It moves you, the sight of his insecurities laid bare just for you

"Say it. Tell me you no longer love me, and I will walk away. I will leave you to marry this man, and you will never hear from me again. I will do that for you. But if there is any part of you that still cares, leave with me. Give me another chance."

You stare at the hybrid, conflict brewing within you. You desperately want to believe him—God knows you do—but if he walks away from you again, your heart couldn't endure another shattering. You glance at your reflection in the mirror, adorned in the gown of a woman whose son you could only truly tolerate.  

Is that really the life you want to live? 

You return your gaze to the Mikaelson, stunned by the single tear rolling down his cheek—his ultimate vulnerability. This simple, profound act compels you to accept what you've always known deep down. You can never truly walk away from this man. You love him too much.

Taglist: @catmikaelson20, @gamarancianne, @hazgold, @devotedlycrookeddonut

If you want to be added to my taglist, let me know!

[razorblade180]

Union

In the midst of going over blueprints for their future home, Jaune’s concentration gets interrupted by flowing petals. He cracks a smile before turning around to see Ruby completely obscured by her cloak.

Jaune:Have you come for my soul?

Ruby:Might as well. Already have your heart.

Jaune:Heh, then I kindly ask for you wait. Your payment will be paid in full down the aisle.

Ruby:How stingy. I’ve already given you both of mine; and a little extra~

Jaune:*red* How was work, you gremlin?

Ruby:Patrol duty was fine. Starting to think crooks know my schedule.

Jaune:Or you threw most in jail.

Ruby:Organized crime calls for chaotic heroism. Anywho, house plans going well?

Jaune:More or less. If all goes well then we’ll be living outside Vacou before our anniversary.

Ruby:Always thinking ahead. Meanwhile I’m struggling with awesome vows.

Jaune:You brought a world together. I’m sure you’ll think of something.

Ruby:Feelings are a little harder than a battle cry or call to arms. Speaking of feelings, I have a little something for you.

Jaune:*looks at cloak* Is that so~

Ruby:*blushes* It’s not what you think! Not this time. This gift is way better!

Jaune:I don’t know Rubes. Last gift that started like this was pretty amazing. *smiles*

Ruby:Just close your eyes and hold your hands out!

The knight chuckles as he does what he’s told. Immediately something weighted and cool to the touch lands in hands. Jaune opens his eyes and stars at a white scabbard. Somehow, this took him by surprise. It had his symbol in the middle and was surrounded by red thorns.

The grip of the hilt was this dark blue with a spiral of fierce red that went up and outlined the golden hand guard that was modeled in the shape of his symbol. He pulled out the gift from the scabbard to reveal cold, shining white steel that had its double edge and tip run red like hilt. If Jaune was being honest, he’s never seen a sword look more like a work of fantasy. Ruby stood right in front of him and put her left hand in the hilt, showing that his symbol had subtle thorn and rose engravings that matched her gold and red on her engagement ring.

The accomplished and proud Huntress then took a step back and started twiddling her thumbs while swaying, finding it hard to meet Jaune’s gaze; so she pulled her hood over her head. At this point it probably matched her face.

Ruby Rose:So uh yeah, that’s a Ruby Rose Original.

Jaune:You made this!?

Ruby:*nods* I’ll be honest. I spent so long shopping for wedding bands with Weiss helping. I’m still definitely getting one! But none of them really… felt like they were saying how I feel. There’s not a moment I want you feel like you’re fighting alone; even when we’re far apart. With this, I’m always by your side ready to help. The scabbard is a shield too but if I’m being honest I’m still a rookie when it comes to that kind of smithing. Consider this my own form of engagement to you.

Jaune:Ruby this is…I don’t even know what to say.

Ruby:*trembly* I uh..it’s fine if you treat this as a ceremonial blade too. After all…there’s history in Crocea Mors and I don’t want to step on that or make you feel like you have to stop wielding it because of m-

Two hands gentle hands pull back her hood and reveal teary, anxious eyes. Honestly, Ruby felt so ridiculous right now. All this effort into a heart felt token of affection and yet anxiety gripped her mind on how he’d take the jester. His thumbs run across her cheeks to catch a few stray tears.

Jaune:Hey, talk to me. What’s with the tears? This is an amazing.

Ruby:I just…Crocea Mors is its own vow. It has been for years and I know I shouldn’t be feeling guilty or nervous but I do. Gods, it’s so dumb hehe. Pyrrha would totally give me an earful for being so-

Jaune:Thoughtful? *smiles*

Ruby:..Heh, yeah. Yeah she would.

Jaune:Well, I don’t know if your beautiful brain and smithing skills have noticed, but you’ve really gotten good at knowing my style.

He briefly lets go of her and grabs his sword along with the new gift. Jaune pulls out both and puts them against one another. Yeah the hilt is different but it’s wide enough to work. Without hesitation, Jaune took the scabbard of Crocea Mors and slid it on the new sword easily; right down to the satisfying click in place that took Ruby by surprise.

Jaune:If you really feel guilty, then I can do this! Not gonna lie, I’d feel like shit getting that scabbard dirty in the future. It’s my first Ruby Rose original! Also gives you time to hyper fixate on shield crafting. As for the blade, I know this bad boy will keep me safe and sou-

Once again, petals flowed. Each one danced around him while the rose itself pressed her lips against his with gratitude and overflowing joy that dispelled fears like magic.

Ruby:Jaune Arc, you truly are my fairytale ending. My happily ever after.

Jaune:Hehe, And you said your vows would be hard? C’mere.

He pulled his loving fiancée into a deeper kiss before matching her smile. She was right. This present was the best.

Jaune:Does this engagement sword have a name?

Ruby:The deepest part of my soul wants to call it Bloody Moon but that doesn’t inspire luck as wedding gift.

Jaune:I kinda like what you said a few moments ago.

Ruby:Oh, so Ever After?

Jaune: Tale’s End

Ruby:That’s so- damn I’m marrying the right person. That’s such I good name! When our house is done I think my first order of business is mounting the scabbard with Crocea Mors somewhere nice and proud. Gonna need your height though.

Jaune:Naturally. And who knows. Maybe it’ll protect the both of us in a new way someday?

xxxxxxx

Several years later

Jaune:Alright squirt, ready for your first real sword sparring!?

A foolish question for a young girl waiting to dives out the front door and slide across a sand dune into a wide battle stance, her grin in full bloom with Crocea Mor ready to aid her first step towards greatness.

Carmine:Born ready!

Ruby:Do your best! Show him who’s boss!

Carmine:Ha! With this by my side, I might as well be invincible.

[plutoccult]

MY LOVE MINE ALL MINE

pairing: jean kirstein x female reader

description: a few years after the successful peace negotiations, you and jean celebrate his first birthday with your new baby boy, but jean can’t help but look back on what it took to get to this day after dreaming of it as much as he could hope to live without breathing.

word count: 1.2k

also available to read on my ao3 here

author’s note: something short and sweet that’s not soul crushing angst. a shocker on my end, really. BUT, the attack on titan anime has finally ended. it’s like a chapter of my life is over, but a chapter ending only means a new one beginning. i always wanted to write something that depicted some sort of event after the end of the story, so it’s nice to fully bring that vision into fruition. i love writing for jean and i’ll miss him and the rest of the characters so very much, but the writing doesn’t end here for me! more content will come out of me until i get bored of it. i do, however, hope you enjoy this little fluff piece.

when dreaming about what life could be without titans or any worries, jean always knew what the perfect life would be for him. it was always consisted of the same fantasy; sitting out on a balcony with a glass of the finest liquor in hand, wife inside the house, and a newborn baby with the cutest, most innocent smile in his wife’s arms. the ideal daydream used to have a faceless woman, then mikasa took over for a brief second after being struck by her upon their first meeting, but now it’s been the same face for many, many years. since falling head over feet completely, jean could now only picture his future with you bearing his love and his children, and only that would be the perfect life for him. nothing else, just you.

sometimes jean wondered what life would be like if marco were still around. who would have died in his place instead of him that day? who would’ve had to deal with the pain of losing their best friend instead of him? would he live next door to jean’s dream home and babysit the kids whenever? jean liked to imagine marco as the perfect uncle. uncle marco. if only it could all be real. even so, all these years later, he was grateful for the life he had been given.

after years of hell fighting for the greater good, jean was finally able to settle down and live that perfect life he so desperately craved in his youth. he wasn’t very young anymore; small wrinkles began to form, his muscles grew tired far more easily, signs that he was starting to grow old, but not quite just yet. there was still more life to live, so much more he could live for.

today was jean’s birthday, and just like his teenage fantasies, he sat on a balcony with a glass of whiskey just as he imagined. the view of the town he lived in was great, but not the greatest. the only difference between jean’s dreams and his reality that there wasn’t a barrier between him and what he wanted most; you, holding your little baby boy in your arms.

caught in the middle of daydreaming, you emerge from inside the house and join jean on the balcony with your son. you gently grab the baby’s hand and pretend to act like he’s the one waving to jean, which makes him smile.

“does baby marco want to say hi to daddy?” you coo while jean looked at the two of you in awe. naming your child after marco was always in the cards, neither of you doubted it for a second when you both expressed wanting children. it was just the most beautiful thing in the world when he was finally born, after all this time of knowing what you wanted.

“here, lemme hold him.” jean offered, extending his arms out for baby marco. you carefully hand him over then sit down and watch as the infant reached his hands out to grab jean’s face, who was gently cradling him in his arms. “he’s getting so big now, i can’t even believe it.”

“i know.” you say with a smile on your face. “by the way, some letters came in the mail for you.”

“from who?” he questioned.

“armin and mikasa, of course. reiner and pieck too.” you began to ramble, listing off the names of all who sent letters for jean on his birthday. “oh, can’t forget connie. and then levi sent something that gabi and falco seemed to have signed—”

“so… pretty much everyone?” jean interrupted with a chuckle.

“queen historia as well.” you end off the list, giggling to yourself for forgetting such an important name. you simply can’t forget the queen, after all. “oopsie.”

“well, i oughta write everyone back as soon as possible.” he said, but you disagreed.

“you can write after cake, okay? i’ll go grab it now.” you say, standing up from your seat so you could head inside of the house.

“i told you i could make it.” jean insisted. “i don’t like making you do the work for me.”

although his words were sweet, you wouldn’t do that to him today out of all days. “make your own birthday cake? please. i’ll be right back.”

jean sat with baby marco close to him while you disappeared into the house for his birthday treat. you come back with a cake that has an array of lit candles, gently setting it down on the table as far away from the baby as possible. you take the baby out of jean’s hands while you sing happy birthday to him and sit across the table, your voice as soothing as the breeze.

when it was time for jean to blow out the candles and make a wish, he simply couldn’t think of anything to wish for. he finally had everything he ever wanted; the love of his life, a family of his own, and most importantly, peace. you both fought like hell a million times over to get here, doing things you regretted all the time. the past you shared together was ridden with sin, but the future didn’t have to be, and right now, the future was bright and golden like daylight.

if there was anything to possibly wish for, it was for things to stay just like this, so jean closed his eyes and blew out the candles and wished just for that. his eyes opened up to the sight of you and your son, and he was so happy to see it right in front of him.

“happy birthday, jean.” you say softly. baby marco beamed with the most innocent grin, his youthful laugh almost bringing jean to tears.

“thank you, my love.” he mustered up the words to say without crying.

jean insisted he cut the cake himself. seeing as you made it, this was the least he could do, and you didn’t argue. he sliced a piece for you first and set it down in front of you, watching as baby marco eyed the cake in complete awe.

jean’s eyes stray away from cutting his own piece as he found himself watching you with the baby. you were trying to eat your cake, but you couldn’t help but laugh at marco trying to get some of it from your fork.

“ah, no, no, no. you can’t have cake.” you coo, booping baby marco on the nose.

it was times like these that made jean so grateful. he captured even the smallest grain of a moment, cherishing every single one with the thought that tomorrow is not always promised, even when you two were free of the burdens of a solider saving humanity. no matter how many times he made a wish on some candies, there was always that “what if?” thought in the back of his brain that this some day would be taken away from him.

you look up and catch jean staring at you as if he were frozen, like he was taking a million pictures with his eyes. “what are you doing?”

“remembering this.” he simply replied, the best way he could put it all into words.

the love you had for each other and the life that’s been given to you would always be yours, all yours, and it would last beyond the very last breath both of you would take. in the end, all of the hardships were worth living to see this day.

© plutoccult / 310802. please do not copy, repost, modify, or translate any of my content in or outside of tumblr. reblogs are appreciated <3

[ponderingmoonlight]

Chapter 4: Shadows in the Moonlight - A Fateful Meeting at the Ball

Pairing: Gojo x fem!reader

Warnings: reader's death, language

Genre: Isekai, Romance, Fantasy

Synopsis: Your life takes a tragic turn as you perish in a car crash, only to awaken in a whimsical world of fantasy with none other than Jujustu Kaisen characters as its main protagonists. But as if that wasn't enough, you're about to marry the prince version of Gojo Satoru. How will you navigate through this world of history and fantasy? Does your life take the same sudden twist of fate as that of your favorite characters?

<- Previous Chapter l Next Chapter ->

„I won’t wear this. End of the discussion.”

“Are you out of your mind, sister? Prince Satoru sent this dress himself and ordered you to wear it!”

“I couldn’t care less about what Prince Satoru tells me to do.”

“Lady (y/n), please come to your senses. This is a beautiful gown and apart from that, it matches your skin tone and eyes perfectly. I am certain he didn’t choose this dress himself. Do the maid who was responsible for it a favour and wear it to the ball.”

Just to hear her voice sends shivers down your spine and calms down your pounding heart. Well, what did you expect when you found yourself reincarnated into a fantasy world with Jujutsu Kaisen characters playing the royal main roles? Definitely not Shoko Ieiri being your first maid, that is for sure.

“Fine”, you grumble.

“But I’ll only do it because of Shoko. Now get out of here, brother.”

Naoya sends a row of sickening glares your way before storming off and finally leaving you some room to breathe. This slowly but surely begins to feel like a never-ending nightmare. All you did was asking Gojo for an invitation to the ball along with a bouquet of flowers. But this?

You take out the jaw-dropping gorgeous gown that is covered in glitter, allow your hands to feel the softness of the fabric. There is no doubt in the fact that this was way more expensive than anything you have ever worn, so finely crafted that you didn’t even want to touch it when you first opened the box. But Shoko is right.

“How likely is it that the maid responsibly for choosing this dress will lose her head if I don’t wear it to the ball, Shoko?”

She eyes you and the dress up and down in silence while pouting her lips. To be honest, when you first saw her in that black and white maids dress, you almost fell out of the window. How is it even possible that she’s considered your maid in this world? Luckily for you, she at least kept her sense of humor.

“Very likely. To be exact, she might lose her head the same evening if Prince Satoru lives up to his reputation.”

“What a great way to describe my future fiancé. Would you help me put it on, then?”, you mutter.

Oh, how much you hate the thought of doing this man a favour, of putting something onto your body he has seen before. He doesn’t deserve to even look your way for how he talked to you, for how he treated you. Your impression from him in the manga definitely wasn’t wrong:

This man is nothing but a womanizer and collector of hearts.

“Didn’t you like him at least a little bit, Lady (y/n)? From what I have heard so far, it is said that he is a true gentleman and treats women with all due respect. Just not everyone else”, Shoko comments while tying the laces of your bodice.

You can’t help but huff in sheer anger and frustration. Gojo Satoru? A true gentleman? Is she really talking about the man who endangered you, who didn’t agree on marrying you? Just after you put him down in front of your whole family and threatened him with revealing his biggest secret…

Well, nobody’s perfect. But especially he isn’t.

“Let me tell you something, Shoko. This man is nothing but a philanderer, a pompous prince who thinks he owns the world.”

“But this pompous prince will be called your fiancé after tonight”, she reminds you violently.

You huff to yourself while balling your hands into tight fists and looking at yourself in the mirror. That new sensation of lavender eyes, the stinging fact that you are responsible for marrying that man you never really liked that much. But what other choice do you have? Even though you just came into this world, you aren’t dumb. Just one look into Naobito’s and Naoya’s cold eyes is enough to know they aren’t joking around. If Gojo doesn’t propose to you tonight, you will lose your life all over again. Running away? What a ridiculous thought. They’d find you where ever you go, hunt you down like the prey you are. Jujutsu Kaisen taught you that life isn’t that simple, that you cannot get away like that.

That new-gained life, the only one you might have left…

You straighten your shoulders and put a smile onto your lips so forced that your cheeks start aching. If calling yourself Prince Satoru’s fiancée is the price you have to pay for a second life, you will take it. But you’ll definitely won’t play his perfect little fiancée until the end of time. No, despite all the horrible things that could happen, despite the fact that you can consider yourself lucky for an opportunity like that, you still want to live the life you always imagined.

You will find a way out. But tonight, you have to play along.

-at the ball-

“If you don’t behave yourself-“

“Can you shut your mouth just once? It’s not like I’m a kid and didn’t listen to your nonsense the whole ride to the palace”, you interrupt your brother with a yawn.

“I think you don’t get it, sister.”

Naoya grabs your wrist so tightly that your bones feel like bursting any given minute, his cold glare piercing through you like a knife.

“If you mess this up, you will lose your head. And even though I’d love to witness that, we can use you as the wife of the prince better.”

His eyes tell you that he definitely isn’t lying, that every cruel word coming from his mouth is nothing but the truth. You swallow hard, yanking away your arm in order to escape his grasp. Fuck, this is absolutely serious. If you mess this up, if that jerk changes his opinion-

“Lady (y/n), what a pleasant surprise to see you made it on time.”

Oh. You turn around in a mix of relief and panic. It’s him.

“Sir Suguru”, you breathe out.

As fast as you’re able to walk in that pompous dress and those heels, you storm away from your brother in order to greet your new-found saviour.

“Where do you think you’re going, sister?”, Naoya hisses through gritted teeth.

“He’s a good friend of Prince Satoru, don’t you think it’s my responsibility to greet him? Now get away from me”, you bark back at him.

“What a pain in the ass”, you mumble to yourself, cheeks burning in nothing but sheer anger.

Now that you think of it, getting out of that toxic household is definitely more important than keeping your distance to Gojo. You need this evening to be perfect. Everything needs to go according to plan.

“I see you arrived with your brother”, Geto comments with an oh so charismatic smile.

“Oh, you noticed. I tried to leave him in the basement where he belongs, but he keeps finding his way back”, you blurt out before thinking twice.

Fuck.

Your eyes widen in sheer horror.

Just a few seconds ago, you reminded yourself to act normally, to do everything in order to make this plan work. And now…you’re insulting your family in front of Gojo’s best friend.

“I apologize, I shouldn’t have said that-“

“It’s not a secret to anyone that Sir Naoya is a truly special contemporary. What surprises me though is how a Lady like you was able to develop in such an environment.”

“Please don’t tell Prince Satoru.”

The begging tone in your voice catches Geto off guard. You, who wasn’t even afraid of a Prince while rejecting him. What is it that you fear so badly?

“I’m a man of words. Of course, this will stay with us if you wish so, Lady (y/n). Now, let’s go inside, shall we? I know for certain Prince Satoru is already awaiting you.”

“Don’t make me blush, Prince Satoru-“

“Prince Satoru, there is something important I haven’t told you yet! What do you think about talking in private for a minute?”

“Now now, Ladies. I am not allowed to leave the ball I am hosting only to have a little talk. And apart from that, a noble man like me can’t meet a gorgeous Lady without a chaperone by her side. Your reputation might get ruined and I cannot stand the sheer thought of that”, Satoru replies with his voice so sweet that you feel like throwing up.

Is this guy for real? You ball your hands into tight fists, eyes too focused on the way he stares that bunch of needy women up and down with his eyes so sparkly that they might take their clothes of any given time. Didn’t this guy tell you yesterday that he wants to marry you?

“May I say that you look absolutely lovely tonight, dearest Lady Mei?”

“You always know just what to say to make a lady blush. But I must say, you’re looking quite dashing yourself. Perhaps we should make it a habit to complement each other more often, Prince Satoru”, she purrs back at him.

Mei Mei, the so called “Lady” who shared her bed with her little brother and cares about nothing but herself as your competition? Suguru side-eyes you up and down while trying to position himself in front of the cheesy scene, but you have enough.

Nope, you can’t do this. There’s no way in hell you’ll talk or let alone dance with that womanizer. Is this the only choice you have in your life? Getting killed by your so-called family or spending the rest of your days standing next to a man who has his mind and probably his body on a new girl every week?

“Disgusting”, you hiss through gritted teeth, not even caring about the look Suguru gives you while speeding off.

What are you supposed to do? Running away and trying to hide your traces? Risking it all and rejecting Prince Gojo once again? All of those thoughts are nothing but bullshit.

Your family will find and kill you if you decide to run away. And Prince Gojo? Who know what that guy is capable of.

“Don’t mind my comment, but you don’t have to feel nervous. I am more than certain that Prince Satoru fell head over heels for you”, Suguru whispers into your ear, following you around with ease.

“Are you forced to tell that every woman he wants to have as his trophy?”, you bite back.

You definitely don’t have any nerve to think about Prince Satoru or the stinging fact that you’ve landed in that strange universe for another minute.

“Drinking. Drinking sounds good right now”, you mumble while storming towards a buffet filled with beverages and biscuits.

Cup after cup you cough down the sweet liqueur that leaves your head dizzy and mind forgetting all the shit you’ve been through for a brief second. You were alive, you died, you woke up again in this strange world and now you’re supposed to die again?  Dying or getting married to a womanizer, a man who’ll never give you the love you deserve.

“Lady (y/n), are you feeling unwell-“

“I need to get out of here. Please leave me alone for a second”, you mumble without even looking at Suguru.

You need a few minutes or rather hours for yourself. Without anyone around, without all the pressure crushing your shoulders. Your feet stumble around without a real aim, shoulders bumping into strangers over and over until your eyes finally spot an empty hallway opposite of you.

Fuck Prince Satoru and that whole new world you now live in. Right now, you need some time to get a hold on your life and all the stuff that happened those last 48 hours.

You dart forwards, almost sprint when the crowd gets sparser. You need to get away from that place, away from the stinging presence of your brother, your father and Gojo.

“I can’t marry him. But I can’t stay here either. I need to…AH!”

Sparks fly, you feel your head bump into something rock hard, your body falling straight to the cold ground. Out of instinct, you squint your eyes together and brace yourself for bumping straight onto the floor butt-first. Were you really dumb enough to run against a wall or a statue, maybe?

But you never land. Instead, you feel a pair of firm arms wrapped around your waist, keeping you in place. You let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding, slowly allowing your lids to flutter open.

Your heart stops.

Can it really be? No, that’s impossible. There’s no way in hell a guy like him would attend a ball like that-

“I think your lost, the ball is right behind you, young Lady”, he speaks out with low voice.

“Toji Fushiguro”, you mumble when your glossy eyes fixate on the scar that decorates the right side of his mouth way too familiar.

Tags: @m0k0k0 @lees-chaotic-brain @sanicsmut @risuola @fire-loving-siren

@sunshine7queen @gatitam @kentocalls @hellkaiserinphoenix @skylarlyn823

@livmarauder @nothisispatrick300 @haileycannotcometothephonern @xstom @byakuya61085

@arehzhera @ttysmfwna 

[cy-cyborg]

It will never not be frustrating to me that amputees appear in fiction ALL. THE. TIME. and yet they're almost never acknowledged as such. The Cyberpunk genre is especially guilty of this: amputees and prosthetics becoming a normalised part of life are a defining part of the genre/aesthetic and yet no one even consults with any amputees about how we get represented there. Most writers in those genres don't even consider that giving your characters cybernetic arms and legs means they're an amputee.

CW: Ableism, dehumanisation

This makes it REALLY uncomfortable to engage with stories in the genre because another common aspect of cyberpunk is the idea of losing yourself and becoming something distinctly not-human anymore because you have too many cybernetic augmentations/implants. Shadowrun even has mechanics for this, which state if you get too many prosthetics, which is what cybernetics are 9 times out of 10, your character becomes a monster. These mechanics and discussions surrounding "how many robot bits make you not human anymore" are really, really uncomfortable when you remember this isn't something that's unique to a far-off future setting. Those people you're discussing the humanity of already exist. They're called amputees. If you reframe the question as "how many amputations can you have before you stop being a person" I hope you can see why an amputee like myself is not going to feel safe around you or in your fandoms.

And it's a shame, because I REALLY want to like Cyberpunk. I really, honestly do. I love the aesthetics, I love the idea of big corporations being the villains and the anti-capitalism at the heart of the genre, and I love the idea of prosthetics being not only destigmatised, but desirable. When written from a disability-inclusive lense, it honestly has the potential to be an incredibly uplifting and empowering genre. but as the genre stands right now, it's actively hostile to the very folks who are usually the stars of its stories: amputees, all because people just refuse to acknowledge us.

Cyberpunk isn't the only genre guilty of this, it's common all throughout sci-fi as a whole, but Cyberpunk is the only one where it starts becoming a serious issue due to its rampant dehumanisation of a real group of people. In other sci-fi settings, it's just kind of annoying and while it can be a form of erasure, it's not usually harmful, just...frustrating. Fantasy does it on occasion too, think pirates with a hook and a peg leg, but nowhere near as much.

If you, as an author or creator, use any of these words to describe a character or their tech in a sci-fi setting:

cybernetics/cybernetic enhancements

bionics

robot limbs

cyborgs

augmentations

You are probably writing an amputee. Please, at the very least, acknowledge it, and be mindful that those are real people who actually exist, not just a fantasy group you can speculate about.

edit:

I originally posted this article on my old Tumblr account and lot of people commented/reblogged to tell me that originally in cyberpunk, the "less human the more robot bits you have" only applied to people who opted for their limbs to be replaced by cybernetics, because it was seen as "renting out your body to corporations for money" but people who had to get cybernetics out of necessity weren't impacted. The thing is though, I really don't think that makes it better, for a few reasons. For one, where do you draw the line at "opting" to get a cybernetic prosthetic? This isn't a black and white thing, even in real life. Most amputations are done out of necessity, but there are situations where it's not the only option, just the best one. Talking from personal experience, I lost both my legs below the knee as a baby, that was a pretty clear cut case, I had a blood infection and gangrene and they had to act fast. But the infection caused lasting side effects and impacted my physical body's development and growth. By the time I got to my early 20's it was causing a lot of pain in my right leg, in my knee specifically, and when I got a bone infection in the end of that stump, I chose to have the whole thing amputated up to the knee. They only needed to take a few inches off the end of my stump, but I asked them to go higher, because of the ongoing issues in that knee, issues that would have been made worse by the shortening of the leg. I choose to remove the whole thing, knowing the joint was degrading and I probably would have lost it later in life anyway. Even if it was salvageable, it would mean much more surgery, and I've had enough of those. A boy I played wheelchair basketball with was born with a partially formed leg, it was half the size of his other leg and he wasn't able to use it al all, it was just dead weight, so he opted to get it amputated too for convenience and so he could use a prosthetic on that side. I worked with a girl who's hand didn't form properly in the womb, resulting in a normal palm, but tiny "finger nubs" (her words) with no bones inside. They weren't actively harming her usually, but she opted to get them and the top of her palm amputated after an incident at work where we were tying balloons and one of her nubs got stuck in the knot. She decided to get them amputated because it meant accidents like that would be less likely, and she could use a prosthetic more comfortably. All 3 of these are considered "optional" amputations, so would people like us be penalised in your setting? does it make sense that the technology in your setting can tell the difference, or that corporations would care about the how and why? Even stepping away from medical grey areas, if your character opts for a cybernetic arm because the corporations will financially reward her, and she's struggling to put food on the table without that help, is that really optional?

Don't get me wrong, I do think that idea could work but it would take a lot of work to do well, and most works I've seen don't do the work. Even if they did though, it doesn't change the fact that most modern uses of this trope don't mention that bit or actively ignore it. It doesn't matter in most cyberpunk works I've seen if the amputation was optional or out of necessity, they still are more prone to being seen as "less human" and in most of the sci-fi writing communities I've been part of, the authors are genuinely shocked when I ask them to remember "people with cybernetics are real people already, they're not some far-off-distant future fantasy group, they're just called amputees". Like it didn't even cross their minds. These are the people creating the works in this genre. Even if it wasn't the original intention of the genre, it's still an issue in the modern version of it. Edit 2: Elaborated a little more on why I don't think the "only people who choose it" argument works in the edit. Also, please stop telling me that old cyberpunk doesn't have this issue, I literally address that in the post lol.

[spideyhexx]

MORE CORYO PISS KINK PLS!!!! BARK BARK BARK🐕🐕

AYE AYE (pls no one look at me idk what ive done) this is academy coryo

mdni; cw piss

coryo was disgusted with himself at first when he realized he liked it.

he jerked off in the shower one morning and pissed afterwards and for some reason, the feeling and the sight turned him on. So naturally, the next time he fists his cock, he imagines someone else pissing. Not on him, he tells himself that would be too far.

Anyways, it makes him come the hardest he has in a long while so now it becomes a regular thought to jerk off too. And this thought spirals. He finds himself liking the pressure of his bladder. Rubbing his cock when he’s desperate to pee. Not letting him go until he’s made himself come.

One day it’s too close. Too close and he almost wets his pants. Would he like that? He thinks it’s a disgrace if he lets himself but one day he drinks so much water, it just happens. He blames it on the water intake, not his inner thoughts wanting to feel his pants and boxers wet, warm, the hiss of his stream. He’d even try to take his pants off, only for his dick to come out and piss on the floor of his bathroom before he can aim it right. But he liked it.

Fucking hell, he almost couldn’t stop jerking off that night. He thought about a pretty person pissing their pants…or skirt or underwear because of him. Because of his hand pressed to their bladder. He wondered what the whines would sound like and he was desperate to hear it. But he could never tell anyone about this, could he? Surely, his future partner would hate it. Be disgusted with him.

So he kept it fantasy.

But when you are with him. Months, maybe even over a year into dating him and mention having to pee, you clock the way his pants get tighter and he hardens. You test it out, mentioning having to piss very badly a few days later and Coryo gets the same look in his eyes that he does when he’s horny. You’ve known that look.

You can’t deny the thought of it turning him on so much turns you on, that it’s something you’re interested in trying but Coryo embarrasses easily. So you ease into it. Taking a shower with him, you mention having to pee. Coryo is going crazy. He’d wanna ask you to just do it. But his words die in his throat.

And you fulfill them, asking if it’s okay if you just go. And he nods. He’s hugging you from behind and he goes to step away but you don’t let him. He looks down and watches you piss, he can feel a little bit of the warm liquid on his legs.

He can’t stop himself, he hardens and you tease him, trailing your hand down his chest to his cock, rubbing your thumb on the tip as you get him to spill his dirtiest secret to you.

[sugarbombs-n-stuff]

Companion’s Hobbies

I hope you all enjoy this one and let me know what you want to see from me in the future!

(No gage or longfellow this time around, ill add them later if yall want but i think longfellows boring and i haven’t really played with gage enough for me to say much about him,)

Ada - She actually really digs birdwatching! She can name basically every bird you see and she gets sad whenever she thinks about pigeons.

Cait - Most people would assume something violent and while she does enjoy sparring she’s also really good at wood carving. She picked it up when she was enslaved but she didn’t really do anything with it until traveling with Sole.

Curie - Besides science things she enjoys swimming and gardening with Codsworth. After Sole taught her how to swim she was basically always in water though she does panic a bit when she dives down too deep. Her and Codsworth started gardening when she started getting interested in plants and now they do it for the ritual of it.

Codsworth - Gardening and telling stories. He likes the monotony of gardening as it gives him peace of “mind”. And if there are kids around he’ll tell them stories about Pre-War America, folk tales, and even original stories. Deacon and Cait have dubbed it as Story Time with Codsworth.

Danse - Danse enjoys reading and working out. He likes the sore feeling after working out on whatever equipment Sole set up. Most people might believe that when it comes to reading, he prefers non fiction, he does not. If you get a look at what he’s reading when he’s enjoying himself you might find him reading Lord of the Rings or The Hobbit or any of the Narnia books. He’s a huge fan of fantasy but there are times where he’ll read I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream or Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep.

Deacon - Fiber arts like knitting, weaving, embroidery, anything like that. It has some to do with making disguises but he also grew up doing it with his mom and grandparents. His family are Big-Horner ranchers so they had plenty of wool that his grandma would spin and him and his mom would knit and weave with it. His other grandma would dye and weave it mostly. After all these years he kept the skills and still loves fiber crafts. He basically always has a knitting project he’s working on. If you’re close with him(or pay enough caps), he’ll make you something.

Nick Valentine - He’s an old man that listens to audio dramas while he mends either his clothes or Ellie’s. Like Deacon, if he’s close with you he’ll mend your things too. It became his hobby accidentally after he kept ripping his clothes and by the time Ellie came to stay with him it had already weaseled its way into Nick’s heart. He’s also fond of checkers and he and Ellie play it a lot.

Piper - She writes. Its her hobby that she made a business out of. It started a little after her dad died and she does it now to grant her self some peace of mind. She’ll write stories for Nat and they’ll act them out together in their living room through laughs.

Preston - Hunting, Fishing, and repairing , though he isn’t as good as Sturges. He grew up on the island near far harbor so its pure muscle memory when he does it now. His brother taught him how to fish when he was younger and his auntie taught them both how to hunt. He can really clear his mind when he’s doing it and its one of the rare times his mind gives him peace instead of problems.

Hancock - Hancock doodles a lot. It was always getting him in trouble when he was in school but now its what he does when he’s first watch when traveling the wasteland. Even on important documents for Goodneighbor you’ll be able to see tiny almost chibi-esk drawings of whatever’s on his mind.

MacCready - Mac also draws! When writing notes to Duncan he’ll draw pictures of whatever creatures he encountered when traveling with the sole survivor’s merry band of misfits. He works hard on every drawing that he makes and it shows cause even though its just a hobby he could make good money off of it.

Strong - Even though he will never admit it, he enjoys hunting with Preston. He also likes reading shakespeare and he’s slowly but surely branching out to other authors. He can read on his own but if him and Sole are close enough, he’ll ask sole to read to him while he’s cutting up what ever fresh kill he got from hunting.

X6-88 - Insect Taxidermy and Gun Cleaning/Modding. If you walk into his house he has butterflies, bloatflies, blood bugs, etc on the walls. He hunches over a desk and pins their wings and bodies and it’s genuinely one of his favorite things to do. Gun care empties his mind as he lets muscle memory take over. While it is calming , he does it more so when he gets an itchy trigger finger. He’ll take it apart, inspect it, clean it, then reassemble it over and over. He’ll tire of it quickly though

[fruity-mond]

I'm SO TIRED of people saying "complain impact" "why are you guys comparing" "just quit the game no one is forcing you"

SHUT UP!!! SHUT UP SHUT UP WHY CAN'T WE HAVE STANDARDS ANYMORE. WHY CAN'T WE POINT OUT THAT THE GAME WE FELL IN LOVE WITH IS TAKING A TURN THAT IS SHOWING A PRETTY SCARY FUTURE.

They showed us they can create something amazing. They gave us lovable characters, they gave us INSANELY intriguing lore. WE KNOW WHAT THEY CAN OFFER. SO FORGIVE US FOR BEING UPSET WHEN THEY GAVE US LACKLUSTER CONTENT AFTER THE BANGER THAT WE WERE LEFT WITH.

I don't LIKE complaining! I don't like talking bad about this game because dude LOOK at my blog right now. I love this game, I love the characters to death. But when the newest one they offer feels more like plot devices and less like friends your player is supposed to make, it gets SO DRAINING. I don't want to have to pull for this character to understand their personality! Why do I have to get them first before falling in love with them?

Show their anger, their drive, their sass WHATEVER THEY HAVE in the archon quest! Don't just make all the scenes just exposition of what's going on and show everything else in a non permanent event.

Also, WHY is everyone in your nation so. Good? Why are all the characters so upstanding and willing to die for it? I mean, yeah!! Let's go!! Patriotism!! But come ON. SHOW SOME HESITANCY, IT'S YOUR LIFE HERE. YOU'RE ALL NOT SUICIDAL RIGHT?

The designs aren't bad per se, I like the colours. I like how they look but by god does it not fit genshin. "Genshin's never been fantasy" you cannot deny that when over HALF the entire fandom, who's still on the high of the Dainsleif "Bedtime" quest and are genuinely looking forward to the game, say that "hey. This is kinda off", something IS PROBABLY OFF?

Fontaine was marketed as a nation of advancement. They're literally steampunk. They don't have modern technology like ours but it doesn't mean they don't have something better or unheard of. Natlan was marketed as a nation of WAR. Why is there DJs?? I get that they're detached from the rest of teyvat but you understand that, after already being in the nation that was the most "technologically advance", this is a horrible writing move?

I'm not angry at people who enjoy the quest, far from it really! I actually have a good amount of respect for the people that like the media that I can't. See the bright outlook on things. But when they start calling us unwarranted critics, complaining for the sake of it, ungrateful, is where I'm pissed. Why aren't we allowed to tell the MILLION DOLLAR GAME COMPANY that we want a better story when we KNOW they can offer more?

Honestly, I could even go on abt how Genshin shot itself in the foot by the mass production of characters they're creating. You can only create so many characters before they start feeling bland and repetitive. That's a discussion for another day. But please. Please understand you're allowed to criticize. You're allowed to be upset, you're allowed to have standards, you're allowed to want more from a company who just wants to milk your wallet dry. If they want to do that, at least give back some of the great quality from before.

The previous quests and nations weren't perfect either, don't get me wrong, but that really shows the issue doesn't it? The content was imperfect yet everyone loves it. What does that say about the content now. Like the game, like the story, good! Enjoy everything you can but don't bow down to the corporate that has fuck up fans over and over and over and OVER again. Let people be upset, don't turn on each other.

It's seriously not fun to dislike something you've enjoyed for so long. Believe me, I don't like complaining about Natlan. It just makes me feel sad. But criticism should be made. Most of the haters are scared bc we've looked forward to Snezhnaya for YEARS. And if they treat it the same way they treat Natlan? That's 5 years down the drain.

i didn't want to yap this much but oh my god I'm at my wit's end.